Decker took in the words. Suddenly, Merrin’s nomadic job history in Texas made sense. Lots of whorehouses in the small towns. Slowly, he let go of the kid’s throat. “All right, I appreciate the info. Walk me to the door, and you’ll get your money.”
They eyed each other; then Plunkett took him to the front entrance.
“Open the door,” Decker told him.
Plunkett complied. Decker took a peek inside. Not much greeting him. A darkly lit paneled lobby with a couch and several empty wingback chairs. There was a drinks cart in back of the sofa holding cups and glasses as well as a coffeepot, an urn of hot water, and a half-dozen crystal cut-glass bottles of amber liquids. Decker thought about asking for the liquor license, but at this point, brevity was the soul of safety as well as wit.
He was face-to-face with a walnut desk and the young blonde who was manning it. Dark blue eyes peered up from a face framed by soft shoulder-length hair. She had decent regular features, but was a step short of pretty; her looks dropped a notch from the remnants of adolescent acne on the cheeks, though the pitting was hidden well with makeup and blush. She wore a short-sleeved hot-pink sweater with a plunging neckline, showing off her stunning wares. She looked up at Plunkett, then at Decker, first at his face, then at the gun in his hand. Plunkett smiled.
“I just found out he’s a friend of Merrin’s.”
“Well, that helps.” The woman smiled with slightly crooked teeth, the kind that would have benefited from just a touch of orthodontics. “Come in all the way, sir. Don’t be shy.”
Her voice was smoky. Decker placed the gun in his coat pocket and stuffed the fifty in Plunkett’s hand. “You can go now. Don’t bother to wait. It may take a while.”
The cabbie looked at him. “What about my gun?”
“Where’s your license, Plunkett?”
No response.
“I thought so,” Decker said. “I repeat. You can go now.” Eyes still on the woman, he called Jonathan up. “Call off the posse. Everything’s okay.”
Jonathan was screaming. “Akiva, where are you-”
But Decker turned off the phone, staring at the woman. If she was in her twenties, it wasn’t by much. Her nails were meticulously manicured but with no polish. Decker continued to take in her face.
“What can I do for you, sir? Would you like to see a portfolio of our masseuses?”
Again that breathy voice, raising his heartbeat just a little too high. It took him a few seconds to put himself back in job mode. If anyone would have information, it would be the queen bee, not the worker ants. He caught her eyes and bore in. “I like you.”
She smiled and kept the eye contact. “Sorry, sir. I’m just window dressing.”
Nice and polite. Someone had taught her manners. “You know what, darlin’? That’s okay with me. Right now, all I want to do is talk.”
Eyes fixed on his face, her expression hardening. “Against the rules.”
Decker took out a hundred-dollar bill. “You know, I bet it’s pretty slow right now. We don’t even have to tell anyone.” He winked. “Please?”
Stealing a quick glance over her right shoulder. Decker followed it and made out a small door that blended neatly with the lobby’s paneling. Someone was behind there. No doubt someone with a gun. Again she shook her head, her carriage holding the confidence of big-time protection. Merrin had his fingers in a lot of pies. She kept her eyes on Decker’s. “No can do, sir.”
“I’m a very good friend of Chief Merrin’s,” Decker persisted.
“I’m glad to hear that, sir, but that’s completely irrelevant-other than the ten-percent discount. Which I’m happy to extend to you for any of our massage therapists.”
“So that’s what they’re calling themselves nowadays.”
Abruptly, her eyes turned gelid, a very familiar expression, though he couldn’t quite place it. And then, in a flash, it came to him-that “Of course, you idiot” sudden brand of insight that made you want to hit your forehead. He smiled slightly, giving her a superior look. “And what would you do… if I told you that C.D. sent me?”
A red wash permeated her cheeks. Again a glimpse behind her back. “ID, please?”
Decker took out his driver’s license. She took it, got up, and locked the front door, hair brushing over her shoulders as she walked. She wore a black leather miniskirt and spiked heels. He watched her rear sway as she disappeared behind the panel-hidden cubby. Five minutes later, she returned. Without a word, she took Decker’s hand, leading him up the stairs. Her expression had turned blank, not a hint of defiance. There was no eye contact this time. Some mysterious, hidden voice had told her to behave. Failure to do so would have serious repercussions.
32
The suite was at the end of a long, narrow hallway, up two steps and facing the back of the building. Dark and musty, it held yards and yards of draped cloth over the windows and hanging from the ceilings: rich fabric in oxblood velvets and ruby satins. Between the textiles were mirrors-on the walls and on the ceiling. The bed was king size, dressed in gold silk and layered with pillow upon pillow. A crystal chandelier threw disco light over a bedspread vaguely redolent of cigarette smoke and perfume. So prototypical whorehouse, it could have been a movie set. The blonde went over to a mirror and bent down, showing off a nice, tight rear. She pushed in a panel, and a cubby opened up. She took out a portable phone and stood up, extending it to Decker.
“He wants to talk to you.”
Decker paused, then took the receiver. “Thank you.”
She sat down, perched on the edge of the bed. The mattress undulated. How neat! Decker thought. He and Jan had had a water bed during the 1960s when that kind of thing was ultracool. They had to give it away because it had killed his back.
He pushed the talk button. “Decker.”
“Lay off Merrin. He’s a gold mine for me-him and you Jew boys. You kikes are a real horny lot, you know that.”
It took Decker a few minutes to integrate Donatti’s words. “I take it this is a protected phone?”
“I do my best, but nothing’s guaranteed. You talk on any line, you take your chances.”
“You don’t seem concerned.”
“Why should I be concerned? What’s wrong with calling up a massage parlor? I’m not known for my high-class taste.”
“You own the place.”
“Me? I don’t own anything like that. Can’t get a license being a convicted felon. Terry, on the other hand… now there is one rich lady. She owns a string of them.”
“Does she know?”
“She would if she’d bother to read her tax return. You know Terry… lives in her head. As it stands, I do the accounting: She’s happy just to sign on the dotted line. Anyway, it’s not like it’s a bad thing. Massages are very good tension relievers.”
“You know, Donatti, I see lots of velvet and mirrors here. A big mother water bed. But no massage table.”
“The clients like atmosphere. And if you look in the bathrooms, you’ll see we have lots and lots of oil.”
“What do you know about him? Merrin?”
“Not much except that he likes his massages. He brings in other clients who like massages. Because he’s such a good referral source, the place gives him deep discounts. All the masseuses are over eighteen, by the way.”
“Comforting,” Decker replied. “I don’t think Merrin likes me.”
“Could be, Decker. I don’t like you, either.”
“What else do you know about Merrin?”
“You know, I’m big on delegating. Jen would know more about the locals.”
“The comely blonde in reception.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“Mind if I ask her a couple of questions?”
“You can ask. I don’t know what she’ll tell you, even though I’ve instructed her to be very, very nice to you-a big concession because her pussy retired three years ago.”