SoHo Sins (31 page)

“Mind the gap, sugar,” he said as she stepped out. He closed the elevator and came and stood near us.

Paul and Sammy were waiting to greet the girl. Despite the chilly weather, Paul was in designer jeans and a crisp pale blue shirt with two buttons open at the top. Sammy, eschewing his suburbanite togs, wore a dark gray Canali suit. It fit his bulk well, even though its cut was a year out of date.

Paul kissed Melissa on both cheeks. “Welcome, finally.”

As Missy slipped out of her coat, I saw Sammy’s eyes go over her with a horse trainer’s glance.

“Melissa,” Paul said, “this is my friend Uncle Sammy.”

Missy extended her hand, and Sammy raised it as he bent forward slightly to kiss the back of her wrist.

“Honored to meet you, miss.”

“So polite,” Melissa smiled. “You should learn from him, Uncle Jack.”

“A very nice uniform,” Sammy added. He nodded slightly to me.

“It’s so hokey. I don’t see why grown-ups like it so much.”

“My daughter was crazy about going to the Bradford School.”

“What year? Maybe I know her.”

“No, she didn’t get in.”

“Why’s that?”

“Some office foul-up. I’m getting it fixed.”

Paul led Missy into the larger room. There, clutching her backpack, she was greeted warmly by two teenage girls and a young man who looked as though he had just won an L.A. boy band audition.

“Wow,” he said. “Paul was right. You are a real doll.”

Unfazed, Missy took her place on the divan between Paul and this other attentive heartthrob.

“I’m David.” He reached out to shake her hand.

“What’s all this stuff?” she inquired.

Near the coffee table were several microphones, a rack of extinguished lights, and two dormant video cameras. I noticed—farther back, halfway across the room—the telltale red glow of an “on” signal from a camera perched unobtrusively on a shelf. Beyond the tiered wall unit lay the entrance to a dim hallway, the one I remembered well from Paul’s compilation tape. I knew where it led.

“We’ve been working on a video,” Paul said casually. “An MTV kind of thing.”

“Cool,” Melissa answered.

“But we’re having a problem,” David said. “The dancers need help with their backup routine.”

The “dancers” turned out to be two women in their twenties with bathrobes wrapped over skimpy costumes. They came in carrying platters—one supporting a bottle of champagne on ice, the other bearing a huge plate of cookies. The two performers smiled, and I could see they were pros who were there to set an example and coax the girls into the activities ahead.

The one with the champagne came up to me, close.

“You must be Mr. Smith,” she said.

“I suppose I must.”

“I’m Cheryl. Such a pleasure to meet you, I hope.” She looked steadily into my eyes. There were small broken veins in her otherwise attractive face. “Could you be a dear and help me open this? I always get scared by the boom.”

The cookie girl put down her tray and went to fetch champagne flutes, while I worked the wire off the bottle. Cheryl stood close beside me, her augmented breasts hovering near—without ever quite touching—my wavering right elbow.

“I have a problem,” I said. “You’ll have to hold it for me.”

“Whatever you want, Mr. Smith.”

“Call me Ed.”

Her two-handed grip was strong. I twisted the cork out with a small, delicious pop.

Cheryl laughed, and I grabbed the bottle to pour the foaming Taittinger into one glass after another.

“Let’s drink to a good dance tonight,” Paul proposed.

“And to the dancers,” his young sidekick said.

We clinked glasses and drank.

The handlers had not yet offered anything to the underage girls. You could see the envy begin to glimmer in the excluded kids’ eyes. This was a very practiced crew, a slick operation.

“Sit with me, Ed honey,” Cheryl said. We found a place directly across from Melissa, where I could witness every chummy development with Paul.

Rock music began to swell from the sound system.

“Tell me what happened to your arm, baby. Did you lose it in an accident?”

“An art accident.”

“Oh.” Cheryl smiled warmly and touched my knee. “You’re having fun with me, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

She leaned away and put her arm around one of the girls, a fake blonde of maybe fourteen with the sad look of a runaway.

“Ed is a really funny guy,” she said. “I’ll bet he’d give you some champagne, if you asked him real nice.”

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s all have a party.”

Cheryl poured for the kid, who drank a half-glass quickly, like so much ginger ale.

