First Class Killing

Chapter 5

THE RAIN HAD PASSED THROUGH DURING THE night, leaving in its wake one of those high-resolution fall days, the kind that make living in New England worth the endless, bone-cracking winters. The Commonwealth Avenue mall, which would spend much of the next several months in monochromatic stasis under a blanket of snow, was vibrant with fall colors. The venerable old elms that lined both sides of the wide promenade were thick with broad leaves at the vivid end of their life. They looked spectacular, but what I loved most was the sound they made. When the wind blew against them, the large, stiffening leaves shook into a sound that had the soaring resonance of applause, as if the trees were rewarding your walk among them.

I was in search of my car, certain of the general vicinity of where I had parked it last but fuzzy on exact longitude and latitude. It had been a while since I’d had the old Durango out, but I knew it was on Commonwealth somewhere west of Exeter.

The car did not reveal itself in the Exeter-to-Fairfield block, so I headed for the next block, pulled out my cell phone, and turbo-dialed. I was certain I would get voice mail, but a real, live human picked up.

“Dan Fallacaro.”

“Hey.” I was pleasantly surprised. “What are you doing?”

“I’m working, Shanahan. Hold on.” I could hear the familiar sounds of the Majestic Airlines ticket counter behind Dan, and then his voice. “What flight are you on, sir?” The response was too far away to be clear, and I knew he had stuck the cell phone under his arm to take the man’s ticket and scan it. Dan’s voice was, as always, loud and clear. “Do you have any bags to check today? No? You need to go over to that line. You see the one that says first class?”

The response was muffled but probably something like, “I’m not flying first class.”

“Tell them I sent you. I’m the boss. Tell them Fallacaro sent you.”

Dan was doing his favorite thing, monitoring the lines in front of the Majestic ticket counter, making sure no one missed a flight. He was one general manager who spent less time in his office than in the operation, and I was always secretly envious that having taken over my job, he did it better than I ever had.

“What do you want, Shanahan?”

“I want to stop by and see you. I can be there in twenty minutes. You’re right on my way.”

“Only if you want to come over and help me lift tickets. They’re hanging from the rafters out here.”

“I like to get paid when I work. We can meet in front of your ticket counter at what? Eight-fifteen? Better make it eight-thirty in case the tunnel is backed up.”

“Shanahan-”

“Come on, Dan. Take a break. I haven’t seen you in…too long.”

“You’re full of shit. You want something from me.”

“That, too. I need your help.”

“I’ll give you fifteen minutes,” he said. “Don’t be late.”Click.

Dan approached the way he always did-walking fast and talking faster. When he spotted me, he vectored over, barely clearing the slow movers as he sliced through the crowd.

“Hey, Shanahan, get me a pillow from the overhead bin, and top off my rum and coke. Just kidding. C’mon, let’s get a doughnut or something.”

He took off again and I caught up with him at Dunkin’ Donuts, leaning over the counter, having a speed-talking contest with the woman pouring his coffee.

“What do you want to drink, Shanahan?”

“Tea.” I pulled out my folding money, ready to slip him a couple of bills.

“Fucking tea from a coffee stand.” He shook his head. “Put your money away.”

“I invited you.”

“I’d hate for my cup of coffee to tip you over into bankruptcy.” He reached for his own cash, digging deep into the pants pocket of his very sharp charcoal suit, which, I noticed, was suspiciously well tailored to his wiry frame. His tie was silk instead of a polyester blend, and it matched his precision-pressed cotton shirt.

“Is that a custom-tailored suit, Dan?”

“Don’t talk about the suit.” He reached up and dragged the knot of his tie off center, as if to make it less perfect. He was trying hard to be insulted, because true operations guys never cared how they looked. He certainly hadn’t the first time I’d ever seen him. On my first day on the job at Logan, I looked out the window to see him sprinting across the ramp in a heavy rain with a kidney in his hands. Not his. A transplant kidney in a cooler. It had arrived on a late inbound flight from Chicago and was overdue at the hospital. He was soaking wet. Just another day at the office for Dan.

“Awfully spiffy, Mr. Fallacaro.Very corporate.”

“I’m warning you, Shanahan. Don’t start.”

But now, despite himself, he had become a mucky-muck, and he had people to run out into the rain for him. He liked his job, had been surprised to find out how good he was at it, and I would have bet any amount of money I didn’t have that he loved that suit and the way he looked in it. God forbid he should let anyone know.

He handed me my tea and took his jumbo steaming brew, and we walked to a couple of chairs that faced the ticketing lobby. “What do you want from me now, Shanahan? I already got you a job, for Chrissakes.”

“You didn’t get me a job.”

“I gave you the contact at GrapefruitAir, didn’t I? I hooked you up with Harvey. How’s he doing, by the way?”

“He’s okay. Physically up and down, but mostly down about the case.”

“The hooker case? Are you still on that? Jesus Christ, how long has it been? Months, right?”

“Please, don’t you start.”

“What’d I say? What’s so hard about chasing hookers around?”

