Skin Trade by Reggie Nadelson Page B

doesn’t she?” I said. “Doesn’t she?”
    â€œI’ll get you something tomorrow. I swear to God, Artie, I’ll help you on this case.” Momo sized me up, figuring if he should part with information. “I’m going to give you someone to meet. Somebody who might know about this type of beating, this signature.” He scribbled a name and address on one of his cards. “Call her tomorrow. Say I told you.”
    â€œA cop?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œPersonal?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œShow me Lily’s paperwork.”
    â€œI can’t.”
    â€œThen forget it.”
    Gourad was walking some kind of tightrope and it was stretched very thin.
    â€œListen, I appreciate your help, Momo. I really do. So we’ll talk. OK?”
    He maneuvered the car into an empty space outside McDonald’s. I opened the car door. He put out his hand and I shook it. Something made him hesitate.
    I said, “What is it?”
    â€œThere was someone.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œSomeone who maybe had a piece of the action, or we heard anyhow, and maybe his outfit was a front. A model agency that was a front for whores. Part of a network. They moved girls that way, a lot of them, sometimes they could do it legally, get them visas. But we could never prove it. Maybe it’s connected, the little girl that got murdered. Lily.”
    â€œWhat was his name?”
    â€œIt’s classified information. The model agency looked legit on the surface. We’re legally restrained from making it public. There’s no decent evidence at all. You can’t use what I’m telling you. Ever.”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œI only mention it because he was American. He was part French, he had a French name, but he lived in America most of the time. It was a long-distance relationship.”
    â€œWhere in America?”
    â€œCalifornia,” he said.
    â€œTell me his name.”
    â€œThis is my ass, Artie, I mean we’re talking my fat ass on the line if this gets out. You met my boss. He’s a pompous putz, as you say in New York, who wants to hang me out to dry very very slow.”
    â€œIt won’t get out. Tell me his fucking name, please,for Chrissake. Lily’s lying there in that hospital. She could be dying.”
    He didn’t answer and I got out of the car again. I was sick of the games. Gourad got out too, and leaned on the roof.
    â€œHis name,” Gourad said slowly, “his name was Levesque.”
    I was halfway to McDonald’s. As offhand as I could manage, I turned around and walked back to Gourad’s car and leaned on it, facing him. I pretended my interest was casual.
    â€œSo where is this Levesque? It’s a common name?”
    He said, “What’s that have to do with it?”
    â€œIs it a common name?”
    â€œHe’s dead. Levesque is dead. It’s just a hunch.”
    â€œHow long’s he been dead?”
    â€œThat’s where the problem is. He’s been dead a long time. Around four years.”
    â€œHe had a wife?”
    â€œWhat?”
    It was a woman who had tried to cash Levesque’s check, so I asked Gourad, “Did Levesque have a wife?”
    â€œHow the fuck should I know if he had a wife?”
    â€œFind out for me, OK? Just do it. Please. OK, Momo? Get me this information.” I was leaning over the car roof. The snow made it cold and slick. “What was his first name?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œLevesque.”
    â€œHis first name was Eric. He was Eric Levesque,” he said. “I have to go.”

8
    Trying to light a cigarette, I stood on the pavement where Gourad dropped me and he leaned out of the car and called, “Hey, Artie, you OK, man?” but I just waved and tossed the match into the gutter.
    Eric Levesque. My head was pounding with the information. The attack on Lily had been my fault. Because of my case. Somehow, it was