Chapter 13

Monday morning, GFA conference room, Phoenix, Arizona

The surveillance photos showing mob lawyer Faye King appeared on the projection screen in the Galaxy Friendship Association’s Phoenix, Arizona conference room, as Roman Justine watched with curiosity. Don Valley, PI Lou Grossman, and Carmen Gray, GFA attorney, were in the audience.

Grossman remarked, “She’s a good-looking whore. What would she bring in the Russian market?” He pressed a button on the projector’s remote control.

“Freeze it there,” Roman Justine said.

Grossman stopped the projection on Faye King emerging from Joey Stumpanato’s Chicago office’s entry doors.

“Now, give me a zoom on her face,” Justine commanded.

An image of Faye King’s face filled the screen. Justine studied her face.

“Anybody recognize her?” he asked.

All in the room remained silent.

“Huh,” Justine grunted. “I agree. Joey’s bitch is a good-looking woman. Mousy brown hair…brown eyes…she could stand to wear a little make-up though.” He nodded toward Grossman. “Continue.”

The picture on the screen changed as Grossman continued speaking. “We dug into King’s past but found several dead ends.”

“What do you mean?” Justine asked.

“King graduated from University of Virginia Law School, the bottom of her class,” Grossman explained. “Grade transcripts check out. Born Makenna Faye Kingman in Montreal.”

“Her age?”

“Thirty-eight, Mr. Justine,” Grossman answered.

Justine smiled. “Go on.”

“Ms. Kingman migrated to Seattle when she was twenty years old and worked as a flight attendant for Aero Pacific Airlines for three years. She was fired for decking a male passenger.”

“No shit!” Justine exclaimed. “How’d that happen?”

“He allegedly grabbed one of her boobs, and she clocked him. According to our sources, the man was carried off the plane on a stretcher. The man filed a lawsuit against Aero Pacific, the parties reached an out-of-court settlement, and the airline fired her,” Grossman stated. “Kingman went to college after changing her name from Kingman to King. She went on to law school after that.”

“You said she graduated at the bottom of her class?” Justine clarified.

Lou Grossman glanced at his notes. “That’s right. Dead last. She was on academic probation several times.” He leafed through his notes, before then reporting, “Her IQ is one-thirty-seven.”

“It would be as daunting to graduate last in your law class as it would be to graduate first,” Justine lamented. “She is a smart lady. A woman who would go out of her way to keep a low profile, unless she sandbagged on her IQ tests as well. The Guppy would not have allied himself with her otherwise,” he concluded. “Did you learn anything else about Joey’s gunslinger?”

“Her first and only job as a lawyer, before going to work for Joey Stumpanato, was with the law firm Barrymore, Rothschild, and Gain, in Falls Church, Virginia,” Grossman relayed.

“I know the firm. They are primarily government litigates.”

Lou Grossman said, “Like law school, King kept a low profile at Barrymore. Until she was assigned to the legal team representing the government in the U.S. Navy v. Bowman-California Aerospace antitrust case.”

“Bowman-California lost the case,” Justine recollected. “A fifty million dollar fine, restitution, and one year all expenses paid at Club Fed for its chief executive. I recall the case; the decision had financial ramifications for our GFA members as well. When the ruling came down, Bowman-California’s stock dropped twenty-two percent. I lost a ton of money.”

“Turns out the guy who got her fired from Aero Pacific was a guy named Grady Adcock,” Grossman said, with a smirk.

“Who is Grady Adcock?”

“Adcock was Bowman-California’s CEO,” Grossman replied. “He is now deceased, so the trail ended there.”

Justine leached forward in his chair. With an incredulous look on his face, he exclaimed, “Adcock! Bowman’s CEO? Jesus H. Christ! The whore set the asshole up.” Justine shook his head. “Impressive. Fricking brilliant. Were you able to find out what part she played in the Bowman antitrust case?”

“King was the lead attorney,” Grossman answered.

Roman Justine rubbed his forehead with his right hand. “Gerald Cozell was the lead attorney. If my memory serves me.”

