Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

dirt.”

“So it’s like anyone I’d know, an acquaintance as much as a client …” she said, getting comfortable with it. “All right.”

“Shugie Saunders. When did you meet him?” Behr asked.

“Oh, Shugie,” she said cryptically. “When did I meet him … let’s see … a little less than two years ago.”

“Where?”

“Over at the lobby bar at the Conrad. I was drinking with some friends. He came out of a dinner at Capital Grille and swung through for a ’capper. He saw me and beelined it right over.”

“How’d it start-regular attempt at courtship?”

“Nah. He’s not stupid. He’d set it up with Lenny. After a minute, he asked quietly if I was the escort. I said yeah.”

“You hook up that night?”

“Uh-huh. We had a few rounds with my friends. He got loaded up. Acting all swag, putting an arm around me, calling me his ‘little cocksucking blonde.’ ”

Behr eyed her to gauge whether that was a problem for her. But she just laughed.

“He’s a pretty big deal in this town, you know? His political connections … But that bravado shit sure didn’t last long,” she said.

“How’s that?”

“We got a room and went upstairs and I rocked his world,” she said, with more than a little pride. “After that”-she snapped her fingers-“he was a regular. A regular regular. He pretty much paid for this place,” she said, and laughed again.

“Okay,” Behr said, hoping to steer toward the topics that mattered to him, “so about six months after that, you’re all regular together, did you ever hear about his dealings with Bernie Kolodnik?”

“Sure.”

“On anything outside of politics? A big construction project. A casino.”

“Come on, man, Bernie Cool and Indy Flats? I heard about it real time. Shug talked about it like it was his kid practically. It was his big plan for our future. What’d he call it? His thirteen- million-dollar play, something like that. Pop. His thirteen-million-dollar pop.”

“So he had some kind of profit participation. Did Kolodnik give him a piece?”

“I doubt it. I’m guessing it was under the table, because Shug was always telling me: you don’t talk about this.”

“How’d it sound to you?” Behr wondered.

“Pretty damn good, if he was gonna get that rich …” she started, but then just shook her head. “You hear a lot of apple-pie promises in my field. You learn to wait until they come true … Anyway, yeah, if he wasn’t telling me about the deal, he was talking about it on his cell.”

“All right,” Behr said. “Jump ahead to more recently. He had need for a detective or an investigator at some point, and you-”

“That’s right. And my manager-well I guess you know who I’m talking about, Lenny-knew someone, so I made the connect.”

Behr felt his pulse race the way it did when he was hitting pay dirt. “You made the connect.”

“Yeah. I told Shug I could help him out. We all met here-Shug, Lenny, and Pat.”

“Pat,” Behr, said, the word barely getting out of his mouth.

“Yeah, Pat the detective. He and Shug went out to Fogo de whatever-that Brazilian meat place. Lenny split. He didn’t go. He and Pat weren’t friendly. Pat was up his ass about something, so Len was throwing him the introduction as a favor.”

“This Pat the detective,” Behr said, tapping his pen on his notebook like it was just an afterthought hardly worth asking about, “he that burly fella, last name Teague?”

“Yeah, yeah. I guess. I think so. Something Irishy sounding.”

Behr heard a ringing in his ears, and was distracted by the sun glare coming through the windows. He didn’t know if he was even speaking English for the rest of the interview. He just wanted to get out of there, and go face- to-face with Teague. He needed to hear how Shug would get rich off his piece with Kolodnik out of the way. And that was just for starters.

“You gonna call the dogs off on Lenny?” the girl asked. “I did good for you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, I’ll call ’em off,” Behr said, heading for the door. “You did good.”

55

Ah, here he comes now …

Waddy Dwyer saw the broad shoulders and buzz-cut head of Rickie Powell bouncing out of the Continental Airlines doorway of Indianapolis International Airport. He wore dark, gold-framed Elvis sunglasses, and an Affliction T-shirt that resembled a full torso tattoo, as he was an MMA freak, though he’d been banned from some UK feeder league after three straight disqualifications. The boy did love those head butts.

Dwyer had switched cars to a smokestone metallic Mercury Grand Marquis. That Lincoln was a notch too flash for his liking. He’d reserved a full-size when he’d first arrived, but they’d upgraded him unasked to the luxury class ride. He hadn’t wanted to take the time and cause the notice that switching would have. But now the Lincoln may have been spotted, and besides, it stunk like petrol and ass sweat, takeaway food, and concentration-like all work vehicles did eventually. He flicked the lights and tapped the horn, and Rickie changed course toward him and then tossed his duffel bag in the backseat and slid into the front.

“ ’Ello, fruit,” Dwyer said by way of greeting.

“Waddy, you big queer, good to see ya.”

“You steal them glasses from Kanye West?”

“His little sister, actually,” Rickie said.

“What I figured,” Dwyer said, pulling away from the curb.

As Dwyer drove back to the city, he briefed Rickie on the particulars of the situation, from his original hire to the blown attempt, all the way through the fun and games of last night. He poured in every detail including all the private security involved. Rickie mostly looked out the window as he listened, but nodded like a metronome, clocking each fact, locking it all down in his mind.

“On the bright side,” Dwyer said, “Banco’s dead. I called as a concerned citizen looking to donate blood in case ‘my poor neighbor who was hurt in the fire needed a transfusion,’ and some nice lady in the administrator’s office told me there’d be no need.”

“You’ve always been clever with the incendiaries,” Rickie said.

Dwyer finished with a rundown on Frank Behr, booted cop, private investigator, and general pain in the bollocks, whom he’d done a background on that morning, and the very man who’d pulled Banco from the fire.

“This knob’s a regular National Peace Scout, ain’t he,” Rickie said. “You want to spike his computer with kiddie porn, fit him up?”

“His reputation’s been buggered for years, don’t think it would slow him down much, and he might have enough sway with the cops to avoid any real hassles,” Dwyer said, pulling over. “No, I’m going to sink a deep choke on ’im and keep it locked for about three fucking minutes.” It was an amount of time that caused death.

“You sure that’s a good idea, Waddy? You know what happens when pros lock up: everyone gets hurt. And he sounds like a strapping fucker,” Rickie said, laughing.

“They go down harder than anyone when they’re shot on and their legs is yanked out from under ’em,” Dwyer said through gritted teeth.

“Just taking the piss, man,” Rickie said. “Where’s your sense of humor?”

“Shit stirrer,” Dwyer said, turning off the car.

“What are we doing here?” Rickie asked of the massive military surplus store they’d parked in front of.

“Need to do a little shopping,” Dwyer said. “You got a cap you can wear? They’ve got cameras all over these places, and with them glasses they’ll probably think you’re some celebrity.”