Already Dead

  He takes a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket.

  —Such a sweet girl.

  —So you knew her?

  He blows his nose on the kerchief and tucks it back in his pocket.

  —Before we go any further with this, Joe, it goes without saying that I am delighted that a man of your prowess is taking an interest in this child's death, and naturally I will do anything to assist whatever investigation you may be involved with, but is it safe to say that doing so will make us even on the last thing?

  The last thing.

  I look around Chubby's crappy little office. It's just a Sheetrock cubicle in an industrial loft on Avenue D, but he's tried to dress it up with that desk and the love seat and other touches, like a stained Persian rug and a faux Tiffany lamp. The rest of the loft is taken up by Chubby's production studio. Two tiny soundstages, a dozen editing bays where video is cut, converted to digital and compressed for the Internet, a small room of servers, and some storage space for costumes and sets. Of course the costumes are mostly slutty lingerie and leather harnesses, and the sets are mostly sheets of plywood with dungeon walls painted on them, so they don't take up much space. Chubby does a nice business in creating and distributing Internet porn. It's not classy, but it's a huge step up from where he was when I met him fifteen years ago dealing dime bags in Tompkins. It's that step up in respectability that convinced him to shed his homey gear and trade it in for the hip-hop producer look.

  He's deep in the life, Chubby is, way out there on the edge of how the citizens live and he's been out there all his life. He's a

  hood from a hood family and he makes no bones about it. Far as he's concerned, this is just the way things are. Guys like Chubby, smart guys who last in the life, they see things and they hear things and sooner or later they start to think things. The punch line is that Chubby doesn't know everything that goes bump in the night, but he knows some of them. Me for instance, he knows I go bump. Even if he doesn't know exactly how or why. Which gets us to the last thing. The last thing was some trouble Chubby had some months back. He wanted someone heavy to take care of it, heavy but subtle. He called me.

  He's pretty careful about the talent he hires, handles all the interviews and casting himself. But sometimes something slips through the cracks. What slipped through the cracks this time was a guy who specialized in hard-core bondage scenarios. He was an expert with ropes and racks and such. Good with a knife, too, cut so thin the marks were gone in a couple weeks. He did a couple photo sessions for Chubbs and shot a video and that was it. Few weeks later a couple of Chubby's girls went missing. Not that unusual in this business, but these were two of his regular girls, girls who were part of the family here. He gave me a call and asked if I'd take a look. I went through the employment records and checked up on the short hires over the last month. I made some house calls.

  The third house I called on was on Staten Island, the bondage expert. Chubby loaned me his car and driver so I wouldn't have to rely on the ferry. We drove out and I knocked and the door was answered by the bondage guy. I didn't even need to ask any questions, I could smell the girls' fear-sweat, urine, and feces reeking all the way from the basement. He thought he was smooth. He invited me in, anything to help. As soon as the door closed behind us I took care of him. Then I went down to the basement, got the girls upstairs and into the car and told the driver to take them to Chubby. After he pulled away I went back in the house and rigged the creep so it looked like he had broken his own neck doing an autoerotic asphyxiation gig with one of his nooses. When Chubby asked me what he owed, I told him it was on the house.

  —I told you that was on the house, Chubbs.

  —Nonetheless.

  —Yeah, sure, if it makes you feel better, we have a clean slate on this.

  He smiles.

  —Excellent. I always felt bad that you wouldn't take payment on that, Joe. I wouldn't want you thinking you owed me anything on this girl. And I know taking a freebie isn't in your nature.

  —Whatever you say, Chubbs. I just need to know what you can tell me about her.

  —Of course.

  He inhales deeply, casts his eyes to the ceiling and exhales,

  —Under normal circumstances I would not have these details in mind, but after I heard the news I thought it expedient to review Whitney's employment records, before I disposed of them.

  —Good thinking.

  He waves a fat hand in the air.

  —Simple professionalism. In any case. Whitney came to me just about a year ago. She was striking and uninhibited and I didn't have any girls around doing the goth thing at the time. Better yet, she looked quite a bit younger than her nineteen years. Always a bonus.