Lou Grossman referred to his notes. “Cozell’s name is here. Says Cozell conferred with King throughout the case. She’s pulling strings from behind the scenes?” he wagered.

Justine clenched his jaw and said, under his breath, “That god-damned whore cost me ten mil. Again, like law school, Miss King keeps a low profile.”

“So it would seem, Mr. Justine.” Lou Grossman checked his notes. “Following the trial, Barrymore, Rothschild, and Gain deposited one million dollars into Faye King’s bank account for three consecutive years.”

“A bonus, I presume?” Justine asked.

“Three of five annual payments.”

“What’s her annual?” Justine wanted to know.

“High six figures. We could not confirm the exact amount.”

Roman Justine chuckled and turned to Carmen Gray, his legal counsel. “I think you’re in the wrong business, Mr. Gray,” he said.

“Her income would place her in the top one hundred lawyers in the nation, Roman,” Gray replied.

“That is extraordinary for a student who graduated last in her class,” Justine assessed. “How does Joey Stumpanato afford a highly priced lawyer? And why has he set her on the BAW?”

Carmen Gray answered. “We don’t believe her entire income is coming from the Stumpanado family. There could be retainers from other mob families involved. But we have not be able to determine where all her money comes from. We verified two hundred fifty thousand in her bank account. We have no idea if there are offshore accounts.”

“Naturally there would be,” Justine commented.

“She hired on with Joey,” Gray went on. “The next day, she defended a sleaze-ball mob kid accused of armed robbery. A slam dunk conviction. Yet she got him acquitted!”

Justine smiled. “What happened to Vinny?”

“Mr. Astoria has retired, Mr. Justine,” Gray informed him.

“Ah, too bad. I like Vinny.”

“She’s a hired gun, as you alluded to, Roman,” Gray said. “Joey has decided to go after you through one or more of the GFA member companies.”

“It would seem Mr. Guppy has a vendetta,” Justine said.

“So it would seem,” Gray replied. He turned to Grossman and asked, “You mentioned earlier King changed her name before entering law school?”

“As I said before, we found a few inconsistencies in her past,” Grossman confirmed. “Although we did discover her law school tuition was paid in full by an anonymous trust fund.”

“Anonymous?”

“That’s right, Roman,” Grossman confirmed.

“Did you run a check on her credit history?” Don Valley asked.

“Please, Mr. Valley,” Grossman responded, “have a little faith in us. We’re the most prestigious private investigative firm in the country. We’re the best at what we do.”

“In your opinion,” Roman Justine said, “why would King’s history show any inconsistencies at all?”

“I’d say the mob has done a good job of erasing, altering, or confusing her past. But I’m confident we cut through the smoke and mirrors,” Grossman boasted. “I think we have a pretty accurate past history on her.”

A photo of Pearce flashed on the screen. “Corazon Garza,” Grossman announced. “King’s confidant, bodyguard, and pilot. Her address is listed as the same as Faye King’s.”

Justine turned toward Lou Grossman. “Are they lesbians?” he asked.

“We believe so. King is most likely genderqueer.”

Justine’s lips formed a wide grin, and he lightly clapped his hands together. “How delightful it is. It’s intriguing. Corazon Garza would be an alias?”

“Definitely an alias, Mr. Justine.”

As the photos of Corazon Garza played across the screen, Justine studied them. “Lou, is Garza a sand-monkey?” he asked.

“We think she’s Arab,” Lou Grossman responded. “Although an Arab with white hair and blue eyes is uncommon.”

“She’s a woman,” Justine said with a chuckle. “What woman do you know, Lou, who knows what her natural hair color is?” Justine leered at the photo of Corazon Garza. “That is a fine-looking bitch, gentlemen. I’m curious, Lou. Does the carpet match the drapes?”

“Aaah… I’m not sure, Mr. Justine. Garza has worn the headscarf since we began the photo surveillance. We didn’t get any nudes,” Grossman responded.

Justine smiled. “There’s an extra fifty K in it for you, if you can confirm that for me.” He eased back in his chair, continuing to consider the photo of Corazon Garza.

