question.”
“If I was trying to. . . You
like
this guy or something?”
“I don’t know if I like him,” Xyla said calmly, dark eyes steady on mine. “I haven’t met him. But I wouldn’t be part of trying to stop him.”
“You like what he’s doing, then?”
“Not even. But I sure don’t like the people he’s doing it
to,
” she said, standing up to leave.
“ H i.” A woman’s voice answered the phone, soft and sexy. But the disguise wasn’t even a good try.
“You know who this is, Nadine?” I asked her.
“Sure,” she replied, shifting texture. “You change your mind about wanting a partner?”
“Maybe. Depends on what you can bring to the table.”
“I told you. I—”
“Not now. Not on the phone. Not ever,” I told her. “You got a car?”
“No.”
“Want a ride in a nice one?”
“Is
she
going to be along?” Like Pansy was the other woman.
“Yep.”
“Why? You scared to be alone with me?”
“Yep.”
“Ah. Okay. You know where I—?”
“No,” I told her. “I’ll pick you up in front of the same place we met last time, okay?”
“Sure. What time?”
“Say. . . midnight?”
“Ooh. It’s
dark
then.”
I hung up on her.
I was there at a little past eleven, parked across the highway, the Plymouth lost in the shadows, watching the front of the joint through the night-vision spotting scope I’d held out of an order I’d middle-manned. A little inventory shrinkage is something you have to expect when you deal with crooks.
The scope worked even better than the seller had promised—kind of a greenish wash over the whole scene, but bright and clear enough to pick out individual faces. Nadine showed way early, around eleven-forty-five, the skinny blonde girl with her, Nadine holding her wrist as if she expected the other girl to bolt. Or maybe just making a status statement. Ten minutes later, she said something to the blonde and let go of her wrist. The blonde went inside the joint. Nadine stood there, arms folded under her breasts, shoulders squared, waiting.
I wheeled around and came from the downtown direction, pulled up just before midnight. Nadine walked over to the passenger side of the car boldly, stuck her face inside as the window slid down.
“You’re on time,” she said.
“Just get in,” I told her.
“Where’s the seat belt?” she asked me as I pulled away.
“It doesn’t have shoulder straps. There’s a lap belt right on the seat next to you.”
“Geez. How old is this thing, anyway?”
“About your age,” I told her.
“You’re sure not,” she shot back.
“Damn! You don’t miss much, huh?”
“Why are you so nasty to me?” she asked as we passed the Meat Market and forked left for the West Side Highway.
“I play them the way they’re dealt,” I said.
“So if I was sweet to you. . .”
“I’d take it for sarcasm.”
“So, I’m. . . stuck, right?”
“What’s your beef?” I asked. “This is what you want, isn’t it? You made your point, first time I met you. You want to keep making it over and over, get your kicks that way, it’s all right with me.”
“You don’t know anything about the way I get my kicks.”
“And I don’t have to, right?” We were into the Thirties by then, in the sleaze zone that surrounds the Port Authority Terminal. You don’t see much hooker traffic there anymore, although it’s still around, but it’s a good place to buy whatever they don’t sell in stores. “You got a friend on the force,” I said, setting her up for what I was going to pitch later. “You got some info, heard some rumors. . . and you made all your decisions. One of those decisions was that I was judging you. . . and you started out with an attitude just for that. Now you want to do. . . what? Flirt with me? Do your little Mae West thing? You don’t like men. Straight men, anyway. That’s your privilege. Me, I don’t give a good goddamn what you are. All I care about is what you do.
“If I was trying to. . . You
like
this guy or something?”
“I don’t know if I like him,” Xyla said calmly, dark eyes steady on mine. “I haven’t met him. But I wouldn’t be part of trying to stop him.”
“You like what he’s doing, then?”
“Not even. But I sure don’t like the people he’s doing it
to,
” she said, standing up to leave.
“ H i.” A woman’s voice answered the phone, soft and sexy. But the disguise wasn’t even a good try.
“You know who this is, Nadine?” I asked her.
“Sure,” she replied, shifting texture. “You change your mind about wanting a partner?”
“Maybe. Depends on what you can bring to the table.”
“I told you. I—”
“Not now. Not on the phone. Not ever,” I told her. “You got a car?”
“No.”
“Want a ride in a nice one?”
“Is
she
going to be along?” Like Pansy was the other woman.
“Yep.”
“Why? You scared to be alone with me?”
“Yep.”
“Ah. Okay. You know where I—?”
“No,” I told her. “I’ll pick you up in front of the same place we met last time, okay?”
“Sure. What time?”
“Say. . . midnight?”
“Ooh. It’s
dark
then.”
I hung up on her.
I was there at a little past eleven, parked across the highway, the Plymouth lost in the shadows, watching the front of the joint through the night-vision spotting scope I’d held out of an order I’d middle-manned. A little inventory shrinkage is something you have to expect when you deal with crooks.
The scope worked even better than the seller had promised—kind of a greenish wash over the whole scene, but bright and clear enough to pick out individual faces. Nadine showed way early, around eleven-forty-five, the skinny blonde girl with her, Nadine holding her wrist as if she expected the other girl to bolt. Or maybe just making a status statement. Ten minutes later, she said something to the blonde and let go of her wrist. The blonde went inside the joint. Nadine stood there, arms folded under her breasts, shoulders squared, waiting.
I wheeled around and came from the downtown direction, pulled up just before midnight. Nadine walked over to the passenger side of the car boldly, stuck her face inside as the window slid down.
“You’re on time,” she said.
“Just get in,” I told her.
“Where’s the seat belt?” she asked me as I pulled away.
“It doesn’t have shoulder straps. There’s a lap belt right on the seat next to you.”
“Geez. How old is this thing, anyway?”
“About your age,” I told her.
“You’re sure not,” she shot back.
“Damn! You don’t miss much, huh?”
“Why are you so nasty to me?” she asked as we passed the Meat Market and forked left for the West Side Highway.
“I play them the way they’re dealt,” I said.
“So if I was sweet to you. . .”
“I’d take it for sarcasm.”
“So, I’m. . . stuck, right?”
“What’s your beef?” I asked. “This is what you want, isn’t it? You made your point, first time I met you. You want to keep making it over and over, get your kicks that way, it’s all right with me.”
“You don’t know anything about the way I get my kicks.”
“And I don’t have to, right?” We were into the Thirties by then, in the sleaze zone that surrounds the Port Authority Terminal. You don’t see much hooker traffic there anymore, although it’s still around, but it’s a good place to buy whatever they don’t sell in stores. “You got a friend on the force,” I said, setting her up for what I was going to pitch later. “You got some info, heard some rumors. . . and you made all your decisions. One of those decisions was that I was judging you. . . and you started out with an attitude just for that. Now you want to do. . . what? Flirt with me? Do your little Mae West thing? You don’t like men. Straight men, anyway. That’s your privilege. Me, I don’t give a good goddamn what you are. All I care about is what you do.
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