Hate Crime (14 page)

“Oh, dear.”

“Yeah. So you can see why I’m interested in making some cash. I got things to take care of.”

“But of course you do.” He scanned a form that lay on the desk before him. “Just a few more things we need to cover . . .”

None of this get-to-know-you BS fooled Charlie for a moment. The man cared about only two things: how much are you willing to do, and how big is it? And if Charlie wanted work, it’d better be big.

“Are you active in sports?”

“Oh yeah. You may not be able to tell—I’ve always been on the skinny side—but I love to get outdoors and work up a sweat. I play racquetball several times a week.” Which was total bull, but it was the most big-dickish answer he could come up with off the top of his head. “We were in the state finals last year.”

“Impressive. Could we talk a moment about your professional qualifications?”

Here we go. “Of course.”

“You say you’ve done this sort of thing before.”

“Oh yeah.”

“So you wouldn’t be uncomfortable with the general parameters of escort work.”

“Not a bit.”

“Then let me ask. Are there any activities you wouldn’t be willing to engage in?”

Charlie hesitated. “I’m not sure. Perhaps if you could give me some idea . . .”

“For instance, many of our clients are older women. Considerably older than yourself. Would that be a problem?”

Charlie’s face brightened. “I love older women. Bring on the grandmas.”

“And some of our clients are rather . . . large.”

“Fine, fine. More to love.”

The man did not crack a glimmer of a smile. “What about men?”

“Men?”

“Yes. Would that be a problem?”

“I’d . . . probably prefer not to do men. I just . . . it’s not my thing, you know?”

“Are you certain about that? We get many requests from male clients. With relatively few outlets for that sort of thing or places to meet men with similar interests, many do find themselves turning to us for assistance. If you were willing to take male clients, we could provide you with a great deal of work. And you did say you needed funds . . .”

Charlie thought long and hard. It was tempting, no doubt about it. If he could score some big money, fast, he could buy some fake ID, get his records altered. Make himself untraceable. Maybe even fly off to Rio and disappear once and for all.

But then he thought about Dean, and that first hideous, painful night . . .

“No. I’m sorry, I can’t do that. But bring on the women, and I’ll give them something they never dreamt—”

“Are there any acts you would not be willing to engage in? Any positions?”

“With the grandmas? Nah. I don’t care.”

“Well, then, that just about covers it, I think.” He stacked his papers and punched a perfectly placed staple in the upper left corner. “I don’t see why you can’t start immediately.”

“Great.”

“My secretary will issue you a pager. Please keep it on your person at all times. If we buzz you, proceed to a telephone as soon as possible for your instructions.”

“Roger.”

“Now there are a few rules we should review. First—”

“Get the money up front.”

The man’s lips thinned. Was that what passed for a smile with this guy? “Yes. There are others, however. Our clients must always be treated with respect. Be punctual. Never argue. The customer is always right. And most important—”

“Get the money up front. I understand. Believe me—I’ve been there.”

“Good. We shouldn’t have any problems. May I validate your parking?”

“Uh, no. I took the bus.” Which was true, even though it didn’t leave often and never went exactly where he needed to go. But he felt safer in a bus than he did walking the streets. Anything could happen to you when you were walking alone on the street, Charlie thought, a sudden chill running down his back. Like with Tony Barovick. He knew what had happened to that poor kid—like no one else did.

Well, almost no one. One did. The one who was undoubtedly searching the streets of the city, night and day, looking for Charlie the Chicken. So he could do it again.

14

Christina and Loving sat in a booth, casing the joint as they huddled over two longneck beers and a video monitor. Loving preferred to get the lay of a place before he barged in asking questions. And it was just as well, because Remote Control was not your average singles bar.

“So this is how they do it in the big city,” Christina said. “Back in Tulsa, they’d just have a debutante ball.”

“That would be an improvement,” Loving replied.

“I suppose this is better than trying to meet someone in an online chat room.”

“ ‘Fyou say so.”

“You can tell if a guy is really a guy.”

“Mebbe.”

“I suppose you preferred it when you could just club a woman over the head and drag her by the hair back to your cave.”

He shrugged. “Did simplify things.”