“Tell me, Mr. Grossman,” Justine resumed, “other than other women, what are King’s passions? I don’t think two dozen roses would turn her head.”

“She has a passion for sushi and Milwaukee’s Finest beer.”

“Milwaukee’s Finest!” Justine laughed. “That’s the cheapest crap there is! She can afford Dom Perignon at three large a pop and she’s drinking liquid shit at less than a dollar a can?”

“Odd as hell, Mr. Justine,” Grossman replied.

“Our land-shark eats raw fish.” Justine tapped his chin with his pen. “Carmen, what do you suppose a bluefin tuna sells for these days?”

“Last I heard,” Gray replied, “starting at two hundred per pound but can go as high as five thousand dollars per pound on the Japanese market.”

“Get in touch with our people in Japan,” Justine commanded. “Have them ship a slab to King for us. Arrange for it to be delivered along with the two-dozen roses, by tomorrow, to King’s suite. My compliments. Oh, and send along a six pack of Milwaukee’s Finest.”

Roman Justine’s gaze shifted, refocusing beyond the men seated at the table to a man who was sitting alone in the shadows at the back of the room.

“I’ll see to Faye King,” Justine said, with a slight nod of his head.

The man in the shadows rose from his chair, unnoticed by the others. With an emotionless expression on his face and with nothing more than a confirming nod, he slipped out of the room.

A sinister smile formed on Roman Justine’s lips as the man he called “Doctor” closed the door behind him. Justine’s gaze returned to his men.

“Faye King is an irritant, gentlemen,” Justine proclaimed. “We have other, more serious business to attend to.” He nodded toward Carmen Gray.

“Our sources in Washington, D.C. have informed us that the Justice Department is mounting an investigation into the GFA,” Carmen Gray announced.

“We don’t want another antitrust investigation on our members’ hands like the one Bowman-California suffered,” Justine said. “We’ll direct the association membership to be cognizant of the government’s activities. Our next GFA meeting will be held offshore. There is no discussion between association members regarding member activities on anything but secured phone and computer tie-lines from this point forward. Is that clear?”

All the men nodded affirmatively.

****

The following afternoon, in Roman Justine’s office

“Mr. Justine, a Ms. King is calling for you.” Justine’s personal assistant relayed the message over his desk intercom. “Will you take the call?”

“Thank you, Jason,” Justine responded. “I’ll take the call.” He smiled as he activated the phone intercom. “Good afternoon, Ms. King,” he said in greeting. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Justine, I wanna thank ya for the bluefin,” Fay said. “Why am I the lucky girl?”

“Union business. Specifically, the BAW. And a welcome to Phoenix,” Justine explained.

“Oh? Nothin’ more romantic than union business?”

“I have the feeling, Ms. King, should I decide to romance you, my intentions would have to be more pronounced than a few pounds of fish, cans of brew, and a handful of flowers,” Justine said. The smile on his face broadened. “You represent the union.”

“Yeah. But what does that have to do with you, Mr. Justine?” Fay asked.

“I was hoping you would meet with me to discuss that in person…say tomorrow, for lunch?” he suggested.

“I’m flyin’ to Vegas tomorrow. Can’t do it,” Fay stated.

“Perhaps when you return. This is urgent.”

“Nope.” Fay paused. “I got an idea. Why not fly to Vegas with me? That’ll give us a few minutes to chat. Have your jet follow us, and you can return to Phoenix later in the day.”

“If that is what it will take, Ms. King, I’m game,” Justine agreed.

“That works. I’ll have my assistant call your assistant with the details. Ciao!”

Without waiting for so much as an “okay” from Justine, “Faye King” hung up.

****

By Tuesday afternoon, Cartman County Sheriff’s Deputy Doug had pounded more than his share of pavement, searching for information on the dead transient fisherman murder accomplice, Ronald Stanton. He had focused his efforts on the nearby towns of Port Leone and Manatee City.

Doug stopped at Gwen’s Manatee City Café for a late lunch, where he struck up a conversation with waitperson Linda. Flirting would better define his encounter with the young and pretty, yet curvaceous, woman.

