Shoot (7 page)

“They’re trying to get more, trying to talk to the women, saving it for a big splash in the morning paper.”

“Oh. Of course.”

I told Jane what else had happened.

“Was it the Viagra?” she asked. “Did it cause his heart attack?”

“Maybe. I’m not on the story.”

“Okay. So, tomorrow is your first day as a private eye?” Jane asked.

“Looks that way. Sounds more like a security guard job.”

“If you don’t like it, you can quit.”

When a commercial came on, we got up and made dinner together. Jane carefully sautéed a small fish while I made a salad and drizzled on some virgin olive oil with herbs and Trader Joe’s Balsamic Glaze. I served Skippy some of his favorite canned wet food, Straw Dogs.

“Something else is bothering you,” Jane said when we were done.

“I just sublet my apartment,” I explained. “Actually I sub-sublet it. For free. I’m celebrating.”

“For free? To who?”

“Total strangers.”

She waited.

“Total strangers who are related to me.”

I told her about the TV show and my mother’s call, while pouring myself another glass of arak. When I told her my parents were staying for only a week, I detected relief. I tried not to take it personally. We had only been dating a month.

“Your parents make mine seem wonderful,” Jane said. “Yours sound somewhat abusive.”

“Sort of.”

I served with guys, some real psycho killers, whose parents had beat the shit out of them. My parents never used anything except words.

“Did they…”

“Never laid a hand on me,” I said, truthfully. “Always remembered my birthday. But they… told me terrible things… dangerous lies.”

“Like what?”

“That if I was a good person and worked hard, I would be rewarded,” I told her. “That people were the most important thing in this world—not money. That I was personally responsible for Justice for everyone, everywhere, every day of my life.”

“The bastards,” Jane laughed.

“Exactly.”

The folded front page of the
Daily Press
was lying in wait for me on the front porch at seven the next morning, a brisk, sunny day. I was showered, dressed, clean and feeling good. The last thing I wanted to do was read the paper. I unfolded it cautiously, as Skippy sniffed the fresh air. He was getting his information and I was getting mine. The entire front page was one of Sparky’s drone shots of Senator Hardstein, naked and dead on his bed, a lopsided smile on his handsome face. For modesty, a black rectangle had been placed over his aroused crotch, akimbo at a forty-five degree angle—hiding, yet highlighting the spot. The paper had gone for the gusto—the headline in huge bold type, in fire-engine red ink:

Oh, man. I was horrified to see my boldface byline as the first of three names on the EXCLUSIVE! story below, even though I had not filed anything. There was even a postage-stamp-sized photo of me. I cursed under my breath as I scanned the sub-headline and read on.

Sex-scandal Senator Richard “Hard-On” Hardstein suffered an apparent heart attack and died yesterday— during kinky three-way sex with two naked women inside his $8 million Fifth Avenue penthouse, the possible result of a popular erection-inducing medication, law enforcement sources said. Exclusive
Daily Press
photos and video show that the married Hardstein, a father of three and grandfather of two, died after engaging in extra-marital hijinks with his young playmates just minutes after he refused to comment to a crowd of media outside his home—uttering his last public words: “Sorry, I have a pressing appointment.”

© Copyright, N.Y. DAILY PRESS.

I was still new to newspaper work and had no clue what the word “hijinks” meant. Inside, page after page of huge photographs of the senator and his teen partners, with more black tape over certain body parts to reduce the exposure from X-rated to PG-17. There was also black tape over the ladies’ eyes, hiding their identity but not much else.

Wow. And my name was on it. How did that happen? I couldn’t put it down.

“PRESSING APPOINTMENT? The Senator Presses the Flesh in His Last Campaign, as one of his admirers sucks on an odd cigarette.” The video frame-grabs were numbered in series, like a comic strip, of the action and death and the flight of the ladies, then the arrival of the cops. There was a website listed—a pay-per-view site to view the copyrighted video for $9.99. Further in, two pages were dedicated to exclusive interviews with the two girls.

