Horace “Big Mac” McManus, was a former California Highway Patrol officer who had done a four-year stretch in the federal pen for counterfeiting. Now forty-six, he was a major player in the California sex trade. It was true that he was a silent partner in the clubs that he had mentioned. He was also a big-time porn producer and distributor and probably ran hookers out of both the clubs and the movie sets.
“He lives,” Frank said, “get this, on an estate in Rancho Santa Fe he calls ‘Tara.’”
“The fuck is that?”
“Gone With the Wind,” Frank said.
John Stone was a cop.
“Jesus shit,” Mike said.
“He was McManus’s partner before Mac got busted, and he’s still on the CHP. He has a piece of all Mac’s clubs, and he spends most of his time helping Mac run his business.”
“Right-hand man sort of thing?” Mike asked.
“More like a partner.”
Danny Sherrell was the manager of the Cheetah. His nickname was “Chokemaster.”
“Was he a wrestler or something?” Mike asked.
Frank shook his head. “Porn actor.”
“Oh,” Mike said. Then“Ohhhh. What about the Brit?”
“His name is Pat Porter,” Frank answered. “Beyond that, we don’t know much about him. He came over here about two years ago. Sherrell hired him as a bouncer at the Cheetah. He must have worked his way up in the world.”
“Jesus…cops,” Mike said. “What are we going to do, Frankie?”
“Go to a party, I guess.”
Tara was amazing.
The house had been built to match the antebellum mansion in the movie. The only difference was that all the servants were white, not black. A white teenager in a red vest ran up to Frank’s limo, opened the passenger door, and was surprised to find that there was nobody in the back.
“Just me,” Frank said, flipping him the keys. “Be careful with it.”
Frank walked onto the huge expanse of soft green lawn, where tents and tables had been set up. He was wearing a suit, but he still felt shabby compared to the other guests, who were all arrayed in various forms of expensive, casual California cool. Lots of white linen and cotton, khaki and cream.
Mike had gone the black-on-black route.
He looked just like a goombah, and Frank felt a little ashamed that he was embarrassed.
“You seen this spread?” Mike asked. “They got shrimps, they got caviar, tritip beef, champagne. ‘Little party’ my ass.”
“He does this every other Sunday,” Frank said.
“You’re kidding me.”
Beautiful place, beautiful grounds, beautiful food, beautiful wine, beautifulpeople. That was the thing-all the people were drop-dead gorgeous. Handsome men, incredibly lovely women. We’re like mutts here, Frank thought.
I guess that’s the point.
Mac made an entrance onto the lawn.
Dressed in an all-white linen suit and Gucci loafers with no socks, he had a woman on his arm who was wearing a slinky summer dress that revealed more than it hid.
“I know that chick,” Mike said.
“Yeah, right.”
“No, Iknow that chick,” Mike said. Then a few seconds later, he blurted, “That’s Miss May. That’s Miss fucking May. McManus’s grooving aPenthouse centerfold.”
Mac and Miss May worked through the guests, pausing and smiling and hugging, but it was clear that Mac was working his way over to Frank and Mike. When he did, he said, “Gentlemen, I’m so glad you could find the time. Mike, Frank, this is Amber Collins.”
Frank was praying that Mike wouldn’t bring up his revelation.
He didn’t. He just gawped a “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you,” Frank said.
“Do you have everything you need?” Mac asked. “Something to eat, something to drink?”
“We’re good,” Frank said.
“How about a tour of the house?” Mac asked.
“Sounds good,” said Frank.
“Amber,” Mac said. “I’ll miss you, but could I ask you to play hostess to the other guests?”
The house was unreal.
Frank, who appreciated quality, recognized that Mac did, too. He knew good stuff and he had the money to pay for it. All the fixtures, the plumbing, the kitchen appliances were top-of-the-line. Mac led them through the enormous living room, the kitchen, the six bedrooms, the screening room, and the dojo.
“I’m into hung gar kung fu,” Mac said.
Six six, Frank thought, two and a half bills, cut like stone, and a martial-arts black belt. God help us if we have to take Big Mac McManus down.
In back of the mansion, Mac had his own private zoo-exotic birds, reptiles, and cats. Frank didn’t know his zoology all that well, but he thought he recognized an ocelot, a cougar, and, inevitably, a black panther.
“I love animals,” Mac said. “And of course, all the movements of kung fu are patterned after animals-the tiger, the snake, the leopard, the crane, and the dragon. I learn just by watching these beautiful specimens.”
“You got a dragon here?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Mac said. “I have a Komodo dragon. But the dragon is a mythical beast, of course. You keep its spirit in your heart.”
They walked back into the house.
“This is like the Playboy Mansion,” Mike said as they walked back through the main room.
“Hef’s been here,” Mac said.
“You know Hefner?” Mike asked.
Mac smiled. “Would you like to meet him? I can arrange it. Let’s go to the study, sit down, have a dialogue.”
The study was a quiet room in the back of the mansion. All the furniture was dark teak. African masks adorned the walls; the carpet and sofa were zebra skin. The large chairs were some kind of exotic leather that Frank didn’t recognize. Large built-in bookcases held a collection of volumes on African art, history, and culture, and the floor-to-ceiling CD racks contained an archival collection of jazz.
“Do you like jazz?” Mac asked, seeing Frank eye the collection.
“I’m more of an opera guy.”
“Puccini?”
“You got it.”
“Yougot it,” Mac said. He pushed a few buttons behind his desk and the opening strains ofTosca filled the room. It was the best-quality sound that Frank had ever heard and he asked Mac about it.
“Bose,” Mac said. “I’ll set you up with my man.”
Mac pushed another button, and a butler came in with a tray with two amber-filled glasses, which he set on side tables next to the chairs.
“Single-malt scotch,” Mac said. “I thought you might enjoy it.”
“What about you?” Frank asked.
“I don’t drink. Or smoke or do drugs.” He sat down in a chair opposite them. “Shall we do some business?”
“We’re not selling the club,” Mike said.
“You haven’t heard my offer.”
Frank took a sip of the scotch. It was smoky and smooth, and a second later he felt its warmth permeate his stomach.
“Congratulations on the Pinto Club,” Mac said. “You’ve done very well with it. But I think that I could take it to the next level in ways that you can’t.”
“How’s that?” Mike asked.
“Horizontal integration,” Mac said. “I take my adult-video actresses and book them into the clubs, take my star dancers and put them in the videos.”
“We do that now,” Mike said.
“In a cheap way,” Mac said. “I’m talking about headliners. Names in the industry, people you can’t afford. Similarly, you pimp your girls to traveling salesman for a couple of hundred bucks. Our girls go with millionaires.”
“You’ve told us why you want to buy the club,” Mike said, “not why we should sell it.”
“You can sell it now and make a profit,” Mac said. “Or you can wait until I drive you out of business, and lose money. I control six clubs in California, another three in Vegas. Pretty soon I’ll be in New York. The headliners, the names, will work my clubs and no others. Another six months to a year, you won’t be able to compete. At best, you’ll be a bottom-feeding operation selling draft beer to Joe Lunchbucket.”
“I might consider selling you forty-nine percent,” Mike said.
“But I wouldn’t consider buying it,” Mac replied. “Iwould consider an eighty percent share. Believe me, you’ll make more with that twenty points than with your current one hundred.”