Richard Aleas - Little Girl Lost

“And?”

She shook her head. “Nothing’s happened. So far, anyway. I’ve got six nights left and then I can move on, and you’d better believe I’m not coming back. I thought about quitting early, but I don’t want to do anything to rock the boat.”

“Do you know if it’s true, what Miranda said about the owner? Are the dancers moving drugs for him?” An image from the prior night came back to me, the businessmen in suits, coming and going, when you’d normally expect a more downscale crowd at a club like the Sin Factory. The addition of drugs to the picture went a long way toward explaining what guys with money in their wallets might be doing there.

“I haven’t seen it. Of course, maybe they stopped after the murder because there were police all over the place. I wasn’t there long enough before it happened, I wouldn’t necessarily have seen it.”

“Have you seen anything else?”

“Like what?”

“Anything that made you uneasy.”

She laughed, but the laugh itself was an uneasy one. “Nothing worse than at Carson’s.”

“That bad?”

“They’re all the same. Unless you look like Jennifer Lopez or a Playboy centerfold – maybe then the places you get to work at are different. Although actually I doubt it. I’m sure the money’s better, but the management and the customers, I don’t know.”

“Better quality leather in the whips,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“Have you ever met Khachadurian?”

“I only saw him once, on my first day,” she said. “Lenz was walking with this huge guy, took up half the hallway. One of the other girls said that’s who it was.”

“And Lenz? What’s he like in private?”

“The same. In private, in public, he’s a prick. He’s the same with everyone as he was with you last night.” I heard a muted beeping from under the table, the sound of a cell phone picking out the notes to Ravel’s Bolero. She picked up her handbag, dropped it on the table, and rooted around in it until she found her phone.

“Go ahead, take it,” I said. “I’ll step over there.”

“No, it’s not a call. I just set the alarm.” She pressed a button on the side of the phone and the melody stopped. “I need to go. I’m sorry. I’ve got to get changed and get ready.” Her hands were shaking again. Or maybe they’d never stopped.

“How can I contact you if I need to?” I said

She still had her cell phone in her hand, so I would have thought the answer was obvious; but then again, I also remembered her saying in her voicemail that there was no good number where I could reach her.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I just don’t give my personal number out to anyone. I mean, like, four people have it. You seem like a normal guy, but I don’t know you.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I said, and I meant it. The more careful she was, the better. “You’ve got my number. Call me if anything happens. If I need to get in touch with you, how about I leave a message for you here?”

She nodded, and got up. “John-” She lowered her voice. “Do you think Randy was right? Part of me thinks she was just making this stuff up and now I’m getting sucked into her fantasy. But someone killed her, and if it’s the guy I’m working for, I could be in real danger.”

This time the reassurance came out before I could stifle it. “I think you’re pretty safe, Rachel. Even if he did kill her – and I don’t know, it doesn’t sound right, why would he do it on the roof of his own building? – but even if he did, I don’t think he’s going to try it again anytime soon, not while the police are watching the place. You’re probably safer there than anywhere in the city.”

She nodded, wanting to believe. Then she said, quietly, “It’s Susan.”

“What?”

“You called me Rachel. That’s for the clubs. My name’s Susan.” She held her hand out, and this time I took it.

I watched her go, then paid the check and left myself. The streets were dark, or anyway as dark as it ever gets in Manhattan. Storefronts kept the avenue well lit, but on the side streets it was another story. Streetlamps left pools of light at regular intervals up and down the sidewalk, but outside these pools it was all shadows.

I stepped out between two parked cars and walked in the street itself. I don’t know why I do this. It’s not clear that it reduces my risk – if anything, it adds the risk of getting run down by a car to whatever risk of a bad encounter I might have on the sidewalk. But somehow it makes me feel safer when I’m not hemmed in by shuttered buildings on one side and empty cars on the other.

Tonight I had it easy: there were no people and no cars. You could hear some honking in the distance, and occasionally the squeal of a set of tires gripping the pavement, but that was in the distance. This block was mine and mine alone.

Halfway between Eighth and Seventh Avenues, my cell phone rang. At first I couldn’t make out the voice of the man on the other end, but when I covered my other ear his voice became clearer.

“-my daughter. Mr. Blake? Are you there?”

“I’m here. Who is this?”

“Daniel Mastaduno. You sent a fax with your phone number on it. Is this a bad time to call?”

“No, it’s fine,” I said. It took a second for the name to click. Mastaduno. The roommate. “Your daughter is Jocelyn Mastaduno?”

“That’s right.”

“Where is she? Can I talk to her?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. We haven’t heard from Jocelyn in six years, Mr. Blake. Do you have any idea where she is?”

Six years? “No,” I said. “I-”

The punch came from behind, and it landed square in my kidney. The phone flew from my hand and clattered against the door of a car. I dropped to my knees and took a boot in the stomach that knocked out of me what little breath I’d had left. Another kick dug deep into my gut, and then another. My chest was pounding and my side was screaming with pain. I wanted to move, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t breathe. It was all I could do to keep from throwing up.

Ten feet away, my phone lay on its side, chirping, “Hello? Hello? Mr. Blake?”

A gloved hand gripped my hair, pulled my head off the ground. I felt a pair of lips brush my ear. “Leave it alone, man, or next time they’ll make me give you more than a warning.”

The hand laid my head down gently. The cell phone was silent now. No cars came.

The look of pity Leo gave me was almost worse than the beating.

“How do you let a guy get close enough to you to land a punch without noticing?”

“I was on the phone, I told you.”

“Goddamn cell phones,” he said, “how many times have I told you-”

“Lots of times. It’s enough.”

“It’s not enough! Look at you!”

“Leo, please. I want you to put me in touch with someone who can tell me about Murco Khachadurian. Someone on the force.”

“Anyone I knew on the force retired five years ago, and I’ll tell you something else – if I did know someone, I wouldn’t ask him to help you. I’m not going to help you go and get yourself killed.”

“I’m not going to get myself killed.”

“Stand up and say that,” he said.

I was lying flat on my back on the leather couch in our reception area. I’d made it to the office because it was closer to the Sin Factory than my apartment, and getting in didn’t require me to climb any stairs. Spending the night on the couch had left me with a stiff neck that I hadn’t had before, but at least the pain in my stomach was a little less intense. My side still felt like someone was sticking in a knife in me any time I turned, and standing up was out of the question.