Chapter Sixteen: MEAT MARKET

At the turn of the 20th Century, the Meatpacking District on the lower west side of Manhattan was a bustling distribution center for slaughtered livestock, back when there were still boats docking actively at many of the Hudson River’s piers. But once transporting produce over roadways became more economical than doing so by water and the piers fell into disuse and disrepair, the life of that section of the city faltered and fell away.

Around the turn of the 21st, it was a veritable no man’s land, though that’s a bit of a misnomer, since one of the few trades to flourish there in the 1980s and 1990s was freelance male prostitution.

But now the early part of the new century had arrived and the area had undergone enormous changes. It began with many of the defunct and abandoned meatpacking establishments being bought up for art spaces and studios. Bars and lounges sprouted to cater to the people leaving the art galleries. Then trendy upscale nightclubs arrived to accommodate the people getting out of the bars. Finally, multi-million-dollar condominiums rose up to house the people who frequented and owned these businesses.

Except for those condos, on the surface little of the neighborhood had changed. But now outside the buildings instead of idling refrigerated trucks waiting for deliveries, there were air-conditioned limousines making pick-ups. Adding a bit of extra color tonight were two local news vans with roof-mounted satellite dishes. The media had been attracted by the film festival’s association to the overdose death of Craig Wales, like sharks drawn by chum.

The screening was at the Lyndsford Gallery on Bethune and Washington Streets. In front of the main entrance was a red velvet cordon rope outside a door manned by a six-foot-two, 250-pound behemoth wearing a plain black t-shirt, a pair of stiff black jeans, and an expression that oscillated between hostile scrutiny and indifference.

I was glad I had an invitation to hand him for admission.

Once I was over the threshold, a perky redhead dressed in a neck-to-toe black leotard and miniskirt lightly grabbed me by the arm. I didn’t protest, curious to see where this might lead, but just as quickly she let me go, leaving something behind on my wrist.

“What’s this for?”

“If you go out to have a smoke, you can get back in.”

I thanked her and looked at the plastic bracelet she’d fastened on my wrist, like the one I’d found inside the wastebasket in Owl’s hotel room. Different color, but same make, same manufacturer. Different night, different color, but two pieces fitting together.

Looking at my hand, I realized I hadn’t washed up after leaving my office—after leaving Sayre Rauth—and I grinned stupidly, remembering her sweet sounds, her fingers let loose in my hair. My jaw was sore and my tongue—

Someone bumped me from behind and I moved forward.

The wide, brightly lit lobby was almost full. A nice turnout, no doubt a result of all the press coverage the festival had received in the wake of Wales’ death. People were there to see and be seen. I was just trying to see, myself. Looking for a skinny woman with beet-red hair and mesmerizing green eyes or a tall blond man who looked like a Swede. I didn’t see either one.

Instead, I faced a pond of strange faces talking, drinking from plastic cups, eating hors d’oeuvres from paper napkins, laughing, arguing, acting up, posturing and posing. People wearing sunglasses indoors, sporting slide-rule sculpted beards and haircuts set to expire at midnight.

I waded in among them, picking up snatches of their conversations (“You know Prentice? Well, he’s dying.” “Why?”), bits of gossip (“Stole his mother’s jewelry to get the money to finally cut his film”), and just plain inanities (“What’s the name of that gray I like?”).

Most of the guests were dressed in anonymous black suits and dresses, while a few were decked out in unusual eye-catching getups, as if sporting costumes from different genre flicks—a period piece, a sci-fi techno-thriller, a horror movie.

“Crabcake?”

“Wha?”

I turned. A tanned young man with curly sideburns held a silver tray aloft, balanced on his fingertips.

“Nibbles!” I said, reaching out with both hands.

I swear the guy shrank back in alarm. I scooped up four, left him two. Such a look! You’d think he’d been up all night preparing them himself. I crammed one in my mouth and shooed him away, because I saw a woman carrying a tray of chicken fingers coming by. I didn’t want her to think I was taken care of. I tried to catch her eye as I ate another crabcake.