When Linda next passed by his table, Doug thought to show her Stanton’s picture.

Linda studied the photo and handed it back to Doug. “Never seen the guy before. Gotta git!” she said, before dashing off in response to an “Order up!” call.

Doug finished his meal. Then, he waited a few minutes until Linda returned with his bill. He had already calculated the meal plus the tip and handed her a ten-dollar bill. “Keep the change,” he told her.

Linda smiled. “Ya know aah do recall seein’ that guy in here. Can aah see that picture ah-gain?” she asked.

Doug slipped his right hand into his left shirt pocket, withdrew the photo, and handed it to her. “You may have seen him in here?”

“Yeah.” Linda studied the photo. “This here’s Ray,” she realized. “Aah didn’t recognize him without his sunglasses.”

“Ray?”

“He’s always like wearin’ them fancy sunglasses,” Linda explained. “Like I mean, the guy’s a bum, right? But he’s got them expensive designer sunglasses. So’s aah call him Ray. You know?”

“I get it,” Doug chuckled. “Y’all have a minute to tell me about him, or should I come back when you get off work?”

“Hold on. I’ll go see if aah can git me a break. Be right back.”

Soon, Linda returned and sat down. “Aah got me twenty minutes. So whadda ya wanna know?” she asked Doug.

“Tell me about Ray,” Doug replied. “Does he come here often?”

“A couple times a week. When he comes in, he like sits in the same spot,” Linda said, pointing toward a table. “Near to the door. He orders a coffee and reads whatever section of the newspaper he finds layin’ around. From time to time, he buys a donut. He’s a real nice guy. Aah kinda feel sorry for him.”

“Do you talk to him?”

“Like, Aah mean, just the usual stuff. Like ‘hi, y’all, how ya doin’? Nice day. See ya soon.’ Stuff like that,” Linda explained.

“Has he ever met or talked to anyone else?” Doug wanted to know.

“Naw,” Linda replied, shaking her head. “Ray seems to be like a loner, ya know. Although come to think of it, he did sit there with a man one time. That was like last week?”

“You didn’t happen to hear what they was talkin’ about, did you?”

“No,” Linda denied. “But aah do recall Ray seemed like a bit nervous that day.”

How so?” Doug questioned.

“Well, like he usually seems relaxed. Laidback. You know?”

Doug nodded.

“But this time he was fidgety… like he was lookin’ around a lot and tappin’ his fingers,” Linda divulged.

Doug asked, “Had you seen the other man before?”

“Never. But the guy was out of place. Aah mean like, Ray is a bum, right? This guy was nicely dressed. Not business-like. More like them Yankee tourists. A snowbird.”

“Do you think you could come into the Cartman County courthouse tomorrow to meet with our forensic artists?” Doug asked her. “I’d like to have what we call a composite sketch done up of this man.”

“Aah know what a composite is, deputy. It’s a drawin’ rendered by combinin’ various components into a single image. Aah seen ’em do them on the TV,” Linda replied, before looking at her wristwatch. “Aah gotta work the mornin’ shift tomorrow. Then aah got an online class to take. By the time aah get off at three and get a bus, it would be like five before Aah got on over to the courthouse. Aah can catch up on my classes later. That okay?”

“I’ll tell you what. If y’all can be ready to go by three, I’ll come by and pick you up,” Doug told her. “I’ll bring you home when we’re done. I might even buy ya supper over to Choctaw Bay Marina for y’all’s trouble.”

Linda smiled and offered Doug her hand. “Deal.” She hesitated, then said, “Ah…Mrs. Doug won’t mind your havin’ supper with me?”

“Well, first, this is county business. Second, there’s no Mrs. Doug,” the Deputy replied. “And third, Doug’s my first name.”

Linda’s smile widened. “Okay. See ya here at three tomorrow.”

****

“Faye King” received a call from Roman Justine on Wednesday morning. He would not be able to accompany her to Las Vegas due to a pressing matter. Justine did extend an invitation to a party on Friday evening at his Phoenix country estate. He promised a guest list that would include Phoenix’s most influential people, as well as politicians from Capitol Hill and Hollywood celebrities. He suggested a business meeting of no more than thirty minutes. The rest of the evening would be hers to enjoy as his honored guest.

