“Not the Purple Banana,” I said. “This is a class place. Jacky Wax is a class gent.”
“How do you know him?”
“Used to work for a guy named Mr. Milo.”
“And who is Mr. Milo?”
“One does not utter the name Mr. Milo in these parts,” I said.
We paid the twenty-dollar cover and walked inside. A dozen or so oiled, nubile bodies worked gold poles in rainbow light. Men in crumpled suits and loose ties sat alone, fanning out dollar bills. A couple held hands in a back booth by long black curtains leading to somewhere called the VIP room.
I sat down at a table facing a giant golden birdcage while Z made his way to the bar. Two women ran their hands over each other to some music that sounded like Madonna. Of course, all bad music sounded like Madonna to me. Z placed two Budweisers in front of us, reached into his wallet, and slipped a dollar bill into the cage. One of the women picked it up with her teeth. The other woman helped her turn upside down and slide down the pole, which was not so much sexy as it was awkward.
We drank warm beer and turned from the cage to watch the main stage. A bony girl with straight blond hair came out in little else but tall fur boots. The boots looked as if they’d come from a skinned yeti. Next, a black girl with a short Afro and enormous breasts did a lot of twirling and tumbling to some pinging electronic music with a thumping electronic drum.
“You think the DJ could play ‘Night Train’?” I said.
“What’s ‘Night Train’?”
“Probably haven’t heard of pasties, either,” I said.
I hadn’t finished half my beer when a topless waitress appeared and asked if we wanted another round. I shook my head. Z did, too.
“Is Jacky around?” I said.
“Mr. Weatherwax?”
“I knew it,” I said. “Now he sounds like the brand name for a boot cleaner. Yes, Mr. Weatherwax. Tell him Spenser is here.”
“Spenser?”
I nodded. “With an s, like the English poet.”
Z waited. A young girl dressed as Pocahontas stepped onto the stage and twirled around the golden pole. “Maybe I should let you two talk,” I said.
Z shrugged. “Different tribe.”
Halfway through the song, Jacky Wax approached our table. He smiled and revealed his crooked yellow teeth. He was tall and thin-shouldered, and wore a tailored gray suit with a lavender dress shirt and pink tie. The pink tie was held in place by a ruby stickpin. When he sat down, I noted he wore very pointy black short boots that zipped at the ankles.
“You’re looking good, Jacky,” I said. “Get that suit off the back of a truck?”
“This is fucking Gucci,” he said. “Cut by a tailor with the hands of a surgeon.”
“This is Mr. Sixkill,” I said. “My associate.”
Jacky did not take his eyes off me. “I heard you was dead.”
“Maybe your watch had stopped.”
“Funny,” Jacky said. He took his eyes off me for a moment to look in the birdcage. He nodded with approval. “So what brings you to the Banana? Lose another whore?”
“The Fine Arts Museum was closed,” I said.
“Ha,” Jacky said. He crossed his legs as a waitress brought him a drink that looked like grenadine and club soda.
“Looking for Jemma Fraser,” I said.
“Who?”
I leaned in. “The woman who needed a few thugs for a shakedown.”
Jacky scratched his cheek.
“You need me to call Mr. Milo?” I said.
“Oh, that Jemma.”
Z grinned.
“You know that many?” I said.
“I was just trying to help the broad.”
“How do you know her?”
“Came recommended.”
“By whom?”
Jacky shook his head.
A couple of girls walked over to Z. One massaged his shoulders. Both wore bras and panties and high fishnets. He told them he was broke. They scattered.
“Associate?” Jacky said.
“Yep.”
“You getting old?” he said. “Need someone to pick up the slack?”
“Nope.”
Jacky shrugged, then rolled his shoulders. “Don’t know what to tell you. Ain’t my problem if you got it in for the broad.”
“Come again.”
“When she come to me the second time, she was shitting a brick.”
“Why?”
“Protection,” Jacky said. “She said someone was trying to fucking kill her.”
“They may have succeeded.”
“Not my problem,” he said. “Not now.”
Z turned from the stage and leaned forward to listen. The acoustics were not grand in the Purple Banana.
“She say who wanted to hurt her?” I said.
“Say, I could use a big guy like that,” Jacky said, looking at Z. “Work the door. Scare the knuckleheads who try and hump the furniture.”
“Not my kind of work,” Z said.
“What is?” Jacky said.
Z nodded toward me.
“Too bad,” Jacky said. “You looked smarter than that.”
Jacky studied Z. He then turned his attention back on me, slowly smiling. “I heard Hawk was out of town.”
“Maybe.”
“I’d watch your back if I were you,” he said. “These ain’t nice people.”
Jacky looked over Z’s shoulder. He then craned his neck behind him to another stage, another girl. He looked me up and down, took a deep breath, and leaned in. I met him halfway. “This ain’t nothing like the local crews you’re used to,” Jacky said, whispering. “I don’t want no part of this crap.”
“Why’s that?”
“’Cause I prefer to keep on breathing,” he said. “Too much money. Too many guns.”
“From Vegas?”
Jacky snorted. He shook his head with pity and walked away.
33
“Z BEEN IN ANOTHER fight?” Henry said. “His knuckles were busted again.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But this time he came out on top.”
“Good,” Henry said. “Good.”
“If I hadn’t pulled him off the guy, I think Z would have killed him.”
“Not good.”
“Nope,” I said. We both stood outside our own cars at the Ocean View. The storm had brought in a heavy surf. And even in the diminished rain, the waves rocked across Revere Beach. Henry locked his car and we walked toward the condo.
“Where’s Z now?”
“Looking for the woman who sent the thugs,” I said.
“Not satisfied?”
“Not in the least.”
“You think this broad killed Mr. Weinberg?”
“I’d like to find out what she knows,” I said. “So would the staties.”
We reached the glass doors to the condo. I held one open for him.
“Might’ve finally expanded the boxing room,” Henry said.
“And a sauna?”
“Don’t push it,” Henry said. He smiled.
“The fight today wasn’t much of one,” I said.
“Then what the hell was it?” Henry said.
We stood in the empty lobby together on the silent terrazzo floor. I searched for the word. “Rage,” I said.
“What’s wrong with being pissed off?” Henry said. “If it works.”
I shook my head.
“’Cause it’s what you think made him drink before?”
I nodded.
“Because of what happened before he ended up here?”
I nodded.
“No family, people that he knew wiped their ass with him?”
“Yep.”
“But he’s not drinking?” Henry said.
“Susan said he needed to work,” I said. “So we’re working. He’s handling things.”
“But you’re concerned about the after?”
“I am.”
Henry nodded. He walked to the elevator and pushed the up button.
“But how long can you look out for the kid?” Henry said.
I tilted my head. “Long as it takes.”
“Yeah,” Henry said. “Me, too.”
The elevator dinged and the door opened. Henry walked inside. I stayed in the lobby.