Cliff Walk: A Liam Mulligan Novel (28 page)

*   *   *

“So who shot him?” McCracken said.

“Wasn’t you, was it?” I asked him.

“No,” the private investigator said, “but I don’t plan on sending flowers to the funeral.”

“Then it’s gotta be the same people who hit the Chad Brown snuff film factory.”

“And its customers in Wisconsin and New Jersey?” he asked.

“I think so, yeah.”

“State cops got any idea who the shooters are?”

“Not a clue.”

“How about you?” he asked.

“I’m beginning to get an inkling.”

“Want to share?”

“Not yet.”

“I wonder how the shooters knew what Wayne was mixed up in,” McCracken said.

“I’ve been wondering that, too. Did you mention your suspicions to anybody else?”

“No. You?”

“Not a soul,” I lied.

McCracken swiveled his office chair and studied the framed photos of the PC basketball stars on his office wall. Then he turned back to me and changed the subject. “Have you given any more thought to coming to work with me?”

“I’ve been considering it, yeah.”

He checked his watch. “Come on. I’ll buy you lunch, and we’ll talk about it.” So we walked to Jack’s on Child Street and kicked the idea around over clam chowder and littlenecks.

“Way things are going, you’ll probably clear eighty grand the first year,” McCracken said.

“That much?”

“Uh-huh.”

“More than I’m making now,” I said.

“Yeah, I heard the paper cut everybody down to a four-day week.”

“More than I was making before that,” I said.

“Really?”

“By a lot.”

“Ouch.”

“So what’s your medical plan?” I asked.

“Don’t get shot.”

“Dental?”

“Don’t get shot in the mouth.”

“Retirement?”

“Buy lottery tickets.”

“Good plans. What about parental leave policy?”

“Don’t have kids.”

“I guess that about covers it,” I said.

“So how about it?”

“I love being a reporter,” I said.

“I know you do.”

“But the paper is failing.”

“So I keep hearing.”

“I can’t see myself working in TV.”

“’Course not. You’re not pretty enough.”

“Not dumb enough, either,” I said.

“Maybe you could start a blog or something.”

“Know anybody who makes a living doing that?”

“No.”

“Me either.”

“Tell me again what you like about reporting,” he said.

“I like sticking my nose in other people’s business,” I said. “And then I like telling everybody in the state what I find out.”

“As a P.I.,” he said, “you’d still be sticking your nose in other people’s business, but you’d have to keep your mouth shut about it.”

“Half the satisfaction for twice the money,” I said. “Not a bad trade-off, I guess.”

“Want to stick it out at the
Dispatch
a while longer?”

“I think so.”

“Then let’s revisit this in a few months,” he said. “There’s no rush.”

“Thanks,” I said. Before I left, I remembered to ask him if he’d talk to Parisi. He said he would.

It was after three by the time I hit the road for Providence. I’d just pulled onto the Wampanoag Trail when “Bitch” started playing on my cell phone. I let it go to voice mail, but she called three more times in two minutes, so I pulled to the side of the road and dug the phone out of my pants pocket.

“Mulligan.”

“Hi. It’s Dorcas.”

“I know who it is.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? I’ve been reading your stories about all the murders. It must be horrible for you.”

Dorcas being civil? This was new.

“Hey,” I said, “it keeps me on the front page.”

“Well, that’s something, I guess.”

“It is.”

“Well … uh, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been seeing somebody.”

Seeing somebody? Must mean she finally went to a psychiatrist. To be this nice to me, she had to be on some heavy meds.

“Who?” I asked.

“His name is Doug, and he’s really sweet. Treats me like a queen.”

Oh. “How nice for you.”

“He’s an older guy, owns his own construction business.”

“I see.”

“Are you okay with this? I was afraid you might take it hard.”

“I’m happy for you, Dorcas.”

“You are?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Mulligan?”

“What?”

“He’s asked me to marry him.”

“Congratulations.”