Justine was playing right into Fay’s hands. And she happened to have the red silk dress Lyza Joe had given to her and the matching red shoes she had purchased in Chicago to wear for the occasion.

One particular potential guest caught Fay’s attention, a person who might cause a problem for her: Jade, the international recording star and diva. Jade had sung at three Republican fundraisers when Fay’s father had been in office, and she had met Jade each time. Although years had passed, Fay’s cover could be compromised. She would either have to avoid Jade altogether or hope her Faye King disguise would be sufficient.

****

At 2:55 P.M., Deputy Doug arrived at Gwen’s Manatee City Café and parked his unmarked county cop car around the corner. He was dressed in a soft tan summer jacket and matching cotton slacks.

Linda was waiting, and when she saw him approaching, she smiled.

“Hi,” Doug said. “Looks like y’all’s ready to go.”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, Deputy,” Linda replied.

“Doug,” he insisted.

“Doug,” Linda confirmed. She appeared to have spent a little extra time in front of the mirror. She looked much prettier than she had the day before.

“Linda, I’m sorry to take you from your studies,” Doug apologized.

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m almost done with mah schoolin’ anyways.”

Doug chuckled. “You’re not getting’ off that easy, Linda. What are you studyin’?” he asked.

“Geez…it ain’t nothin’ much. Aah attend FSU Medical School. Fortunate that aah can do mah classes online classes this quarter.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit a haul to get from here to FSU, for sure.”

Linda giggled. “It ain’t so bad. And like aah say, I’m like near to graduation anyways,” she replied.

“It’s a huge deal, Linda. Are you going to be a doctor?” Doug inquired.

“Naw, maybe one day. Fer now, just a nurse,” Linda said with a smile. “Tell ya what though. At least aah can quit my crap job pretty soon.”

Doug laughed. “Good for you, kid. Tell me about the man who met with Ray,” he requested.

“He was non-descript, he was. I’d say like fifty or fifty-five, maybe? He looked like a tourist.”

“A snowbird, you said,” the Deputy recalled.

“Yeah. They’s in season now,” Linda said with a soft giggle. “Oh…Aah don’t know. He smoked. He sweated…um…perspired a lot. And he had one of them New York accents.”

Doug laughed. “Like from over on Third Street?”

“That kind of accent,” Linda confirmed.

“Brooklyn,” Doug concluded.

Linda observed, “He did have an interesting way of smokin’, though.”

“Tell me about that,” Doug requested.

“Well, he had a way of gettin’ his cigarette from the pack to his mouth,” she explained. “He’d flip his wrist so’s one cigarette would pop up out of the pack…almost halfway out. Then he’d grab it with his lips…right out of the pack. Aah seen a lot of smokers do that, but this guy had it down to one motion.”

“Fluid?”

“Yeah. The guy like drops the pack into his pocket. He used stick matches. You know, the kind with the white tip?”

“Easy strike matches. You can strike them on any surface,” Doug said.

“That’s them. This guy would use his thumbnail.”

“Interestin’, Linda. Anythin’ else?”

Linda lapsed into silence, thinking. Then she said, “Naw.”

Doug and Linda arrived at the courthouse at 4:30 P.M. Cora Coin, the forensic artist, was waiting for them. Doug left Linda in Cora’s talented hands and checked his messages at the Sheriff’s office. Cora called him forty-five minutes later.

Doug returned to Cora’s office. When he entered the room, Cora said, “We’re all done, Doug.” She held up the sketch. “That’s him.”

Doug took the sketch from Cora and showed it to Linda. “This him?” he asked.

Linda nodded. “Yep,” she confirmed. “A dead ringer for the guy.”

Doug turned the drawing over and looked at it once more. He remembered seeing this man before, but not when or where. Then, it dawned on him. “I don’t think so. Hang with Cora, Linda,” he requested. “I’ll have to contact Sheriff Gus.”