I guess I was looking the wrong way. An unfriendly hand clamped down on my shoulder. I stuffed the other two crabcakes in my mouth and turned.

Jane Dough, Moe Fedel’s lovely rowdy, looking tough and terrific in a dark blue pantsuit, had hold of me. From her left ear protruded something like a black bendi-straw.

She said, “I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

I said, “Mlff-mifuf wuhlff-mmulmuf. Mulmluff?”

She rolled her eyes. I chewed and swallowed.

“Working security?” I asked. “Moe must be understaffed. How ’bout putting in a good word for me? I’m affordable.”

“Go quietly.”

“Go? Hey, I just got here, I—”

“—please,” she said, a wintry smile on her face while her eyes continued to scan the crowd. “Just go now without a fuss. No scenes. Don’t forget, I can take you.”

I snorted. “You know something, Jane? You’re nothing but a bully.”

She met my eyes, but only briefly and barely, like when a sweater sleeve catches on a sliver of wood.

She smiled smugly.

“So, haven’t found my name out yet?”

“Why bother? Whatever it is, ‘Jane Doe’ suits you better.”

She didn’t like the barb. She bared her teeth and whispered something into the tip of her bendi-straw.

I saw a pair of heads in the crowd revolve toward me and settle. Two stocky guys worked through the mob until they were on either side of me.

Jane, her eyes roving again, told the pair, “Show him out.”

But before they could, up popped in front of me a Malibu-blonde whose black roots came up to my chin.

She was all-around tanning-booth golden, the color of a Thanksgiving turkey done to a turn, and smelled of cocoa butter. She wore a shimmering tasseled dress like a gun moll in a road company production of Guys and Dolls. The low-cut top hugged tight across her chest, prominently outlining her breasts. They had the shape and gravity of two clutch purses full of nickels.

“Payton! You made it.”

Jane was taken aback. Her eyes stopped scanning the faces in the crowd, went wide with disbelief.

“You know this man, Ms. d’Loy?”

“What? Of course, are you stupid? He’s my guest! Who are you?”

“I’m—”

“I don’t care. Payton,” she linked my arm and towed me away, “come with me and meet people.”

I craned my neck back, “See ya round, Jane.”

I asked Coy d’Loy, “Do you know that woman’s name?”

“Who? What, her? She’s no one, just additional security we’ve put on. Had to because of—” she dropped her tone lower, then compensated by raising the volume of her voice “—the tragedy. What happened to poor Craig.”

Heads turned and I noticed a smile tug on Coy d’Loy’s cheek, wrinkling her too-tanned flesh like the skin on last week’s butterscotch pudding.

She led me to a corner table where three people were seated. Two of them I knew, but wished I didn’t. The skateboard kid FL!P dressed in a plain white t-shirt and chowing down on chicken fingers. And the Russian thug with the black satchel-handle mustache who’d choked me demanding to know where Michael Cassidy was. He was pouring himself a shot from a bottle of Stoli as I approached.

The third person at the table was an attractive young black woman in a shimmering copper-colored dress that conformed to her firm figure like electroplating. I gave her my full attention and she returned it with an amused grin.

Coy d’Loy said, “Now Philip here you already know.” She indicated the blond kid, who didn’t look up from his plate of food. “And I believe you’ve also met Gladimir.”

The Russian shot me a hard look as he downed his drink and muttered, “Ya.”

I said, “I’ve had the displeasure.”

“Yes, well, I understand there was a slight misunderstanding earlier today between you two,” d’Loy said.

“Hopefully we can work past that. But first, I’d like you to meet Moyena. Moyena, Payton.”

I shook her hand and she dazzled me with a smile.

“Moyena is my newest associate. We at The Peer Group are expecting great things from her. You wouldn’t believe the trouble we had luring her into the fold.”

“Just playing hard to get,” Moyena said, a touch of irony in her low, lazy voice. “Nice to meet you, Payton.”

“Back at you.”

She tilted her head to one side and commented, “You’re actually quite handsome, Payton.” Like somebody had been contesting the fact.

