Babe on Board - A Harry McGlade/Jack Daniels Mystery Page 2

  “If you want me to get Sal off your back, I can do that. But there’s a price.”

  “Let me guess. You want to get on my back instead?” Another wicked grin.

  “It crossed my mind.”

  She gave a little nod, sat up straight and threw back her liquor. “So how are you going to do it?”

  I took a step closer. “I was thinking doggy style first, then me on top…”

  “I was talking about Sal.”

  “So was I.”

  She let out a laugh. “Really, how are you going to get him to back off?”

  I snarled and drained my tequila. Then I wrapped my hand around the cuffs Tangi still dangled and tugged her off the back of the sofa and onto the seat beside me. “I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse. Now this is the part where you seduce me in order to seal the deal.”

  “How do I know we have a deal? Sal isn’t some street punk. How do I know you can do what you say?”

  I leaned in, my lips brushing her neck. “Hmm?”

  “Come on, Harry. You’ve got to give me something.”

  “I’m just about to.” I played my fingers up her shirt, caressing her spine.

  “Harry…”

  “Can’t answer. Blood rushing from my head to my erection.”

  Moving my lips along her jaw, they eventually found hers and silenced Tangi’s next protest. She pushed her hand against my chest, a token bit of resistance, and then she melted like a candy bar on a hot skillet, though God knows why anyone would put a candy bar on a hot skillet. I mean, that’s just stupid. Ruins both the candy bar, and the skillet.

  We fell backward onto the couch, and I managed to get her shirt open, my fly down, and both shoes off within a few seconds. Then the Love Machine got into gear.

  The secret to fully satisfying a woman is patience, self-control, and a solid knowledge of female anatomy.

  Since I lacked all of these things, I just went for the quickie. Two minutes later, I was zipping up and pouring two more drinks.

  “Wow. I didn’t even need to take my underwear off,” Tangi said, pulling her blouse closed and fastening a couple of buttons.

  “I want my wallet back,” I said. I handed her another tequila.

  She took it and downed it in one gulp. “You’re still going to help me?”

  “Help who?”

  Her eyebrows creased. “With Sal, Harry. You said—”

  “I’m just messing with you, babe. I’ll help out with Sal. It’s what I’m good at.”

  “I hope so. Because you aren’t good at—”

  “Easy, there, sugar. Now I gotta ask you a personal question. Do you mind if we get personal?”

  “Didn’t we already get personal? At least, I think we did. It was all over so fast…”

  “Tell me. What kind of lover is Sal?”

  “He’s terrible. Like you.”

  “Excellent. Have you ever posed nude for him? Did he take pictures?”

  “And risk his wife finding them? Not a chance. What are you getting at?”

  “Sal’s an older guy. How’s his eyesight?”

  “His glasses are thicker than your—”

  “Perfect. Now I need you to take off your clothes and step into my studio. We’re going to do a little photo shoot.”

  “You’re kidding.” She frowned. “No, you wouldn’t be, would you?”

  “Trust me, babe. By noon tomorrow, you’ll never have to worry about Sal again. Now let’s go get my Nikon and make some magic.”

  Sal Dovolanni lived in a ritzy part of Lincoln Park. As far as mobsters went, Sal was strictly middle-of-the-road. Some drugs, some whores, some gambling, but none of the majorly important shit that those higher up in the Outfit did. That didn’t mean Sal wasn’t dangerous. But it did mean he’d probably be home when I came calling.

  The bruiser from the bar opened the door. “You? Where’s my gun, you piece of shit?”

  “It was stolen. Believe it or not, there’s a criminal element in this city. Now be a good little lackey and tell your boss I want to see him. It’s about the moll.”

  “The who?”

  “The skirt. The dame. The broad. I’ve got information that Mr. Dovolanni will be interested in.”

  “What is it, Tony?” Dovolanni’s voice crackled from the intercom embedded in the wall.

  “Tony?” I smirked. “Of course your name is Tony. How are Guido and Vinni and the rest of the boys doing?”

  The bodyguard growled at me, then hit the intercom button and called back to his boss. “It’s Tangi’s boy from yesterday, Mr. Dovolanni. Says he wants to talk to you.”

  “Show the clown in.”

  Tony looked like he’d rather crap in a bowl and eat it. Heaving a sigh, he held out his hand, palm up. “Your turn to give me your gun, shithead. Sure hope there’s no crime wave while you’re in talking to the boss.”

  I opened my coat, showing him my empty holster. “Son of a bitch! Someone stole it already!”

  Tony stepped toward me. “You won’t mind, then, if I make sure of that.”

  I held out my arms to the side. “Have at it, you sexy thing.”

  Tony gave me a pat-down thorough enough to make a TSA agent blush, only finding the envelope I had tucked into my breast pocket. He tugged it out and held it up. “What’s this?”