“He was, like, really old but he was always cool before. This time, he just friggin’ fell over. Maybe he took too much Viagra,” said one escort—who asked to be called “Caprice.” Her partner, “Swag,” said they preferred to be identified as “sex industry workers.” They both agreed that if they ever voted they would cast their ballots for Hardstein. Just before the fun turned fatal, they said, the liberal Hardstein asked them to sing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” Yesterday was not the senator’s birthday. “Dickie loved that song,” said one of the sex industry workers. “He was totally bonus. I’m, like, totally sad.”

The girls revealed their prices and menu for sex, all detailed in a chart on page seven, next to a spread of real estate photos of the penthouse—presumably for sale soon—and speculation on who might buy it and whether Hardstein’s widow might get more or less money because of the infamy of his ignominious end there. There was even a shot at Ginny Mac, under a small photo of her pressing her chest against Hardstein. They had air-brushed her cleavage to make it look more revealing and her expression more slutty.

An unnamed
New York Mail
reporter, left, unethically presses her chest against the doomed senator in a failed bid for an interview. But her shame went largely unnoticed in New York—because no one is reading the
Mail
today. Everyone is getting the whole story, exclusively—only in the
Daily Press
! Don’t forget to view the shocking video online. Adults only!

Oh, man. I picked up the warring tabloid from the porch. Ginny had a story on the front page with another big headline:

Ginny’s piece was very similar—but totally without the girls or the sex or the Viagra. They never saw the pastel ladies, never launched a drone. They were caught flat-footed on the ground, G-rated. Compared to the
Daily Press
, the
Mail
was like a bun without the hotdog. Ginny would be breathing fire. Scooped. I called the paper. Mel picked up right away.

“Great job, Shep!” Mel laughed. “We shucking raped the
Mail
!”

I hate it when people call me Shep.

“Mel, why is my name on the story?”

“You’re faking welcome. Sparky told me everything. You set the whole gob-smacking thing up. Without you, we would have zip. You’re too modest. I want my star reporter up front and in their faces. Hey, you’re flipping famous again.”

“Great. Look, I have another thing this morning. I took a part-time job. I’ll have the column for you soon.”

“What the bark are you talking about? Screw the column. I want you on this story.”

“Thanks for the suggestion, Mel, but I’m doing something else that might be a good story. Besides, this has been done to death. It’s over now.”

“Over? Are you fopping kidding? This is just the lucking beginning. The cops and the DA are downstairs with subpoenas. The faking FBI just called. Everybody but the Department of Agriculture.”

“You mean you didn’t give the cops the names of the hookers? You made the cops look bad?”

“Hey, if I give cops the names, they’ll give it to the
Mail
and end our exclusive. No farting way. Orlando is trying to shanghai the wenches now, get them out of town. The lawyers are on the way over here to deal with the canting cops and the feds. By the way, don’t come here. You probably should also stay away from home for a few days, too—on us, of course. You earned it.”

“Why?”

“I think those grass-holes may have a grand jury subpoena or an arrest warrant or something for you. Don’t worry about it—we’ll take care of it.”

“Good to know. Thanks for your help, Mel.”

I hung up. He tried calling right back but I let it go to voice mail. I dialed Sparky and told him I wasn’t happy to be on the story. He apologized. I asked him for the names, ages and addresses of the pastel playmates. I had noticed his photo credit on the clothed pictures of the hookers that went with Orlando’s piece. Sparky looked it up on his phone. I wrote it down. He apologized again.

“I thought you deserved credit, man. They were going to cut you out, so I went to the boss. That asshole Orlando told Mel he spotted the girls, not you!”

“That’s okay with me,” I said.

“Seriously? I don’t get you, man. This is a fucking giant story. Why wouldn’t you want in—especially after you were the one who nailed it? You might get a book out of this, or a movie.”

“I don’t like gossip,” I explained. “Talking about other people’s sex lives is more boring than golf on TV. I know I’ve been away a long time but whenever they put me on gossip, I have no clue who these assholes are.”

“Shit, it’s all gossip now, buddy. What else is there?”

“Murder. Somebody’s got to catch the bad guy, so the family can sleep at night.”

“What? Shepherd, were you in the army or the Boy Scouts?”

“Both, actually.”