Coy d’Loy tittered in agreement. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

I wasn’t surprised; I always get a bit more attractive when I’m working on something. A subtle form of lycanthropy triggered by the scent of prey.

I asked the Russian, “How ’bout you, Gladys? Still think I’m pretty?”

The blond kid laughed through his mouthful of chicken.

Gladimir stared hard at me with his nearly black eyes, like he was measuring me for a four-ply plastic trashbag.

He poured himself another shot.

“Okay,” I said, “so we all agree I’m the best looking boy since Michelangelo carved the David. What am I doing here, Ms. d’Loy?”

“Call me Coy. And, please, sit down. Would you care for something to drink?”

I shrugged. “A bottle of beer, if the cap’s still on.”

“Very good. I’ll join you. Philip, do the honors.”

It wasn’t a request, but an order. The blond kid hopped to it; with his all-consuming dream of being famous one day, he knew which side his bread was buttered on, and now so did I. Ms. Coy d’Loy was calling all the shots.

When he was gone I asked her, “What’s with the kid? Relative of yours?”

“Philip? No, no relation. But he proves himself very useful to the group. He’s been with us several months now and I have no regrets for taking him on.”

“Where’d you pick him up, Boy-Toys ‘R’ Us?”

She patted my hand, a little too sharply I thought, more like a slap.

“I see I’m going to have to watch what I say around you. No, he just showed up at the offices one day in April, looking for a job. I took him on as a trial—completely off the books, of course. And he’s proven himself useful. He’s very ambitious. Wants to learn the business from the ground up. That always helps.”

Helps what? I thought, but didn’t ask because he’d returned with our beers, two Pacifico Claras. I popped my cap on the table’s edge. Coy d’Loy didn’t even look at hers, just left it unopened on the table.

“So,” she said, “you must be wondering why I arranged to meet you this evening.”

I took a swig of my beer.

“Not really. I can make an educated guess. You want to lay your hands on Michael Cassidy. You think I can help.”

“You got it in one. That’s right.”

“The question’s why. What’s she to you?”

“We represent Ethan Ore. He’s worried about her. With his new film ready for release, we can’t afford to have our client distressed or…worse.”

“What’s worse?”

“If you know anything about Michael Cassidy, you must know she’s hardly a stable person. There’s no telling what she’s capable of, what harm she could do to him. And I don’t mean just professionally. She’s been known to be violent in the past. Especially when she’s taking drugs.”

I said, “Sounds like it’s a good thing she ran off with another man then.” I didn’t mention names.

“Maybe. If she’d stayed away. But we know she’s back in the city.”

“What makes you so sure?”

She gave me a withering smile.

“Please, Payton, let’s not waste time. We won’t make any headway if we don’t put all our cards on the table.”

I shrugged, took another pull on my beer.

“I’m not disputing it, I only asked how you know.”

She sighed.

“Maybe it will simplify matters if I tell you that the Peer Group also represented Craig Wales. Last night, Michael Cassidy appeared at the premiere of Craig’s film. You see, there was a scheduling change. Originally, Ethan’s movie was to be screened last night, but he was bumped back because we decided it was a better slot for Craig’s film. But Michael Cassidy didn’t hear about the change and she showed up to confront her husband. She stayed and attended the afterparty. I think you know how that ended.”

“She and Wales went off together to shoot up and he ended up overdosing on bad junk.”

“Exactly. It should’ve been her.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just that she’s the junkie—isn’t that what junkies are supposed to do? Poor Craig was just experimenting. To the best of my knowledge, it was his first time using heroin.”

“Tough break,” I said, then drained the rest of my beer. “He should’ve stuck to wine coolers. You going to drink that?”

She slid her unopened beer over to me. I opened it and drank.

She said, “Before any of us knew what had happened to Craig, she’d slipped away. I believe the police are looking for her in connection with his death, as the supplier of the drug that killed him.”

“Then maybe you should be talking to them instead of me.”

“I don’t think so. A man came to the Peer Group offices this morning, saying he was acting on Michael Cassidy’s behalf. He wanted our help in contacting Ethan. You see, Ethan had moved and changed all his numbers during her…absence.”

