Jersey.
“How long?” I asked the reformed pimp and murderer.
“By nine tonight,” he said. “We’ll get to your back-office door too.”
“Some guys from Seko Security will be here along the way,” I said. “Let ’em do what they need to do.”
—
Back at my desk I called Zephyra Ximenez, my Telephonic and Computer Personal Assistant (TCPA). I rarely saw this pillar of my information jungle; if we met face-to-face two times in a year that was a lot. Most of our work was over the phone or via the Internet. It’s not that I didn’t want to see the Dominican/Moroccan beauty from Queens. She had skin the color of polished onyx and poise that would have put Princess Grace to shame. But Zephyra plied her trade for her many clients by wire, satellite, and microwave beams. She eschewed office work. I couldn’t blame her.
“Hello, Mr. McGill,” she said, answering on the eighth ring. She had my number and therefore my name.
“Hey, Z, how’s it goin’?” I could hear the Domini crew banging from down the hall.
“All right I guess,” she said.
“Problems?”
“A little bit.”
“We’ll get back to that in a minute,” I promised. “First I need you to do some research for me.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“There’s supposed to be a law firm in Frisco called Briscoe/Thyme. I think the last name is spelled like the Simon and Garfunkel song but it could be temporal.” I liked talking to Zephyra because she knew all the words in five or six dictionaries. “I can’t find ’em so I thought you could look.”
“Sure thing.”
“Also I’m looking for a young woman named Coco Lombardi. She’s a stripper here in New York but she might be from Boston originally. Celia Landis might be her alias or vice versa. And there’s some other names I’d like you to look up,” I added. “Josh Farth, forty-four, private investigator or security specialist; Alexander Lett, around forty, from down in DC. He’s a strong-arm so probably listed as security too. Then there’s a Marella Herzog. That name is almost definitely a.k.a. but it’s probably used down in DC for a wedding registration at high-end stores. I’d like to know who she’s marrying and what her backstory is.”
“Got it, got it, and got it,” Zephyra said; her voice sounded cheerier when she was working. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, yeah. Check out the social media sites for somebody named Twitcher.”
“Male or female?”
“Man.”
“Age?”
“It’s Twill.”
Silence, then: “Okay.”
“What’s wrong, Z?”
“I don’t think I want to talk about it.”
“Then let me do the talking,” I said in my most avuncular tone. “There was once a fat man named Bug Bateman who lived in a hole clutching a stick of dynamite in one hand and his dick in the other. A Spanish princess named Ximenez dragged him out of there, made him do push-ups and shop at Armani, and then, just when he was exactly what she wanted, she told him that she needed the freedom to see other guys. He found out that there are many women who want a guy like him.”
“He rubs my nose in it.”
“Any guy you know that you wouldn’t mind spending a few weeks with?”
“There’s this man that calls himself Petipor the Younger. A Turkish technology importer. I think his father is a Thracian prince.”
“After you finish with my searches go away with him.”
“And you’ll tell Bug?”
“I won’t need to.”
“Where do you want me to start with your work?”
“Do a cursory on Coco first and get that to me as soon as possible.”
“You got it, boss.”
19
“I ’m leaving now, Mr. McGill,” Mardi said via intercom maybe five minutes after my talk with Zephyra. “Do you need anything else?”
“Tell Twill I’m askin’ about him if you see him and take your sister to some musical on the office account.”
“Thanks.”
“And one more thing,” I said.
“What’s that.”
“Try to find yourself a
“How long?” I asked the reformed pimp and murderer.
“By nine tonight,” he said. “We’ll get to your back-office door too.”
“Some guys from Seko Security will be here along the way,” I said. “Let ’em do what they need to do.”
—
Back at my desk I called Zephyra Ximenez, my Telephonic and Computer Personal Assistant (TCPA). I rarely saw this pillar of my information jungle; if we met face-to-face two times in a year that was a lot. Most of our work was over the phone or via the Internet. It’s not that I didn’t want to see the Dominican/Moroccan beauty from Queens. She had skin the color of polished onyx and poise that would have put Princess Grace to shame. But Zephyra plied her trade for her many clients by wire, satellite, and microwave beams. She eschewed office work. I couldn’t blame her.
“Hello, Mr. McGill,” she said, answering on the eighth ring. She had my number and therefore my name.
“Hey, Z, how’s it goin’?” I could hear the Domini crew banging from down the hall.
“All right I guess,” she said.
“Problems?”
“A little bit.”
“We’ll get back to that in a minute,” I promised. “First I need you to do some research for me.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“There’s supposed to be a law firm in Frisco called Briscoe/Thyme. I think the last name is spelled like the Simon and Garfunkel song but it could be temporal.” I liked talking to Zephyra because she knew all the words in five or six dictionaries. “I can’t find ’em so I thought you could look.”
“Sure thing.”
“Also I’m looking for a young woman named Coco Lombardi. She’s a stripper here in New York but she might be from Boston originally. Celia Landis might be her alias or vice versa. And there’s some other names I’d like you to look up,” I added. “Josh Farth, forty-four, private investigator or security specialist; Alexander Lett, around forty, from down in DC. He’s a strong-arm so probably listed as security too. Then there’s a Marella Herzog. That name is almost definitely a.k.a. but it’s probably used down in DC for a wedding registration at high-end stores. I’d like to know who she’s marrying and what her backstory is.”
“Got it, got it, and got it,” Zephyra said; her voice sounded cheerier when she was working. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, yeah. Check out the social media sites for somebody named Twitcher.”
“Male or female?”
“Man.”
“Age?”
“It’s Twill.”
Silence, then: “Okay.”
“What’s wrong, Z?”
“I don’t think I want to talk about it.”
“Then let me do the talking,” I said in my most avuncular tone. “There was once a fat man named Bug Bateman who lived in a hole clutching a stick of dynamite in one hand and his dick in the other. A Spanish princess named Ximenez dragged him out of there, made him do push-ups and shop at Armani, and then, just when he was exactly what she wanted, she told him that she needed the freedom to see other guys. He found out that there are many women who want a guy like him.”
“He rubs my nose in it.”
“Any guy you know that you wouldn’t mind spending a few weeks with?”
“There’s this man that calls himself Petipor the Younger. A Turkish technology importer. I think his father is a Thracian prince.”
“After you finish with my searches go away with him.”
“And you’ll tell Bug?”
“I won’t need to.”
“Where do you want me to start with your work?”
“Do a cursory on Coco first and get that to me as soon as possible.”
“You got it, boss.”
19
“I ’m leaving now, Mr. McGill,” Mardi said via intercom maybe five minutes after my talk with Zephyra. “Do you need anything else?”
“Tell Twill I’m askin’ about him if you see him and take your sister to some musical on the office account.”
“Thanks.”
“And one more thing,” I said.
“What’s that.”
“Try to find yourself a
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