****

Fay and JP, disguised as Faye and Corazon, arrived at Roman Justine’s palatial Scottsdale desert estate one hour before the time indicated on Fay’s invitation. She was told Roman Justine was in conference and was shown into the trophy room. JP was directed toward the cabana at the swimming pool.

“Mr. Justine is in a meeting with Senator de la Croix. He will be with you in fifteen minutes, Miss King,” the butler assured her.

Fay glanced at her wristwatch. “Please inform Mr. Justine that in eleven minutes, I will be on my way out,” she instructed the butler. She made a mental note to avoid the old crow de la Croix.

“Miss King,” the butler asked, “may I offer you a drink while you wait?”

“That would be nice,” Fay decided. “How about a Blue Wench?”

“A Blue Wench, ma’am?” the butler questioned, uncertain of her order.

Fay smiled. “Tell your bartender a tall glass,” she said, holding her hands apart, one over the other, to indicate the size of the glass. “Mix one ounce each of gin, Triple Sec, Blue Curacao, and a splash of lime juice over crushed ice. Got it?”

The butler smiled. “Very well, Miss King. Please, make yourself comfortable.” He bowed at the waist and left.

Fay took a look around her. The trophy room was big, with twelve-foot-high windows overlooking a private tropical waterfall and pool. The heads of numerous big game trophy animals adorned the remaining three walls. A big bear, most likely a grizzly, stood on its haunches near the glass wall.

The butler returned with her drink. “One Blue Wench, Miss King,” he said, smiling as he handed her the glass. “Will there be anything else?”

Fay returned the smile. “No, thank you.”

The butler left the room.

Fay toured the trophy room with her drink in hand, stopping to admire each and every animal. Roman Justine’s collection was impressive, yet she could not help but feel sad for the defenseless animals that had given their lives to satisfy his ego.

She spotted a beautiful white mountain sheep and walked to it. As Fay reached out to pet the doe-eyed sheep, a chill brushed across her neck.

She heard a voice from behind her say, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

Fay had turned her back on her bald nemesis. It had been foolish of her, doing what Vinny had warned her not to do.

“Yes, she is beautiful,” Fay replied, turning to face Roman Justine.

“I was referring to you, Miss King…not the sheep.” Justine smiled. “I shot that one on a recent trip to Tibet,” he explained, moving closer to her.

Fay’s jaw tightened.

“At the time, there were one hundred left in the world,” Justine bragged.

“And now there are ninety-nine,” Fay assessed. Her gaze again surveyed the room. “They’re all females, aren’t they?” she noted.

Justine smiled. “Very astute, Miss King. You’re correct,” he confirmed.

“I could tell by their eyes. The warmth, the strength… the sadness.”

“Throughout nature, especially in the big cats and the bears, and I’m sure this is true of the human female as well, the female is more aggressive and more dangerous than her male counterpart,” Justine stated. “Mothers protecting their young are particularly ferocious.” His gaze swept the trophy room. “Beyond that… the female is nothing more than a sperm receptacle.”

Fay’s stomach churned. Beyond his total hatred of and disrespect for any female, the sorry bastard had killed a number of them, including a rare mountain sheep, thus ensuring the probable extinction of a rare and beautiful animal. The bastard probably owned stock in the company that imported pad mina into the United States.

She despised the man but, without showing any of her inner thoughts or emotions on her face, Fay extended her hand toward him in greeting. “Faye King,” she introduced herself.

Justine grasped her hand. “My pleasure, Miss King.”

His hand was clammy, Fay noticed. “Likewise.”

“Would you like to see the rest of my collection?” he asked.

No, I certainly would not. Fay knew Justine was talking about little human heads, Adolf Hitler’s skull, and Einstein’s brain. She hated this.

“Of course,” Fay agreed, choking down her disgust. “I would be honored, Mr. Justine. I find this all…captivating.”

“Come with me,” he said, motioning toward a door on the left.

Fay ran a quick mental inventory of the contents of her pocketbook. Her stomach was still clenching, and should she find herself in need of a place to barf, the handbag was her odds-on-favorite. Downing her drink in one gulp, she followed Roman Justine into his chamber of horrors.

