Changes (24 page)

"At the dealership.  We can go pick it up."

She kept looking around.  She occasionally moved her mouth, but no sound came out.  I kicked it into gear and we were off. 

"I’m told it can go zero to sixty in less than four seconds, but I haven’t tried that yet," I said.

"How?" She finally said.  I didn’t know enough about cars to explain.  Luckily, I knew that wasn’t what she meant.

"Your car was being a little grumpy in the cold, and I feel terrible for having to borrow it all the time anyway, so I went to a couple dealers looking for something like
my
dear old car… turns out, apparently they don’t make the Stealth anymore.  The salesman had me try this puppy out instead.  It’s a little more than I’d planned to spend, but what the hell."

"…It’s a fucking Viper," she said.

"Yes.  It’s a convertible, too."

"Randall… aren’t these, like, way expensive?"

 "Maybe a little," I said.

"Okay, this is something I’ve been meaning to ask you, but I didn’t know how to without seeming rude…"

"Shoot," I said. 

"What the fuck, Randall?  I mean, I haven’t paid for a thing since we’ve been together.  And then there’s your little jaunt to San Fran, and the Ritz?  Do you have any idea what room service cost…just for my breakfast this morning?  And now this car…"

"It’s alright.  I make a decent living," I said.

She stared at me.  We both knew that my business was not booming.

"Alright," I said, "Remember my dad?"

"The tax attorney," she said.

"Yeah.  When he died, he left me a little money."

We stopped at a stop light.

"A little?" Tracy said.

"Yeah, around a hundred grand," I said.

"That’s not
that
much, Randall."

"No," I said, "but he also left me his stock portfolio.  And his real estate holdings.  And I make a decent living poking people."

She sat very still.

The light changed, and we were the first car off it.

Vroom, vroom. 

"…If you have money… why do you live in such a shithole?" Tracy said.

I turned and looked at her in shock.  "I happen to like my apartment.  Besides, I moved there for my shop.  Good location."

She resumed her stillness, her silence.  When she spoke, she said, "…So… are you…rich?"

I grinned and said, "Oh, I dunno.  You’d have to ask my financial advisor that."

71

We picked up Tracy’s car and agreed to meet back at the hotel.  I was glad.  I didn’t feel like talking about money any more.

She didn’t get it. 

Why did I bother with my practice?

Why not leave town till the trouble had blown over?

Why not live a life of luxury?

The fact was that there wasn’t much that I wanted that I could actually buy.  Every now and then, like today, I would splurge, but otherwise things were fine.  Why make a big deal out of it?

I was an acupuncturist because it was the only thing I knew, and I suppose I liked doing it and it helped people occasionally.  And as for the trouble, well, I was responsible for some of it.

I clean up my own messes.

Part of me worried that things would be weird between us now.  I was not only older, I was – gasp – a sugar-daddy.  All of it gave me a headache, so I turned up my new, expensive stereo and tried not to think too much.

For once it worked.  Howard Stern was playing Lord of the Anal Ring Toss, and it’s hard to think of much when that’s going on.

Maybe I should blow money more often.

72

I was in the bath, waiting for my knotted muscles to work themselves loose, when the call came.  Knox requested my presence at a meeting; he did not sound happy.  I finished getting cleaned up and threw on a pair of jeans and a heavy grey sweatshirt.  After kissing Tracy goodbye, I hopped in my new car and headed to the station.  I found myself bobbing my head along to some freaky dance CD Tracy had left in the car.

At the station, Knox met me outside and mumbled a long trail of incoherent grumbles as he led me inside.  We went to a large conference room.  The enormous table was shaped like an oval with the ends chopped off square; as I sat, I wondered what the name of that shape was.

"Hey, pal," a voice said.  I looked up to see a man of medium build leaning across the table, extending his hand toward me.  I shook his hand and took the opportunity to check him out a little.

Blond crew cut; ugly scar above the left ear.  Cold blue eyes.  A nose that had been broken a few times.  Efficient but cheap black suit.  Shoulder holster bulge.  Either that, or he was one of Knox’s Abnormal Chest Tumor boys.

"Agent Mulder, I presume," I said.

He laughed and pointed a manicured finger at me in a ‘you-got-me’ gesture.  "It’s Janik, actually.  Agent Janik.  FBI Organized Crime Unit."

