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Authors: James Patterson
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sitting down, Moncrief. We have an assignment from Inspector Elliott.”
All I know is that unless Elliott has had an unexpected stroke of genius (highly unlikely) I am not interested in the assignment. I must also face the fact that my mood is terrible: interviewing the call girls has led to absolutely nothing, and I can share my frustration with no one. If I were to tell Burke or Elliott about my unapproved tactic they would both be furious.
“Whatever it is the inspector wants, we’ll do it later.”
“It’s already later,” Burke says. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon. Let’s go.”
“Go where? It’s lunchtime. I’m thinking that fish restaurant on 49th Street. A bit of sole meunière and a crisp bottle of Chablis…”
“Stop being a Frenchman for just one minute, Moncrief,” she says.
I can tell that K. Burke is uncomfortable with what she’s about to say, but out it comes: “He wants us to visit some high-class strip clubs. He’s even done some of the grunt work for us. He’s compiled a list of clubs. Take a look at your phone.”
I swipe the screen and click on my assignments folder. I see a page entitled “NYC Club Visits. From: N. Elliott.”
Sapphire, 333 East 60th Street
Rick’s Cabaret, 50 West 33rd Street
Hustler Club, 641 West 51st Street
Three more places are listed after these.
As a young man in Paris, full of booze and often with a touch of cocaine in my nose, I would occasionally visit the Théâtre Chochotte, in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, with some pals. It was not without its pleasures, but on one such visit I had a very bad experience: I ran into my father and my uncle in the VIP lounge. That was the night I crossed Chochotte and all Parisian strip clubs off my list. Even a son who has a much better relationship than I have with my father does not ever want to end up in a strip joint with the old man.
As for clubs in New York…I am no longer a schoolboy. I am no longer touching my nose with cocaine. And I now have Dalia waiting at home for me.
The fact is that my assignment would be the envy of most of my colleagues. But I am weary and frustrated and pissed off and…it seems impossible for me to believe, but I am growing tired of so much female flesh in my face.
“I won’t do it,” I say to Burke. “You do it alone. I’ll stay here and do some detail analysis.”
“No way am I going alone, Moncrief. C’mon.”
“I cannot. I will not,” I say.
“Then I suggest you tell that to Inspector Elliott.”
I feel my whole heart spiraling downward. The entrapment with Laura. The death of Paulo. The futile interviews with the call girls. Now I am expected to go to these sad places, where a glass of cheap vodka costs thirty dollars, and try to talk to women with breast implants who are sliding up and down poles.
“I am sick. I am tired,” I tell Burke.
“I know you are,” Burke says. And I can tell she means it. “But you need to do it for Maria. This is—”
I snap at her. “I do not need a pep talk. I know you’re trying to be helpful, but that kind of thing doesn’t work with me.”
Burke just stares at me.
“Tell Inspector Elliott we will make these ‘visits’ tomorrow. Maria will still be dead tomorrow. Right now, I’m going home.”
Chapter 26
Burke will tell Elliott that I went home because of illness. And, of course, Elliott won’t believe it.
But I think that K. Burke and I are now simpatico enough for her to cover for me.
“Suddenly he’s sick?” Elliott will say. “That’s pure bullshit.”
The answer Burke might produce could go something like, “Well, he was out sick all day yesterday.”
It makes no difference. For the moment I am engaged in a very important project: I am in a store on Ninth Avenue selecting two perfect fillets of Dover sole. The cost at Seabreeze Fish Market for a pound of this beautiful fish is one hundred and twenty dollars. I have no trouble spending that much (or more) on a bottle of wine.
All I know is that unless Elliott has had an unexpected stroke of genius (highly unlikely) I am not interested in the assignment. I must also face the fact that my mood is terrible: interviewing the call girls has led to absolutely nothing, and I can share my frustration with no one. If I were to tell Burke or Elliott about my unapproved tactic they would both be furious.
“Whatever it is the inspector wants, we’ll do it later.”
“It’s already later,” Burke says. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon. Let’s go.”
“Go where? It’s lunchtime. I’m thinking that fish restaurant on 49th Street. A bit of sole meunière and a crisp bottle of Chablis…”
“Stop being a Frenchman for just one minute, Moncrief,” she says.
I can tell that K. Burke is uncomfortable with what she’s about to say, but out it comes: “He wants us to visit some high-class strip clubs. He’s even done some of the grunt work for us. He’s compiled a list of clubs. Take a look at your phone.”
I swipe the screen and click on my assignments folder. I see a page entitled “NYC Club Visits. From: N. Elliott.”
Sapphire, 333 East 60th Street
Rick’s Cabaret, 50 West 33rd Street
Hustler Club, 641 West 51st Street
Three more places are listed after these.
As a young man in Paris, full of booze and often with a touch of cocaine in my nose, I would occasionally visit the Théâtre Chochotte, in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, with some pals. It was not without its pleasures, but on one such visit I had a very bad experience: I ran into my father and my uncle in the VIP lounge. That was the night I crossed Chochotte and all Parisian strip clubs off my list. Even a son who has a much better relationship than I have with my father does not ever want to end up in a strip joint with the old man.
As for clubs in New York…I am no longer a schoolboy. I am no longer touching my nose with cocaine. And I now have Dalia waiting at home for me.
The fact is that my assignment would be the envy of most of my colleagues. But I am weary and frustrated and pissed off and…it seems impossible for me to believe, but I am growing tired of so much female flesh in my face.
“I won’t do it,” I say to Burke. “You do it alone. I’ll stay here and do some detail analysis.”
“No way am I going alone, Moncrief. C’mon.”
“I cannot. I will not,” I say.
“Then I suggest you tell that to Inspector Elliott.”
I feel my whole heart spiraling downward. The entrapment with Laura. The death of Paulo. The futile interviews with the call girls. Now I am expected to go to these sad places, where a glass of cheap vodka costs thirty dollars, and try to talk to women with breast implants who are sliding up and down poles.
“I am sick. I am tired,” I tell Burke.
“I know you are,” Burke says. And I can tell she means it. “But you need to do it for Maria. This is—”
I snap at her. “I do not need a pep talk. I know you’re trying to be helpful, but that kind of thing doesn’t work with me.”
Burke just stares at me.
“Tell Inspector Elliott we will make these ‘visits’ tomorrow. Maria will still be dead tomorrow. Right now, I’m going home.”
Chapter 26
Burke will tell Elliott that I went home because of illness. And, of course, Elliott won’t believe it.
But I think that K. Burke and I are now simpatico enough for her to cover for me.
“Suddenly he’s sick?” Elliott will say. “That’s pure bullshit.”
The answer Burke might produce could go something like, “Well, he was out sick all day yesterday.”
It makes no difference. For the moment I am engaged in a very important project: I am in a store on Ninth Avenue selecting two perfect fillets of Dover sole. The cost at Seabreeze Fish Market for a pound of this beautiful fish is one hundred and twenty dollars. I have no trouble spending that much (or more) on a bottle of wine.
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