Crisscross

Jack knew he tended to let his guard down with Abe, but even with reins on the darkness, was it that obvious? He’d have to watch himself.

  “Maybe it’s because it’s not yet noon and I’ve had a very bad day.”

  “Something’s wrong? Gia and Vicky—?”

  Jack held up a hand. “They’re fine. It’s no one you know. At least personally.”

  Interest lit in his eyes. “And that means?”

  Abe knew Jamie Grant from reading The Light. Maybe Jack could use her as a carrot.

  “The Beretta, Abe? Get me that Beretta before tonight and I’ll tell you what happened to Jamie Grant.”

  “The Light reporter?” Abe made a grumbling noise. “You make your best friend in the whole world earn a little news?”

  “In this case, yes. Here’s the math: Beretta equals story. Because without the Beretta there won’t be any story to tell. At least not this week.”

  “For next week I can’t wait. I’ll start making calls. And then you’ll tell me?”

  Jack nodded. “If it goes down, yeah.”

  He had to position the pieces where he needed them, otherwise he’d lose this week’s window and have to move it to next. Didn’t want to do that. He wanted this to go down tonight.

  5

  Jack closed the top drawer of Cordova’s receptionist’s desk. He now had the fat man’s phone numbers—home and cell. Next stop, the filing cabinets.

  He leafed through the folders in the top drawer, checking out age and sex of the clients. Some contained photos. Jack pulled out males in their thirties until he had a stack of six. Then he started dialing, pretending to be calling from the electric company.

  All of the first batch were home. So he went back to the cabinet. One in the second batch didn’t answer. Lee Dobbins. Jack studied his picture and vital statistics. Lee lived and worked in Queens. He’d suspected his business partner in their real estate firm of dealing with the competition. The wad of photos in the file—taken by Cordova, no doubt—had confirmed his suspicions. Jack memorized the salient points, then filed Dobbins back with all the others.

  He then turned on the computer. He typed a note and printed it out under the Cordova Investigations Ltd. letterhead. He tri-folded it and stuck it in a pocket.

  Hey, Lee Dobbins, Jack thought as he exited the office. You just got yourself a new best buddy. Me.

  Jack knew he’d have to tread carefully here. Had to assume that Sister Maggie had told Cordova everything she knew—which wasn’t much beyond Julio’s and how Jack looked. He’d have to alter his appearance some.

  The other possible hitch was Cordova calling to check Jack’s story and finding Dobbins home. Jack could finesse that by calling Dobbins just before he met Cordova. If still no answer, he was golden. If he picked up…well…forget finesse then.

  6

  Richie Cordova jumped when his cell phone started ringing. Who’d be calling him on a Sunday afternoon? Sure as hell wouldn’t be Neva. Eddy?

  He’d been chilling—in the physical as well as the slang sense—outside Julio’s for a couple of hours. The place wasn’t real busy but had a steady trickle in and out. Richie had taken a couple of peeks in the front window. From what he could see through all the dead hanging plants—what was up with that?—it looked like a typical neighborhood bar. Reminded him of Hurley’s, and how he wished he was nursing a shot and a beer there instead of hanging out here on a street far from home. He’d promised himself to stay around until three or so, then head back to do just that. The Giants had the four o’clock game against Dallas and he didn’t want to miss it.

  Hours of watching and still nobody sitting at one of the rear tables. Everyone clustered around the bar where the TV was.

  And now someone was calling him. He pulled out the phone, flipped it open, and thumbed the SEND button.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Cordova?” said a funny-sounding voice he didn’t recognize.

  “Who’s this?”

  “My name’s Louis Gorcey and—”

  “How’d you get this number?”

  “I was just about to tell you that. I’m friends with Lee Dobbins and he gave it to me. He recommends you very highly.”

  Dobbins…Dobbins…Oh yeah. The real estate guy. But he didn’t have Richie’s cell number. Or did he? Richie sometimes gave it out to clients when he needed to stay real close to a situation.

