half swallowing the words.
“Who’s Rostov?” I asked.
Sutter stood up straight and rubbed his chin. “Siggy Rostov,” he said. “He runs whores, among other things. Whores, gambling, loan-sharking, the list goes on—but mainly whores. Probably half the girls who work out of here work for Siggy somewhere up the line. That right, Troop?”
“More than half.”
“What’s this Rostov want with her?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It’s not like those guys tell me shit.”
“When did they come around?”
Troop wiped his brow. “They’re always around here, but they started asking about her on Friday, middle of the day.”
“She wasn’t here?”
“She and the kid went out in the morning. They didn’t come back.”
“How long had they been staying here?”
“Since last Tuesday. Paid a week up front.”
Sutter nodded. “Paid for a week, but didn’t stay a week. She leave anything behind?”
Troop looked into his crotch again. “I…I don’t think so.”
“You want to try that again?” Sutter said.
“I…I found some stuff under the bed.”
Sutter shook his head. “Going under a bed at this place—you’re braver than you look. Let’s see it.”
Troop shifted in his seat. He pointed to his desk. “Bottom drawer, on the right—but there was next to nothing.”
Sutter opened the drawer. He took out a white plastic grocery bag and looked inside. He picked through it and shrugged, then tossed it over the glass wall to me. “See what you make of it.”
There wasn’t much to see: two pairs of Alex-sized tee shirts, shorts, underpants, and socks, a pair of Alex-sized sandals that looked like leather but were actually plastic, two new toothbrushes, a tube of candy-flavored toothpaste with superheroes on the label, a bottle of chewable multivitamins shaped like funny cavemen, a granola bar, and, at the bottom, a wallet. It was leather, buttery and supple, a softly glowing black on the outside, and inside an arterial red. There was a logo embossed on an inside flap, a leaping horse, and a monogram—HM—in gold Helvetica letters above the credit card slots. Other than the lingering smell of money, it was empty.
I held it up for Troop to see. “You find it this way?”
He nodded, and looked at his crotch again. “I told you, next to nothing.”
Sutter slapped the back of Troop’s head. “Try not to be so full of shit,” he said, smiling.
“What was in there?” I asked.
Troop reached into his back pocket. His own wallet was a nylon-and-Velcro affair, like a lumpy gray brick. He peeled it open and took out a thin stack of cards. “Some guy’s business cards—that’s all there was. I figured the chick took the credit cards and cash.”
Sutter took the cards. “Hoover Mays. No address, just a 213 phone number. Who the fuck is named
Hoover
?”
“You planning to do something with the cards?” I asked.
“Thought maybe I could call the guy, sell his wallet back. Even empty it’s worth something, and I wasn’t gonna tell him it was empty.”
Sutter slapped his head again. “Douche bag. So this was it—the shopping bag, the wallet—nothing else?”
Troop rubbed his head. “I swear.”
Sutter looked at me. I shrugged, and he looked at Troop. “Here’s your deal,” Sutter said. “You talk about our visit with no one—including and especially Siggy Rostov and his monkeys—and we do the same, okay? You tell no one how you spilled your guts to us, and we tell no one, and everyone sleeps soundly at night. Am I transmitting clear?”
Troop nodded. “It’s clear.”
“Okay, then,” Sutter said, and he pocketed Hoover May’s calling cards, leapt to the top of Troop’s desk, and vaulted the glass again with no more effort than a leaf in the wind.
CHAPTER 13
“So—your girl is probably a working girl,” Sutter said. We were in my apartment, above the clinic, and he was tilted back in one of my kitchen chairs, drinking a Stella, his sneakers on a
“Who’s Rostov?” I asked.
Sutter stood up straight and rubbed his chin. “Siggy Rostov,” he said. “He runs whores, among other things. Whores, gambling, loan-sharking, the list goes on—but mainly whores. Probably half the girls who work out of here work for Siggy somewhere up the line. That right, Troop?”
“More than half.”
“What’s this Rostov want with her?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It’s not like those guys tell me shit.”
“When did they come around?”
Troop wiped his brow. “They’re always around here, but they started asking about her on Friday, middle of the day.”
“She wasn’t here?”
“She and the kid went out in the morning. They didn’t come back.”
“How long had they been staying here?”
“Since last Tuesday. Paid a week up front.”
Sutter nodded. “Paid for a week, but didn’t stay a week. She leave anything behind?”
Troop looked into his crotch again. “I…I don’t think so.”
“You want to try that again?” Sutter said.
“I…I found some stuff under the bed.”
Sutter shook his head. “Going under a bed at this place—you’re braver than you look. Let’s see it.”
Troop shifted in his seat. He pointed to his desk. “Bottom drawer, on the right—but there was next to nothing.”
Sutter opened the drawer. He took out a white plastic grocery bag and looked inside. He picked through it and shrugged, then tossed it over the glass wall to me. “See what you make of it.”
There wasn’t much to see: two pairs of Alex-sized tee shirts, shorts, underpants, and socks, a pair of Alex-sized sandals that looked like leather but were actually plastic, two new toothbrushes, a tube of candy-flavored toothpaste with superheroes on the label, a bottle of chewable multivitamins shaped like funny cavemen, a granola bar, and, at the bottom, a wallet. It was leather, buttery and supple, a softly glowing black on the outside, and inside an arterial red. There was a logo embossed on an inside flap, a leaping horse, and a monogram—HM—in gold Helvetica letters above the credit card slots. Other than the lingering smell of money, it was empty.
I held it up for Troop to see. “You find it this way?”
He nodded, and looked at his crotch again. “I told you, next to nothing.”
Sutter slapped the back of Troop’s head. “Try not to be so full of shit,” he said, smiling.
“What was in there?” I asked.
Troop reached into his back pocket. His own wallet was a nylon-and-Velcro affair, like a lumpy gray brick. He peeled it open and took out a thin stack of cards. “Some guy’s business cards—that’s all there was. I figured the chick took the credit cards and cash.”
Sutter took the cards. “Hoover Mays. No address, just a 213 phone number. Who the fuck is named
Hoover
?”
“You planning to do something with the cards?” I asked.
“Thought maybe I could call the guy, sell his wallet back. Even empty it’s worth something, and I wasn’t gonna tell him it was empty.”
Sutter slapped his head again. “Douche bag. So this was it—the shopping bag, the wallet—nothing else?”
Troop rubbed his head. “I swear.”
Sutter looked at me. I shrugged, and he looked at Troop. “Here’s your deal,” Sutter said. “You talk about our visit with no one—including and especially Siggy Rostov and his monkeys—and we do the same, okay? You tell no one how you spilled your guts to us, and we tell no one, and everyone sleeps soundly at night. Am I transmitting clear?”
Troop nodded. “It’s clear.”
“Okay, then,” Sutter said, and he pocketed Hoover May’s calling cards, leapt to the top of Troop’s desk, and vaulted the glass again with no more effort than a leaf in the wind.
CHAPTER 13
“So—your girl is probably a working girl,” Sutter said. We were in my apartment, above the clinic, and he was tilted back in one of my kitchen chairs, drinking a Stella, his sneakers on a
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