The Big Enchilada

I said. “My clients wanted a little technical assistance.”
    “What about?”
    “The kind of cameras you use in your private rooms.”
    “Cameras?” The word barely came out, and he was twitching again.
    “Yeah.The hidden cameras that you use for the blackmail pictures. My people haven’t been getting very good results w ith the setup they use, and they wondered what you had. They also wondered how you monitor the rooms. Do you use closed circuit video, or do you have something else?”
    “Who the hell are you?” He was pretty scared.
    “What’s the matter?” I said as ingenuously as I could. “Wasn’t I supposed to know about that? Oh, sorry. I just figured every place like this had a similar arrangement—good for maximizing profits, as the schoolboys from business admin, say. If you don’t want to share trade secrets, that’s okay.”
    I was opening the door by this time.
    “Wait a second,” he said. “How do I get in touch?”
    “Don’t worry about that. Tell the man my name. I’ve got a feeling he’ll be contacting me. If not, I’ll get back to you.”
    I shut the door behind me. Lascar had a funny expression on his face as I left. I was still operating in the dark, but I thought my performance might turn some lights on for me.
    I looked into the lounge on my way out. The show was just beginning. An oily little bastard was announcing it was something called “The Spanish Inquisition.” From the murmured reaction of the audience, it was obviously a big favorite around here.
    A spotlight came on to reveal a pretty blond girl who was completely naked. Her skin was very white and her nipples very pink. She was lifted above the stage by ropes attached to her wrists. She was surrounded by three men in dark red cloaks with hoods over their heads. She screamed as they began to poke and scrape at her fair skin with various metal implements. From where I was, I couldn’t tell if it was real or fake, but I wasn’t much interested. I left before the performance was over. I had a fair idea how it came out.
    I made good time getting home.
    I turned on my telephone answering machine. There was a message from that asshole who was trying to sell me life insurance. If I ever ran into him, he’d damn well better have hospitalization.
    There was a message from Clarissa Acker. She said hello.
    Hello, yourself.
    Shit.
    There was also a message from Stubby. Even on the tape he sounded excited. “Hey, Sam, I’m onto something big-Boy, is it ever. We’re going to be golden. I can’t talk now. Somebody might be tailing me, but I can get free. We got to get together soon. This is big, big...” The tape clicked off.
    I didn’t bother even to wonder about what Stubby had found. I’d get in touch the next day.
    Just then I heard a noise in my bedroom. I pulled out my gun. I turned on the tap in the kitchen sink to cover my movements, took off my shoes, and silently went across to the bedroom. In one motion I threw on the overhead light, jumped clear of the door, and pointed the gun in the direction of the sound.
    It was Bobbi or Debbi or whatever her name was. She was lying on top of the bed, naked. Her knees were bent, and her thighs were open wide. She was pinching her erect nipples between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. When she saw me with the gun, she raised her hands over her head.
    “I give up,” she said quietly.
    Shit. She way going to be a pain in the ass.
    I shrugged. I’d deal with it later.

TWELVE

    It was pretty late by the time the girl snuck downstairs to her own apartment. She was even more eager than her mother. Ah, the vitality of youth.
    In spite of the heat I managed to sleep in later than usual. When I got up, the apartment was already an oven and I was covered in a film of sweat. A shower, and I was ready to ease into the day.
    While I was brewing some double strength coffee—three parts Colombian, one part Kenyan for an acid bite—I called up Stubby. Jack answered and said he hadn’t been around since the previous afternoon. I asked her if she knew where he lived and received a snort of laughter for a reply. It was a stupid question. For more than thirty years no one has known where Stubby lived. There were a few theories on the subject, but no evidence to support them.
    I fried up some flour tortillas with cheese and a lot of chiles inside and ate these along with a papaya sprinkled with lime juice. While I was sipping my coffee, I looked up the number of Megaplex.