“Doug’s doing real well, so I won’t be needing alimony after all.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“So I was kind of hoping you’d be willing to expedite the divorce.”

“Sure thing.”

“You can have the house if you want it.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I wouldn’t be able to make the payments.”

“You could sell it.”

“The housing market has collapsed, Dorcas. Selling it could take a long time, and it probably would go for less than we owe on it.”

“You want me to keep it, then?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Okay. I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers.”

“Good.”

“You think you could sign them right away? We want to get married next month.”

“I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

“You bet.”

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

“I’ll survive.”

“Well, okay, then. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Dorcas.”

As I clicked off, I had the fleeting thought that I should warn poor deluded Doug; but I stifled it. I pulled back onto the road, cranked the prostitution playlist up loud, and sang along with the music. At one point I think I may have shouted, “Yippie!” But as I crossed the bridge over the Providence River, I felt suddenly deflated.

The witch was getting married again. How come I didn’t have somebody?

50

Lomax stripped Mason’s story across page one on Sunday, and it caused an immediate sensation. Preachers denounced the governor and the state legislature from the pulpit. The governor, in turn, denounced the paper for spreading the lie that he’d taken money from a pornographer—and then promised to return it. The Sword of God, assault rifles at port arms, picketed the governor’s McMansion in Warwick, chanting, “Little Rhody is not for sale”—a slogan that couldn’t have been more inaccurate. Fiona announced a criminal investigation and demanded immediate passage of her bill outlawing prostitution. All the national TV networks trumpeted the story. CNN embellished its coverage with a hastily prepared feature on Rhode Island corruption through the ages, complete with video of a dozen mayors, judges, and state legislators being led away in handcuffs. FOX News dressed up its report with spy camera video of half-naked hookers cavorting inside the Tongue and Groove. And a good time was had by all.

On Tuesday, the judiciary committees sent Fiona’s bill to the floors of the house and senate. Wednesday morning, the house passed it by a vote of 72–2 with one abstention, and that afternoon, the senate approved it by a vote of 38–0. Thursday morning, the governor signed it into law. And that evening, Fiona went on television to crow that “the shameful era of legalized prostitution in Rhode Island is over” and to hint that she was considering a run for governor. I had to squint to be sure, but I think she was wearing makeup.

Next morning, the
Dispatch
’s editors huddled to discuss whether the newspaper should continue to refer to Fiona as “Attila the Nun.” Lomax was in favor, calling the appellation colorful and instantly recognizable. The fuddy-duddy copydesk chief was opposed, saying it was now technically inaccurate. As the debate heated up, I could hear their raised voices through the closed conference room door.

The new law made prostitution a misdemeanor punishable by six months in prison, a one-thousand-dollar fine, or both, and it applied equally to hookers and their Johns. The strip clubs were given just a week to clean up their act, and Mayor Carroza vowed that the Providence Police Department would be vigilant in enforcing it. So the night the law went live, I decided to check it out.

There were only a dozen cars in the parking lot at the Tongue and Groove. Inside, I found Joseph DeLucca chugging a beer at the bar. He wiped the foam from his upper lip with the tail of his Hawaiian shirt as I sat beside him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought you got promoted.”

“That’s only for when the ex-SEALs are out of town.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

“Not really. I like this job better.”

“How come?”

“Free beer and pussy.”

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I spotted several bullet holes from slugs that had gone wide of King Felix’s nervous triggerman. I looked around and saw only six girls and a handful of customers in the place.

“Slow night?” I said.

“Thank God,” he said. “I need the breather.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s been fuckin’ nuts in here the last week. Guys in a panic about the new law showed up in droves. All the regulars, half the student bodies of URI and PC, busloads of horny bastards from Boston, Hartford, and Worcester. All of ’em desperate to legally screw a hooker one last time. And don’t even ask me about last night. It was
un-fuckin’-believable
!”

“Tell me more.”

