ZBE 976. Thank you very much. I straightened up when I saw him pull up to the exit booth. I was standing at a terminal pay phone, punching in Nora’s number, when I saw Bradley go through the exit doors and out into the night.
She answered and I said, “He’s all right. He’s heading home.”
“Thank you,” she said.
I hung up, then stood there questioning my motive for making that call. Did I want her to think I was responsible for her husband getting home safe tonight? That I was some kind of hero? What did I want from Nora Davison? What did I want from myself?
The following day I had the information I needed. Mr. Franklin Saunders. 1229 Columbia Boulevard, apartment 2G. One of the city’s newest luxury condos. Mr. Saunders was doing quite well for himself. Then again, he was being subsidized.
Unauthorized entry into these luxury condos is tough. Again, with nerds and money on your side, anything’s possible, but in this case neither was necessary. The gods have a funny way of working.
A Ms. Melissa Parker, only daughter of Mr. James Parker, a major player in the commodities market (very big into pork bellies) had gotten herself into a little trouble involving some cocaine and a boyfriend who eventually turned state’s evidence. I had assisted the lovely Ms. Parker in extricating herself from a fling that could have turned into a nightmare. Her father had been very thankful. As for the gods? Well, Ms. Parker, bless her soul, just happened also to live at 1229 Columbia Boulevard, in apartment 3B.
I placed a call to Papa Porkbelly. A half-hour later I received a call from Ms. Parker, inviting me over for cocktails.
At seven-fifteen I walked through the condo’s front entrance carrying a red and green shopping bag from the high-priced specialty market a block up from the condos. Sticking out was the top of a wine bottle and an impressive baguette. I gave my name to the front security guard. He called up to Ms. Parker’s luxury apartment and was informed that the lady couldn’t wait to see me. He gave me a wink as he indicated where I could find the elevators.
I was quickly deposited on the third floor and greeted by Ms. Parker, resplendent in red hair blown dry by a windstorm, a tight-fitting green cocktail dress, and heels the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my foray into Shoes 4-U. She smiled and stepped aside. I went in and set the bag on a table, reached in, and pulled out a Ruger Redhawk .357 with a 7.5-inch barrel.
“Oh, my,” Ms. Parker cooed, a smirk on her face.
“Don’t even start,” I said. “There’s some pate in there, as well as some good-looking Brie. Enjoy.” I waved at her as I went out the door, slipping the Ruger into my jacket.
Down to the second floor via the fire stairs: I found apartment 2G, rang the bell, and stepped to the side so the little security camera set discreetly above the door didn’t have a good angle on me.
“Who’s there?” a voice crackled over the intercom next to the door.
“Really sorry to bother you, Mr. Saunders,” I said, trying to get as much contrition into my voice as I could. “Peterson with building security. We’re checking all the units. We’ve got a report about a possible gas leak.”
I didn’t know if he was going to buy it. Frankly, I wouldn’t.
“Only take a minute,” I said, not sure whether I was gilding the lily. I heard several locks click, then the door handle turned and there was Mr. Franklin Saunders in the doorway, the original trusting soul.
I personally don’t like big handguns. Too unwieldy. Too noisy. Too messy. But everyone’s seen Dirty Harry, and there’s no sense not taking advantage of the Eastwood mystique. I didn’t own a .44 Magnum, Dirty Harry’s choice, but I didn’t think Franklin Saunders would know the difference. He didn’t. When I pulled out the Ruger Redhawk he was immediately impressed. When I suggested a conversation, he readily agreed.
I left Mr. Saunders’s apartment thirty minutes later. In that time we had become quite intimate. For one thing. I’d learned how he’d stumbled onto Bradley Davison’s little sideline: he’d been part of it.
Saunders was a pilot. Before coming into his newfound wealth, he had flown for one of the charter outfits that used to ferry the women out of their homelands. He had twice seen Bradley Davison deliver women to the airport. He had taken pictures. He had made notes. Definitely a man who planned for his future.
I collected the photos he had surreptitiously taken of Bradley and some of the girls, as well as copies of photos of the same girls he had downloaded from several of the Internet smut sites. I also liberated a newspaper article showing photos of a dead Romanian girl who had been found in Marseilles with her throat slit. Saunders had a shot of Bradley standing with the same girl, arm around her shoulder, apparently wishing her bon voyage.
What Franklin Saunders had that I couldn’t take away with me was what was inside his head, plus his obvious inclination to use it to better himself. I explained to Mr. Saunders, displaying the Ruger Redhawk for emphasis, that I had been given an option by my employer. I could test how Saunders’s head responded to a .357 round, or he could keep the money he’d already received and give me a “Swear to God and hope to die” promise to cease and desist. It was Mr. Saunders’s option. Not surprisingly, he chose the latter. I complimented him on choosing wisely, switched the Ruger from my right hand to my left, and drove my fist into his stomach. He doubled over, then dropped to the plush white living-room carpet.
As I kneeled down, the gun barrel resting in front of his eyes, I whispered into his ear: “You go near Bradley Davison again, call him, write him a letter, send him an e-mail or even a singing telegram, I’ll come back. I’ll hit you, Mr. Saunders. I’ll hurt you, and then I’ll kill you. Do you understand me?”
Curled in a fetal position, he was still able to nod. I patted him on the shoulder, stood, and gathered up my little cache of blackmail goodies. On my way out of the building, I visited Ms. Parker long enough to collect my bag and drop in my gun, then I rode the elevator down and wished the security man a good evening.
We met again at The Rusty Bucket. Our booth. She was wearing a red turtleneck tucked into jeans that favored her immensely. Two martinis stood between us. I watched her pick hers up and sip at it.
“It’s all over, Mrs. Davison,” I said, my left hand resting on the briefcase that sat next to me on the banquette. Inside was my haul from Franklin Saunders’s apartment.
She put the glass down, her brown eyes investigating my face, perhaps trying to read something more than I was willing to show.
“What was it all about?” she asked, her eyes still on me.
I fingered the briefcase lock. She needed to know. What she did with the information was her business, but I couldn’t let her walk out without knowing what her husband had gotten himself into, the kind of man he was, what he was willing to do for money. I put pressure on the lock and it clicked open. This was going to hurt her, but in the long run she’d be better off. That’s what I told myself.
“You know, it’s funny,” Nora said, pulling the glass toward her. “When you first get married, you don’t realize how important history is, the history you and your husband are going to make.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my hand still on the top of the briefcase.
“You ever been married, Mr. Taylor?”
“For about fifteen minutes.”
She shook her head. “Then you never had time for the history to kick in. See, you start out thinking you have everything in common. Then time goes by and you realize you have nothing in common, but you go along with it anyway because the memories start building up. Your first apartment, your first fight, some vacations, some holidays. A mother dying, a father going through cancer.”