If she wanted to dance around the subject of Michael Cassidy running off with Law Addison, it was okay with me. I was thinking of the handbills I’d found in Owl’s pockets, sales fliers for two stores in Chelsea located on the same street as the Peer Group’s offices.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Please. We know he’s an associate of yours. When we told him we couldn’t possibly give Ethan’s information to anyone but Michael Cassidy personally, he walked out. I instructed young Philip here to follow him, hoping he’d lead us to her. Instead, he went to your office.”

“Not quite all the way to my office,” I said.

“No, not quite.”

I asked her, “Did he explain to you why Michael Cassidy couldn’t go in person to your offices? No? Well, it seems she thinks someone tried to kill her last night. Whoever it was got Craig Wales instead by mistake.”

She frowned at me.”Do you believe that?”

“Enough of it.”

“It sounds to me like a junkie’s paranoid dream. You see that, don’t you? You understand why it’s so important we get to her before the police do. She needs professional help.”

“Police are professionals.”

“Medical help.”

“Oh. So what medical school did you—”

“Enough!” Gladimir bellowed. I guess the vodka had done its trick. He reached a bear’s paw across the table, grabbed a hunk of my shirtfront, and twisted it. “Tell us where she is! Now!”

For a second I considered smashing my beer bottle across his face. Except it was still half full and I hated to waste.

I grinned at him instead. Smiles cost nothing.

“Gladimir, comrade, buddy,” I said, “hasn’t Coy here told you why she really wants to find this woman? From that look on your face, I guess not. She isn’t interested in helping Michael Cassidy—all she wants is to get a line on the guy who ripped her off. Law Addison, the man Michael Cassidy ran off with.”

I don’t know how much of it Gladimir was processing, but it interested him enough that his grip loosened up on my shirt.

He turned to Coy d’Loy. “What’s he saying?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Then try this on for size,” I said. “Up until this past Spring, the Peer Group—like many of its clients—was heavily invested with a financial outfit called Isolde Enterprises, run by a man named Lawrence Addison. The problem is Addison turned out to be a con man and an embezzler and he did a disappearing act with all their money. The way I heard it, the business almost went under, until someone stepped in and bailed them out, becoming a new silent partner. Sound familiar? I make that new partner to be you, Gladimir.”

“So?”

“As ye reap. Ms. d’Loy had no choice in the matter, because it looked like she’d never be able to recoup those lost funds. All of Isolde’s assets are frozen pending Addison’s trial, a trial that will never take place unless Addison is apprehended. Which was an unlikely prospect until Michael Cassidy resurfaced yesterday. Now suddenly the chances aren’t so slim.”

Gladimir let go of my shirt entirely and sat back in his seat. “I don’t understand.”

“What do you think is going to happen if the Peer Group gets all that money back? How important are you going to be to her business then, Glad? If she turns up Addison with Michael Cassidy’s help, how long’s it going to be before she sets out to sever her ties with you?”

I let the question hang there, and so did everyone else. It was a rhetorical question anyway.

What I was saying seemed to penetrate into Gladimir’s skull. He frowned so that the curve of his lips matched that of his downturned mustache.

He asked Coy d’Loy if this was true and she denied it too quickly to be convincing. He stood and towered over her. For a second, I thought he was going to hit her and I’d have to break the beer bottle across his face after all, so I chug-a-lugged what was left, down to the foam.

But he didn’t smack her, just turned and strode away.

She didn’t try to stop him, instead leveled her gaze on me.

“Now that he’s gone,” she said, “maybe we can work out some sort of deal. A finder’s fee if things turn out the way they should. Say five thousand dollars?”

“No thanks, Ms. d’Loy. I’ve already got a job. You happen to be part of it. But thank you for the beers all the same.” The ceiling lights dimmed, brightened, dimmed, and brightened. “I think it’s time to go to the movies.”

I stood up, turned and looked down at Moyena.

“It was nice to have met you. Sorry we spent the whole time talking shop.”

“No problem. I found it fascinating. Now if I ever need a private investigator, I’ll know who to call.”

