Caper (2 page)

“All your clients are nice people. Including the prostitutes, drug addicts, scam artists, and hitmen. They're all really nice. The fact that they lead you into temptation is entirely coincidental and not to be inferred.”

“Are you telling me not to take the case?”

“You took the money, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you took the case. The only question now is how badly you handle it.”

“You have any advice on that?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Don't fuck it up.”

“That's your only opinion?”

“No, but it's the best advice I can give you. That's what you're here for, isn't it? You don't want permission. You've already taken the case. You don't want my blessing, because you know you'll never get it. You just want my advice.”

“I just wanted to tell you I may have to alter my schedule. It seemed only fair to do so, since you happen to be one of those people you disdain. You know, those who hire me.”

“Oh, we're back to chimpanzees again. Speaking of which, have you turned in your cases? I could use a good laugh.”

“A good laugh?”

“Well, most of you cases
are
pathetic.”

“They're
your
cases.”

“Not until I take them. They're
potential
cases. If they look good, I file suit. If they don't, I have a form rejection letter. Would you like to know what percentage of cases you handle get that letter?”

“Is it higher than average?”

“That would be hard. The percentage of cases I take is actually rather small. True, I file more cases than any other attorney in New York. But I investigate a hell of a lot more. At least, you do.”

“Sounds like I should be making more money.”

“You don't pay chimpanzees. You give 'em bananas.”

“Great. Can you find another chimpanzee to pinch-hit while I save a young girl from a life of sin?”

Richard shook his head, pityingly. “God, you mix metaphors.”

4

S
ERGEANT
M
AC
A
ULLIF DIDN
'
T CALL ME A MORON.
W
HICH
made me nervous, because he always does. Whether I've taken a case, finished a case, asked him to trace somebody, brought him a piece of evidence, or merely said, “Good morning,” his response has always been the same. “You're a moron.” In the event I've displayed more than usual ineptitude, and sometimes even if I haven't, his response is, “You're a fucking moron.” Which is ironically less and less true as the years go on.

This time he just nodded and said, “She pay cash?”

“Yes.”

“Way to go.”

“You think this is a good idea?”

“Taking cash is the best idea ever. I suppose technically I should turn you in to the IRS, but, hey, if you don't declare it, there's really nothing I can do.”

“MacAullif.”

“What?”

“You don't think I'm doing the wrong thing.”

MacAullif leaned back in his desk chair, a somewhat precarious position lately. Always a beefy cop, the sergeant had put on weight, would be needing to let the waist of his trousers out again soon. He twiddled his thumbs. “You have any milestone birthdays coming up?”

“Why?”

“It's kind of like a stripper-gram for private eyes. A teenage-hooker-gram.”

“MacAullif.”

“I'm not saying you have sex with her. It's better than that. You find her, you talk to her, you straighten her out. You feel great about yourself. You're the white knight on the steed, saving the maiden in distress. Which is the role you always cast yourself in. I would say whoever set this up probably brought it in for less than a grand. Including the money they paid you. Which is like a bonus. You get paid for feeling good. How much did they give you?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“What's that supposed to buy?”

“One day's work.”

“That's today?”

“Starting tomorrow.”

“Call it a day an a half. Actually, two. Today's shot for you. Considering the time you're wasting telling everyone. I assume you've already told Rosenberg.”

“He's my boss.”

“I'm sure he's proud. You don't suppose
he
set this up, did he? As a sort of bonus?”

“Richard?”

“Right, right, it's Rosenberg. He doesn't know the word bonus. Just the word contingency. Which you don't share in, do you? Richard gets thirty-three and a third percent. You get five bucks an hour and two cents a mile.”

“It's a little more than that.”

“I'm glad to hear it. You maintaining a New York apartment, and all.”

“Any time you're through screwing around.”

“Huh? Oh, you want something? What could that possibly be? You need me to find this hooker? Surely Mommy took care of that.”

“I'd like to know I'm not doing anything wrong.”

MacAullif rolled his eyes. “Oh, my god, what a straight line. I don't know what to say, it's too damn easy. You always do something wrong. Given a fifty-fifty chance, you'll pick wrong every time.”

“All right, then. How about illegal.”

MacAullif shook his head despairingly. “Moron.”

“What?”

“Prostitution
is
illegal. It's illegal to begin with. Unless you're making a citizen's arrest and dragging this girl down to the station. You are compounding a felony and conspiring to conceal a crime.”

“That's the wrong answer.”

“Yeah, but it's the one you expected to hear.”

It was, actually. When I get going on a fantasy, there's nothing to bring me back to reality like a good, hard, slap in the face from MacAullif.

“Would you say that any private eye hired to bring back a teenage runaway was conspiring to conceal a crime?”

“Is this girl a runaway?”

“No.”

“She's living at home?”

“Yes.”

“What do they need you for? Why don't they give her a good talking to, ground her, and get on with their lives?”

“She doesn't want her husband to know.”

“A teenage hooker has a husband?”

“Her mother.”

“Oh. And what's the mother like?”

“Oh.”

“Good God, you're let another attractive woman wrap you around her finger. What was the mother like? What a stupid question. I'm assuming she's got tits and ass and a pulse.”

“She is rather attractive.”

“No kidding. Otherwise you'd never let yourself get talked into this for no money.”

“She paid cash.”

“Two hundred bucks. Her analyst makes that in an hour. A fifty-minute hour.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I'm not trying to say anything. I'm just wondering how long I have to keep talking before you realize this is not a good investment.”

“That's what I said in the first place.”

“Not in those terms. You never ask anything simply and directly. You bring up the whole thing as if it were a wonderful opportunity, waiting for me to shoot you down.”

