Gorman pulled himself out of the taxi at two minutes before ten and waited for the light to change before he crossed Madison Avenue. When he moved forward, it was with a military posture and the gait of a man who was not in a hurry but knew exactly where he was going. The wind whipped his dark hair like the mane of a charging lion.
From his left, he saw Ruby Jackson Sanchez approaching. He allowed himself to admire the long, shapely legs growing down out of her suede coat. How in the world did she walk in those spiked heel boots?
“Hey, sailor,” Ruby said when she was close enough. “You new in town? Buy a lady a drink?”
Gorman grimaced and pulled the door open for her. Ruby stepped into the little coffee shop and headed for a table in the back. Men’s eyes turned toward her as she walked, which Gorman would have predicted. Ruby’s hair rolled across her head in natural ringlets, and hung just past her shoulders. Her smooth skin reminded him of the sweet shell of a Dove bar. Her waist was as slim as Chastity’s, but she was more robust in the areas where a woman should be robust. Her eyes teased every man they touched, inviting him to try, at the same time telling him he didn’t stand a chance. Only a blind man would fail to turn as Ruby walked past.
At the table, Ruby stood beside the chair with its back to the corner, facing the door. Gorman followed, but pulled out the chair on the other side of the table, waved toward it, and waited.
Ruby seemed to weigh her options. Finally, she said, “I keep forgetting that you used to be a cop too,” and moved so he could push her chair in.
“Girl, I was a cop when you were still spitting up your baby formula. Now you get comfortable. I’ll watch the door.”
“Oh, yeah,” Ruby said. “I feel all safe now, I got you watching me.”
A waitress sauntered over and Gorman ordered cappuccino and biscotti for them both. He liked this place. The background chatter was loud enough to insure privacy, yet low enough that they didn’t have to shout.
“So, you’re meeting the mark,” he said while they waited. “Not sure I like it, but I understand the need. What do we know?”
Ruby planted an elbow on the table, and planted her chin on the back of her hand. “I know I got the man. Rafael Sandoval, sure as shit. Colombian immigrant who meets other people coming into the country a couple times a week.”
“So you got yourself in as a baggage handler,” Gorman said. “If this man’s bringing in contraband, there must be an inside man getting his bags through the inspection points. And you said his brother is a security inspector. Is he involved?”
“Not on my shift, sugar,” Ruby said. “Anything I see come in from South America, I make sure they get the full treatment. Got to be coke, right? But the dogs don’t catch it, and nothing shows on the scopes. You know, I could just accidentally drop one and bust it open.”
“But that won’t serve our client’s purpose,” Gorman said as the coffee arrived. The aroma of this cappuccino was rich and dark, not like that weak imitation they sell at the designer coffee shops. “You bust open a suitcase without probable cause and even if it’s full of heroin, the judges will toss the case. Do they use the same dogs every day?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Could be the dogs are ringers, brought in by the smugglers, but with damaged senses or something,” Gorman said.
“Ain’t no smuggler that smart.”
“Well the stuff’s coming through that airport somehow,” Gorman said. “We need to stop this guy from bringing that poison in.”
“Not to worry. I told you I got the hook up. While he’s romancing me, I’ll get the inside dope on this dope, about the dope.”
“You’re sure he’s under your spell?”
“I got him by the short hairs, baby,” Ruby said, gracing him with a smile. Ruby’s smile was sharp and sudden, like a cool tropical shower on a muggy day.
Gorman sipped his coffee. For a moment he was in heaven, enjoying that fresh roasted flavor and watching Ruby’s bright, full lips.
“This case is practically done,” Ruby said. “So, I think it’s time you stopped shitting on me and gave me a decent raise.”
Gorman almost spit out his coffee. The trapdoor opened, dropping him out of heaven and right back into Manhattan.
“Every time I talk to you, you ask me for a raise. You operatives are the highest paid P.I.s in the city already. The answer is no. No now, no tomorrow, and no the day after tomorrow. So don’t ask.”
“It never hurts to ask,” Ruby said, her voice rising to that high, squeaky rasp that Gorman hated.
“It hurts my ears,” Gorman said. “Everything you say hurts my ears. Where did you learn to talk like that? A boiler factory?”
“Your ears get hurt, my suspicion nerves get hurt. Like we’re all so well paid, okay, but, tell me, who’s the client putting up all this money to have me working out at the airport? I never see anybody paying any dough to our agency. Is this some kind of a scam, like Candid Camera or one of those stupid millionaire shows? Am I going to wind up on television one day, embarrassed, too humiliated to go back to my little hovel in the ghetto?”
“Knowing you, you hustler, that hovel in the ghetto probably looks like one of Saddam’s palaces before the war. As for who’s picking up the freight around here, Ruby, you don’t know everything.”
“I’m hep,” she squeaked, leaning back as if ready to receive a briefing.
“The truth is, I happen to be a very clever businessman and my ways are not known to mortals like you.”
