“Not yet, Colonel Parker.”
The two former soldiers are addressing each other by their old military titles. That means, as far as they’re concerned, it’s all good. Nobody violated the Code today.
Well, nobody in this room.
Out there in the rest of Atlantic City, they’re trashing it every chance they get.
32
“Can you guys like arrest me or something?”
The shapely young dancer is throwing herself on the mercy of the security control room, hoping we’ll lock her up and put her out of her misery: working with the Rock children. Her name is Kathy Young and she still looks like what she told us she was until she graduated from college last spring: a “FoXXy Dancer” with the Morgan State University marching band.
“I can’t babysit those two monsters one more minute.” She sips some coffee out of a paper cup Kim Hammond fetched from the break room. “Well, the boy is okay. At least he was until he started banging on my butt.”
She raises her injured rump half an inch off her seat so she can rub the sorest spot. Like I said, she’s very shapely. “We want you to look at this surveillance-camera clip,” says Parker. “Can you tell us who that is?”
He replays the elevator love scene
“Ohmigod.” Young giggles. “I had no idea.”
“No idea of what?” asks Ceepak.
“That Jake was, you know, hooking up with an older woman. Someone in the show!”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Well, uh, yeah. He’s what? Nineteen? She’s got to be at least forty. Maybe forty-five. Who knew Jake was into the whole MILF scene, hunh?”
“Excuse me?” This from Ceepak.
I translate. Loosely. “Mothers I’d like to . . . fool around with.”
“I see.”
“Who is the woman with Mr. Pratt?” asks Parker.
“It’s a pretty big secret.”
“Did you sign a confidentiality agreement?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Unh-unh. ’Cause we weren’t supposed to even know about Mrs. Rock’s body double, this lady named Sherry, who they keep like hidden upstairs in the hotel until the very last second before the show, but we’re not supposed to know that because we’re just dumb girl dancers and they don’t trust us with any of their big-deal, super-duper secrets. We were hired to look pretty and kill time between tricks. None of us even get to work on the magic stuff, which, like, totally sucks.”
“I see,” says Ceepak.
“Except the big opening where the kids fly in. But everybody already knows how they do that.”
They do? Ceepak and I couldn’t figure it out.
She taps the glass on the video monitor. “That looks like this Sherry chick. The body double.”
“Are you certain?”
“No. It could be Mrs. Rock. They both wear the exact same wig. Oh, wow. How weird would that be? Jake messing around with the boss’s wife? Talk about fishing off the company pier where you eat.”
Ceepak puzzles up an eyebrow as the chorus girl mashes up her clichés.
“Look hard.” Parker presses on. “Is that Mrs. Rock or Ms. Amour?”
“I can’t tell. They look so much alike, you know?”
Uh, yeah. That’s whey they call ’em body doubles.
“You were only hired recently?” asks Ceepak.
“That’s right. The same with all the girls. We’re locals. I was dancing down at the Trop, saw the casting notice in the trades. This show pays better. We still get to go on, tonight, right? They’re not going to shut us down on account of, you know—what happened to the other nanny?”
“It is my understanding,” says Parker, “that all performances of ‘Rock ’n Wow!’ will go on as previously scheduled.”
The way he says it? I think Security Chief Cyrus Parker lost that round with the PR people. Must be why there hasn’t been much about the murder of Katie Landry on TV or in any of the local papers, why nobody seems to care that a beautiful woman was murdered last night, that a troubled dancer and two cops went down today. Either that, or no one in Atlantic City reads a paper or watches the news, just that in-house TV channel where they explain how to play baccarat.
“What can you tell us about Ms. Sherry Amour?” asks Ceepak.
“Is that her last name?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Sounds like a porno name, you know? My porno name is Fuzzy Hemlock because Fuzzy was my first pet’s name and I grew up on Hemlock Street.”
“Fascinating,” says Ceepak because he’s very polite that way. “What can you tell us about the body double?”
The chorus girl shrugs. “Not much. Like I said, we weren’t even supposed to know she existed. They kept her hidden away until like eight every night.”
