Pain Management

not say anything, but I encouraged him to speak more.”

“How could you—?”

“Like this,” she said. She cocked her head slightly, widened her ocean eyes, and oh-so-innocently used the tip of her tongue to part her lips.

“Ah . . . all right, little girl. What did that get you?”

“He . . . implied that he had done many things to stop the war. Illegal, even violent things. I did not press him for details. He also told me he studied what he called ‘the arts’ for many years, and that he did not trust himself to confront those who might have lured his daughter away, because he could very easily kill a man with his hands.”

“ ‘The arts’?”

“That is what he said. He asked me if I had a relationship with you. I told him that I was a businesswoman; I did not associate with those I worked with. He apologized. He said he wasn’t trying to get nosy, that he knew the value of confidentiality. He said he only asked me about my relationship with you because I was a fascinating woman. That he would like to know me better, but he didn’t want to . . . intrude, I believe he said.”

“This is after telling you he’s married?”

“Oh yes. I told him that he, too, was a person I was doing business with, so it was not possible.”

“He bought that?”

“I do not think he did. He is like most Americans you meet in places like that—all their images of Asian women are as sex toys. Between the stories servicemen tell of Vietnamese whores and Bangkok bar babies, the ‘Asian Flower’ services that advertise in the magazines, and the strippers they see in clubs, they find all they care to know. He acted as if we were playing an elaborate game but the outcome was not in doubt.”

“Where did he get the idea I was a mercenary?”

“Well, in the dictionary sense of the word, I suppose I told him. You are a man for hire; that is what I said. But he thought I was referring to war, I am certain.”

“Why?”

“He asked if I was familiar with your resume—that is the specific word he used. I told him, yes, I was. He asked if you’d ever served in Africa. At first, I felt a little shock—like a warning jolt. I had not told him your name—I still have not—nor did I describe you. But you were in Biafra, and I didn’t see how he could have . . . But he kept talking, and I realized that he was just asking questions out of some movie.”

“You mean, he was a buff?”

“A . . . buff?”

“A . . . fan, sort of. Cops get them all the time. Some people get turned on by the whole police thing. They collect badges, keep a scanner in their house, volunteer to be auxiliaries. They hang out in cop bars, talk like cops. Some cops’re flattered by all that, specially if the buff is a broad. But the more experienced ones, they’re smart enough to keep them at a distance.

“There’s mercenary buffs, too. They buy the magazines, collect the paraphernalia, talk the talk . . . usually on the Internet. The more extreme ones just fake it, spend a lot of time in bars dropping names and places. He come across like that?”

“I . . . am not sure. Every time I did not answer one of his questions about you, he would nod as if I just had. As if we were sharing secrets. It was very strange.”

“I can’t make it fit,” I told her. “But you’ll get me the stuff on the neighbors?”

“I am here to serve you,” Gem said, bringing her hands together and bowing.

When she turned to go, I smacked her bottom hard enough to propel her into the next room. My reward was a very unsubservient giggle.

“Do you have something?” he said, his voice feathery around the edges.

“I’m not sure,” I lied. “I may have found a connect to her. I can’t be sure until I go a little deeper. And I need a couple of things to do that.”

“What?”

“You take a lunch hour?” I asked him.

“Yes. But most of the time, it’s with clients. Lunch is when we get to—”

“Today?”

“I don’t—”

“Are you having lunch with clients today?” I cornered him.

“Well, no.”

“Okay. Tell me where you want to meet. And what time. We’ll finish this then.”

There was cellular silence for half a minute. Then he asked me if I knew my way around the waterfront.

“You said you needed two things,” he greeted me abruptly.

“Yeah. The first is from your lawyer.”

“My . . . lawyer?”

“Sure. You’ve got a lawyer, don’t you?”

“No. Not really. I mean, I know lawyers, of course. But—”

“You’ve got a lawyer you’re close with,” I said confidently. “Doesn’t have to be one you use, okay? Just someone who’d do a little favor for you.”

“How little?”

“Very little. I don’t have a PI license. That’s no big deal; it’s not against the law to be asking questions on the street. But you know how the fucking cops are,” I said, taking the cues from my conversation with his wife and what Gem had told me about him, “they could roust me for nothing, especially if I start getting closer than they are.”

He nodded knowingly, but said, “What do you think I could do about that?”

“Not you. The lawyer. See, you hire the lawyer to represent you in this whole matter of your daughter going missing. Maybe you’re thinking about suing her school for negligence or whatever. It doesn’t matter, that part’s all camouflage. What does matter—okay—is that anyone working for a lawyer as an investigator doesn’t need a PI license. That’s what I want now: a little more cover.”

“I . . . I can do that. I have a friend who does a lot of criminal-defense work, as a matter of fact. I’ll ask him, how’s that?”

“Good. And what I also need is some money. Not the actual money,” I said quickly as he opened his mouth to . . . I don’t know what. “But there’s got to be a bounty put out; a reward, understand? There’s people who wouldn’t do anything for love, but they’d move quick enough for money.”

“I’d thought of that myself. But I didn’t want to attract—”

“Sure, that’s the whole idea. It would be me offering the money. For information, see? My own idea, not yours. But if someone actually comes up with your daughter, I’d have to pay it off.”

“How . . . much are we talking about here?”

“Ten grand should do it, at least for now.”

“Ten thousand dollars?”

“Yeah.”

He pretended to be thinking it over. People with money always see themselves as consumers, and their road maps through life are always marked by brand names. When they rant about corruption, all you’re really hearing is jealousy. They want a friend on the force, an insider contact, a political connection. All that crap about a level playing field always comes from people who’d be happy to stand at the top of the hill if they had the chance. And pour boiling oil down the slope.

“All right,” he finally said.

By the time the lawyer agreed to meet with me, I knew a lot more about him than he’d ever know about me. His office was in a big-windowed townhouse. Whitewashed walls lined with posters of Che, Chavez, and other visionaries whose convictions had been stronger than their support. Delta blues growled its way out of giant floor-standing stereo speakers.

The lawyer was a short, chubby man with thinning blond hair that turned into a ponytail past the collar of his blue-jean sports coat. He sat behind a free-form desk with what looked like a bird’s-eye maple top under fifty coats of clear varnish. I selected a straight chair from a motley collection arranged against one wall, carried it over so I