  —What did she do?

  —Nothing too outre.

  —Outre? —It means—

  —I know what it means, Chubbs, I'm just impressed at the way your vocabulary is growing.

  —One cannot wallow in one's past, Joe, or one will stagnate.

  —Nice.

  He gestures to a beat-up dictionary on his desk.

  —A word a day, that's my rule. What did you think, that I would spend the rest of my life calling people mah nigga? Self-improvement is one of the few strategies a black man can use to advance in America. And I am advancing, Joe.

  —Sorry I asked.

  —My apologies, I didn't mean to lecture.

  —Whitney Vale.

  —Yes, Whitney. Nothing too outre. As it was she was heavily pierced and tattooed, to put her in leather would have been redundant. In her first session we tried two styles: the Catholic schoolgirl, and the ravishing romantic. The contrasts with her natural esthetic were striking in both costumes, but, unsurprisingly, she soon developed a following for the schoolgirl look. We found some counterparts for her, male and female, and shot a few videos.

  —What was her demographic?

  —A young, troubled-looking girl in a plaid skirt? I assume it will come as no surprise that most of her fans had daddy as part of their screen names.

  —Could you get me a list?

  —As I said, I thought it best to delete her files and records.

  He pats his slightly graying fro.

  —I could perhaps put together a list of similarly inclined customers? No doubt some of them were amongst her adoring public.

  I think about weeding through a list of middle-aged pervs, trying to cull something useful, being eaten from the inside by the Vyrus all the while.

  —Never mind.

  —Anything else, Joe?

  —Know anything about the guy selling nudies of Vale over the Internet?

  He shakes his head.

  —I expect it is one of her fans who had downloaded her images and now wants to turn a profit off of tragedy. I of course had all of her material purged along with her records. Only prudent.

  I take out the picture of the Horde girl and toss it on the desk, making sure it lands close enough to him that he won't have to stretch for it.

  —Know her?

  He picks it up. Looks.

  —I'd say not.

  —Maybe without the makeup?

  He looks again, squints. Tosses the picture back.

  —I'd still say not. That said?

  —Yeah?

  —This is a high-turnover business and I see a great many waifs looking for a career or extra income. The ones clearly too young, such as this child, are politely rejected at the door. It is possible she crossed the threshold without my knowing.

  I take the picture from his desktop and slip it back in my jacket.

  —Got it.

  He glances at his watch.

  —If that's all, Joe?

  —Yeah. Thanks.

  He leans forward, extending his hand across the desk, sweating from the effort. I take his hand.

  —You know, Whitney went out awfully hard for such a young thing, Joe.

  I take my hand back.

  —What I hear, Chubbs, it had to be that way. What I hear, sh
e was a sick girl and she's better off the way it went.

  His hand flies to his mouth.

  —Oh, Joe, not that.

  —That's just what I hear.

  I head for the door.

  —You take care of this, Joe, take care of it for good and well.

  I stop, the door half open.

  —I'm workin' on it.

  He puts his eyes on mine.

  —Mah nigga.

  Dallas is sitting on an old vinyl couch in the reception area. I point toward the office.

  —You can go back in.

  He tosses aside the magazine he's reading and sniffs into the office. I walk past the girl at the reception desk.

  —Hi, Mr. Pitt.

  It's Missy. One of the girls from the bondage guy's house. She wasn't out here when I came in.

  She's looking better. That ear is never gonna grow back and the smile will never be straight, but she's growing her hair out and it looks like Chubby must have popped for some good bridge-work. Not that he's an altruist or anything, he just knows what's good for business. Take Missy. The other girl disappeared soon after. Maybe she split back to wherever she came from. Maybe she's in a dark apartment right now with a bottle and a handful of pills. But Missy stuck around. The way she looks, there's a market for that, Chubby could have made some nice coin off that. But it would have drawn attention, and Chubby doesn't need attention. But she still wanted a job, so he put her on the phones. Better that than having her turn sour and maybe go talking to the cops. Just business, that's all.