Christina scoped out the crowded bar. It was filled with people using video monitors, all of them hooked up to a single camera network. From the relative privacy of your booth, you could channel surf—for people. Keep switching from channel to channel till you saw someone you liked, then push a button to let your obscure object of desire know you’re watching. If there is no objection, you pick up the phone and chat. A meat market for the Nintendo generation.

“I know we’re working,” Christina said, “but I won’t object if you want to try it out. After all, a good investigator has to get a feel for the environment.”

“Pass,” Loving said.

“Too chicken?”

“Too smart.”

There was a buzzing sound, followed by a pop-up message on their screen. “Channel 42 says, ‘Hi!’ Would you like to reply? Press A to initiate contact. Press B to send them packing.”

Christina gave Loving a poke. “C’mon. Go for it.”

“Nuh-huh. The message is from someone named Adam. He doesn’t wanna talk to me. Or if he does, I don’t wanna talk to him.”

“Well, I’m game.” Christina pushed the A button. A head shot of a dark-complexioned man in his early thirties popped onto the screen. “Ten-four, Adam. This is Becky Sue.”

Loving arched an eyebrow. Becky Sue?

“Hi, Becky Sue,” the face on the screen replied. “I’ve been watching you.”

“You yellow dog, you.”

“I’m in one of the back caverns. Got a bottle of champagne and a chaise longue. Would you like to join me?”

“I don’t know. Whatcha got?”

Christina found his attempt at a seductive look all too amusing. “More than you can handle, sister.” He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

“I dunno, pardner. I can handle a lot.”

Adam was still unbuttoning. “That’s good to hear. Because I’ve got a lot for you.”

“Tell me more.”

“Why talk at all? Come back to my cavern and I’ll give you a taste of my all-night sucker.”

Christina pressed a hand to her throat. “Oh, my.”

“Come on, gorgeous,” Adam cooed. “Let me show you what you’re missing. We’ll relax, pour a few shots.”

“Sorry, slick. I don’t do hard liquor.”

“Do you smoke? I’ve got some joints.”

Loving stiffened.

“It’s quality stuff. Just in from Mexico.”

Loving began to slide from their booth. Christina grabbed his arm. “Hold on, Starsky.”

“What’s the problem?” Adam asked. “He doesn’t smoke?”

“No, dear. The problem is he hates drugs and the people who promote them. Last guy who tried to pass him a joint ended up in the hospital for a week.”

The screen went black.

Loving got up. “I’m going after him.”

“Don’t bother. He’ll be long gone.”

Loving grimaced. “I got enough atmosphere. Let’s try some actual investigatin’. They’re expecting us. You want the owner?”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

“I’ll do the barmaid. Word on the street says she was a close friend of Tony Barovick’s.” He moved toward the bar. “Don’t make anyone mad or go anywhere I can’t see you. I’m only lettin’ you in on this ’cause we’re so pressed for time. Push hard. Don’t let him weasel around with half answers. We’ll meet back here when you’re done.”

“No doubt,” Christina said. “Unless I find a dark cavern with a chaise longue.”

Christina hated being made to wait, but she might tolerate it from, say, the president of the United States. But from a greasy, overweight club owner? It didn’t sit well.

Fortunately, she had the overhead monitors to amuse her. One was scrolling through a montage of images from throughout the bar: couples kissing, men’s butts in tight jeans, women’s cleavage—had a camera been pointed at her chest while she sat in the booth with Loving?—a rapid-fire succession of faces howling with gaiety or rapturous with passion. If this wasn’t a television commercial, it should be.

At long last, Mario Roma put down his cell phone. “So you’re defending the guy who killed Tony.”

“Accused,” Christina clarified.

“We had cops and lawyers crawling all over the place, after what happened. I don’t remember you.”

“I’m new to the case.” Christina took the open stool—then immediately checked to see if there were any cameras zooming in on her cleavage. “So you own this place?”

“I do. My pride and joy.”

“How’s it doing?”

“It’s turned into a nice little moneymaker. I’m talking to some people about turning it into a franchise.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s a unique concept. You deserve your success.”

“Thanks, lady, but I can’t take credit. It was all Tony’s idea.”

“Tony? Tony Barovick?”

