The Consummata

“One of my fellow employees at the Farango Car Wash?”

“No, but the big, not-so-dumb galoot works for the laundry that handles the Farango account. He told the cops—local and federal alike—that he wore those coveralls home, to put on while working on his car.”

“Put on is right.” I chuckled appreciatively. “Not a bad story.”

“Not bad at all. It all tied in. The cop even identified them, much to Crowley’s disgust and dismay.”

“Nice. Thanks.”

She laughed.

“What?” I asked.

“The cop? The one who identified our lookalike gal as Gaita? When he first saw our substitute, he asked if he could see her with her top down. Thought he might be able to identify her better.”

I almost snorted beer through my nose, laughing. “Guess you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

Her laughter subsided. “I just wish that’s all there was to it. I don’t like having a leak in this operation, and we’ve obviously sprung one. Think it came from someone on this end?”

“I hate to say it, doll, but I’m inclined to think so. I doubt it came from Luis Saladar’s side. I mean, this all went down too quickly. How far can you trust the girls at your place?”

Bunny took a slow sip of the beer and shrugged. “Who knows? How far you can you trust any girl on the game? I treat them good, better than good, and I don’t take on anybody who seems hinky to me...but every girl in that line of trade is damaged goods, Morg.”

“I know. It’s an old, sad, and very true story.”

She nodded. “Every one has something to hide, or something that might break them. They’re scared, most of them, or they wouldn’t be there in the first place. If Daddy wasn’t their first sexual experience, their uncle was, or some neighbor or school bully.”

“Yet I’ve known girls on the game who liked their work.”

“Some do. Some actually enjoy it, at least part of the time. But they all have come to a place in their lives where this is their best option for making for a living...and almost all of them are scared.”

“Who else knew that you were helping me? Who else could know about us taking Jaimie Halaquez on?”

Her frown made her years show, wrinkles coming out from hiding. “Nobody that I know of. Just Gaita and Tami, but then, some of the others had to sense something was up...and might have put the pieces together.” Her dark blues locked onto me. “What are you thinking, Morgan? I can see the wheels turning.”

I shrugged. “Just that Jaimie Halaquez was a regular patron of yours, Bunny. Sometimes girls on the game have special clients—sometimes they even marry them. Maybe one of your girls latched on to the son of a bitch.”

“Fuck,” she said, that single dirty word at odds with her quiet elegance, even if she was a whorehouse madam. “You were right the first time—Halaquez is a son of a bitch. He wasn’t exactly well liked, Morgan. The guy was a bastard, a real louse.”

“Still...girls have been known to fall for real louses.” I grinned at her. “I’ve even had a few fall for me.”

She didn’t grin back. “Not a louse like this one. He paid women to humiliate him, and then he took it out on them.”

“I heard that before. Maybe you could be more specific.”

She swallowed, seeming ill at ease—and Bunny was not the ill-at-ease type. “Morgan, Halaquez would want that...that sick submissive shit, whole nine yards. Handcuffs, chains, whips, ball gags—you know?”

“I know. Not my scene, but I know.”

“But after? After, he would beat the girl, like I told you. But on several occasions he...I know they’re prostitutes, Morgan, I have no illusion what I am or what they are...but he raped them. He goddamn raped them, Morgan.”

Nausea fought the beer in my stomach. “And how does a whore go to the cops with that complaint?”

Bunny’s tone was icy. “She doesn’t. She doesn’t.” She shuddered. “He could really rip a girl up, that bastard.”

“Which girl?”

“Well, he had a few favorites, but not many of my girls would put up with him, after the first time.”

I put a hand on her shoulder. “Keep it in mind, Bunny. Someone’s holding hands with a killer, and that someone could be the next one taken out of the game.”

She shook her head, and a purple tendril fought its way free from the bouffant. “What girl in her right mind would want to be with a sick sadistic rapist like Halaquez?”

“Maybe a girl whose first experience was having Daddy rape her. Maybe a girl who likes money. Don’t ask me, Bunny—find a shrink, or write Dear Abby. But it’s possible. Did you put the word out about that Consummata dame?”

She made a dismissive gesture. “I placed a few calls. Nothing. It must just be a rumor.”

“Make more calls. If this woman is the queen of sadomasochism, like you and others in the know keep telling me, she’s right up Halaquez’s dirty alley.”

Bunny shot me an angry look and slammed the beer can on the glass coffee table nearby. “Damn it, Morgan! Since you showed up, there’s been nothing but trouble.”

“Hell, don’t look at me. I didn’t ask for it.”

“Maybe so, but it seems to grow where you go, like a sickness you’re carrying. Typhoid Morgan, that’s you!”

“Thanks a bunch.”

She sighed. Shook her head. “Take today. Today, I had to go down to the morgue and identify a body, and—”

I sat up. “Whose body?”

She tried waving it off. “Just a guy. Former client.”

“Just a guy? So why did the cops call you to make the I.D.?”

“He had an address book on him—six names in it, five untraceable, the other is lucky me. He’s been coming into the Mandor Club off and on for maybe three years. No trouble, just a customer the kids liked, and who wasn’t afraid to spend money. We knew him as Richard Best. Dick Best.” She laughed a little. “Some of the girls called him the Best Dick.”

“Why, was he hung like a horse?”

“Almost the opposite. He came to the Mandor to be pampered, and half the time, he never got around to the sex. He was no spring chicken—maybe sixty, sixty-five? He was looking for company, for pleasant female companionship. An ideal client for my girls, the polar opposite of Jaimie Halaquez.”

“What did he look like?”

“Oh, he was nothing special. Just a medium guy, medium height, average looking.”

“Hair color?”

“Brown.”

“Eye color?”

“Brown. He kind of reminded me of that old actor, William Powell? But not quite as handsome. Nice man, though. Real sweetheart.”

“How well did you know him, Bunny?”

She thought back, and her expression conveyed a fondness for her subject. “Well enough, I guess. We talked plenty of times. We’d sit in the bar and talk old times.”

“Why, had he known you before?”

“Well, if so, I didn’t remember him. But he remembered me and my husband, the old fox, from the days when we were in the papers regularly.” Her chin lifted, her eyes rolled back in remembering. “Used to tell me how much he admired my husband, and how he thought my better half had gotten framed into prison. Framed? Hell, the old fox worked good and damn hard to get behind bars. He deserved everything he got!”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Bunny,”

Her eyes were distant. “...not that I didn’t love the slick ol’ bastard, though.”