The phone-company employees who sell information charge more-they still think of themselves as a monopoly. Two phones in the house- both numbers unlisted. Their combined bill ran about five hundred dollars a month, most of it toll calls. Just for the hell of it, I checked the numbers against the ones I'd copied from the pimp's address book I gave to Wolfe. None of them matched-they were in a different league.
It was time to be myself again.
91
I ROUNDED up most of the crew with no problems, but I couldn't find Michelle at any of her usual spots. Finally, I dropped in to The Very Idea, a transsexual bar where she hangs out when she isn't working.
"She's getting her hair cut, darling," her friend Kathy told me.
I made a face-her favorite "salon" reminded me of a parakeet's cage, feathers flying, shrill shrieking, and shit all over the floor.
"Oh, Burke, don't look like that. Nobody goes there anymore. Daniel has opened a fabulous new place on Fifth-here's a card."
"Thanks, Kathy," I said, throwing a twenty on the bar to cover her tab.
"See you around, handsome," she replied. I don't think it was the twenty bucks-transsexuals just have more empathy.
La Dolce Vita was a couple of flights up. It had a tiny little elevator but I took the stairs. I wasn't worried about running into anything, but if I was going to get back to myself, it was time to get started.
The joint was all pastel colors and mirrors. The waiting room was decorated with people reading the Italian edition of Vogue and drinking coffee from glass cups. The receptionist was inside a little island in the middle, watching the fun.
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked.
"Is Daniel here?"
"He's with a customer."
"It's the customer I want-which way?"
She pointed straight ahead. I followed her finger into a room overlooking Fifth Avenue -the windows sloped at an angle, flowers covering the broad base. Michelle was getting combed out by a slim man wearing a white sweater over blue jeans-white running shoes on his feet. She was in the middle of a heated exchange with the woman in the next chair.
"Honey, please don't go on about the Holy Coast. The only thing Los Angeles ever contributed to culture is the drive-by homicide!"
I stepped between them before it got bloody.
"Burke!" she called out. "You're just in time."
"For what?" I asked her.
"For Daniel," she said, like I was from another planet. "He just got a cancellation-and you need a haircut."
Daniel and I shook hands-he had a strong grip, an ironic smile on his face.
"Burke," he said. "What's your first name?"
"I'm not paying by check," I told him.
"Will you stop it?" Michelle snapped, turning in her chair to slap at my arm. This isn't a poolroom."
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" I said.
"Talk."
"Not here."
Michelle sighed. "Oh, really-it's always such a big deal. Just give me a few minutes-sit down," she said, pointing to the chair next to her.
"This has to stay a few minutes anyway, Michelle," Daniel told her, patting her hairdo.
"Don't rush yourself, baby. Anyway, you have to cut my friend's hair too."
Daniel looked a question at me. I shrugged-what the hell.
"You have to get shampooed first," he said.
"Can't you just cut it?"
"It has to be wet," he said with a sideways glance at Michelle.
"He was raised in a barn," Michelle sighed.
I let some little girl lead me to another room, where she put the shampoo in my hair, rinsed it out, did it all over again. Daniel was still playing with Michelle's hair when I came back.
"How would you like this cut?" he asked.
"Just do whatever you do," I told him. I saw him glance at Michelle again. "Don't get stupid," I warned him.
He walked out of the room to get something he needed.
"Michelle, we got something on for tonight, okay?"
"A phone job for me?"
"And something with the Mole too," I told her. For once, she didn't make a crack about the Mole.
"What time?"
"We'll meet around five, five-thirty. Mama's basement, okay?"
"I'll be there, baby," she told me, giving me a quick kiss and walking out.
Daniel finished cutting my hair. With the room quiet, it was like a real barbershop-he even knew something about prize-fighting. When he was finished, I looked the same-Daniel told me it was an art.
I went out to the receptionist, asking for Michelle.
"Oh, she left a few minutes ago. She said you'd be taking care of her bill with yours."
What was I going to do? "Okay, how much for the whole thing?"
"Let's see…" she told me brightly, "with tax, that's a hundred and seventy dollars and fifty-six cents."
"What!"
"Michelle had a styling, a color consult, a manicure, and a pedicure," she said, as if that explained everything.
I didn't leave a tip for Daniel-if he owned that joint he had a license to steal.
92
"HOLD STILL!" Michelle ordered. She was sitting next to me, my right hand spread out on a board she held in her lap, working carefully with a rapidograph, inking in the crossed lightning bolts of the Real Brotherhood.
The Prof peeked over my shoulder-he knew what the real thing looked like better than most.
"You should have been an artist, babe," he complimented her.
"Honey," Michelle said, "I am an artist-I give a whole new meaning to the term 'satisfied customer.'"
Max sat in the lotus position against the wall in Mama's basement. He was dressed all in black-not the ceremonial silk he usually wore for combat-some dull matte material. He fitted a hood of the same stuff over his face. It covered the back of his neck, blending into the jacket- only his eyes were visible. He was working with some black paste, rubbing it into his hands.
"Mole, you got the car?"
He nodded. We wouldn't use the Plymouth to approach the house. Michelle was going to stash it a few blocks away-if anyone was following us, we'd switch cars, leaving the Mole's untraceable junker behind.
"The phones go down at eleven-thirty?" I asked him.
He nodded again. There was no burglar alarm, no direct connection to the local police station either. There wouldn't be.
We didn't have to go over it again. Michelle would call, act like she was a telephone solicitor, ask to speak to the man of the house. If the husband answered, she'd do her best to keep him on the phone while I was ringing the front-door bell. Max would go over the back fence, penetrate the house. He'd take out anyone he found, except the woman- I needed to talk to her. If the woman answered the door, I'd brace her right there, take her inside, and get the pictures. If the wrong person answered the door, I'd show them the pistol, play it from there while Max worked his way through the rest of the house.
And if I didn't like the look of the front of the house, I'd find my own way inside.
The Prof and I each had a little radio transmitter the Mole hooked up. When I hit the switch, the Prof would climb behind the wheel of the crash-car and start the engine. I'd come busting out the front door. And the Mole would turn the house into an incinerator. Then he and Max would go back over the fence to where Michelle would be waiting.
It should all be over by midnight.
Michelle was finished with my hand and started on my face. The heavy pancake makeup made me a few shades darker, and the black mustache changed the shape of my face even more. I'd have a hat on my head and dark glasses over my eyes.