“I see,” says Ceepak.
“But one night . . .”
Here we go.
“Me, Chandra, Monica, and Jodi—those are the other girls in the show—we were at this bar, the Forbidden City, which is this totally hot club over near the Crystal Palace Tower. We were all looking good, flossin’. I had on this like plunging bandage minidress.”
She uses her hands to illustrate just how low and just how high.
I’m sorry I missed it.
“Anyhow, we’re just marinating there . . .”
“You were just hanging out?” I translate so Ceepak and Parker will stop looking so confused.
“Totally. All of a sudden, I see this extremely tanked brunette eyeballing us. She stumbles over to the table where we’re like, you know, just trying to chill. I’m thinking: ‘lesbo alert.’ Figure she’s coming over to hit on us because we look so fine and there’s no guys with us. Anyway, she’s totally trashed. Slurring her words and stuff. She tells us she’s in our show and we’re all like, ‘Uh, no you’re not.’ Long story short, she totally blows her cover. She shows us this blond wig she keeps stashed in her skanky canvas tote bag and tells us how she’s like this body double for Jessica Rock because that’s how they do the whole transporting trick, even though none of us know what this drunk woman is babbling about because we’re offstage when they do that trick, too.”
“While intoxicated, did Sherry mention being romantically involved with Mr. Pratt?”
“No. After she like sampled all our drinks and totally spilled her guts, Blaine and Jim Bob, two of the boy dancers, came over and gently hauled her ass out of there. I think she has a drinking problem, you know?”
Yeah. I thought the same thing up in the karaoke bar.
“The three of them knew each other back in LA and Vegas. Chandra, Monica, Jody, and me? We’re all Jersey girls.” She pauses. “Hey, you know what?”
“What?” I say, since I’m a Jersey boy.
“I just now remembered: before the two guys showed up, Sherry asked us this totally random question.”
Ceepak looks extremely interested. “What was it?”
“Well, I guess she knew we were locals, because she asked if any of us had ever worked at a place on the boardwalk called Lucky Lilani’s Stress Therapy.”
“Had you?” asks Ceepak.
“Hello? Excuse me. It’s a massage parlor.”
“We know.”
“What? You think all showgirls are like hookers or something?”
“No, ma’am.”
She waves her hand to let Ceepak know it’s no big deal even if he did. “Whatever. After we totally laughed our asses off at her lame question, she mumbled something even lamer: ‘That’s where Richard Rock does all his casting these days.’ ”
We’re back on the boardwalk.
“I’m beginning to suspect that Mr. and Mrs. Rock had an arrangement,” says Ceepak.
I know where he’s going with this: Mrs. Rock gets to play with Jake Pratt in exchange for looking the other way every time her hubby heads off to Lucky Lilani’s for a happy ending courtesy of one of the Asian ladies in the back rooms behind those curtains.
??
?You think that’s what’s in the notebook?” I ask. “Details about what Richard Rock’s been doing at the massage parlor?”
“Perhaps,” says Ceepak. “We cannot be certain that the object being sought so arduously is actually a notebook. We only have Mr. Krabitz’s word on that.”
Yeah. So that means it’s probably not true.
“However, whatever it is, if there is some form of physical evidence clearly linking Richard Rock to women smuggled into this country for the purposes of prostitution it could severely tarnish his family-friendly brand image.”
No wonder seeing Lilani Lee at the show Monday night freaked Rock out.
“Good afternoon, Officers!” a voice calls out as we hustle up the boardwalk.
It’s the Great Mandini again. His silk robe flutters in the breeze as he stands behind his folding table shuffling a deck of cards with one hand, rubbing his bunny’s ears with the other.
“Have you figured it out yet?”
Ceepak stops. So I do, too.
“Come again?” he asks.
“Have you figured it out?”
“Figured what out?” asks Ceepak.
“Lucky Numbers.”
“Mr. Rock’s featured illusion?”
“Yes, sir.” Mandini manipulates his deck of cards. “What’s your favorite card, Mr. Boyle?”