“By nine o’clock I counted four hundred guys in here, which is fifty over the legal limit, and there were more outside trying to force their way in. I put the other bouncer on the door, told him not to let anyone else in until somebody came out. That left me alone on the inside, and it wasn’t pretty.”

“How so?”

“Four hundred horny guys and forty hookers? You do the fuckin’ math.”

“Fistfights?”

“A couple, yeah. And a whole lot of pushin’ and shovin’.”

“That how you got the shiner?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You got only ten private rooms here, right?”

“Right.”

“How’d that work out?”

“Would have had a fuckin’ riot, we hadn’t let the girls straddle guys reverse cowgirl at the cocktail tables. Shoulda been here, Mulligan. It was one hell of a party.”

“But it’s all over now,” I said.

“No, not really.”

“How do you mean?”

“Business will pick up again once word gets around.”

“What word?” I asked.

“Hang around for a while and you’ll see for yourself.” He waved the bartender over and asked him to bring us a couple of Buds.

“How’s the leg?” I asked.

“Healed up good as new.”

We were watching a Hispanic girl with a strawberry birthmark on her ass hump a stripper pole when a tall brunette in a G-string and nothing else pranced up and rubbed her palm against the front of my jeans.

“I’m Caramel. What’s your name?”

“They call me Mulligan.”

“Want to have some fun with Caramel tonight, Mulligan?”

What I thought was that Marical would be even more fun, but what I said was: “I heard all the fun ended last night.”

“You heard wrong.”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t we find a dark corner where I can suck your cock? Or if you want, we can get a private room, and you can fuck me.”

The complimentary card for a trip around the world was still in my wallet. I wondered if I was the only one who heard it singing. It crooned the chorus to “Bad Girl” and segued into the opening verse of “Honky Tonk Women.”

I met a gin-soaked barroom queen in Memphis …

“Sorry, Caramel. I think I’ll just sit here and watch the show.”

“You sure?”

“I am.”

“If you change your mind, just call out my name, okay?”

“Sure thing,” I said.

She spun on her stilettos and was gone.

“What’s up with that?” I asked Joseph.

“Just business as usual.”

“What about the law?”

“What about it?”

I thought about it for half a second. “When the governor and the state legislators stop taking your money,” I said, “you pay off the cops.”

“Mulligan,” he said, “you never heard that from me.”

51

Maybe it was because I’d gone so long without sex, but today Vanessa Maniella looked especially enticing in a tight cashmere sweater that showed off the swell of her breasts and a short gray skirt that displayed a fine pair of legs.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

“I thought it was time we got to know each other better.”

“Of course you did. My boyish charm is hard to resist.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“No?”

“I’m not into men.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Don’t tell my achy breaky heart.”

“Billy Ray Cyrus?”

“Yeah, but he wrote it about me.”

We were seated at a table for two in the Cheesecake Factory at the Providence Place Mall. Outside the plate glass window, I could see Black Shirt, or maybe it was Gray Shirt, keeping an eye on us from a Hummer that was parked illegally on the street.

Before I could ask Vanessa what she really wanted, the waiter arrived to take our drink orders, a pineapple mojito for her and a club soda for me.

“On the wagon? I thought you’d be celebrating.”

“And why would I be doing that?”

“Your story about our campaign contributions is getting a lot of attention,” she said.

“It is, but my sidekick, Mason, did most of the work.”

“Bet the two of you are heroes at the
Dispatch
these days.”

“Oh, yeah. They’re erecting a statue of us in the lobby.”

“Probably win one of those big journalism prizes, too,” she said.

“No way. They always go to long, boring five-part series that no one ever reads—except, of course, for the poor bastards who have to edit them. Dave Barry, the humor columnist, says newspapers should stop publishing them—that they should just write them up and submit them for prizes. He figures that would save enough trees for a new national park.”

“Maybe they could call it the Pulitzer Forest,” Vanessa said.

“That’s just what Dave Barry said.”

“Well, your story certainly impressed me,” she said. “I thought we’d done a pretty good job of covering our tracks.”