  I nod at her.

  —Hey, Missy.

  Her left hand strays to the side of her head. She tugs absently at the hair, trying to pull it down over the still livid scar where her ear had been.

  —Anything I can do for you, Mr. Pitt?

  She looks at my face.

  I remember the Staten Island house. He'd cut them both, but it looked like he'd taken a special shine to Missy. She would have died soon. Would it be so bad now to tell her Sure you can do something for me. You can let me hook you up to my works and let me tap you for a pint or two of that blood I saved. Hell, she'd probably say yes.

  —Tell me, Chubby says any chicken that comes through the door gets sent away?

  —That's right.

  —You take care of that?

  —Sometimes.

  I hand her the picture.

  —Seen her?

  She looks.

  —Oh, yeah, sure.

  I'm already reaching to take the picture back from her. My hand freezes.

  —What?

  —Not coming in for work. Just hanging out, waiting for her friend.

  —Her friend?

  —Yeah, the one that. . . you know. Whitney.

  I ask a couple questions and then I head for the door that will take me to the freight elevator that will take me to the street.

  Behind me.

  —If you ever need anything else, Mr. Pitt, I'm always here.

  I go out the door without saying anything, and I try not to think about how good she smells. Just like food.

  Outside I smoke a cigarette.

  They knew each other. Of course they knew each other. That's exactly how fucked up this whole thing is.

  Missy doesn't know much. She says the Horde girl would come in pretty much every time Whitney had a session. Says she'd wait in the reception area there, read magazines or maybe talk on her cell phone. Says she knew Chubby would be pissed if he knew a little girl was in the building, but she let her stay 'cause she figured the girl was Whitney's little sister. Later she realized they were just friends, but she says they acted like sisters. Like the girl was Whitney's little sister, a little sister who worshipped her big sister.

  I smoke a cigarette and look at my watch. Midnight. Early yet.

  Chester Dobbs's office is on 14th at First Ave. I get the address out of the Yellow Pages I borrow from a liquor store owner when I slip into his place to buy a pint of Old Crow. I walk over, taking sips from my whiskey in its obligatory brown paper bag. The booze is medicinal. The bite of alcohol and a slight buzz can sometimes take the edge off my hunger. Say in the same way that candy bars help a junkie when he starts to jones.

  I cut through Tompkins. Going past the dog run, a girl squatter starts walking alongside me.

  —Hey?

  I don't look at her.

  —I ain't got no change.

  —Didn't ask for no fuckin' change.

  —Can't have any of my booze.

  —Didn't fuckin' ask.

  Still walking next to me.

  —So?

  —You seen Leprosy?

  I look at her. She's dirty, ragged, plump with baby fat, wearing combat boots, cutoff fatigues, a Rollins for President T-shirt, a heavy chain runs from one ear to a ring in her upper lip. Sixteen, tops.

  —No.

  —Hector said he saw you an him talkin' the other day.

  —Don't know Hector.

  —He says—

  —Don't know him.

  —Only, me an' Lep been hookin' up most nights an I ain't fuckin' seen him since Sunday. Mean, I don't give a shit cept he has some of my stuff an' if he gonna fuck some other chick I want it back.

  But she does care. I can smell it in the salty tears at the edges of her eyes.

  —Haven't seen him.

  —Well if you—

  —I won't.

  —OK, fuckin' whatever.

  She's still walking next to me.

  —What?

  —So can I have a drink?

  I give her the mostly full bottle. She can use it more than I can.

  I could have called Dobbs, Pis keep odd hours, but I plan on tossing his office whether he's in or not, so why bother. The street door is a cheap piece of crap without a dead bolt. I lean my shoulder into it and the lock pops. There's no lobby or elevator, just a dirty hallway with a hand-printed directory at the bottom of the stairs. His office is on the third floor along with American Flag Travel Inc., and DBT Theatrical Agency. Looks like the Hordes spared no expense when they hired a dick to look for their daughter.