“God, you are a tight-mouthed thing. Trying to get information out of you is like trying to squeeze water out of a rock.”
“So quit trying. Go get information out of the bad guys. What do you think we overpay you for?”
Not until he was on the sidewalk helping Ruby into a taxi did Gorman decide that he would walk back to his office. The sun was as clear as it would ever be in the Big Apple skies and he liked the warmth on his face even as the wind tried to cut through his coat.
Gorman set a comfortable pace down the sidewalk, hands in pockets, ignoring the men and nodding at the women he passed. There was quite a bit of foot traffic, but it always seemed to part as Gorman approached. He was barely six feet tall, but people had told him that he looked taller. Posture, he figured, and the right attitude.
He stopped at the corner on a cross street, watching the “Don’t Walk” sign. Across Madison another man stood under a similar signal, waiting for the light. Gorman judged his features to be Sicilian, dark hair combed forward and almost black eyes set in an impassive face. He wore a leather coat and gloves, and wingtip shoes that were surely more expensive than Gorman’s. The man seemed to ignore the sharp wind whistling through the city streets.
Gorman only noticed him because he seemed to have noticed Gorman.
Francine Brooks would never have noticed Chastity Chiba under normal circumstances. One look would have told her that they were from different classes. After all, Francine was a woman of leisure, working only because she had to and working out only because it was fashionable. She carried the baby fat on her abdomen and the slightly expanded hips and loose bust of a cheerleader who figured she no longer needed to keep a perfect figure because she had already caught a man.
Chastity, on the other hand, had the hard, trim body of a woman who works out for fun. She was blessed with the tight buns and firm round breasts of her mother’s heritage and she knew that the white women of the leisure class resented her for both. But it was okay. For a couple of days, she would be able to get her revenge.
“All right, ladies, just a few more reps,” Chastity said, kicking up her aerobics routine a notch and watching her students strain to keep up. The health club managers had been happy to give her a try as instructor once they saw the resume Gunny created for her, and especially when she offered to give lessons at no cost to the club for a week, just to prove her ability.
When she ended the session, Chastity was pleased. The women wandering listlessly away were all bathed in sweat and stuck to their multicolored leotards and tights. After allowing herself a brief moment of ego-boo, she focused on her target, turned on the perky, and jogged over to her.
“Hi. You are Francine Brooks, am I right?” When Francine nodded, Chastity introduced herself. “The manager tells me you’ve qualified for a free personal trainer session. He told me you asked about light weight training in the past. Do you want to just get that free session now?”
“Gawd, I’m all in after that workout you just led,” Francine said, whipping her hair around and spraying water into Chastity’s face. “Maybe another day.”
Chastity wiped the other woman’s sweat from her cheek and followed her for a few steps, “Come on,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “The manager will think I’m not pulling my weight if I don’t get you to have a session. You know how men can get. Look, I’ll buy you a latte after.” When Francine stopped, Chastity turned on the smile full force, her almond eyes crinkling.
“Oh, all right. Just don’t work me too hard.”
Chastity escorted Francine to a fly machine and showed her how to squeeze the padded bars together with her elbows. “This one is great for the bust,” Chastity said, setting a low weight. “Not that you need any help in that area. You’re not a member of the itty bitty titty committee, like me.”
“Oh, yours are fine, dear,” Francine said, her voice dripping with superiority. She leaned back and pushed the bars together, lifting the weight behind her through a pulley system.
“Nice and slow, Francine,” Chastity said. “That’s it. Do twelve reps and you’ll feel it.” Then they both stopped talking at the sound of a cell phone ringing. It was Chastity’s phone, hooked to the back of her belt. Perfect timing, she thought. She pulled out the phone and flipped it open. She knew that Gunny, at the other end, had sense enough to ignore her words.
“Yeah. What is it now? Yes. You what? Spent HOW much? Damn it, Benny, I work too hard for you to…” Chastity cut herself off, looked guiltily at Francine and said, “Listen, I’ll call you back. You’re in someone else’s time.” Then she flipped the phone closed.
“Trouble at home?” Francine asked, standing up.
“Men,” Chastity said, leading Francine to the bench press machine. “Can’t live with them, can’t shoot them. All they know how to do is take advantage, you know?”
Francine lay on the bench and began slowly raising the handles. “Take some advice, Chastity, is it? It’s all about control, girlfriend.”
“Wish I could get some,” Chastity said absently. “They just screw you, and you can’t screw them back. I wish I could get me and my little girl out from under. But, sorry ma’am, you don’t want to hear my problems.”
“It’s okay,” Francine said. “I know where you’re coming from. My man has me working too.”
“You too? It’s just not right. But I feel so helpless. Nothing I can do but take it.” Chastity let her head droop, her long black tresses hanging to the side. Francine stepped closer, touching Chastity’s shoulder.
“There are ways, girlfriend. All you need is a good lawyer, and the right shrink.”
“Shrink?”
“Listen, we need to talk. Do you suppose our workout could include a steam bath?”