I sat and folded my hands on the table.  Agent Janik sat across from me.  Knox slouched in his chair at the head of the table.  A bald dude with a prominently throbbing vein in his forehead sat at the other end.  It just had to be the chief; he had the look of someone who yelled a lot.

Janik kept looking at me expectantly.  I realized I hadn’t introduced myself.

"Lee.  Randall Lee," I said.

"Ah, Randall Lee the civilian," Janik said.

"That’s exactly what it says on my business cards," I said.

"Shut the fuck up, smart ass," Baldy said.  His forehead vein said, "Throb, Throb."

I stood.  Janik stood with me.  "Going somewhere?"

"Yeah.  I’m gonna go shut the fuck up back home, with my very hot girlfriend.  Thanks for the invite, though, I appreciate it."

Janik looked at Knox.  Knox shrugged.  "He does have a very hot girlfriend," he said.

Nice to know he had my back.

"Dr. Lee, your presence here today is needed.  Please have a seat," Janik said.  I watched the agent.  He glanced away to shoot a look at Baldy.  When he looked back at me, he said, "Please."

I sat. 

"This is bullshit," Baldy mumbled.

"Do we need another time out, chief?"  Janik said softly.

Baldy said nothing.  He just sat there a-throbbin,’ his arms crossed so tight you’d think he was trying to give himself the Heimlich.  Agent Janik sat, adjusted the pleats on his pants and said, "Dr. Lee, it’s my understanding that you’ve been quite helpful with this case."

I shrugged.  "Quite helpful" seemed a gross exaggeration.

"Circumstances have dictated a federal interest, and I’m now the agent in charge here.  I’d appreciate it if you would continue to lend your assistance to this investigation.  I think we’d all like to see this matter wrapped up quickly and satisfactorily, yes?"

He looked from Knox to me to Baldy.  I could’ve sworn that he even looked to The Vein, which I’d now nicknamed Throbby Von Grumpenstein.  Stress, I’ve learned, makes me a little weird.

 "I’m all about doing my civic duty," I said, "How can I help?"

"To start out, I’d like to hear – from you – more of what you and Detective Knox have uncovered," Janik said.

I nodded.  "You mentioned that circumstances dictated an FBI investigation… what circumstances would those be?" I said.

"Privileged information," Baldy said, "You don’t need to know that shit."

"I think I do," I said.

"I agree," Knox said. "He needs to know what’s up."

"He doesn’t
need
dick," Baldy said.

I said, "Now that’s where you’re right, chief, but I keep getting those spam emails anyway.  You ever get those?  ‘Supersize your wang,’ that sort of thing?"

From the look of him, Baldy was either going to shoot frothy milk out of the top of his head, or the Vein from Planet Eros was about to make its escape.  He barked out short explosive bursts of verbal diarrhea until Janik silenced him by whispering, "Inside voices, children."

I leaned back in my chair.  Who says murder investigations can’t be fun?  Once the chief was back under control of himself again, Agent Janik said, "I don’t have a problem sharing this information, so long as I know I can expect complete confidentiality from you, Dr. Lee."

"Who am I gonna tell?  Honestly."

"The press, perhaps?"

"Last time I talked to the press, they lumped me into an article on alternative healing next to an ‘urban shaman’ named Reggie Jenkins and some fat cat-lady who channeled fairies.  You have nothing to worry about."

"Fair enough," Janik said.  He turned on an overhead projector on the conference table and asked Knox to turn off the lights.  The image projected onto the white wall was a photo of a crime scene in a restaurant.  A fat guy in a brown suit was face down in marinara sauce.  The back of his head was not in attendance.  A yellow paper, tacked to his back by what appeared to be an ice pick, was inscribed with Chinese characters and a few hexagrams.

"Who’s this?" I said.

"Giovanni Frichetti."

I gave my finest blank-eyed stare.

"One of the top dogs in the Candini crew out of New York," he said for clarification.

"Ah," I said.

"Can you read the note?"

"Yeah.  Eight Tigers.  They get around, apparently."

"Indeed they do," Janik said, clicking to the next photo, a man in white lying in the street.  His eyes were vacant sockets.  Same yellow paper tacked to his chest.

