“Yes.”
“Well, that’s more or less what Horace did. He bought the negatives. We really couldn’t afford it, but that was the level of his commitment.” She pointed to the album cover in his hand. “This was originally a full body shot, but they cropped it.”
She unwrapped the manila folder, slid out a photograph, showed it to him. Myron looked. The two men were shot from the side and, yes, they were naked but the shadows were, uh, tasteful and worked like fig leaves.
“I still don’t see it.”
“See that mark on Gabriel’s, er, upper thigh, I guess?”
Evelyn handed him another photograph, an extreme blowup. And there it was, on the right thigh, very close to Gabriel Wire’s somewhat legendary groin-a tattoo.
A tattoo that looked exactly like the symbol in the “Not His” post on Suzze’s Facebook page.
14
There were still two hours until his meet with Kitty at the Garden State Plaza Mall. On the way to the bus stop by the George Washington Bridge, Myron filled in Big Cyndi on what he’d learned from Evelyn Stackman.
“Curious,” Big Cyndi said.
“What?”
Big Cyndi tried to shift in her seat to face him. “As you know, Mr. Bolitar, I spent many years as a rock groupie.”
He hadn’t known. In the glory heyday of the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling on WPIX Channel 11 in the New York area, Big Cyndi had been known as Big Chief Mama. As a tag team, Big Cyndi’s Big Chief Mama and Esperanza’s Little Pocahontas were Intercontinental Champions, whatever “Intercontinental” means. They were the good guys. Little Pocahontas would usually be winning on skill before her evil adversary would do something illegal-throw sand in her eye, use the dreaded “foreign object,” distract the referee so she could be double-teamed-and then, when the crowd was in a total frenzy, crying out seemingly in vain at the horrible injustice being done to a smoking-hot babe, Big Chief Mama would roar and leap from the top rope and free her lithe, babe-a-licious partner from bondage and together, with the throngs on their feet cheering, Little Pocahontas and Big Chief Mama would restore world order and, of course, defend their Intercontinental Tag Team title.
Massively entertaining.
“You were a groupie?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Bolitar. A big one.”
She batted her eyes at him again. Myron nodded. “I didn’t know.”
“I’ve had sex with many rock stars.”
“Okay.”
She arched her right eyebrow. “
“Got it.”
“Some of your favorites even.”
“Okay.”
“But I would never kiss and tell. I’m the model of discretion.”
“That’s nice.”
“But you know your favorite axe man in the Doobie Brothers?”
“Discretion, Big Cyndi.”
“Right. Sorry. But I was making a point. I followed in the footsteps of Pamela des Barres, Sweet Connie-you remember, from the Grand Funk song?-Bebe Buell-and my mentor, Ma Gellan. You know who she is?”
“No.”
“Ma Gellan considered herself a rock star cartographer. Do you know what that is?”
He tried not to roll his eyes. “I know a cartographer is a mapmaker.”
“That’s right, Mr. Bolitar. Ma Gellan made up topographical and topological nude body maps of rock stars.”
“Ma Gellan,” Myron said, seeing it now. He nearly groaned. “Like Magellan?”
“You’re very quick, Mr. Bolitar.”
Everyone’s a wiseass.
“Her maps are wonderful-very detailed and precise. They show scars, piercings, abnormalities, body hair, even areas where they were colossally or inadequately equipped.”
“For real?”
“Of course. You know about Cynthia Plaster Caster? She used to make plaster casts of penises. By the way, it’s true about front men. They are always gifted. Oh, except for one from a very famous British band, I won’t say who, but he’s hung like a small kitten.”
“Is there a point here?”
“An important one, Mr. Bolitar. Ma Gellan made a topographical map of Gabriel Wire. The man was gorgeous- face and body. But he had no tattoos. Not a mark on him.”
Myron thought about that. “Evelyn Stackman’s picture was taken within weeks of his becoming a total recluse. Maybe he got it after she did her, uh, study of him.”
They arrived at the bus stop.
“That could be,” Big Cyndi said. As she rolled out, the car creaked and rolled like the opening credits of
“I would. Are you sure I can’t just get you a taxi back?”
“I prefer taking the bus, Mr. Bolitar.”
And there she stalked away like a middle linebacker, still in the Batgirl costume. No one gave her a second glance. Welcome to the New York-New Jersey-Connecticut tristate area. Visitors often think that the locals are uncaring or cold or rude. The truth is, they are frighteningly polite. When you live in a congested area, you learn to give people their space, allow them their privacy. Here you can be surrounded by people and still enjoy being alone.
The Garden State Plaza Mall was two million-plus square feet of retail space located in the epicenter of retail malls, Paramus, New Jersey. The word “Paramus” comes from the Lenape Native Americans and means either “place of fertile soil” or “make room for another megastore.” Paramus boasts more retail shopping than any other zip code in the USA, and Myron’s guess was, it wasn’t even close.
He pulled into the lot and checked the time. Another hour until Kitty was supposed to arrive. His stomach grumbled. He checked out the eating options and felt his arteries harden: Chili’s, Johnny Rockets, Joe’s American Bar & Grill, Nathan’s Famous hot dogs, KFC, McDonald’s, Sbarro, and both Blimpie and Subway, which Myron actually thought were the same restaurant. He settled on California Pizza Kitchen. He ignored the cheery waiter’s attempt at selling him an appetizer and after looking over all the international pizza topping choices-Jamaican Jerk, Thai Chicken, Japanese eggplant-he went with plain ol’ pepperoni. The waiter looked disappointed.
Malls are malls. This was one was gi-normous, but really, what makes most malls stand out is the depressing sameness within. Gap, Old Navy, Banana Republic, JCPenney, Nordstrom, Macy’s, Brookstone, AMC Theatres, you get the idea. There were strange super-specific specialty stores, like the one that only sold candles or, winner of most moronically highbrow name of all, The Art of Shaving-how did that place stay in business? What Myron noticed now were the crappy kiosk-type stores in the middle of the corridor. There were the Perfume Palace and Piercing Pagoda. There were at least four that sold flying remote-controlled toys with some bozo intentionally flying the helicopter in your way. Yes, four. And yet have you ever seen a child using one of those in real life?
As Myron made his way to the merry-go-round, he spotted the most odious, dishonest, snake oil-like mall booth of all-the bogus “talent/model scouts,” who basically stopped everyone they could with wide-eyed come-ons like, “Wow, you have the look we’re searching for! Have you ever thought of modeling?” Myron stood and watched the commission-seeking con artists-mostly attractive women in their early twenties-work the crowd, trying not so much to find a certain look as, Myron assumed, a lobotomy scar so as to locate a person naive enough to be “accepted” into their “scouting program” and buy a four-hundred-dollar “photography portfolio” so they could start posing for