  “That’s nice of him, but—what did you say your name was?”

  “It’s Gorcey. Louis Gorcey.”

  Something about the way he said his s’s…he sounded like a fag.

  “Well, Mr. Gorcey, I’m glad Lee recommended me, but this is Sunday. My office is closed. If you want to call back first thing tomorrow morning—”

  “It can’t wait till then. The window of opportunity is tonight. It has to be tonight.”

  “Sorry, I—”

  “Please hear me out. This is very important to me and I’ll make it well worth your while.”

  Well worth your while…he liked the sound of that. But it was Sunday…and the Giants were playing Dallas…

  “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars cash just to meet with me and listen to my problem. If you aren’t interested, then the money’s yours to keep.”

  “This must be one hell of a problem.”

  “It’s not so much a matter of magnitude as timing. We have to meet this afternoon because the window opens tonight.”

  A thousand bucks…that would be the best hourly rate he’d ever earned. And an hour was all it would be. Richie had already decided to get the money up front, listen, and say no thanks. Then he’d head for Hurley’s and the game. Worst-case scenario was he’d miss part of the first quarter.

  “Okay. You’ve got a deal. You know where my office is?”

  He didn’t, so Richie gave him the address. They’d meet there in half an hour.

  A nasty suspicion crawled up his back as he thumbed the END button. What if this was the nun’s Jack? What if he’d heard about Sister Maggie and decided to give Richie a dose of the same medicine?

  He shook it off. Crazy. The nun had hired the guy to do a job and he did it. End of story. If something happened to the client afterward, so what? Not his business, not his worry.

  Besides, not only did this Gorcey sound like a fag, but he knew Dobbins and had Richie’s cell number.

  Still, maybe he should do a little checking up before the meet.

  7

  Jack finally found Preston Loeb’s number in an old notebook. They’d met in a martial arts class back in their twenties. Preston had been involved in one of Jack’s early fix-its.

  The second ring was answered by a soft, “Hello, Preston speaking.”

  “Preston? This is Jack.” When silence followed he added, “From Ichisan’s class, remember?”

  “Jack! How’ve you been, dearie? You never call, you never write—”

  “I need a favor, Pres. A little sartorial guidance.”

  “You? Oh, don’t tell me you’re finally going to get with it! At your age? Well, better late than never, I guess. And you want me to do the Queer Eye thing for you? I’m flattered.”

  Even if he had the time—which he didn’t—Jack was not in the mood for banter. But he tried to keep it light.

  “I need help looking like someone who might be a friend of yours.”

  A pause, and then, “Now that’s interesting. When would you want to—?”

  “Now. As in right away. You free?”

  “Just working on some sketches, and you know I don’t like football, so, why not? Meet me at…let’s see…how about Praetoria on Green Street?”

  Way downtown in SoHo. He’d have to hurry.

  “I’m leaving now.”

  8

  “And now tell me, dearie, just why you of all people would want to look queer? You haven’t crossed the street, have you?”

  Preston Loeb stood six-one with a slim build; long, curly black hair—in the old days it had been straight—framed his hands
ome face. He wore a snug, vaguely fuzzy, short-sleeve, baby-blue sweater. His cream-colored slacks were tight down to the knees where they flared into outlandish bell-bottoms. A black alligator shoulder bag completed the picture.

  They stood just inside the entrance to Praetoria, a men’s store with a twenty-foot ceiling and front windows nearly as tall. The wan afternoon light filtering through them was swallowed in the glare of the bare flourescents high above. Everything was white except the contents of the clothing-filled racks and shelves that stretched ahead of them.

  Jack shook his head. “Nope. Still hetero. And I don’t want to look like a flaming queen. More like someone who’s, say, just a couple of inches outside the closet.”

  “Well, as I’m sure you know, a couple of inches can make a world of difference.”

  Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. “Preston…”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Jack. That I’m more outrageous than I ever used to be, that I’m such a cliché. Well, you’re right. I am. Deliberately. And do you know why? Because I love it. I…love…it. It’s my way of thumbing my nose at all the uptight straights wandering this earth. But you know what? My clients, straight or gay, they love it too. They think a guy this flaming has to be a great interior designer. So allow me my fun, okay? Life should be fun. Although looking at you I can see you’re not having much.”

  Jack sighed. He was right.

  “You might say that. And soon I’m going to have even less. I’ve got to meet with a slimeball who might be expecting trouble from a stranger. I want to—How shall I say it?—put him at ease.”

  Pres put a hand on a hip. “And you think that if he thinks you’re queer, he’ll figure he’s got nothing to fear.”

  “That rhymes, you know, and yes, that’s the way his kind of mind works.”

  “But you know better, don’t you.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Pres might be an interior designer and might look like a featherweight pushover, but Jack had trained with him; the guy had lightning reflexes and was a nunchuck wizard.

  “Okay, then.” Pres clapped his hands and looked around. “Let’s get started, shall we.” He pointed to the right. “There. Shirts. Always a good place to start.”

  Jack followed him to a rack and watched him fan through a rainbow of shirts. He stopped and pulled out something Jack could only describe as turquoise.

  “Look at this. Isn’t it scrumptious?”

  “What’s that stuff up and down the front? Looks like someone spilled spaghetti on it.”

  “It’s embroidery, dearie. Embroidery is always fun.”

  “Never thought of clothes as fun.”

  “Oh, you’ll never change: functional, functional, functional. Clothing should be an expression of the inner you.”

  Jack spread his arms. “And what do my clothes say about the inner me?”

  “You really want to know, Jack? I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything.”

  “Don’t worry. You can’t.”

  “All right, then: The way you dress, it’s like…it’s like there is no inner you.”

  Jack allowed himself a smile. “Cool.”

  “How can you say ‘cool’? That was not a compliment. I offered it with only the best intentions, but some—myself included—might consider it an insult.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Empty is exactly how I like to look.”

  “Jack, dearest, you do know that you’re a very odd man, don’t you. I mean very, very odd.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  He handed Jack the shirt. “Okay. We’ll keep this as a possibility. I’ll pick out some others and…”

  He was staring at Jack’s hair.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “With the way you look? Everything. But especially that hair.” He pulled a phone from his bag and hit a button. “Christophe? I need you, baby…No, not for me. It’s for a friend…I know you’re busy”—he looked at Jack and rolled his eyes as he made a chitterchatter sign with his free hand—“but you’ve just got to squeeze him in. It’s an emergency…I never exaggerate!” A quick glance at Jack’s hair. “You’ll understand when you see him…. Okay, we’ll be over in half an hour.”

  “Who’s Christophe?”

  “He does my hair.”

  “You have your barber on speed dial?”

  “He’s not a barber.” Pres pulled at his curly mop. “Do I look like I go to a barber? Christophe is an artiste, an architect with hair. He’s agreed to see you as a personal favor to me.”

  “I don’t have much time, Pres. Supposed to meet this creep—”

  “Christophe can’t give you much time. Sunday is one of his busiest days. But I understand.” He started fanning through the shirts again. “Come over here. We haven’t a moment to lose.”

  9

  Richie sat at his office desk studying his horoscopes for the day. He’d been too dazed this morning to pick up the paper. But he’d fixed that and now he was staring at the readings with pure wonder. He’d read and reread them and could find no way to doubt that he’d made the right choice about meeting Gorcey.

  First came Gemini: Brighter financial horizons can only be met with diligent planning. Do what it takes to keep work fresh and surprising. Be enthusiastic about how much you appreciate your current position, and it only gets better.

  Could anything be better or clearer than that?

  And then Cancer: Engaging conversations improve your financial status. Focus intently on your communication skills.