Paul had already opened a second bottle and was pouring for Melissa. She took the champagne flute in one hand and a cookie in the other, glancing rather unpleasantly at Cheryl.

Paul began to tell funny stories.

“Do you think I’m pretty, honey?” Cheryl asked me.

“Sure. You’re a babe.”

“No, really.” The schoolgirls were laughing at Paul’s nonsense tales. “Sammy says I dance good but I’m getting too old.”

“What does he know?”

“He’s a big producer; he knows a lot.” She touched the runaway kid on the shoulder. “How about you? Do you like to dance?”

“Maybe.”

“Come on,” Cheryl said. “Show me.”

She pulled the girl up by the wrist. Slowly at first, the two of them began to sway and twist to the soundtrack.

The runaway, still in her street jeans and a sweatshirt, had a surprising grace. Raising her hands over her head, she answered Cheryl’s movements, adding slight variations, improvising in counterpoint to Cheryl’s swaying.

Someone dimmed the lights, and all the girls began to look beautiful. The guys called out encouragement from time to time.

Cheryl’s sidekick got the other teenager up—the two older women modulating into a series of stage moves now, while the street girls echoed.

“We should get this on tape,” David said. He rose and turned on one of the handheld cameras, weaving in close among the girls and backing away again.

“Get this,” the second girl said, and gave him a small shimmy.

“Not like that, honey,” Cheryl’s friend said. “Lay it on him.” Laughing, she went into an old go-go dancer’s routine.

A joint started making the rounds, and I saw that when Paul passed it to Melissa his hand lingered needlessly, tenderly, on her exposed thigh, just below the edge of her plaid Bradford School skirt.

All at once, Melissa stood up and drained the last of the champagne from her glass. As Paul bent to refill it, she began to sway in front of him, making the skirt swing while she turned, her weight shifting subtly from one hip to the other and back again.

Cheryl leaned over, touching my face and giving me a full, lingering view of her breasts.

“How are you, baby?” she asked.

“I’m very good.”

“Having fun?”

“Loads.”

In fact, the enjoyment was beginning to disorient me a little. When I stood, my head was as light as my racing heart.

“Save my seat,” I said. “I don’t want to miss the finale.”

I walked to the bank of windows, slumping on the wide sill until I caught Sammy’s eye.

“Can I see you for a second?” I asked.

Sammy excused himself from the group, patting one of the girls on the shoulder, and lumbered over to me. “What’s up?”

“It’s about the money.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Tell me again how much I get.”

“You know the deal. Don’t try to Jew around with me now.”

“You’ve started the Internet feed already, and taping for the compilation edit?”

“That’s right, it’s all running. Leave the show biz to me, Jack. I know what sells.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“This Melissa is hot, I can feel it.”

“That’s right. She’s a damn minx,” I said. “Just like her mother.”

Sammy looked puzzled, but pleased.

“Now what about the money?”

“You want to see the color of it?” Sammy grunted. “Is that your damned problem?”

He took out a wad of bills and slapped it on the table next to me.

“Good,” I said. “I’m in.”

“Damn right you are.”

Sammy turned away from me and started walking back toward the party enclave.

“I’m in,” I said again, louder this time.

Sammy stopped, and after an instant his face twitched with a mean and suddenly knowing expression.

That’s when the door exploded. The metal slab flew back on its hinges, banging against the wall; the nose of a battering ram thrust suddenly through the opening and dropped to the floor.

“Cocksucker,” Sammy said.

Melissa was fiddling with the little red knapsack. Beside her, Paul tried to stand. Halfway up, he was knocked to the floor by two cops from the assault squad now swarming the loft.

McGuinn, looming and red-cheeked, pushed Sammy flat against a wall with his gun leveled at the porn boss’s head.

“Give me an excuse,” he said. “Give me just half an excuse, and I’ll blow your face across the room.” He jammed his hand tightly against Sammy’s throat.

Everywhere cops were pinning and cuffing the stunned
Virgin Sacrifice
crew.

All the girls, except Melissa, were crying. When I went to her and hugged her, she clung to me fiercely.

Two cops pulled Paul to his feet. Hogan, a .45 automatic in his hand, came up to him, talking sharp and low.

“Welcome to the Balthus Club, brother,” he said.

“Fuck you.”

One of the uniforms leaned Paul sideways and muttered into his ear.