“What?”
“Pick a card.”
What the heck. I reach for the deck.
“Not that way. That’s the old-fashioned way. Just name it.”
“Jack of diamonds,” says Ceepak.
Mandini moves the deck over toward Ceepak since he seems more eager to play than me. “Kindly pull out the jack of diamonds, sir.”
A crowd starts to gather around the table.
Ceepak extracts a card from the deck. Who knew we had time for this? I thought we were hotfooting it down to Lucky Lilani’s.
“Two of clubs,” says Ceepak after examining his draw.
“Rub it on the rabbit,” says Mandini. “That two of clubs will magically turn into your jack of diamonds.”
Ceepak strokes the rabbit with the edge of his card. The bunny wiggles its nose. Sniffs the card. The crowd chuckles.
“Take a look,” says Mandini. “Did it work?”
Ceepak flips his card over, shows it to the magician.
It’s still the two of clubs.
“No, sir.”
“Of course it didn’t work!” Mandini snatches the card out of Ceepak’s hand. “You’re not the magician. I am!” More laughs from the crowd.
Mandini rubs Ceepak’s two of clubs against the rabbit’s fur.
“See, when I do it, it always works.”
He flips the card over.
Jack of diamonds.
“Tricks always work for the magician, my friend. Always.” He shuffles the jack of diamonds back into the deck, then holds the stack of fifty-two cards underneath the bunny’s nose. It twitches and wiggles its snout. Sneezes a tiny bunny sneeze.
“Bless you,” Mandini says. Then he taps the deck and pulls out a card from somewhere near the middle.
It’s Ceepak’s two of clubs again.
“Remember: the magician not only holds all the cards, it was his deck to begin with.”
Ceepak nods thoughtfully. “Thank you, Mr. Mandini.”
“Happy to help, my friend. Semper Fi. Semper Fi.”
Okay. That was one of those extremely weird Ceepak moments where I just wait for him to tell me what we learned in class today because I have absolutely no idea what the heck the magic-bunny detour was all about.
We pick up our pace and march through the teeming crowds, hundreds of people in no particular hurry. It’s after 5:00 and the boardwalk is packed. Rolling chairs keep rumbling by. Gaggles of guys and girls giggle past. Weird pinball machine noises surround us. We have to hike a couple more blocks to Lucky Lilani’s Stress Therapy so I go ahead and jump-start the conversation.
“That was pretty neat.” It’s the best I can do on such short notice.
“Indeed,” says Ceepak. “I sense that Mr. Mandini knows how frustrated we are in our quest to determine what really happened backstage at the Shalimar Theater during Mr. Rock’s performance. Therefore, his simple yet elegant demonstration served to remind us of a basic truth regarding illusions. They are just that. Something that deceives the senses or mind.”
“Okay, but how’d he turn that two of clubs into your jack of diamonds?”
“Elementary sleight of hand, I would imagine. While I was distracted with the rabbit antics, he undoubtedly extracted the jack of diamonds from the deck.”
“But how did he know what card you’d pick?”
“He didn’t. However, as a professional, he had ample time to locate said card while we wasted time rubbing our two of clubs against the rabbit’s fur.”
“He did?”
“Yes, Danny. Remember: he’s the magician. He holds all the cards and, as Mr. Mandini so astutely pointed out, it was his deck to begin with. He decides what will be.”
Ceepak is channeling a Springsteen song about the political magicians who manipulated America’s reality for eight years. The folks who magically turned anyone who disagreed with them into cowards or traitors because they had the power to shape the truth into what they wanted it to be. Especially on FOX.
We reach 1508 boardwalk. Lucky Lilani’s Stress Therapy. The glass door flies open. Out comes David Zuckerman.
“Good afternoon, Officers,” he says, his voice clipped and efficient—not to mention snide and snarky. “Great minds think alike, eh?”
“How do you mean?” says Ceepak.
