Bruce DeSilva - Cliff Walk

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.”

“You had.”

“That’s why my father and I want you to come to work for us. We need someone with your abilities.”

“And how would I be using them, exactly?”

“To find other people who are good at covering their tracks.”

“What people?”

“We can’t get into that until you agree to take the job.”

“Pig in a poke,” I said.

“You’d be digging up dirt on some bad people, Mulligan. And we can pay you a hundred K to start.”

“Would I have to wear a tie?”

“Wear whatever you want.”

No way I would ever work for the Maniellas, but I allowed myself a moment to dream on what a hundred grand a year would buy. More vintage blues records. A better sound system to play them on. An apartment with no cracks in the plaster. A Ford Mustang to replace Secretariat. Name it Citation, maybe. Or better yet, Seabiscuit.

“So what do you say?” she said.

“I’m thinking about it.” I wondered if the new Mustang came in yellow.

“I think you’d like the fringe benefits,” she said.

“Dental?”

“No, but the women at my clubs would be available to you whenever you wanted them.”

“Ah.”

“One of the girls at Shakehouse looks a lot like Yolanda,” she said. And then she winked.

“Yum,” I said.

“Use that complimentary card I sent you?”

“I haven’t.”

“Really?” she said, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Really.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ve got some scruples I didn’t realize I still had.”

“Need some more time to think about the job?”

“I do,” I said, hoping I could learn more by stringing her on.

“Okay, but don’t take too long. Our offer won’t last forever.”

The waiter arrived to replenish our drinks, rattle off the specials, and take our orders. She asked for the Chinese chicken salad. I ordered the club sandwich.

“So, Mulligan,” she said, “how long before the Dispatch goes out of business?”

“Don’t know. A couple of years, maybe.”

“Dad’s been reading your stuff online. He says you don’t write well enough to hook on with a slick magazine or make a living writing books.”

“I’m afraid he’s right about that.”

“What will you do if you don’t take our offer?”

“No idea.”

“Public relations?”

“Christ, I hope not. I’d rather dig graves than write press releases for Textron or flack for the governor.”

Vanessa shook her blond tresses and giggled. “Scruples suck, don’t they?”

“They do. I’ve tried to run them off, but they keep crawling back.”

The entrées arrived, and we both dug in.

“You said you wanted us to get to know each other,” I said. “Is that a two-way street?”

“Got some questions about me, do you?”

“I do.”

“So ask them.”

“How come you live with your parents?”

“I didn’t always. In my twenties, I was married for a couple of years, but that didn’t work out. For obvious reasons. I moved back home, and I’ve been living there ever since.”

“Doesn’t cramp your style?”

“I’ve got my own entrance. My lifestyle isn’t an issue with Mom and Dad. And our main office is in the house, so my daily commute is a ten-second walk down the stairs.”

“What’s it like being a woman who runs a business that exploits women?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Come again?”

“I know you’ve been in our clubs, Mulligan. Have you watched the girls interact with the customers?”

“Sure.”

“The way they flirt to get the men to spend money on them?”

“I’ve watched them grind on laps and stick boobs in faces. Had it done to me once or twice, too, but it didn’t occur to me to call it ‘flirting.’”

“And who do you think is being exploited in these situations?”

“Ah,” I said. “I see what you mean.”

“There’s always gonna be prostitution, Mulligan. As long as men have cash and women have pussies. Some of the girls do it because it’s easier than working for a living. Some do it because it’s the only way they have of making a living. We give them a safe, clean place to work. They get free medical checkups once a month. And we protect them from street pimps who would abuse them, hook them on heroin, and take most of their money.”

“You make it sound like a public service.”

Vanessa sighed and ran her finger around the rim of her empty cocktail glass.

“Dad and I talked about closing the clubs after Attila the Nun’s bill passed,” she said. “The money they bring in really isn’t worth the hassle. But then we thought about what would happen to the girls if we closed up shop.”

“King Felix would happen,” I said.

“And a dozen more like him, yeah. So we decided to stay open.”

“By paying off the cops,” I said.

“Can you prove that?”

“Not yet, but I bet I could if I tried.”

“Then don’t try,” she said.

“What about the pornography business?” I said. “Nobody being exploited there, either?”

“It’s pretty much the same as with the clubs, except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“With porn, the men aren’t exploited, either. They get laid and paid.”

“A perfect world,” I said.

“Smart-ass.”

“I can’t help it. It’s genetic.”

“Then I’ll try to make allowances.”

“So how does child porn fit into this perfect world?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Never dabbled in that?”

“Of course not. It’s an abomination.”

“Never cut up any little kids and fed them to Cosmo Scalici’s pigs?”

“And we were having such a nice conversation up till now, Mulligan. I can’t believe you would ask me that.”

The waiter cleared away our plates and took our dessert orders. Vanessa ordered the chocolate tower truffle cake. I asked for another club soda.

“While you’re mulling our job offer,” Vanessa said, “do you think you could refrain from poking into my family’s business?”

“Hard to say.”

“I could have the ex-SEALs pay you another visit.”

“Wouldn’t do any good,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “I kinda figured that.”

“The Maniellas offered me a job,” I said.

“Doing what?” Lomax said.

“They were a little vague about that.”

“I’ve seen you in the shower at the Y, so it can’t be on-camera work.”