Beyond Blue (6 page)

“But that won't serve our client's purpose,” Gorman said as the coffee arrived. The aroma of this cappuccino was rich and dark, not like that weak imitation they sell at the designer coffee shops. “You bust open a suitcase without probable cause and even if it's full of heroin, the judges will toss the case. Do they use the same dogs every day?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Could be the dogs are ringers, brought in by the smugglers, but with damaged senses or something,” Gorman said.

“Ain't no smuggler that smart.”

“Well the stuff's coming through that airport somehow,” Gorman said. “We need to stop this guy from bringing that poison in.”

“Not to worry. I told you I got the hook up. While he's romancing me, I'll get the inside dope on this dope, about the dope.”

“You're sure he's under your spell?”

“I got him by the short hairs, baby,” Ruby said, gracing him with a smile. Ruby's smile was sharp and sudden, like a cool tropical shower on a muggy day.

Gorman sipped his coffee. For a moment he was in heaven, enjoying that fresh roasted flavor and watching Ruby's bright, full lips.

“This case is practically done,” Ruby said. “So, I think it's time you stopped shitting on me and gave me a decent raise.”

Gorman almost spit out his coffee. The trapdoor opened, dropping him out of heaven and right back into Manhattan.

“Every time I talk to you, you ask me for a raise. You operatives are the highest paid P.I.s in the city already. The answer is no. No now, no tomorrow, and no the day after tomorrow. So don't ask.”

“It never hurts to ask,” Ruby said, her voice rising to that high, squeaky rasp that Gorman hated.

“It hurts my ears,” Gorman said. “Everything you say hurts my ears. Where did you learn to talk like that? A boiler factory?”

“Your ears get hurt, my suspicion nerves get hurt. Like we're all so well paid, okay, but, tell me, who's the client putting up all this money to have me working out at the airport? I never see anybody paying any dough to our agency. Is this some kind of a scam, like
Candid Camera
or one of those stupid millionaire shows? Am I going to wind up on television one day, embarrassed, too humiliated to go back to my little hovel in the ghetto?”

“Knowing you, you hustler, that hovel in the ghetto probably looks like one of Saddam's palaces before the war. As for who's picking up the freight around here, Ruby, you don't know everything.”

“I'm hep,” she squeaked, leaning back as if ready to receive a briefing.

“The truth is, I happen to be a very clever businessman and my ways are not known to mortals like you.”

“God, you are a tight-mouthed thing. Trying to get information out of you is like trying to squeeze water out of a rock.”

“So quit trying. Go get information out of the bad guys. What do you think we overpay you for?”

Not until he was on the sidewalk helping Ruby into a taxi did Gorman decide that he would walk back to his office. The sun was as clear as it would ever be in the Big Apple skies and he liked the warmth on his face even as the wind tried to cut through his coat.

Gorman set a comfortable pace down the sidewalk, hands in pockets, ignoring the men and nodding at the women he passed. There was quite a bit of foot traffic, but it always seemed to part as Gorman approached. He was barely six feet tall, but people had told him that he looked taller. Posture, he figured, and the right attitude.

He stopped at the corner on a cross street, watching the “Don't Walk” sign. Across Madison another man stood under a similar signal, waiting for the light. Gorman judged his features to be Sicilian, dark hair combed forward and almost black eyes set in an impassive face. He wore a leather coat and gloves, and wingtip shoes that were surely more expensive than Gorman's. The man seemed to ignore the sharp wind whistling through the city streets.

Gorman only noticed him because he seemed to have noticed Gorman.

Francine Brooks would never have noticed Chastity Chiba under normal circumstances. One look would have told her that they were from different classes. After all, Francine was a woman of leisure, working only because she had to and working out only because it was fashionable. She carried the baby fat on her abdomen and the slightly expanded hips and loose bust of a cheerleader who figured she no longer needed to keep a perfect figure because she had already caught a man.

Chastity, on the other hand, had the hard, trim body of a woman who works out for fun. She was blessed with the tight buns and firm round breasts of her mother's heritage and she knew that the white women of the leisure class resented her for both. But it was okay. For a couple of days, she would be able to get her revenge.