The array of shrunken heads was, as she had predicted, disgusting - little brown leathery heads with long black hair, straw-sewn eyelids, and straw-sewn mouths. Adolf Hitler’s skull and Albert Einstein's brain were each presented in a glass case. Fay looked but didn't see either John Wayne Gacy or Jeffery Dahmer’s severed heads, for which she was grateful. It was beginning to look as if her pocketbook would be spared.

“These heads are tiny. How do you suppose they do that?” Fay asked her host, but immediately knew she should not have asked the question. Justine would have a lengthy and gruesome answer for her, and she wasn’t in the mood to hear it.

“The Jivaro in South America are active headhunters,” Justine began. “Their shrunken head trophies are called tsantsas. The process begins when the Jivaro raid neighboring tribes. The prize, the tsantsas, brings prestige to the headhunters and traps their victims’ souls.”

Oh, God. If he tells me how they shrink the heads, I’m gonna puke, Fay thought to herself. Yeah. It looks like he’s gonna tell me.

“The skin is cut around the top of the chest and back,” Justine went on, demonstrating by drawing an imaginary circle around his neck. “Finally, the head is severed near the collarbone. It takes about six days to prepare the head. A slit is made in the back and the skin removed from the skull,” he continued, once again giving her a demonstration. “The skin is boiled and by now has been reduced to half its original size. After the skin has been turned inside out, the remaining flesh is scraped away.” He seemed to be getting excited. “The head—”

Fay cut him off by waving a dismissing hand. “Roman. Hold up. I came here to discuss business…not heads.”

“Of course. Forgive me.” Even as he apologized, Justine’s lips conveyed a devious grin. “I tend to get carried away.” There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. “How’s my friend, the Guppy?” he asked.

Fay clenched her teeth. “Why don’t ya take your hand off my ass and cut the crap, Justine,” she demanded. “You said ya had somethin’ ya wanted to talk to me about. What is it?”

Roman’s eyebrows arched, and he smiled. “Let’s retire to the other room,” he suggested. “I think you’ll be more at ease there.”

They returned to the trophy room and made themselves comfortable in two high-backed padded leather chairs overlooking the tropical pool.

“Miss King,” Justine said. “I’m disturbed by the work slowdown the BAW union leaders have invoked at AmeriCon; you embody the union membership.”

Fay crossed her shapely legs on purpose. Her gesture exposed almost half of her thigh in the short red silk dress, and she watched as Roman Justine’s eyes swept the length of her leg. “That’s right, she responded. “And…?” Get a good look, you perverted douchebag, she thought. You son-of-a-bitch, I’m going to own you.

“And…” Justine’s distracted gaze returned to meet her eyes. “I wished to speak with you regarding your position as it pertains to the work slowdown and the mired labor contract discussions,” he stated.

“Why am I talkin’ to you and not Don Valley, AmeriCon’s CEO?” Fay asked.

Roman eyed her empty glass. “Can I get you another drink, Miss King?”

“I’m good.” Fay flashed Justine her new “ask me another question, and you die” look. “Like I said before,” she replied. “Cut the crap, or I’m out of here.”

Justine played it cool. “Miss King. As a major stakeholder and a board member, the health and welfare of all AmeriCon’s union workers are my primary concern.”

Bullshit. “Concerned? Fay responded. “Since when has management ever concerned itself with union labor? If management was as concerned as you say, Mr. Justine, we would’ve ratified a contract months ago, and you and I wouldn’t be havin’ this tête-à-tête.”

“Why a work slowdown? Why now?” Justine asked her.

“AmeriCon management has held out against the union’s demands that management makes reparations for all unused sick pay. I might add wages are rightfully due labor for sick leave they have not used,” Fay explained. “The union has accused management of temporizing while employee morale continues to worsen. The union leadership is concerned. I’m here to either move negotiations forward or to advise the BAW union leaders to call for an immediate strike vote.”

Justine’s eyebrows arched. “A work stoppage? Miss King. Please. Can we deal?”