“Bullshit,” Paul said. “It’s not mine.”

“What’s not yours?” Hogan asked.

The cop held up a plastic evidence bag by one corner. Inside was the dead weight of a nasty sex toy.

“We found this stuffed between the sofa cushions beside him.”

“Not yours, huh,” Hogan said to Paul. “Whose then?”

“I don’t know. The girl—Melissa—handed it to me.”

“Guess we’ll find your prints on it then.”

“She jammed it at me. I took it before I knew what I was doing.”

“Really? She tricked you?” Hogan scoffed. “Sure it wasn’t the other way around? Like you showing off and asking her to touch it. Or you giving it to her to stash when you saw us come in?”

“No, I swear.”

Hogan looked closely at the sleek, twisted object.

“What were you going to do,” he asked, “ram it in her after the Donkey finished his work?”

“I swear to you, I never saw that thing before in my life.”

Hogan stretched to meet his gaze, eye to eye. His voice grew tense.

“Listen to me, Morse,” he said. “Where you’re going, the bull cons know how to deal with a boy like you. Guys who hurt kids tend to get messed up themselves. Real often and real bad. In ways you don’t even want to think about.”

Paul wavered on his feet.

“God,” he said. “You don’t understand.”

“Just shut up.” Hogan holstered his gun and took Paul’s chin in one hand. “Let me give you some advice. If you want a nice welcome from the homeboys in Attica, you damn well better cooperate with McGuinn when you get down to the station.”

“But I haven’t…”

“Shut up, I said. Don’t even try.”

“She, Melissa…”

“I said don’t.” Hogan let go of his chin. “Just listen. Right now, buddy boy, the Amanda Oliver murder rap is the best thing you’ve got going for you. Own up to it. A conviction might get you respect in the prison yard.”

“I swear to you. I didn’t kill Mandy.”

“Sure, sure. You hardly knew her, right?”

“We had sex, that’s all.”

“Including the day she was shot?”

“What? Sure, I went over for a quickie that morning, before Mandy went shopping. I was just an item on her to-do list.”

“Save your bullshit, Morse.” Hogan nodded to the waiting officer. “I wouldn’t want anything, you know,
unfortunate
to happen to you in the back of a police wagon on your way to get booked.”

As Paul was jerked away, he cast a long disbelieving glance at Melissa. She turned her face, leaning on my shoulder. I stared wordlessly back at Paul, without expression.

“You all right?” Hogan asked.

Melissa shivered. “I feel OK now,” she said. “Now that you’re finally here.”

Tightening my good arm around her, I asked Hogan what the hell had taken so long. Had something gone wrong with the rifle mike the cops were using from a window across the street?

“Nothing,” he said. “McGuinn just had to check that we had it all down on tape.”

The rest was routine.

Once the loft was cleared, Melissa and I rode over to the precinct house in a squad car to make our detailed statements.

The debriefing room was small. Fortunately, since this was such an eventful day, McGuinn’s breath didn’t stink too badly of booze. He got right down to recording my account of the night. Letting Hogan join the Crosby Street bust had probably violated a dozen NYPD regulations, but it was the only way the burned-out cop could get what he needed: seven solid arrests without a lot of investigative work that would have interfered with his drinking schedule.

I gave McGuinn all the information I had gleaned from Paul Morse, Sammy, and Mr. Zhou. He smiled at me, suddenly a happy and generous man.

“That took some balls,” he said.

“Did it? That’s not how it felt.”

“How did it feel?”

“Necessary.”

When I came out of the room, Melissa was waiting for me, wrapped in a police overcoat on a bench under the station’s sickly overhead light. A lady cop sat beside her.

“I told them about Paul,” Missy said as I approached. She stood up unsteadily and hugged me. “About what he wanted.”

“Good.”

“And the laptop.”

“You did fine.”

“She was amazing,” the policewoman said. “So clear and precise—every detail. Even the dates.”

She lifted the coat from the girl’s shoulders, and I replaced it with Melissa’s own purple jacket and helped her sling the red heart-shaped backpack into place. Together, we said goodbye to Hogan and left the precinct house, walking silently to the Wooster Street loft in the cold night air.

As soon as we entered the apartment, Melissa turned on me in a dramatic huff. It was almost like being married again.