“All right, ladies, just a few more reps,” Chastity said, kicking up her aerobics routine a notch and watching her students strain to keep up. The health club managers had been happy to give her a try as instructor once they saw the resume Gunny created for her, and especially when she offered to give lessons at no cost to the club for a week, just to prove her ability.

When she ended the session, Chastity was pleased. The women wandering listlessly away were all bathed in sweat and stuck to their multicolored leotards and tights. After allowing herself a brief moment of ego-boo, she focused on her target, turned on the perky, and jogged over to her.

“Hi. You are Francine Brooks, am I right?” When Francine nodded, Chastity introduced herself. “The manager tells me you've qualified for a free personal trainer session. He told me you asked about light weight training in the past. Do you want to just get that free
session now?”

“Gawd, I'm all in after that workout you just led,” Francine said, whipping her hair around and spraying water into Chastity's face. “Maybe another day.”

Chastity wiped the other woman's sweat from her cheek and followed her for a few steps, “Come on,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “The manager will think I'm not pulling my weight if I don't get you to have a session. You know how men can get. Look, I'll buy you a latte after.” When Francine stopped, Chastity turned on the smile full force, her almond eyes crinkling.

“Oh, all right. Just don't work me too hard.”

Chastity escorted Francine to a fly machine and showed her how to squeeze the padded bars together with her elbows. “This one is great for the bust,” Chastity said, setting a low weight. “Not that you need any help in that area. You're not a member of the itty bitty titty committee, like me.”

“Oh, yours are fine, dear,” Francine said, her voice dripping with superiority. She leaned back and pushed the bars together, lifting the weight behind her through a pulley system.

“Nice and slow, Francine,” Chastity said. “That's it. Do twelve reps and you'll feel it.” Then they both stopped talking at the sound of a cell phone ringing. It was Chastity's phone, hooked to the back of her belt. Perfect timing, she thought. She pulled out the phone and flipped it open. She knew that Gunny, at the other end, had sense enough to ignore her words.

“Yeah. What is it now? Yes. You what? Spent HOW much? Damn it, Benny, I work too hard for you to…” Chastity cut herself off, looked guiltily at Francine and said, “Listen, I'll call you back. You're in someone else's time.” Then she flipped the phone closed.

“Trouble at home?” Francine asked, standing up.

“Men,” Chastity said, leading Francine to the bench press machine. “Can't live with them, can't shoot them. All
they know how to do is take advantage, you know?”

Francine lay on the bench and began slowly raising the handles. “Take some advice, Chastity, is it? It's all about control, girlfriend.”

“Wish I could get some,” Chastity said absently. “They just screw you, and you can't screw them back. I wish I could get me and my little girl out from under. But, sorry ma'am, you don't want to hear my problems.”

“It's okay,” Francine said. “I know where you're coming from. My man has me working too.”

“You too? It's just not right. But I feel so helpless. Nothing I can do but take it.” Chastity let her head droop, her long black tresses hanging to the side. Francine stepped closer, touching Chastity's shoulder.

“There are ways, girlfriend. All you need is a good lawyer, and the right shrink.”

“Shrink?”

“Listen, we need to talk. Do you suppose our workout could include a steam bath?”

The weightlifter made the little office next to Irv Jerome's room look even smaller than it was. He scratched at his shaved head and stared around the otherwise empty room one more time. He looked under the desk for the fifth time, scraped his feet across the thick carpet and stared up at the ceiling tiles in frustration. Then he moved to the doorway, which would not allow his shoulders to pass unless he turned to the side.

“Getting bored here.”

“Sit tight, Frankie,” the smallest of the giants called from another room. “We're coming in there.” Frankie moved back into the room to lean against the window. His two partners joined him in the room. The one with the pointed beard sat on the desk. The third, gun still drawn, stood just inside the door.

“Okay, so me and Psycho searched the rest of the suite pretty thoroughly,” he said, pointing with his gun. “You didn't find anything in here?”

