Mistress of Justice (22 page)

The bouncer looked past her and then opened the door. Taylor stepped inside.

It was like the lobby of an exclusive hotel. Smoky pastels, brushed copper, leather furniture, a teak bar. Three Japanese men, all in dark suits, sat on a plush couch, smoking furiously. They looked at Taylor briefly—hopefully—then, when she met their gaze with chill defiance, looked away fast.

A woman in her forties, wearing a conservative navy suit and white blouse, walked silently up to her. “How may I help you?” The smile of a maitre d’.

“I had a little time free tonight. I thought I’d check the place out.”

“Well,” the woman said, now playing tour director, “the West Side Art and Photography Club is one of the oldest art appreciation clubs in the city. Here’s some literature.” She handed Taylor a glossy brochure. There were programs of music, art shows, classes.

But how could she find out who Dudley met here?

Taylor nodded. “Ralph can’t say enough good things about you.”

“Ralph?”

“Ralph Dudley’s a friend. I was going to meet him here earlier but—”

“Oh,” the woman said quickly, “you just missed him. You should’ve said you knew him.” She took back the brochure and tossed it in a drawer. “Sorry. I didn’t know he’d referred you. ID, please.”

“I—”

“Driver’s license or passport.”

What was Alice to do?

Play by the rules of topsy-turvy, what else?

She handed the license over and crossed her arms as the woman compared face and picture then went to a computer and typed in some information.

Apparently favorable results came back and the woman returned the license. “Can’t be too careful, you know. Now, our membership fee is one thousand, and the hourly fee is five hundred per model. If you want a man, he’ll have to wear a condom. Oral sex is completely up to the individual model; most do, some don’t. Tipping is expected. The fee includes any standard toys but if you want something special it can probably be arranged. Will that be cash or charge?”

“Uh, American Express?”

“It’ll show up as art instruction on your statement. One hour?”

“One hour, sure.”

The woman took the card and asked, “Do you have any special requests?”

Taylor said, “Actually, I was thinking about something a little unusual. Could I have the, uh, model that Ralph Dudley sees?”

The hostess, trained to be unflappable, didn’t look up from the charge voucher but hesitated for a millisecond. “You’re sure?”

Thinking she’d never been less sure about anything in her life, Taylor Lockwood gave a slight smile and said, “Positive.”

“There’s a premium. Double.”

“No problem.” Smiling, Taylor took the credit card slip and a pen.

See the steadiness of my hand as I sign for the
two thousand Jesus Christ what am I doing dollars.…

The hostess disappeared into the back room. Muzak played quietly, a guitar rendition of “Pearly Shells.” She returned a moment later with a key. “I’ve talked to her. She hasn’t been with too many women but she’s game to try.”

“Good.”

“I think you’ll find her quite nice. Up the stairs, last room on the right. Liquor’s free. Coke we can give you at cost.”

“That’s okay.” Taylor walked into the cool corridor.

Topsy-turvy …

She knocked on the door. A voice called, “Come on in.”

Taylor took a deep breath, exhaled and pushed into the room. She stopped, total shock in her eyes—an expression that perfectly matched the one on the face of the girl who stood, topless, in the center of the room.

It was the teenage girl she’d met in Dudley’s office, Junie. His granddaughter.

The garter belt in the girl’s hand fell to the floor with a dull clink. She said, “Oh, shit. Like, it’s you.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“You gotta, like, close the door,” Junie said, regaining some composure. “It’s a rule. Johnny, he’s the bouncer, comes around and gets pissed, you don’t.”

Taylor stepped into the room, shut the door.

Junie said darkly, “Like, Ralph isn’t going to be so happy this happened, you know.”

Taylor whispered, “You’re his granddaughter?”

“Like, helloooo. Whatta you think? Of course not. That’s only what he tells people.”

The girl was heavily made up, with dark streaks of brown and blue eye shadow that made her face sleek and serpentine. She retrieved the garter and began untangling it. “What it is, he’s one of my oldest customers.” Then she laughed. “I mean one of the dudes I’ve been seeing for the longest time. But, you know, he’s one of the oldest, too. Probably, like,
the
oldest.”

Taylor looked at a plush armchair. “Can I sit down?”

“It’s your hour. Have a drink, you want.”

Taylor poured sparkling wine into a crystal champagne glass. “You want any?”

“Me?” Junie looked horrified. “I can’t drink. I’m underage, you know.”

Taylor blinked.

The girl laughed. “That’s, like, a fucking joke. Of
course
I drink. Only they don’t let us when we’re working.”

Taylor said, “You mind?” as she eased her shoes off. A swell of pain went through her feet then slowly vanished.

“Mind? Usually people take off a lot more than their shoes.”

“So tell me about you and Ralph.”

“I guess I oughta ask why.”

“He could be in trouble. I need to find out whether he is or not.”

The girl shrugged, meaning: That’s not a good enough answer.

“I’ll pay you.”

This was a better response.

“I guess I oughta see the duckets.”