"This gentleman was Jimmy Antoneli of the Chicago Antonelis."

The third photo was a dark-skinned black man.  A raw red crescent split his neck; his tongue had been pulled through the open wound.  Another advertisement for Eight Tigers was pinned through the tip of the tongue.

"Vin ‘Jooky’ Williams, heavy hitter for the Crips in L.A."

"So…" I said, "We’re looking at some sort of gang war?"

"Seems that way.  Except the unusual thing about this war is that it seems to have started from within the Tigers, starting with the death of Jimmy Lau."

"…And the new Eight Tigers seem to think they can take on everybody.  They’re trying to absorb the smaller Triads, they’re hitting the mafia, the gangs… it’s like they’re on friggin’ steroids," Knox said.

I thought of Mei Ling.  What was her part in this?  That made me think of Tony Lau and his speech at dinner.  About "putting aside childish things."

Tony and I were going to have to have a serious chat.

73

When I got back to the hotel, I found Tracy in the middle of some bizarre ritual.  The stereo was on, and I recognized the song – Siouxsie and the Banshees’ Cities in Dust – I was learning, little by little.  I closed the door behind me and saw a bouncing flash of tantalizing pale flesh.  I leaned around the corner and saw Tracy, clad only in lacy black unmentionables and thigh-high fishnets, grooving to the music as she leaned toward the bathroom mirror and applied mascara.

The last notes of the song faded and were soon replaced with unfamiliar, lilting strains.  I walked over to the stereo and saw several open, empty CD cases littering the table.  Most were Tracy’s, but a few were mine.  Clearly, she needed to fill space in the six disc changer.

Peeking over the couch, I had a perfect view of her.  Her body swayed slower now, lithe and sleek.  There was something to the way she moved, the roll of her shoulders, the arch of her back, the ripples of muscle in her calves, it was nearly maddening.  But it sure made me happy to be a guy.

The song ended, and I heard her mumble something to herself.  Then came the clacking of CDs changing, and the intro of Prefab Sprout’s King of Rock and Roll blasted from the speakers. 

I winced; this one was mine.

Peering over, I saw her shrug at her reflection and bop along to the beat.  At the first chorus, though, she stopped and said, "What the hell is this shit?"  She strolled out of the bathroom and stopped with a gasp as she saw me sitting there.  "Christ, Randall, you scared the shit out of me," she said.  The chorus repeated again.  She made a face as if she smelled something foul.

"Randall."

"Yes?"

"What is this?"

"Prefab Sprout," I said, ever the helpful one.

"It may be the most irritating thing I’ve ever heard."

"It grows on you," I said hopefully.

"I try to stay away from things that grow on me."

The chorus repeated again.

"Ugh," she said, bending to reach the stereo.  She turned off my CD and put in another of her own.  I hadn’t realized before that she was wearing a thong.  I was acutely aware now, though.

"Hot frogs and jumping dogs… it’s fucking stupid, Randall."

"Actually, it’s ‘Hot Dog, Jumping Frog,’" I sang.

She turned and cast a playful glare.  Her naturally big, dark eyes looked bigger and darker than usual, and it wasn’t just the make up.  With those eyes alone, she could make me feel like I was someone worth sticking around.  With that gaze, I felt like Superman.

Granted, her other attributes helped too.

"Whatever, Randall.  You need help.  Don’t feel bad…All men do.  Usually, it’s clothes, or cooking, or manners… you just have terminally poor taste in music.  You can’t help it.  It’s okay."

I raised an eyebrow. 

"I’m not allowed to like what I like?" I said.

"No.  Not when it’s shit," she said.

"
De gustibus non est disputandum,"
I said.

"Huh?"

"’In matters of taste, there can be no debate.’  Or something like that."

Tracy’s CD clicked into place, and something that sounded like porno music came over the speakers.  "
This
is good music though?" I said.

"This, Randall, is Prince.  This is Great music," she said, effortlessly slipping into dance mode.  The movements of her hips were probably illegal in most countries.

As she moved in close to me, her movements deteriorated into a simple back and forth two-step dance.  She looked up at me expectantly.  The two rocks I kept in my head clicked together and formed a spark; I understood what she was doing.  She’d dumbed her movements down. 

For dumb old me.

"No. No, no, no, no, no," I said, backing away.