“You can see it all, Doc,” Frankie said. “You see anybody?”

Doc rubbed his broad nose. “I don't get it. I was sure I heard something when we came in. Really thought there was somebody in here. But we've taken the place apart. Any ideas?”

Frankie and Psycho shrugged their massive shoulders. Doc turned to leave the room just as a small brunette with big, dark eyes came through the door.

“Where you been, Linda?” Doc asked.

“What are you guys doing in here?” the woman asked in return. She wore a long conservative sundress too late in the season. “You know the lawyers are in court.”

“I thought we'd come up a little early and get you to put a package in the safe. But instead we get here and you've left the place unsecured and empty.”

“So, what?” Linda asked, getting to her desk. “You guys hang out to admire the panoramic view until I get back?”

“Yeah, like we got nothing better to do than…” Doc's little eyes rolled up into his head as if he was reading an idea printed there. Then he turned and motioned to Frankie. He pointed at the window, then to his right. Frankie's brows wrinkled in confusion at first, but then he nodded. He popped the lever that held the window closed and looked out.

Out on the ledge, Rico Steele leaned back against the wall, just a couple of feet from the window. His fingers were dug into the crevices between the bricks and his eyes watered from the stinging breeze that had been trying to rip him away from the building.

“Hey, you!” Frankie shouted out the window. “Get your ass in here.”

Linda stood to see around Doc at the door better. Frankie reached out the window and grabbed Steele's tie. Psycho hopped off the desk to help. Frankie pulled Steele's head in through the window.

Just then, a roar announced an entire row of ceiling tiles giving way. Samuel “Stone” Mason, wrapped in a cloud of dust and powdered masonry, fell from above and drove Psycho to the floor. Steele climbed in through the window and began throwing left, right, left punches at Frankie's head as quickly as he could.

Stone turned just as Doc pointed his pistol's barrel at Steele. Stone grabbed one of the larger chunks of ceiling tile and tossed it like a Frisbee. The square disc sailed across the small room to jam its edge into Doc's eyes. Doc screeched in pain and dropped the gun to claw at his
injured eyes.

With a roar, Psycho rose from the rubble and flipped Stone off his back. Stone flew to the side, smacking into the wall behind the desk and sliding to the floor. Psycho roared again, like an injured animal, and charged forward. His shoulder slammed into Steele's ribs and Psycho drove him forward, to crash into the wall on the other side of the office.

Doc was still wiping his eyes, but moving toward the sound of battle. “You get him, Psycho,” Doc said.

Stone leaped forward. His hands slapped down on the desk. His feet swung around and shot out slamming hard into Doc's chest, sending Doc into the wall.

“Look what you assholes made me do to my coat,” Stone said, looking down at the leather now under a white powdered camouflage. But Doc was not looking. He was unconscious beside Frankie. Then Stone turned to Psycho, who was crushing Steele's ribs in a vicious bear hug. Stone moved up behind Psycho and slammed a hard left into his ribs. Psycho grunted, but Steele still couldn't draw a decent breath, so Stone punched the same target again. After a third left hook Stone thought he heard a rib give way, and he heard Steele draw a long ragged breath.

Steele threw his arms wide and slammed his palms onto Psycho's ears. Psycho released him and took a step back. Stone, out of breath, staggered back and sat on the desk. Psycho started forward and Steele popped him on the nose with a crisp left jab.

Linda was halfway across the room when Steele went in action. After three long strides he was out of the little room. His long legs stretched, one foot landed on the desk and launched him forward to slam the door shut with his shoulder just as Linda was about to reach it.

“Sorry Miss,” Steele said as she pulled back in fear. “You're not going anywhere, except with us.”

Back in the small room, Stone's arm ached from the pressure, but after a minute of struggling, Psycho gurgled
and his eyes rolled up into his head. Stone held the choke for ten more seconds, then let Psycho drop to the floor.

“Damn, we made a mess in there,” Steele said, standing at the little office door, one hand locked around Linda's wrist.