“I don’t care about your show,” Stranahan said, “but I care about Christina.”
“Me, too.”
“It looked like somebody pushed his way into her hotel room. There was a handprint on the door.”
Reynaldo said, “Well, it wasn’t mine.”
“Stand up,” Stranahan told him.
Flemm wrapped himself into the towel as he stood up in the tub. Stranahan measured him with his eyes. “I believe you,” he said. He went back to the living room to wait for Reynaldo to dry off and get dressed.
When Flemm came out, wearing an absurd muscle shirt and tight jeans, Stranahan said, “When are you going to see the doctor?”
“Soon,” Reynaldo replied. Then, blustery: “None of your business.” He felt so much tougher with a shirt on.
Stranahan said, “If you wait, you’ll have a better story.”
Reynaldo rolled his eyes—how many times had he heard that one! “No way,” he said. The snide pomposity had returned to his voice.
“Ray, I’m only going to warn you once. If something’s happened to Christina because of you, or if you do something that brings her any harm, you’re done. And I’m not talking about your precious TV career.”
Flemm said, “You sound pretty tough, long as you’ve got that hook.”
Stranahan tossed the tarpon gaff at Reynaldo and said, “There—see if it works for you, too.”
Reynaldo quickly dropped it on the carpet. As a rule he didn’t fight with crazy people unless cameras were rolling. Otherwise, what was the point?
“I hope you find her,” Reynaldo said.
Stranahan stood to leave. “You better pray that I do.”
At the Gay Bidet, Freddie didn’t even bother to get up from the desk to introduce himself. “I’m gonna tell you the same as I told that Cuban cop, which is nothing. I got a policy not to talk about employees, past or present.”
Stranahan said, “But you know the man I’m asking about.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Is he here?”
“Ditto,” said Freddie. “Now get the fuck gone.”
“Actually, I’m going to look around.”
“Oh, you are?” Freddie said. “Like hell.” He punched a black buzzer under the desk. The door opened and Stranahan momentarily was drowned by the vocal stylings of the Fabulous Foreskins, performing their opening set. The man who entered Freddie’s office was a short muscular Oriental. He wore a pink Gay Bidet security T-shirt, stretched to the limit.
Freddie said, “Wong, please get this dog turd out of my sight.”
Stranahan waved the tarpon gaff and its sinister glint caused Wong to hesitate. Disdainfully Freddie glowered at the bouncer and said, “What happened to all that kung-fu shit?”
Wong’s chest began to swell.
Stranahan said, “I’ve had a lousy day, and I’m really in no mood. You like having a liquor license?”
Freddie said, “What’re you talkin’ about, do I like it?”
“Because you oughta enjoy it tonight, while you can. If you don’t answer my questions, here’s what happens to you and this toilet bowl of a nightclub: First thing tomorrow, six nasty bastards from Alcohol and Beverage come by and shut your ass down. Why? Because you lied when you got your liquor license, Freddie. You got a felony record in Illinois and Georgia, and you lied about that. Also, you’ve been serving to minors, big time. Also, your bartender just tried to sell me two grams of Peruvian. You want, I can keep going.”
Freddie said, “Don’t bother.” He instructed Wong to get lost. When they were alone again, he said to Stranahan, “That rap in Atlanta was no good.”
“So you’re not a pimp. Excellent. The beverage guys will be very impressed, Freddie. Be sure to tell them you’re not a pimp, no matter what the FBI computer says.”
“What the fuck is it you want?”
“Just tell me where I can find my tall, cool friend. The one with the face.”
Freddie said, “Truth is, I don’t know. He took off a couple days ago. Picked up his paycheck and quit. Tried to give me back the T-shirt, the dumb fuck—like somebody else would wear the damn thing. I told him to keep it for a souvenir.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Stranahan asked.
“Nope. He had two broads with him, you figure it out.” Freddie flashed a mouthful of nubby yellow teeth. “Creature from the Black Lagoon, and still he gets more poon than me.”