  This was just too much. One mentioned “brighter financial horizons” while the other said “conversations improve your financial status.” And here he was, waiting to take money from a guy just to listen to him talk.

  How could Neva keep on saying astrology was junk?

  Richie heard the expected knock on the outer door. That would be Gorcey.

  As soon as he’d got in the office he’d looked up Dobbins’s number and called to check on this guy. But Dobbins wasn’t around. Too bad. He would have felt better if he’d been able to talk to him, have him vouch for Gorcey. But since that wasn’t gonna happen, Richie would just have to take some precautions.

  As he pulled his .38 from its shoulder holster, he called out, “Come on in! It’s open!”

  The pistol gave him comfort and he’d have liked to keep a hold on it, but he was going to have to shake hands. So he slipped it under the newspaper on his desk and pushed himself to his feet.

  “Hello?” said a voice from the outer office.

  “Back here!”

  A guy of average height and build stepped through the door. He was maybe twenty years younger than Richie and wore black-rimmed sunglasses. He had a newspaper folded under his arm, and that was the last normal thing about him.

  His spiky brown hair was just too perfect and he had this dainty little mustache crawling along his upper lip. The nun hadn’t said anything about no mustache on Jack. As for the rest of him, well, queer was the only way Richie knew how to describe the coat and pants he was wearing. And he was carrying a fucking pocketbook to boot.

  Shit, the guy looked even faggier than he’d sounded on the phone.

  “Mr. Cordova?” He extended his hand over the desk. “Louis Gorcey. Thanks so much for seeing me.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Gorcey.”

  Yeah, right, he thought as he got a dead-fish handshake.

  “Call me Louis.”

  This guy looked about as dangerous as somebody’s crippled grandmother, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be carrying. A couple of times, Richie had learned the hard way how looks could deceive.

  “Fine. But before we go any further, I’ll need you to take off that fancy coat.”

  Gorcey’s brows knitted under his perfect hairdo. “I don’t understand.”

  “Humor me, Lou. I’m in a business where you can’t be too careful. You call me up on a Sunday and you’ve just gotta see me, can’t wait till tomorrow, and I start to wonde
r. I ain’t no whacko paranoid, but I ain’t no fool neither.”

  “Really, I don’t think—”

  “Don’t get all huffy with me, Lou. It’s a simple thing: You gonna take the coat off or ain’t you?”

  For a second or two, when Richie thought he wasn’t going to do it, he tensed and slid his hand toward the newspaper. His fingers were almost to the gun when Gorcey let out this big sigh.

  “Oh, very well. If you insist.”

  He untied the belt, shrugged out of the coat, folded it, then draped it over the back of the client chair. He raised his arms and did a slow, graceful turn.

  Richie gaped at Gorcey’s shirt. What the hell was it made of? It looked like the tablecloth his mother had brought back from her trip to Venice about three hundred years ago, the one she picked up on some island called Burano or something like that. Except this one looked like it had been dunked in blueberry Kool-Aid. The guy was wearing a fucking tablecloth.

  But what he was not wearing was lots more important—no shoulder or SOB holster. Richie let himself relax a little.

  “There. Satisfied?”

  “Almost,” Richie said. “One more thing: Empty your bag on the desk.”

  “Really, Mr. Cor—”

  “Do that and we can get down to business.”

  Another sigh. “This is very unusual, and if I didn’t need your help I’d refuse. But I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  He upended the bag and out tumbled a set of keys, a cell phone, two eyeglass cases, and a couple of legal-sized envelopes.

  Richie took the bag from him and shook it.

  Gorcey gasped. “Careful! That’s a Marc Jacobs!”

  Like I care, Richie thought as he checked the inside. Nothing hiding in there. He handed it back to Gorcey.

  “That’s it? You carry that big thing around and that’s all that’s in it?”

  With floppy wrists and raised pinkies, Gorcey started putting the stuff back into his bag. “Sometimes there’s more. But even so, I don’t like to distort the lines of my clothing with bulging pockets.”