William Diehl - Seven ways to die

He continued tampering at his computer and waited for five minutes before he heard her come in.

“Hi, cutie pie,” she said. “How was breakfast?”

“Sallinger was as stiff as usual but he’s calling Stinelli to get the records I need. I’ll have them by Monday. Buy out the store, did you?”

“Picked up a few things. Find out anything new about the cop?”

“Same old crap. Half-breed Indian, father was a Nez Perce, war hero, died when the kid was young, mother was a Catholic school teacher on the reservation, moved to her hometown, Columbia, Missouri, when he was thirteen, opened a little restaurant near the campus of the University and did some teaching. He studied English and psychology at Missouri-there’s an anomalous mix-but, then again, maybe not. Did a year in the Army assigned to military intelligence. I’m still digging into that.”

“Put away your shovel.”

He whirled his chair around and looked her over.

She was wearing a short, pleated sport skirt. Her amber hair was artificially disarrayed over a piquant face. Perfect nose, perfect lips, flawless complexion, smoky, inviting eyes. No shoes. Or bra, her nipples teasing her white silk blouse. She unbuttoned it as she walked over to him, straddled him, pressed his knees together and leaned forward, straight-arming the back of his chair, a hand on either side of his head. The blouse fell open, revealing lovely, tight breasts, nipples hard as pebbles.

“Sorry you couldn’t make lunch,” she said.

When he didn’t respond she nibbled his left ear. “I’m horny as hell,” she murmured.

“You’d be horny during a root canal.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Willy’s going to pick me up in thirty minutes. We don’t have time for a quickie.”

“You know I hate quickies. Just a little tease to hold me until you get back tomorrow. Set me up. Make believe they’re…ice cream cones.”

He leaned forward and obliged. She pressed one hand against the back of his head, closed her eyes and swayed slowly from side to side, sighing.

“Ummm.”

A little later…

“Thanks,” she whispered with a kiss, standing up with her knees still pressing his.

“Any old time.”

“I have a surprise for you.”

“Really?”

“Actually it’s kind of for me.”

“You bought yourself a surprise?”

“I went to Barney’s and bought you something,” she said mischievously. “But, it really is for me.”

She took his hand and he stood up. She led him down the hall to the bedroom. She slid open the door to his closet, took out a white suit bag, laid it on the bed, zipped it open, and turned to face him.

“I want you to do me a favor tonight.”

“I won’t be here tonight.”

“I know that, silly. I’m talking about at the banquet. I want you to be-distingue for a change.”

“What! You think I’m going to butter up that sanctimonious coven of jealous…”

“Listen to me…”

“It’s almost insulting, giving me the Clue Award now when I haven’t written a book in four years.”

“It’s for your body of work, darling.”

“They hardly had a choice. Thanks to that bitch, they’d given it to everyone else. It’s a snide put down.”

“All the better to do what I’m asking.”

“And what’s that?”

“Be nice. Accept the loving cup. Enjoy your little poker game after the dinner. Maybe even lose a few shekels.”

“A two-bit ante game,” he snapped. “I can clean that bunch out blind-folded in an hour.”

“Listen you, I went to La Perla and bought the most expensive, most erotic, most seductive peignoir in the house and I’ll be wearing it when you get home tomorrow. But you have to be a good boy tonight.”

“ Blackmail? ”

“Let’s call it e-mail-as in erotomail.”

She turned, took a classic black single-breasted tux from the bag and held it up in front of him.

“Perfect,” she said.

“You have to be kidding. I’m wearing…”

“You’re wearing this,” she said quietly but firmly. “You’ll euthanize them with charm. There’ll be some press there and they won’t pass up the chance for a picture of Peck’s Bad Boy playing by the rules for a change. I’ve already talked to Sophie about it. You’ll be all over page six tomorrow. ”

He looked down at her and his rancor evaporated.

“Don’t miss a trick, do you?”

“I’ve been playing games with columnists since I was sixteen, honey. They’ll be expecting the customary sardonic Hamilton, instead you’ll show a bit of humility. They’re expecting the churlish Hamilton, be whimsical. They’re expecting you to be haughty, be grateful for the honor. Be brief and sit down. Knock ‘em all on their pompous asses.”

She stood on her toes and swept her tongue across his lower lip.

“After that, what the hell,” she said with a shrug, “at the poker game, if it suits you, you can be the sweet, supercilious son of a bitch I’ve grown to adore.”

No dog is born bad.

Wow was remembering that line as he and Ryan stood on the corner of West 10th and Bleecker Streets. Five-seven, built like a tank, dark-skinned and balding, Wow DeMarco was dressed in freshly pressed jeans, a white sweat shirt and a black leather jacket, his cautious black eyes surveying the block in front of them. Butch Ryan, six-one and muscular, with thick, neatly trimmed black hair cut below his ears, his gray eyes aloof and detached, was wearing his customary dark blue suit with a light tan, crew neck sweater. Wow’s arms hung loosely at his side, fingers drumming his thighs. Butch’s hands were tucked in his pants pocket, his attitude bordering on the debonair.

An unlikely pair at best.

They had a seminal connection: A passionate public defender named Mark Windham who had saved both of them from doing hard time by convincing a calcified juvenile judge that the two teen gang bangers, one an Hispanic Crip from Spanish Harlem, the other an Irish Westie from Hell’s Kitchen, were proof that “no dog is born bad,” that their youthful hauteur had been tamed; in Butch’s case, by a dedicated older brother who was a decorated firefighter; in Wow’s case, by an Hispanic ex-con known as Big Luis who ran a store front hiring agency which was really a front for a harsh, kick-ass, tough love regimen designed by Luis who, with a kind of ethnic animal instinct, picked gang kids he thought worth saving. In the back room, there was a warning scrawled on the wall reminding them succinctly: “Work or die.”

Cody frequently paired them because they both knew the streets, kept up with its volatile argot, and played a dazzling good guy, bad guy act. Wow was the bad guy with the cunning eyes and mercurial temper; Butch the good guy whose insouciant eyes and muscular frame served to comfort a capricious suspect or witness. Little did their quarry realize that Butch could turn from hare to tiger in a flashbulb-instant and Wow, deceptively alarmed by his partner’s seemingly choleric behavior, could become the rabbit. The quick change act was enough to make a snake sweat.

But standing here on a corner in the West Village, where Jonee Ansa, who was Running Recon, had dropped them off, Wow was getting antsy staring at the enclave of restaurants, coffee shops, jazz clubs, tattoo parlors, t-shirt joints and apartments occupied by an intermixture of every possible profession from dock workers and bus drivers to actors, writers, and college professors.

And we ain’t got a clue, DeMarco thought. Not a suspect. Not a witness. Nada.

“Jeez Christ, man, we spend two hours talking with every sex cop in town and what do we know? Zilch, zero.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Butch answered lazily, “we picked up a lot from the guys. We know these sex clubs are mostly private. We know the cops don’t screw with them unless they get too public and upset the citizenry. We know they’re pretty small. Fifteen, twenty, maybe thirty people, very well-heeled and hetero.”