“Be good,” I said, then fell in with the crowd filing into the main screening room.

I was careful picking where I sat down inside, choosing a seat directly in front of two frumpy older women who appeared the least likely in that crowd to have murder in their hearts. But what did I know?

The houselights dimmed everywhere but directly in front of the translucent screen. A young man stepped onto the small stage and faced the crowd to a small round of applause.

He was slightly stoop-shouldered and had small lozenge-lensed eyeglasses and a mini Art Garfunkel afro. He introduced himself as Ethan Ore and said he hoped everyone would enjoy his effort. He bowed his head and stepped to one side as the little theater went to black and the movie began with the bold-lettered title, RENEG, emblazoned on the screen.

It wasn’t my kind of movie, but I followed it enough to tease out the story. The film centered around a young couple, a talented young actor/director married to a heroin addict, and their joint struggles with getting her off the drug and his to make it as a serious artist. A real flight of imagination, this one.

There was a funny sequence among the prevailing pathos in which one potential producer turns the husband down for an upcoming project because he finds out the wife is a notorious heroin addict, while a second producer turns him down for another project upon finding out the young man himself is not sufficiently tied into the underground drug culture—unable even to help the guy score a dime bag of weed.

In one scene, presented in a split screen, the husband tells a friend how much progress his wife is making kicking the habit; meanwhile she’s shown alongside, cooking up a spoon of smack under a highway underpass.

It was a drama full of long pauses and I couldn’t say I enjoyed it much. As the movie drew to a close, the wife—after experiencing a hallucination in which a stray feral cat spoke to her in the voice of her dead mother (provided by Olympia Dukakis)—checked herself into a rehab clinic to finally get clean. When she provided her medical history to the admissions nurse, it came out sounding like a penitent murmuring in a confessional.

It was a powerful scene, with a really moving performance by the young actress, and I thought it should have ended the film.

Instead there was an additional three minutes tacked on. That’s both how it looked and how it felt; even the medium was different, changing from film to digital. It jarred the senses and sensibility.

It was a one-camera shot, the scene focusing on the woman’s husband at the rehab clinic on visiting day. He’s seen sitting in the waiting room before switching to the office of the administrator, who tells the husband that the wife wants to discharge herself from care and return home.

“Is she ready?” the man asks.

The administrator tells him, “My professional opinion is no. She’s made great strides, but it’s still too soon for her to be released. Falling back into her old patterns would be inevitable.”

But it turns out it’s not up to the administrator or to the doctor, the decision rests entirely with the husband. Because she checked herself in voluntarily with his help, unless he co-signs her release, she cannot leave.

The scene ends with the husband walking back to his car still carrying the magazines and candies he’d brought to give to his wife, and talking on his cell phone saying, “I think I can make that three o’clock meeting after all.” The End.

The houselights came up to applause and murmurs.

Ethan Ore stepped out on the stage once more to take a short bow and invite everyone to the afterparty.

I was already working my way to the aisle so I could intercept him on his way out.

“Mr. Ore?”

“Yes?”

He was looking past me, searching faces, probably for financial backers and prospective distributors for his film.

“It’s about your wife.”

That got him looking right at me, and looking a little afraid.

“Michael? What about her? Who are you?”

I told him who I was, that I’d been in touch with his wife, and that I needed to talk with him in private.

“I can’t right now, I have to…I can’t right now. Are you going to the afterparty?”

I said yes. He said he’d speak with me there, then eased himself around like someone performing a vertical limbo.

Outside, some people were climbing into limos while others were competing for taxicabs. I decided to walk.

I stopped at a newsstand and bought a pack of American Spirit cigarettes with the last ten bucks in my wallet; I was living large. I lit up and smoked.

I’d learned a lot, but there was still a lot left to learn, and I was getting a creepy feeling I wasn’t even asking the right questions—been asking the wrong ones all day—and that I was running out of time. It was silly. What deadline was I trying to beat?

It was half-past seven, dusk. The setting sun in the hazy western sky was the same salmon color as the end of my cigarette.

I turned away from it and walked east, following my shadow, a long narrow stain spilling out in front of me.