Pain Management

Flacco was behind the wheel, Gordo in the front passenger seat. Neither of them said a word, looking straight ahead. As soon as they heard the door close, they took off, slow and smooth. The big SUV rode like a taut limo.

“Do you think—?” Ann started to ask, before I cut her off with a finger against her lips.

She nodded that she understood. Flacco and Gordo had end-played me perfectly. Anytime a man offers to back your play, you’re cornered. So we went through this whole elaborate game where I’d tell Ann they were just hired for the night and they’d pretend they were really worried about me . . . instead of Gem.

When Gem hadn’t even asked me where I was going, I knew I was right. I didn’t blame them for it. They were with her, not with me. She wouldn’t ask them to spy on me—besides anything else, it would be a real loss of face. But if they decided to ride along on their own, well . . .

Flacco docked the Cigarette like it was a boat, backing it into a narrow slot between two other cars only a few yards from the front door of the joint. Once in, he moved forward so we could open the back door, making it clear that he’d be ready to leave as soon as we were, and that we wouldn’t have to look for him when we came out.

I jumped down, held out a hand for Ann. She wasn’t wearing a streetwalking outfit, but her burnt-orange sheath was slit so deep on one side that it opened almost to her waist as she stepped down. A beret of the same color sat jauntily on top of long straight black hair that fell to her shoulders.

If there was a doorman at the club, he stayed invisible. Two-fifteen in the morning; the place was moderately full, most of the attention on an angular brunette in a classy blue dress. She was singing “Cry Me a River” into a microphone that looked like it was out of the forties. The mike had to be a prop—the sound system was Now and Today all the way, draping itself over and around the crowd without a hint as to speaker location.

The waitresses all wore French-maid uniforms with only a moderate amount of cleavage. This wasn’t a joint for jerkoffs or gawkers—players were expected to bring their own.

I ordered a bourbon-and-branch, told her not to mix them. Ann asked for a glass of white wine.

“You like her?” she asked me, making a little gesture with her head in the direction of the singer.

“She’s no Judy Henske.”

“Who is?”

“You know her?” I said, surprised. Judy’s river runs real deep, but it doesn’t run wide.

“I know her work. I caught her in L.A. Twice. She’s . . . amazing. What’s your favorite?”

“ ‘Till the Real Thing Comes Along,’ “ I told her.

“Amen,” Ann said, holding up her glass.

The girl in the blue dress finished her set, walked off with a wave, glowing in the applause.

“Pretty slick, huh?” Ann said.

“What is?”

“That girl, she’s one of Kruger’s.”

“A hooker?”

“A ‘performer’ is what he’d say. All his girls are stars. They want to be actresses, Kruger gets a video made, sends it on the rounds of studios. They want to be singers, he’s got a place for them to perform. And he’s got an agent, a legit one, handles their careers.”

“It’s a scam, though, right?”

“It is and it isn’t. That’s the secret of how he stays on top. Is that girl who just got off the stage going to get a recording contract? I don’t think so. But this town is loaded with great musicians who never get studio time, just work the clubs, building a following. And everybody knows that, so . . . is it really a scam? She is working.”

“And the movie girls? Where do they end up? In porno?”

“Some do,” she said, seriously. “There’s all kinds of porn, some of it real high-end. Kruger wouldn’t go near the ugly stuff. Wouldn’t let any of his girls do it, either.”

“You sound as if you admire him.”

“I admire anyone who knows how to work a system. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“With the pain-management thing?”

“Yes. But now’s not the time to talk about it.” She turned to the hovering waitress, handed over one of her poker-chip business cards and a folded bill. “Would you please tell Kruger that my man would like to buy him a drink?” she said, smiling sweetly.

The girl in the blue dress was just starting another set when the waitress came over, bent down, and whispered something in Ann’s ear.

“Let’s go,” she said to me.

I followed her as she made her way between tables, heading for a horseshoe-shaped booth in the far corner. When she stopped, we were standing before a man seated at the apex of the booth, a line of girls stretching out on either side. He was a mixed-breed of some kind. Small head, dark-complected face with fine features and very thin lips under a narrow, perfectly etched mustache. Dark hair worn very close to his scalp, tightly waved. He was draped in several shades of off-white silk: sports coat, shirt, and tie. A two-finger ring on his right hand held a diamond too big to be fake.

“Well, Miss Ann,” he said, just a trace of Louisiana in his voice.

One of the black girls on his left laughed at the crack. I kept my face flat, as if I hadn’t gotten it.

“Kruger,” is all Ann said.

He made a little gesture with his diamond. Every woman to his right stood up and walked away.

Ann slid in first. I had to look past her shoulder to see Kruger, who turned his back on the girls to his left and squared up to face us.

“So?” he said, smiling just enough to show a razor-slash of white.

“This is Mr. Hazard,” she said. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Why didn’t you simply come yourself?” he asked me.

“You don’t know me,” I said. “I’m nobody. You’re an important man. It wouldn’t be respectful to just roll up on you, unannounced.”

He measured my eyes to see if I was juking him.

“What is it that you do, Mr. Hazard?”

“I find people.”

“Yes. Well, you found me. And . . . ?”

“I’m looking for a girl. A teenage girl. Runaway. She’s—”

“Oh, Miss Ann here will tell you, I wouldn’t have anything to do with—”

“I know,” I cut him off. “The thing is, I’m not the only one who’s looking. A couple of the other people looking, they came to you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. And it’s them I’m interested in.”

He shifted his small head slightly. Said, “I didn’t think you liked men, Miss Ann.”

“Some men,” she answered him, levelly.

“You’ve got game,” he said. Approvingly, as if he was complimenting a kid on the basketball court.

“I’m straight-edge,” she told him.

“I don’t think so, Miss Ann. You’re all curves, girl.”

Ann twisted her mouth enough to acknowledge the barbed stroke, said, “Something for something.”

“What have you got?” he asked me.

“I wouldn’t insult you with money. . . .” I let my voice trail away, in case he wanted to disabuse me of that notion, but he just sat there, waiting. “I’m out and about. A lot. I hear things. I could run across something that might be valuable to you. If I did, I’d just bring it. No bargaining, no back-and-forth, I’d just turn it over.”

“You must be . . . an unusual man, I’ll grant you that. I’ve never seen Miss Ann here with a man before. Are you and she close?”

“Is that what we can trade for? The rundown?”

“Hah!” he snorted delicately. “That was just idle curiosity, Mr. Hazard. What is your first name?”

“B.B.,” I said.

“As in King?”