“I followed up on Lady Jasmine’s repeated accusations regarding Mr. Rock. I am pleased to report that no one inside this establishment or in any way connected to it remembers him ever coining here. Have a good day, gentlemen.”
33
Ceepak stands outside Lucky Lilani’s door, right underneath the flickering CHINESE FULL BODY MASSAGE neon.
He’s smiling.
Me? I’m mad.
I want to run up the boardwalk, tackle Zuckerman, and rifle through his wallet because that’s where I usually file my receipts, just wad ’em up and stuff ’em in, empty it all out once a year, usually around April 14.
But, then again, maybe when you buy somebody’s silence, pay them to act dumb, to back up your big lie, maybe you don’t ask for a receipt, even if hush money is somehow tax deductible.
Ceepak and I haven’t discussed this yet, but we both know what just happened inside the sleazy rubdown joint ten seconds before we got there. David Zuckerman, Richard Rock’s extremely resourceful go-to guy, headed us off at the pass where he simultaneously beat us to the punch. After a visit from the magician’s money man, nobody inside Lucky Lilani’s is going to remember anything about Richard Rock’s seedy rendezvous with assorted Asian temptresses.
“You want to go in?” I ask Ceepak anyhow.
His smile broadens. “I see no need to do so at this juncture, Danny.”
Up the boardwalk, I can see Zuckerman pressing his iPhone to his ear, no doubt calling in a status report to Mr. and Mrs. Rock, something like “mission accomplished.” They should hang a banner off the side of the Xanadu Hotel.
“Come on! Let’s go have a word with that bastard! Nail his ass!”
“No need, Danny.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“There is also no need for that sort of language.”
I fume for a second and try to think of something else we could do because I’m tired of standing around being out-tricked by the magician and his crew.
“We should go inside and lean on Lilani Lee!” I suggest. “If we scare her enough, maybe threaten to shut her down, she might give up the truth and tell us why Richard Rock just sent Mr. Z over here to buy her off!”
Ceepak still has his placid Buddha face going.
“I understand your frustration,” he says, way too serenely. “But such an interrogation would also be a
waste of our time.”
I give up. “You’re right. It’s Atlantic City.” I say it like I’m in a Jack Nicholson movie and it’s all anybody needs to say to sum up the whole sorry situation. There’s no way we’re going to uncover the truth in this man-made Glitzburgh erected to hide the ugly underbelly of a town where the mayor sometimes goes missing for three weeks at a time.
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“There is no need to question Ms. Lilani Lee or any of her massage technicians because Mr. Zuckerman’s presence already tells us everything we need to know. It is an implicit confirmation that what Lady Jasmine claimed and what we suspected is true: Richard Rock was, indeed, a client here and, most likely, involved in unsavory not to mention illegal sexual activities on its premises.”
Oh. Right. That’s why we don’t need to talk to anybody. I thought it was because they’d all lie to us anyway.
“Thirsty?” Ceepak asks, gesturing toward an open-air pizza stall squeezed in next door to the stress relief center.
Okay, a beverage break is a somewhat screwy choice right now but I follow Ceepak up to the food booth with signage boasting of stromboli and stuffed slices, not to mention funnel cakes and chicken cheesesteaks.
At the marble counter behind the glass display cases, there’s a beefy Italian guy, what we sometimes call a Guido down the Jersey shore. His nappy hair is cut close, his muscles bulge, and even though there’s an October chill in the air, all he wears up top is a sleeveless T about the size of one my six-year-old cousin would wear. The tighty-whitey shows off Guido’s tan, his gold chain, his hairy back, and his swirling arm tattoos—all at the same time. Right now, this guy is extremely focused on his work: hand-slapping and punching a dough ball—forcing it to lie down flat on a dinged-up pizza pan.
I’m wondering if the dough ball is somebody he knows.
Ceepak examines the sample bottles of Snapple and Pepsi products lined up on top of the tallest showcase, the one displaying yesterday’s funnel cakes. Their white powdered sugar has gone semigloss gray.
“I sometimes find that a cold beverage helps me focus,” Ceepak says as he sizes up the drink selections.