  “Not a gun. They don’t make them that thin. You’re not worried I’m going to give your boss a paper cut, are you?”

  Another growl. I snatched the envelope from him, and he motioned for me to follow.

  “The mobster biz must be good,” I said, noting the expensive furnishings. Terrazzo floors. Crystal chandeliers. In the hallway, we passed a painted portrait of a dour-looking fellow with short, curly hair.

  “That Mr. Dovolanni?”

  “That’s Mrs. Dovolanni.”

  “And he strays? I’m shocked. Handsome woman like that.”

  Tony’s lips took on a little spasm, maybe suppressing a smile. He led me to a parlor, opened the wooden door and stood to the side.

  I entered a typical mobster man cave. Thick carpet. Flocked wallpaper. Fully stocked bar. Leather and brass furniture. Framed photos of Sinatra and Dino. Sal Dovolanni sat behind an impressive oak desk, smoking a cigar.

  Sal was smoking it, not the desk.

  Half the size of his bodyguard, Sal Dovolanni was proof that not all Italian mothers knew how to cook. Judging from his gaunt cheeks and skinny chicken neck, he’d gone his whole life without a good meal. The sturdiest thing about him was his nose. Good thing, since he needed it to hold up those glasses.

  At least he was prettier than his wife.

  “So I heard my little klepto pinched your wallet.” He guffawed, a wet, rumbling thing that bespoke a lung cancer future. “You come here to try and get your money back?”

  Tony joined in the laughter.

  “Way to suck up,” I told Tony. “Now run along and let the grown-ups talk.”

  “I think I’ll stay right here.” Tony widened his stance and clasped his hands in front of him.

  I gave him my back. “I’ve got a proposition for you, Mr. Dolovanni.” I went with his surname because jackasses like this liked to be shown respect.

  “Yeah? And what might that be?”

  “My name is Harry McGlade. I’m a private investigator. I’d like to help you make a problem go away. And it’s a bigger problem than you might have assumed. Can I approach your large and intimidating desk? I need to show you something.”

  Sal nodded.

  I held out the envelope. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed it onto his desk.

  He squinted down at it. “What’s this?”

  “It’s an envelope. People use them for mailing documents. But it’s what’s inside that you’ll care about.”

  Sal grunted. He took a silver letter opener from his desk drawer and slit the edge. Some photos spilled out. He picked one up. I suppressed a grin as his jaw went slack, and then he began to cough so badly his glasses fell
off.

  Tony craned his neck, as if trying to sneak a look from across the room.

  “You want to do this in front of the hired help or privately?” I asked.

  “Tony,” Sal wheezed. “Excuse us for a moment.”

  “Mr. Dovolanni…”

  “Get out!”

  Tony shrugged and slunk out of the room.

  “Where did you get these?” Sal demanded, grimacing at the pics.

  “I took them last night. People are so helpless while they’re asleep.”

  Sal dropped the photos on his desk and thumped them with a fist. “I’ll kill the bitch. I’ll kill her.”

  “Technically, you’ll kill him,” I said, pointing to the penis I Photoshopped between Tangi’s legs. I’d gotten the idea from our chat in the bar, when I’d asked her if she was transsexual. Nothing like a bit of homophobia to knock a wise guy down a few pegs.

  He began to shake with rage. “She… HE… didn’t have this… THING… when we…”

  “Are you sure, Sal? Did you look closely enough? Or do you take your glasses off before doing the deed?”

  “But… I…”

  “Don’t feel bad. I was fooled, too. The medical term for it is chicks with dicks. But it’s okay. One little payoff, and I’ll make sure this goes away. Forever.”

  The old guy’s face was starting to take on a vivid shade of pink. “I’ll make it go away forever. I’ll send my boys to her—his—place and—”

  “Bad idea. You’ve been seen in public together. Once the body is found, there will be an autopsy, and the truth will get out—that when you were bumping uglies, you were really sword fighting.”

  “They won’t find Tangi’s body.”

  “Think it through, Sal. You send a couple of men to whack her, and you don’t think they’ll have a peek at her goodies? Then they’ll know. A much easier solution is five thousand bucks, and it all goes away. Tangi gets her operation, becomes a full-fledged woman, and never bothers you again.”

  “She… he… tried to blackmail me. Threatened to tell my wife.”

  I resisted the urge to ask if his wife had a johnson of her own. From her looks, I wouldn’t disregard it.

  “That’s why I’m giving you the photos. Tangi wants to become an actress. Dreams of being in the movies opposite DeNiro,” I added, noting a framed photo of him on the wall. “She doesn’t want anyone to know she was once a guy, because it would mess up her future career. As long as you don’t say anything, she won’t say anything.”

  I watched him mull it over, hoping it appealed to his inner-bastard. Guys who didn’t trust anyone liked deals where they had some leverage.

  “Five thousand?” he said, softly.