“Yeah.” Roma waved, and a waitress brought him what looked like a microwaved burrito. “You want something?”

Christina gazed at the mass of congealed cheese and refried beans. “I already ate. Thanks, though.”

“When Tony came on as manager, this was a perfectly ordinary singles joint. People flirting and dancing and coming on to each other just like they have for the last fifty years.”

“And Tony Barovick came up with the idea of modernizing it?”

“Exactly. He was into computers and video and stuff. Understood all this high-tech jazz. Couldn’t figure out why it had never been used to help people get together. We use technology to improve our businesses and transportation and television reception, so he thought: Why don’t we use it to improve the mating process?”

“Good point, if a little clinical. So you went for it.”

“Almost immediately. I can’t take credit for the idea, but I know a good one when I hear it. I took out a loan and invested a million bucks in all these cameras and computers and stuff. We’ve been booming ever since.”

“That’s great.”

“Have you checked it out? It’s fabulous. You can scope the action—without embarrassment or awkward situations. Everyone’s more relaxed. It’s a great way to hook up with someone. I mean, compared to this, computer dating services look like something from the Stone Age.”

“And Barovick also managed the club?”

“Yeah. Did a bang-up job, too. He was on top of everything. Whatever the patrons wanted, he made sure they had it. They loved him.”

“So if Tony was your manager—and idea man—you must’ve known him pretty well.”

“For two years.” Roma took a huge bite, smearing some bean sauce on his gray mustache. “He was a great employee. And friend. I loved him like a brother.”

“You must’ve been pretty torn up after what happened.”

Roma’s cheeks sagged. Hard lines formed across his forehead. “Lady, there ain’t no words for what I felt when—when I found out.”

“Bad?”

“Let me put it this way. I’m not a rich man—but the second I heard what happened, I put it out on the street that I’d pay fifty thousand dollars to anyone who could catch, hurt, or kill the men who did it. Or better yet, all of the above.”

“You put a bounty on their heads? You know that’s illegal.”

“So put the cuffs on me.” He hefted a tall, cold mug of beer. “I did what I had to do.”

“They were caught very quickly. Right here in the bar?”

Roma clenched his teeth so hard his head seemed to shrink. “Yeah, they came back here. Bragging about what they did. How bad they hurt Tony.” His voice became quieter. “If I’d had the chance, I’d have ripped their heads off with my bare hands.”

Looking at the man, his physique, his evident anger, Christina didn’t doubt that he could do it. “I guess you knew Tony was gay?”

“Sure. Everyone knew.”

“And you were okay with it?”

“Didn’t see what business of mine it was who he slept with. Long as it’s between consenting adults, who cares?”

If only we all saw the world through the eyes of Mario Roma. “Did you know the two boys who were arrested? The frat guys?”

“I’d seen ’em before. But I didn’t want anything to do with them.”

Christina made a mental note. “And why is that? Don’t like fraternities?”

“More than that.” Mario shrugged. “Could be wrong. But the skinny dark one looked like mob to me.”

“And that was bad because—”

“I have to explain what’s bad about the mob? Or maybe you thought that since I’m Italian-American I must be Mafia.”

“I was just asking questions.”

“I’ve kept my nose clean my whole life, lady. I put my life together without any help from anyone, including mob bosses. And I’m proud of it. So don’t start in with your insinuations.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Christina peered intently at the man’s face. Methinks he doth protest too much.

“My club’s a clean joint. We don’t allow people to stumble out and drive drunk. We don’t permit drugs—not even a hint.”

Christina decided not to tell him about Adam and the back cavern.

“Remote Control is a good place where a guy or gal can go to meet someone. Safe. Wholesome.”

“Sort of a Disney singles bar.”

“Well, yeah, in a way. I mean, there’s a need for this. Used to be, you’d meet a nice girl at church, or a neighborhood dance, or whatever. But those old communities have disintegrated. Hell, with computers, some people never leave home. We got more people, but it’s harder to meet them.”

Christina couldn’t disagree. Being single in Tulsa was like being an atheist in, well, Tulsa.

“We provide a valuable community service. So I was mad as hell about what happened to Tony—not only for Tony but for Remote Control. I don’t like hoods running around. For that matter, I’m not crazy about lawyers.”