“Are you shooting me down?”

“Do you see me applauding? I can give you enough reasons not to take the case. I assume it's a moot point, because the money's in your pocket. You've already taken it, all you want now is validation. Which you're not going to get. Which you probably knew before you came in the door. A less astute observer might wonder why you came.”

“You don't?”

“Don't be silly. I know exactly why you came.”

“Why is that?”

“You don't want to go home.”

5

A
T THE ART OF MORTAL CONVERSATION,
A
LICE HAS NO
equal. I no longer compete. Not that it does any good. Alice can pick up on my lack of response, turn my unwillingness to engage into a vile, reprehensible, passive-aggressive action, the likes of which have never appeared in the annals of marital discord.

Bad as that is, any response is worse. Alice is a master of sarcasm and irony, the subtle, understated, deadpan zinger, couched like a time bomb within the most innocuous phrase.

Worse, she is unpredictable. It is totally impossible to brace oneself against Alice, because her responses run the gamut. She can decimate me with a simple “That's nice,” a throw-away murmur while leaving the room, a thin smile on her lips, a twinkle in her eyes. And I know, I just know, I've been utterly stupid.

But of all the tactics in Alice's arsenal, by far the most devastating is her understanding-and-supportive mode.

“Don't worry, Stanley, we'll get you out of it.”

“There's nothing to get out of. It's just a job.”

“I know, and it's nice of you to take on the extra work. But, trust me, we'll get by.”

“It's not a question of getting by. It's a question of helping the girl.”

“And she's an escort?”

I'd called her an escort to avoid using the term teenage hooker. That seemed unnecessarily incendiary. I chucked out whore and streetwalker for similar reasons. Strumpet, harlot, and lady of the evening were too archaic. It came down to call girl or escort. Escort won out for not including the word girl.

“Yes.”

“She works for a service?”

“I didn't say she works for a service.”

“Then how does she meet her clientele?”

“I have no idea.”

“Don't be silly. If she's a paid escort, she works for someone.”

“Well, I don't know.”

“Her mother didn't either?”

“No.”

“And yet she knows she works for a service. I wonder how she found out.”

I said nothing, waited for Alice to drop the subject.

As if.

“I mean, if she found an ad, or a business card, or a telephone number, that would be a dead giveaway. She wouldn't send you out in the dark. So, how'd the mother know it was an escort service?”

“The mother
didn't
know it was an escort service.”

“So you don't know it's an escort service?”

“I guess I don't.”

“Then why call it an escort service?”

“I don't know.”

“I mean, you can't expect to make much progress if you're that haphazard with your work. You wind up spending a week looking for a nonexistent escort service.”

“That
would
be silly.”

“No kidding. How old is this daughter?”

“Oh.”

“Oh? That's a very bad sign. Is it possible the mother didn't mention the age of the daughter?”

“She's sixteen.”

“Stanley.”

“Which is why she needs saving.”

“From what? She doesn't work for any service. They don't hire sixteen-year-old girls. Not if they want to stay in business.”

“Maybe the word escort is a little strong. Maybe this is just something the girl is doing for some friends.”

“And you're shooting yourself in the head because when you were sixteen you didn't know girls like that.”

“Times were different then. Man had just discovered fire.”

“Don't give me the geezer bit. You're not that old.”

Alice pushed back from the computer. That didn't mean she was finished using it. A champion multitasker, my wife is perfectly capable of blogging or tweeting, or whatever those online people do these days, without missing a beat in her interrogation. “All right, let's get down to the heart of the matter. You've been hired to save a young girl from a fate worse than death. You're utterly embarrassed, and you don't want to talk about it. I find that very cute. How are you supposed to contact this girl? Tell me you're not soliciting sex from her.”

“That would be entrapment.”

Her mouth fell open. “Entrapment? That's your only objection?”

“Just because the subject is distasteful doesn't mean the work shouldn't be done.”

“I know. You can justify anything. Hell, you worked for a hitman.”

“If you don't want me to take the case …”

“I didn't say that.”

“I can always turn it down.”

“How are you supposed to recognize this girl.”

“Oh.”

Alice's eyes widened. “You have her picture?” She held out her hand. “Give.”

I took out my wallet, passed the snapshot over. I did so reluctantly. Sharon looked good: fresh, clean, virginal, young. But she didn't look sixteen. Closer to ten.

Alice looked at the picture, shook her head disparagingly, as if I were to blame for the girl's downfall. “Oh, my God. She's just a child.”

“Yes.”

“It's disgusting. Degrading. Awful.”

“It's sleazy as hell. I feel dirty just thinking about it. You want me to get out?”

Alice looked at me as if I were a moron.

“Are you kidding? You've gotta help her.”

6

I
PICKED
S
HARON UP AT THREE FORTY-FIVE AT
P.S. 64. P
OOR
choice of words, when dealing with a teenage hooker. I didn't pick her up. I got on her tail. Another poor choice of words.

This was not good. I hadn't even begun the case, and already queasy overtones of pedophilia were making me want to lose my lunch. It didn't help that she looked about ten, which I sort of expected, since her mother looked like a teenager. At least I didn't look at her breasts. She didn't have any. Though it occurred to me I must have looked in order to ascertain that. Anyway, she came bopping out of school at three forty-five, the same fresh face as in the picture, and the body of a kid. Cotton pullover shirt, ribbon in her hair. Was she wearing bobby sox? Why did I think of that? What the hell were bobby sox, anyway? I mean, you think of Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon. Maybe I was thinking of the song, “When a girl changes from bobby sox to stockings.” Now why did I think of that? Did Frankie sing it? Good Lord, what an inappropriately appropriate song.