  I walk up the stairs and try to listen to the building. It sounds dead empty, but that's not right. I should be able to hear things, the whir of hibernating computers, a fan left on, the scratch of a pencil on paper from someone working late in their office, rats in the walls. But all I hear is someone coughing in an office on the second floor and the creaks of the building. It's not that the sounds aren't there, it's that I haven't been taking care of the Vyrus, and now it's starting to not take care of me. My senses are starting to fade. Another day and I'll be just like normal people, a day after that, I'll be worse. Some time after that the Vyrus will give me the last boost that will send my entire system into overdrive. Then I'll be going Jorge's route. I need some blood.

  There's no light coming from under Dobbs's door. I knock to be polite. Nothing. I put my ear against the door. Just the sound of an old air conditioner, as loud and wheezy as an iron lung. I sniff the air. Dust, floral air freshener, stale farts. The door is solid and has a dead bolt. At full strength I could bust it in, but not tonight. I take out my picks. I don't have any special talent for this, I usually rely on my hearing and sense of touch to get me through. Not so much tonight. I shove the tension wrench in the keyhole and then the pick, and rake the pins. It's not locked. I try the knob, the door swings open. I put the picks away and take out my piece.

  No one is in the tiny office except for Dobbs. He's on the floor behind his desk. He's ice cold, a dead man with dead blood. No use to me. Then I see the other door. I stand next to it, take a sniff, but I don't need any special sense of smell. Dobbs didn't want to share the hall bathroom with his floor mates and had his own put in. Sharp bleach with an earthy tang underneath. And? And something else. I sniff. Someone is in there. Someone I know.

  I kick the door and the top hinge rips from the frame. It bangs open and hangs skewed from the lower hinge. He's sitting on the can, his han
ds in the air.

  —I didn't do it.

  —We got to stop meeting in bathrooms, Philip. People will talk.

  I make him sit in Dobbs's chair while I go over the body. He was strangled. It's not exotic, but neither is it as easy as it sounds. Nothing's been kicked around in here, so it wasn't a fight that got out of hand. Someone did him. Someone got behind him in his own office. Figure it was someone he knew or someone he took at face value. He let them in the office, turned to go to his desk and got a forearm around his neck. Looks like a forearm job, lots of bruises. Someone strong and quick.

  I try to get the scent, and have a bad moment when I can't find anything, but it's there, the smell of whoever did Dobbs. It's not much, someone well scrubbed, but not scented. It's not Daniel's Wraith or whoever it is that's trying to freak me out. Heck, no reason this has to have anything to do with me. Could have been Joe Blow who was screwing someone's wife and didn't want Dobbs to show the husband the keyhole pictures he'd been taking. Could have been Dobbs was working a shakedown on someone that didn't like being shook. But figure that's not likely. I toss the body. Keys, half a roll of Rolaids, lip balm, wallet with ID, couple credit cards, a few ATM receipts. No bank card.

  —Where's his bank card, Phil?

  —Uh, jeez, Joe, got me. I mean, I just came by to talk to the guy about a piece of work and—

  —Didn't ask for your story yet, we'll get to that line of bull. I asked where's his card?

  —Like I was sayin', Joe, I just came in 'cause the door was open and there he was and I turned to get the hell out, 'cause, hey, a guy like me in a room with a dead body? You got to know that ain't gonna go over well with no one. But before I could split I hear someone on the stairs, and I guess now that was you, but not knowing that, I just thought I better go hole up in the commode, and then you bust the door in and I ain't even barely looked at the guy let alone touched, I mean, rollin' a corpse is pretty low and not somethin' I'm apt to do seein' as dead people give me the heebie-jeebies.

  I shift Dobbs's head to get a better look at the bruises on his neck, and a toupee slips from his head. Dobbs, you just get sadder and sadder.

  —Phil. You make me come over there, turn you upside down and shake you by the ankles, and I'm gonna get sore.

  He stands up and starts to dump junk onto the desk.