John Locke - Lethal People

“You did a good job at the hotel today,” I said. “Probably saved a half-dozen people.”

Quinn shrugged. “I was on the clock.”

In time, we would learn that local hospital personnel labored for days to service the injured, and many of the bodies they received were charred beyond identification. The initial death toll was one hundred and eleven, but within a week the final count turned north of a buck fifty.

The phone rang, and I answered it.

“This is Paige,” she said.

“You sound gorgeous,” I said.

She laughed. “Maybe we should stick to the phone then, just in case.”

“Not a chance. I’ve already seen your picture.”

“Ah,” she said. “So what did you have in mind?”

“I was hoping we could meet for a cup of coffee, maybe chat awhile, get to know each other. If we’re compatible, we can take it from there.”

“My standard donation is five hundred dollars an hour.”

“I’ll double that if you can get here within the hour.”

“Don’t be offended,” she said, “but are you affiliated in any way with law enforcement?”

“I’m not. Are you?”

She laughed. “No, but I played a sexy meter maid in a high school play a few years back.”

“That might be fun to reenact some time,” I said, trying to guess where she might be heading with the comment. I wondered if her other clients sounded this retarded.

“I still have the costume, so maybe we can talk about it when I get there,” she purred. “You’re fun; I can tell. Where would you like to meet, and how will I recognize you when I get there?”

I told her and hung up. Then I told Quinn that Paige thought I sounded fun. He rolled his eyes.

Paige was plenty cute, but she didn’t look like an aspiring actress. She didn’t look like a hooker, either. What she looked like was a soccer mom, which, as it turned out, she was. I slipped her the envelope, and she palmed it and placed it in her purse. She excused herself and went to the restroom. When she got back, she said, “That’s way more than we agreed on. Did you want to book more time?”

“Not really,” I said. “I just wanted you to know I’m sincere.”

We talked about our kids and our divorces. She talked about how different grade school had become since she was a kid. “When I was in school, if I wanted to do something after school, I had to ride there on my bike,” she said. “Or I didn’t participate. My kids have it easy. They’d never believe it, but I actually used to be somebody. These days I’m a glorified taxi driver.”

“Well, I’ve probably got ten years on you,” I said. “But one thing that was different for me: my schools never had any moms like you!”

She winked. “Maybe they did and you didn’t know.”

I let that interesting thought fl oat around in my head a minute, but the only mom I could remember clearly from grade school was Mrs. Carmodie, Eddie’s mom—Eddie being the kid with the cherry bombs. What I remembered most about Mrs. Carmodie was she had a double-decker butt. While normal butts curve like the letter C, Mrs. Carmodie’s butt got halfway through the C, then extended several inches in a straight line like some sort of shelf before finishing the curve. The shelf on her butt was wide enough to hold two cans of soda. Yet try as I might, I couldn’t envision Eddie’s mom turning tricks during the day while we were in school.

The half hour flew by, and after we finished our coffees, I walked Paige to her car. Her silver Honda Accord had sixteen-inch Michelin tires with bolt-patterned alloy rims. She noticed the limo parked beside her.

“I wonder whose car that is,” she said. “You think it’s someone famous?”

“It’s mine, actually.”

“No way!”

“Want to peek inside?”

She did, and when she did, Quinn grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her onto the seat. I followed her in and pulled the door shut behind me. Paige was breathing rapidly, and her heart was probably beating as fast as a frightened rabbit, but she knew better than to scream.

“Where’s the driver?” I asked.

“When you went in, I told him to take a walk and come back in an hour.”

That left us a half hour to find out what Paige knew. Turns out, we only needed five minutes to learn something that hit me like a left hook to the liver.

CHAPTER 29

“ All of us had to share details about our customers with a man named Grasso,” Paige said.

“By ‘all of us’ you mean?”

“The local girls, the ones they consider hot.”

“Jenine would obviously qualify.”

“Yes. She’s one of the faves.”

“What can you tell me about Grasso?”

“Not too much. He works for a major gangster. I don’t want to say who.”

I peeled off another grand and placed it in her hand. She looked into my eyes. “You didn’t get this from me.”

“Of course.”

She whispered, “Joseph DeMeo.” Then she said, “Please, mister, keep me out of this. I’ve got kids.”

“I will,” I said, “but you’ve got to find another line of work. You’re not safe doing this. We won’t repeat anything you told us, but DeMeo knows you’re friends with Jenine and Star, and they’re gone now. You’ve got to get your kids and get the hell out of town. DeMeo won’t leave any loose ends. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

I kissed her cheek and let her go.

An hour later, we pulled up to the guard station at Edwards. I flashed my credentials, and one of the guards informed me that all flights had been grounded due to the terrorist attack. I got Darwin on the phone, and within minutes the guard received orders from the base commander to open the gate. Our limo driver took us across the tarmac and parked us next to the company’s jet. Quinn reminded me to pop the trunk so he could retrieve his saxophone.

“That reminds me,” I said, and sang, “You cain’t always get h’what you wa-hant!”

Quinn’s facial deformity prevented him from smiling, but you could sometimes find amusement there if you knew how to interpret it. I was one of the few who did.

“Always figured you for a Stones fan,” he said.

The pilots, who had been glued to the TV in the auxiliary terminal, were now racing across the tarmac to open the cabin door for us.

“It’ll take us fifteen minutes to get her ready for takeoff ,” one of them shouted.

Quinn and I climbed into the cabin. While he got situated, I poured us a drink. He said, “Is your cell phone broken? Reason I ask, you’ve checked it half a dozen times since the explosion.”

“I sort of thought Janet might call,” I said.

“Heard about the attack, wondered if you’re okay?” he said.

“Stupid, right?”

Quinn shrugged and held up his glass. “To ex-wives,” he said.

We clinked glasses. “I’m not sure that counts,” I said. “You’ve never been married.”

Quinn drank some of his bourbon. “Never been bitten by a yak, either.”

I held a sip of the bourbon in my mouth a few seconds to enhance the burn. “Yak?” I said.

He grinned.

I swallowed the bourbon and took another sip. “Me, either,” I said. “That strike you as odd?”

Quinn’s eyes started smiling again, or so it seemed to me. He said, “One time Coop told me he got bit by a yak. Said he was in India in a town whose name can’t be pronounced by anyone who’s not from Tibet. Said they made him drink tea made from yak butter.”

“Yak butter,” I said.

“Coop says the average man in Tibet drinks forty to fifty cups of tea every day of his life. The teapot always has a big lump of yak butter in it. You’re supposed to blow the yak butter scum out of the way before you take a sip,” Quinn said.