  I smiled. “And you’ll never hear from her, or me, again.”

  I rolled off Tangi, sweaty and exhausted. Since her blunt criticism of my lovemaking skills, I’d done a lot of research on pleasuring a woman and had learned a great deal.

  I planned to put that new found knowledge to use next time she was awake.

  As she snored softly in my bed, I walked naked to my computer and printed up an invoice. Naturally, I didn’t tell her about the five grand Sal gave me. I also didn’t tell her that my private detective rate was $200 an hour. I slipped the bill into her purse, then woke her up and told her it was time to go. She left without taking the three dollars I offered for bus fare.

  Incredibly, Tangi never paid me for my services. I didn’t hear one word from her for almost seven months. If I’d been a thoughtful person, perhaps I would have wondered if old Sal reneged on his word and whacked her.

  But the fact was, I didn’t give her a second thought until I came home from work one day in the spring and found her breaking-and-entering ass sitting on my couch. Besides the dour expression she wore, she looked pretty good. Packed on a few pounds, though.

  Check that. Make it more than a few.

  “Couldn’t stay away, huh babe? Want me to toss you one for old times?”

  “Harry, we need to talk.”

  “About what? The weight you’ve gained? Looks like you’ve been in an extended three-way with Ben and Jerry. But I have to admit, your tits look great.”

  She hefted herself onto her feet. “I’m pregnant, you asshole.”

  I looked her up and down. Yeah, I supposed that could explain it.

  “You’re right. Preggo sex is gross. So… just a blowjob then?”

  “It’s yours, Harry.” She patted her protruding belly. “The kid is yours.”

  And for the first time in my entire life, I had nothing flippant to say.

  “Well, aren’t you going to say anything?”

  I took a deep breath and chose my words carefully. “How the hell could you let this happen, you moron?”

  “Me?” Her eyes bugged out nearly as much as her waist. “You’re half responsible, you selfish, unbelievable asshole.”

  “Weren’t you on anything? The pill? One of those sperm-killing sponges?”

  Tangi slapped her hands to her hips and gave me a stare a smart man would consider intimidating.

  Too bad she was dealing with me.

  “Why is birth control the woman’s responsibility?” she asked. “Why didn’t you wear a condom?”

  “Because everyone knows the birth control properties of condoms are an urban legend spread by feminists who don’t want men to ever be happy.” I walked over to my coat closet and pulled the door open.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Tangi demanded.

  “I’m looking for a coat hanger. I saw a video on YouTube how to fix this.”

  “I’m almost eight months pregnant, Harry.”

  “You’re right. What the hell was I thinking? I’ll need something bigger than a coat hanger.”

  I shut the closet door and turned back to face her. She was still pregnant.

  Damn.

  “I’m having this baby, Harry. We’re having the baby.”

  “No, you’re having it. I don’t have anything growing inside my body, making me look like the Buddha.”

  Tangi cradled her belly, and, son of a bitch, her lower lip began to tremble.

  Careful, McGlade. She’s a pickpocket and a thief and a liar. Don’t fall for her tricks.

  “I get it,” I said. “You want money. I’m a stand-up guy. I’ll pay for half the medical bills. But I get half the cash when we sell the kid on the black market.”

  “I’m not selling this baby. I’m keeping it.”

  “We could make a lot of dough, if it’s healthy. Is it healthy? Did you get one of those tests done to see if it’s a retard or has eleven toes? Or has one of those big waterheads? You can’t sell those waterhead babies. You can’t even give them away.”

  “Harry…”

  “Maybe they could drain the head at the hospital. Stick a little faucet in it or something.”

  “Harry… goddamnit…”And then the tears came. Waves of tears, followed by full body sobs.

  Being a sensitive guy, I left her alone until she finished. I went into the kitchen and made a sandwich, but in my irritated state, I went too heavy on the mustard, and it seared through my sinuses on the first bite. I ate it anyway. It was expensive mustard, and I didn’t want to waste it.

  After a few minutes, Tangi called to me. “Harry?”

  “I’m in the kitchen, eating a sandwich,” I answered, mouth full. “There’s none left so you can’t have any.”

  “Harry,” her voice wavered. “We really need to talk about this.”

  “Nothing to talk about. I’m not Jesus. I can’t multiply one sandwich into two.”

  She stopped in the arched doorway leading into the kitchen and peered at me with reddened eyes. “The baby, Harry. We need to talk about the baby.”

  “I’m listening,” I said, though it was tough to hear above the crunch of sourdough bread.

  She stroked her belly. “I can’t have this baby alone.”

  “You won’t be alone. There will be a doctor in there with you
, probably some nurses.”

  She didn’t say anything. After a moment, she padded out of there.

  I opened the refrigerator and made myself a second sandwich, this one without so much mustard. I took a big bite and wandered back into the living room.