I dialed Major Case Squad Detective Lieutenant Izzy Negron on his cell. I thought my favorite Jewish-Puerto Rican investigator would be happy to hear from his pet columnist pal.

“Oh, no,” Izzy groaned as he answered.

“Nice to speak to you, too, Izzy.”

“I just saw the fucking paper. I do not want a bite of that,” Izzy said.

“How do you know I’m calling about Hardstein?”

“You’re not?”

“No, I am, sort of.”

“Shit. I am
not
on that case.”

“That’s what I keep telling my boss.”

“I feel bad for Hardstein’s family,” Izzy said. “Talk about a shonda for the goyim. As my father used to say, ‘
Lo agarro con las pendejo en la chocha
.’ What do you mean you’re not on the story? Your name is on the front page, Shepherd.”

I didn’t speak Yiddish or Spanish and couldn’t compete, unless we started speaking Urdu or Pashto.

“As my father used to say, ‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.’ Don’t your bosses give you credit for things you didn’t do?”

“Never,” Izzy said. “I can’t get credit for the shit I
actually
do.”

“Look, off the record, I have the names of the hookers who were with the senator.”

“The shameless shiksas? Off the record, so what? The guy had a heart attack, went out with a smile.
A bi gezunt
. This is Major Case, not major hard-on. Call 911, amigo.”

“My current paper is going to the mats, protecting the ladies’ names, but it’s bullshit,” I told him. “They’re just keeping it from the
Mail
. The DA is also involved, and the feds. Won’t you get brownie points for passing the identities on, saving them a big court fight?”

Izzy hesitated again. He kept hesitating. I read him the names, ages and address. The ladies lived together. I explained I didn’t want to be hauled before a grand jury to protect an exclusive that was already out.

“The thing is, brownie points don’t really count,” Izzy protested. “Try cashing them in, sometime. Also, the guys who couldn’t get the information end up pissed at you for showing them up. You actually make enemies.”

“What a hotbed of intrigue Police Headquarters is,” I told him.

“You have no idea. So, where did these pictures come from—you and a photographer out on the balcony, trespassing, sneaking and peeping?”

“You might not believe me.”

“Try me.”

“Off the record? A drone.”

“You’re shitting me. You guys have drones now?”

“Not as good as we had in JSOC but pretty damn good. So, what are you up to, Izzy?”

“Phil and I are running with the big dogs, nothing but the biggest cases for us. Much too secret to discuss with a lowly reporter, of course.”

“Must have been all your good work on the Hacker case,” I said.

“Oh, and I’m supposed to say I owe it all to you?”

“Well, maybe a little.”

“Okay, a little. Oh, wait, I get it—you’re trying to score brownie points with me.”

“Well, maybe a little,” I admitted. “I’m starting a part-time gig tomorrow and I may need help.”

“That’s the other bad thing about brownie points—you also end up owing the guy who gave you the tip. The guys you beat hate you and then you owe somebody else. That’s two steps backwards.”

For a guy who saw murder victims all the time, Izzy was kind of negative.

“But you’ll pass on the sex industry workers’ info?”

“Sure. I’ll impress my bosses with my omnipotence. I love that euphemism—‘sex industry worker.’ In the pictures, I don’t see the ladies doing any heavy lifting or anything that looks like industry. More like artistry. They got a union yet?”

“Not yet.”

“So, Shepherd, what’s your new part-time gig?”

“Sorry, it’s secret. I can’t talk about it.”

Izzy chuckled. I braced myself for more Yiddish or Spanish. Instead, I heard a familiar sarcastic voice in the background. Detective Sergeant Phil D’Amico.

“Phil thinks you’re becoming a sex industry worker,” Izzy laughed. “He says, ‘Make sure you wear a hard hat.’”

“Tell him thanks, I will.”

I walked west in the morning sun, toward Central Park, toward my meeting, with my black backpack on my back. I noticed sporadic staccato patterns of explosions, firecrackers on the day before the Fourth of July. No one paid any attention. A perfect day to shoot someone and get away with it. By the time I reached Fifth Avenue, the back of my neck was itching. Again. Eyes were on me. It was rush hour and the sidewalks were busy. It was hard to isolate my shadow without tipping him off. I pulled out my phone and dialed Amy.