“And penis enhancement, for livin’ large.”
“And male breast reduction.”
“And uncircumcisions.”
I put down my wineglass. Carefully. “You made that last one up.”
“No,” Kerry said, “she didn’t.”
“How the hell can a man have himself un circumsised?”
“It’s called foreskin reconstruction. Very trendy among the younger set, I understand.”
“Bull.”
“Tamara?”
“Fact,” she said. “Lot of dudes think it’s cool. Some even having their new foreskin tattooed.”
What can you say to that? True or false, it absolutely defies comment.
I just sat there, silent, looking back and forth from one to the other as they cheerfully chattered on about chemical peels and laser resurfacing and hyperpigmentation removal and buttock augmentation and hyperbaric oxygen therapy, and how twenty-five percent of all cosmetic surgeries were mother-daughter tandems, and how nose jobs and chin lifts were the hot new gifts for wealthy parents to give to their kids on high school and college graduation, and which Hollywood celebs were being sucked, tucked, lifted, reconstructed, and resurfaced by which Hollywood celeb surgeon-all the while eating minestrone and salad and garlic bread and drinking wine with plenty of appetite, the kind I’d had when I sat down in the booth with them and might never have again.
A lone with Kerry on the way home, I said, “All that cosmetic surgery nonsense. The two of you were putting me on, right? At least about some of the more personal procedures?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I can’t believe people would have things like that done to themselves.”
“You can say that after, what, forty years as a detective? People are capable of doing anything to themselves. And others.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “So those procedures really do exist? All of them?”
“Every one.”
“How come you and Tamara know so much about it?”
“Word of mouth, for one thing.”
“Women’s mouths.”
“Don’t be sexist,” she said. “We also read newspapers and surf the Net, two things you don’t do. You’d be amazed at what you can find out if you take a ride on the information highway.”
“Information highway,” I said. “Surf the Net.”
“Stuck in the past. Living with blinders on.”
“Okay, okay. But I still don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“The whole cosmetic surgery bit. Women want to look younger, sure, I understand that. Vanity. But the rest of it… unnatural, demeaning, seems to me. Ways for some fat-cat surgeon to get rich.”
“It’s not vanity. Not completely, anyway.”
“Then what is it?”
“A kind of celebration of life in general and our bodies in particular. Life is short and the body wears out fast- and the medical community is making huge advances in all areas, including cosmetic surgery. Why not preserve and resurface, if you can afford to, the parts only you or an intimate partner see as well as the parts everyone else sees?”
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about having yourself resurfaced?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
Oh, God. “What kind of procedure? Not a face-lift…”
“Why not a face-lift?”
“I like your face just fine the way it is.”
“Well, I don’t. Maybe not a full lift, maybe just my eyes and Botox or collagen injections around my mouth and chin. Get rid of the hen’s feet and some of the wrinkles.”
“What if something went wrong? You could end up scarred or disfigured…”
“Oh, come on. Cosmetic surgery is completely safe.”
“You said yourself it’s no picnic.”
“Neither were the radiation treatments. If I could get through them, I can get through anything.”
“I still don’t like the idea of it.”
“You’re not going to give me any trouble if I decide to go ahead, are you?”
“… No. Your body, your decision.”
“Now that’s the most enlightened thing you’ve said all evening. If you really mean it, and if I do go ahead, I might include a little present in the package.”
“Present? What present?”
“Reattachment of a certain membrane, just for you.”
5
JAKE RUNYON
Tamara had e-mailed him some preliminary background information on Brian Youngblood; he looked it over on his laptop Friday night, after he got back to the apartment. First thing you always checked for when somebody was in trouble was a criminal record of any kind, adult or juvenile. Youngblood had neither one. Not even a misdemeanor driving infraction.
One possible in his credit history. There was a state law prohibiting private detectives and other citizens from using credit-monitoring services like TRW for investigative purposes; but realtors could subscribe to these services, since they were in the buying and selling business, and the agency had an arrangement with one in their former office building on O’Farrell Street. Runyon didn’t know the nature of the arrangement. Not his business.
According to Youngblood’s mother, Brian was very good at his profession and made a good salary. According to the credit report, he’d spent most of the past sixteen months mired in debt. Credit cards maxed to the limit, with not even the minimum paid. Two and three months in arrears on his rent; an eviction notice had been issued and then rescinded when he came up with the three-month balance. PG amp;E and telephone bills unpaid and service shut off twice by Pac Bell. The crisis point had been reached at the end of August. Might’ve been forced to declare bankruptcy if he hadn’t come into a windfall of at least ten thousand dollars. This allowed him to pay off everything he owed and to reestablish his credit.
But the fix had been only temporary. In the ninety days since, he’d managed to shove himself right back into a money trap at an accelerated rate: credit cards nearly maxed out, rent and utility bills upaid. If he didn’t do something about the new crisis, he was bound to go under this time.
Did his mother know where the ten thousand had come from? Probably not. Likely didn’t know anything about it at all or she’d’ve mentioned it. Something in that, maybe.
Something, too, in what had put Youngblood in the credit crunch in the first place. Until sixteen months ago, he’d had a fairly stable credit rating. No clue in the rest of his personal history.
There were two ways to handle a case like this. One was to talk to the subject first, worry him a little, and see if he could be made to own up to his problem. The other was to talk to his friends and neighbors and coworkers, find out what they knew, and try to build up a clear picture of the situation before you braced the subject. Runyon preferred the direct approach whenever possible, and that seemed to be the best way to go here, particularly since he had no address yet for Youngblood’s friend Aaron Myers. No listing for Myers in the phone directory. Tamara could turn up his address and the name of his employer easily enough on Monday, but that was Monday and this was Friday night and the weekend stretched out ahead.
No need for him to wait until Monday. He’d told Rose Youngblood he would start the investigation today and he was a man who kept his word. Saturday was just another workday. Just another twenty-four hours in the string of days that made up what was left of his life.