“The what?”

The girl held her palm out.

Taylor opened her purse. She hadn’t brought much of Reece’s bribe money. She wadded together about two hundred dollars, keeping twenty for herself for cab fare home.

“I get that as a tip for a blow job,” Junie said. “If the son of a bitch’s cheap.”

Taylor handed her more money. “That’s all I have.”

Junie shrugged and put the money in a dresser drawer. She pulled out a T-shirt and worked it over her head. “So, Poppie—that’s what I call him—he likes girls my age. He came to the house last year and we had a date. It was like totally bizotic but we kind of hit it off, you know?” She whispered, “We started meeting outside the club. They get really pissed, they find out. But we did it anyway. He brought me some totally def clothes. Nice shit, you know. From the good stores. Anyway, we did some weird things, like, he took me to this art museum, which was a real bore. But then we went to the zoo.… Like, I’ve never been there before. It was way
wild. We just kept hanging out more and more. He’s lonely. His wife died and his daughter is a total bowhead.”

“Junie … is that really your name?”

“June. I like June.”

“June, last Saturday night, was Ralph here?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Around ten or eleven, I guess. We had our regular appointment, you know. I’m his on Saturday night. Sorta a tradition.”

“Then what?”

She fell silent. Shrugged.

“Another two hundred.”

The girl said, “I thought you don’t have any more money.”

“I can give you a check.”

“A check?” Junie laughed.

“I promise it won’t bounce.”

“That was, what, five hundred, you said?”

Taylor hesitated. “You have a good memory.” She wrote the check out and handed it to her. Mitchell, you’re going to see a very weird expense account for this project.

Junie slipped the check into her purse. “Okay, but he didn’t want me to tell anybody.… He went to your company.”

“The law firm?”

“Yeah.”

“What was he doing?”

“That’s the thing: He wouldn’t say. I’m, like, what’re you going there for this time of night? I mean, it’s midnight or whatever. He said he had to—something about a lot of money. But he wouldn’t tell me what. And he told me never tell anybody.”

At least anybody who didn’t pay her seven hundred dollars.

Taylor asked, “Has he ever mentioned a company called Hanover & Stiver?”

“Naw, but he don’t talk—I mean, he
doesn’t
talk about his business too much. He’s always correcting what I say. It’s so mundo-boring.”

Taylor stood slowly, slipped her swollen feet back into her shoes. She walked painfully to the door. She paused.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen. And I’ve got a driver’s license.”

“I’ve had fake ones too, honey.”

“Okay, I’m sixteen. But I tell Ralph I’m fifteen. He likes it that I’m younger.”

“Do you go to school or anything?”

A laugh. “Where’re you from? I made sixty-eight thousand dollars last year and have a hundred Gs in a, you know, retirement fund. Why the fuck would I want to go to school?”

Why indeed?

Taylor let herself out into the hallway, through which echoed a cacophony of voices and sounds very different from those she was used to at Hubbard, White & Willis.

At lunchtime the next day, her feet only marginally recovered from their abuse the day before, Taylor Lockwood was sitting across from a diminutive young man in a West Village diner: Danny Stuart, Linda Davidoff’s former roommate.

The menu of the place, which had been Stuart’s choice, was heavy on foods that had swayed in the wind when alive, and light on main courses that had walked around on two or four legs, the latter being by far Taylor’s favorite.

“So,” she asked, “you know Sean Lillick too?”

“Not at all really. I met him through Linda and went to some of his shows. But he’s a little avante-garde for me.”

“You’re an editor?”

“That’s mostly a hobby. Some of us put together an alternative literary magazine. I’m a computer programmer by profession.”

Taylor yawned and stretched. A joint popped. The walls of the place were badly painted, swirls of dark paint didn’t cover the lighter enamel underneath. The decorations were à la
Mother Jones
and Woodstock. But the space, she knew, had been a Beat club in the fifties. William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg had hung out here—the ancient floor felt spongy under the chairs and the wooden columns were carved with the initials of hundreds of former patrons. What these walls have heard, she thought.

Danny ordered sprouts and nuts and yogurt; Taylor, a garden burger. “Bacon?”

“No bacon,” the waitress replied through her pierced lips.

“Ketchup,” Taylor tried.

“We don’t have ketchup.”

“Mustard?”

“Sesame-soy paste or eggless mayo.”

“Cheese?”

“Not your kind of cheese,” the waitress responded.

“Plain’ll be just fine.”

The woman vanished.

Stuart said, “I think I remember you from Linda’s funeral.”

Taylor nodded. “I didn’t know many people there, except the ones from the firm.”

“You a lawyer?” he asked.

“Paralegal. How did you meet her?”

“Just a fluke. You know, your typical New York story. You come to New York from a small town, look for a place to live, you need a roommate ’cause the rents are so high. The guy I was rooming with got AIDS and moved back home. I needed to split the rent and Linda’d been staying at some residence hall for women. She hated it. We roomed together for, I guess, about nine or ten months. Until she died.”