The Laughing Corpse - Laurell K. Hamilton [45]
“Blind, wheelchair, amputee, whatever, old Harry’ll go for it.”
“Deaf,” I said.
“Up his alley.”
“Why?” I asked. Clever questions are us.
Irving shrugged. “Maybe it makes him feel better since he’s trapped in a chair himself. My fellow reporter didn’t know why he was a deviant, just that he was.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“He’s never even been charged with a crime, but the rumors are real ugly. Suspected mob connections, but no proof. Just rumors.”
“Tell me,” I said.
“An old girlfriend tried to sue him for palimony. She disappeared.”
“Disappeared as in probably dead,” I said.
“Bingo.”
I believed it. So he’d used Tommy and Bruno to kill before. Meant it would be easier to give the order a second time. Or maybe Gaynor’s given the order lots of times, and just never gotten caught.
“What does he do for the mob that earns him his two bodyguards?”
“Oh, so you’ve met his security specialist.”
I nodded.
“My fellow reporter would love to talk to you.”
“You didn’t tell her about me, did you?”
“Do I look like a stoolie?” He grinned at me.
I let that go. “What’s he do for the mob?”
“Helps them clean money, or that’s what we suspect.”
“No evidence?” I said.
“None.” He didn’t look happy about it.
Luther shook his head, tapping his cig into the ashtray. Some ash spilled onto the bar. He wiped it with his spotless towel. “He sounds like bad news, Anita. Free advice, leave him the hell alone.”
Good advice. Unfortunately. “I don’t think he’ll leave me alone.”
“I won’t ask, I don’t want to know.” Someone else was frantically signaling for a refill. Luther drifted over to them. I could watch the entire bar in the full-length mirror that took up the wall behind the bar. I could even see the door without turning around. It was convenient and comforting.
“I will ask,” Irving said, “I do want to know.”
I just shook my head.
“I know something you don’t know,” he said.
“And I want to know it?”
He nodded vigorously enough to make his frizzy hair bob.
I sighed. “Tell me.”
“You first.”
I had about enough. “I have shared all I am going to tonight, Irving. I’ve got the file. I’ll look through it. You’re just saving me a little time. Right now, a little time could be very important to me.”
“Oh, shucks, you take all the fun out of being a hard-core reporter.” He looked like he was going to pout.
“Just tell me, Irving, or I’m going to do something violent.”
He half laughed. I don’t think he believed me. He should have. “Alright, alright.” He brought out a picture from behind his back with a flourish like a magician.
It was a black and white photo of a woman. She was in her twenties, long brown hair down in a modern style, just enough mousse to make it look spiky. She was pretty. I didn’t recognize her. The photo was obviously not posed. It was too casual and there was a look to the face of someone who didn’t know she was being photographed.
“Who is she?”
“She was his girlfriend until about five months ago,” Irving said.
“So she’s . . . handicapped?” I stared down at the pretty, candid face. You couldn’t tell by the picture.
“Wheelchair Wanda.”
I stared at him. I could feel my eyes going wide. “You can’t be serious.”
He grinned. “Wheelchair Wanda cruises the streets in her chair. She’s very popular with a certain crowd.”
A prostitute in a wheelchair. Naw, it was too weird. I shook my head. “Okay, where do I find her?”
“I and my sister reporter want in on this.”
“That’s why you kept her picture out of the file.”
He didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. “Wanda won’t talk to you alone, Anita.”
“Has she talked to your reporter friend?”
He frowned, the light of conquest dimming in his eyes. I knew what that meant. “She won’t talk to reporters will she, Irving?”
“She’s afraid of Gaynor.”
“She should be,” I said.
“Why would she talk to you and not us?”
“My winning personality,” I said.
“Come on, Blake.”
“Where does she hang out, Irving?”
“Oh, hell.” He finished his dwindling drink in one angry swallow. “She stays near a club called The Grey Cat.”
The Grey Cat, like that old joke, all cats