TWENTY-TWO
THE FIRST THING I DID the next morning was wake up Angel Valero. I was barely awake myself, having had only two cups of coffee in preparation for my morning shower. I’d plugged my cell phone into the same outlet that fed the coffee pot, and when I went to unplug it, Angel’s number popped up on the screen at the top of my contact list. The phone was always performing these spontaneous demonstrations, undoubtedly caused by the inexperience of the operator, but I took it as a hint from above and hit the send button.
“I told you to wake me at six. It’s only four in the fucking morning,” he growled on the other end of the line.
“Not here it isn’t. Where the heck are you?” I asked.
“Who’s this?”
“Sam Acquillo. I think we might have a friend in common. You know a guy named Ozzie Endicott? Actually, the late Ozzie Endicott.”
The line was quiet for a while. I thought he’d hung up, but the little time counter on the screen was still going.
“Angel, you there?” I asked.
“You’re not going to go away, are you,” he said.
“Not if I can help it.”
“We can settle this,” he said.
“We can?”
“Not over the phone. We need a sit-down. You probably have a figure in mind. It’s gonna be more than I’m willing to pay. So save yourself the disappointment and start discounting now.”
“Ah. That kind of settlement.”
“What other kind is there?”
“Okay,” I said. “When and where?”
“You’ll be contacted tomorrow when I get back from L.A. Don’t call me again,” he said, then hung up.
I poured the rest of the coffee out of the pot and into an insulated mug with the Yankees logo on the side. I brought it along to the outdoor shower, where I invested a week’s pay in hot water. I don’t know why showers, administered externally, have such a powerful effect on a person’s internal vitality, but they do. Mentally and physically.
I dressed for the day in work boots and a pair of shorts with big pockets on the legs, a sleeveless T-shirt and a black Yankees cap, to further express my abject loyalties.
Then I drove down from Oak Point, through Southampton Village, to the sea. It had rained the night before— thunder-showers—so there were large puddles creating an obstacle course along Dune Drive. Amanda’s pickup handled the challenge with distinction.
When I reached one of the few public access points through the dunes, I parked the truck and proceeded on foot. The sun was up on the horizon, but the air was still cool from all the rain and the gradual shift from summer into fall.
It took almost a half hour to reach Angel’s big white box. It’s not always easy to identify houses usually approached from the road by their beachside facades, but Angel’s architect had made it easy. The other clue was a bit of luck on par with my lucky call first thing in the morning: the sight of a brunette in a yellow bikini sitting at the edge of the surf on a chaise lounge, plowing through the final chapters of
“Which is it for you?” I asked her, pointing at the cover.
Jesse shaded her eyes when she looked up at me. Then she looked at where I was pointing.
“A little of both.”
I sat down cross-legged, grateful to be finished with the uncomfortable slog across the sand.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked.
“You already have.”
She dog-eared a page and closed the book, resting it on her naked belly. I noticed a bracelet tattoo on her ankle.
“My father had a tattoo of an anchor on his chest,” I said. “Hip before his time.”
She held up her leg.
“It’s a string of pearls,” she said.
“Which came first, the pearls or the swine?”
She smiled.
“I did enjoy the way you handled Angel. Though not so much his mood afterwards.”
“Sorry. Not my fault.”
“But this is. Visiting me on the beach. How do you know he’s not on his way to join me?”
“Can’t get here that fast from L.A.”
Jesse took the thick book in two hands and tilted it up on end, showing off a little more tanned belly.
“So you made a special trip, just for me,” she said.
“I did.”
“Do you think staying in a rich person’s house, along with several other girls, in return for the occasional sexual favor, constitutes a form of prostitution?” she asked.
“To some people, I guess. Not to me.”
“Interesting. You handle loaded questions even better than bullies.”
“Just a lucky answer. It’s been going that way for me all morning.”
She seemed satisfied with that.
“So, what are you trying to get lucky with now?” she asked. “Me or Angel’s business?”
“Are those my only two choices?”
“They’re the two I’m most familiar with.”
“Okay. Let’s start with business.”
She gave the air a gentle punch.
“Excellent. What damaging things can I tell you?”
“It’s heartwarming to see such loyalty,” I said.
“Swine is a good choice of words. Though it might be understated.”
“Did you ever meet a young consultant named Iku Kinjo?”
“Iku? Sure. She was here all the time. She worked for Angel, indirectly. Part of a consulting business. Can’t remember the name.”
“Eisler, Johnson.”
“That’s it. Business freaks. Always in black suits and ties. Carrying big black cases full of chart packs and projectors.”
“So Iku wasn’t the only one he worked with.”
She shook her head.
“There were others. They all look the same to me, same clothes and haircuts, so they kind of blur together. All but the big scarecrow. Much better dresser.”
“Jerome Gelb.”
“That’s it. Angel called him Jerry, which you could tell he hated, which is why Angel did it.”
“Was he here a lot?”
“He usually came with Iku. That girl was intense, but I liked her. I’m not surprised she killed herself. Wound that tight. But I feel really bad for her. She always said hi, noticed I was there.”
“When Iku and Gelb were here, did they work off their laptops?”
“They all do these days. That and the little handheld things. Next they’ll have something jacked right into their skulls. That’s why it’s sort of funny,” she added, her voice trailing off.
“What is.”
“That Iku would leave it here. Her laptop. You’d think her family would want it back.”
“Oh, but they do,” I said, immediately pissed at myself for blurting it out. “They’ve been searching for it all over.”
“Really.”