“To deal with ya at this juncture, Mr. Justine, would be egregious on my part. I want a meetin’ with Don Valley…one on one…no crap.” Fay grinned.

Justine said with pleading eyes, “Look, I’ve got other problems to…” but he caught himself before completing the statement.

Fay knew what he had been about to say. She finished his thought for him. “You’ve got the Justice Department preparin’ to play lawn darts in your boxer shorts. Correct?”

A sly grin formed on Roman Justine’s lips. “You don’t miss much, do you, Miss King?” he asked.

“I don’t miss nothin’.”

“You were the lead attorney for the government in the U.S. v. Bowman Aerospace antitrust case. Nice work, by the way,” Justine acknowledged.

Fay raised her eyebrows. “And you don’t miss much either, Mr. Justine.”

“Whatever Joey Stumpanato is paying you, multiply it by five. Add a ten percent bonus should the GFA and the feds go to court and should you win the case,” Justine offered.

Fay did quick math. If Joey Stumpanato were really paying her, Justine’s offer to jump ship would be in the mid six figures. “You’re suggestin’ I dump Joey and take on the Attorney General in what could be the biggest case since the Master Settlement Agreement?” Fay asked.

“We’re talking a multi-billion-dollar deal here,” Justine confirmed.

“I’ll consider your proposal after I leave my meetin’ with Don Valley, with a ratified contract in hand,” Fay decided. “In the meantime, the BAW rank and file needs my full and undivided attention.”

“You will consider my proposal?” Justine pushed.

“Like they say, Mr. Justine, ‘money talks and bullshit walks.’ I think we understand one another,” Fay stated.

The party proved to be as outlandish as the people on the guest list. Fay and JP spent a considerable amount of their time watching a flock of thong-birds cavorting in the swimming pool.

Fay had ordered a fresh drink and was sipping it when, suddenly, she felt faint. She excused herself from the gentleman with whom she was talking and retired to the restroom.

****

After his dinner with Linda at the Choctaw Bay Marina, Deputy Doug stopped at the Citrus Tree Retirement Community’s main gate. Linda stayed in the car while Doug spoke with the gate guard.

“Hi,” Doug said as he approached the man sitting in the small gatehouse. Doug displayed his deputy’s badge. “Sheriff’s Deputy Dewey. How you doin’ this evenin’?”

The guard eyed the badge, then said, “Doin’ fine, deputy. What can I do you for?”

“I’m lookin’ for Lenny Crane. He workin’ tonight?” Doug asked.

“Haven’t seen him for a couple of days now. Why? He in trouble?” the guard wanted to know.

“Not at all. I wanted to talk to Lenny regardin’ the disappearance of a resident here in the community,” Doug explained. “That’s it.”

“You mean Mr. Joe.”

“That’s right,” Doug confirmed. “Where can I find Lenny?”

“I wish I could tell you, deputy.” The guard extended his hand. “Bob Carson. I own Bob’s Security Service. We have the security contract for the Country Club here.”

Doug shook Bob’s hand. “Pleased to meetcha. Y’all say you’d not seen him for several days?” he asked.

“Lenny called me two days ago. Said there was trouble in the family and he needed a week off,” Bon explained. “I told him to go ahead. I’d cover for him until he got back.”

“How long has he worked for y’all?”

“About a month. Really nice guy too,” Bob replied.

“Did he say when he’d be back?”

“No. But I have the feelin’ I’ve seen the last of Lenny.”

“Why?” Doug asked.

“I have his paycheck. I stopped by his place over on Palm Street to give it to him. I spoke to the manager and found out that Lenny had moved out,” Bob revealed. “I figured if he was plannin’ on comin’ back, he’d have left his belongings.”

During the drive from Citrus Tree to Linda’s home, Linda commented, “Doug, since I have known y’all, you’ve been askin’ me a boat load of questions. But y’all missed one.”

“I did?”

“Y’all didn’t ask me if you could come callin’ on me.” Linda handed Doug a piece of paper. “So, yes, you can and here is my number.”