I looked around to make sure no one was listening. Dan had, indeed, been our first contact on the case with OrangeAir, for which I was eternally grateful. I just wished he didn’t talk so loud. “It’s not hard to find them. It’s hard to find them doing anything actionable. Right now, all I have are a bunch of shots of women in killer evening gowns and Prada shoes coming and going from expensive hotels, climbing in and out of limos, and leaving parties and restaurants with passengers. It’s not enough.”

“What more do you need?”

“Proof that money is changing hands. I need statements from the men in the photos saying they paid for sex. But since the hookers’ customers are also the airline’s best customers-”

“Don’t tell me, the airline doesn’t want you fucking with their revenue base.”

“Exactly right. They think it would be a bad idea to accuse their full-fare first-class business travelers and heavy-duty frequent fliers of patronizing a prostitution ring. Go figure.”

He pulled the stirrer out of his coffee, stared at the ceiling as he sucked on it, and put it back. “Okay. Here’s what you do. You sit down and draft up a proposal for the airline. Call it a new business opportunity. Outline a revenue-sharing arrangement. Get the hookers to cut the airline in on their action. In return, they can continue to operate with no hassles.”

“That’s your idea?”

“Think about it. They’ve got the same target market. They can do joint marketing. ‘Use your frequent flier miles to get laid.’ It’s a win-win.”

His delivery was so perfectly deadpan it made me laugh. “I don’t believe this is the kind of advice the airline called on us to provide.”

He leaned back and shrugged. “It’s a new day, Shanahan. You have to think outside the box.”

“Well,” I said, hopping out of the box, “it is an intriguing idea. The airlines are always looking for ways to burn off that frequent flier liability. Ten thousand for a lap dance. Think of all the liability you could burn off on a single New York-LA transcon.”

He stared at the ceiling. “Seventy-five for a threesome. In Bermuda.”

“You’re such a guy, Dan.”

“Threesomes and girls doing each other. Are you kidding me? They’d put the rest of us out of business in a week. I’ll let you have that idea. You should think about it.”

“I think I’ll stick with the client’s fundamental premise that prostitution is a bad thing.”

“Suit yourself. I’m just saying, don’t fuck with market forces. These guys love to play the frequent flier game. This is just another way to do it.”

“I have a different idea. I want to get someone from the inside, a client, to give me information about what’s going on.”

“What kind of an asshole in his right mind would do that?”

I unzipped my backpack and pulled out the envelope I’d brought. I slipped out the photo I’d printed, the one that had caught my attention last night, and passed it over to Dan. “This kind. Look at the man behind the brunette. He has his hand on her butt.”

“Holy shit. Is that-”

“It is, isn’t it?” I was delighted to see the flash of recognition in his eyes. “It’s that guy from Florida who used to fly in and out of here about once a week. You used to meet and greet him.”

“Still do. He’s one of my best customers. Filthy rich. Lives down in West Palm, but his mother is still out in Weymouth. Every time he comes through here, I take care of him. Every time he goes out, he offers me a job with his company. His old company. I don’t even know what he does. He had a bunch of businesses and sold them.”

“That’s a prostitute he’s fondling, Dan, one of the ones I’m chasing.”

“Good for him.”

“So, here’s what I was thinking. I really need information on this group. Your buddy from Florida is obviously on the inside. I was wondering if you could talk to him for me.”

“Talk to him about having his hand on a hooker’s ass? I don’t think so. I just told you he’s one of our Very Important Travelers.”

“You could talk to him as someone interested in becoming one of their clients.”

“You mean a trick.”

“Well…yeah. That way, you could ask him questions about how it works, is it secure, how does he schedule dates, does he know many of the women. I can give you a list of questions if you want.”

“Shanahan…” We were perfectly isolated in the hollow center of an airport din. There was no more private place to talk, yet he still checked around and leaned closer. “The reason I had to hire Harvey in the first place was because my ex accused me of hiding assets. Can you believe that shit? That’s all I need is for her to get wind that I’m out blowing the child support on hookers.”

“I’m not asking you to take a survey. I’m asking you to talk to one guy in private, man to man, and see what he will share with you. If he tells you to mind your own business, so be it.”

He shook his head, a distant smile on his lips. This wasn’t the first favor I’d asked of him. He always bitched and moaned, and he always came through for me.

“I’m desperate here, Dan. If I can’t make this work, I don’t know what I’ll do. I might have to go back into the airline business for real and for good.”

“The way this business is going, you wouldn’t want back in, anyway. It sucks. Besides, I don’t think anyone would hire you.”

“Why do you say that?”

He handed the photo back. “I’m just saying you’ve got a lot of baggage. With what happened when you were here and the way the rumors fly about you-”

“What happened here is fully documented by the police, the airline, Massport, and everyone else who was involved for what it was-self-defense.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I was here. But lots of people don’t read the fine print. They hear that an employee died on your ramp, and they move on to the next résumé.”

I stared down at the picture in my lap and felt a wobble in my heartbeat. He wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t already thought myself, but it felt different hearing it from someone else. It was as if I’d looked down from the high wire, only to discover someone had made off with the safety net. That was all I needed. More pressure to perform.

“Will you talk to him?”

“I’ll look and see when he’s due to come through. If he’s not scheduled in, maybe I’ll give him a call.”

“Thanks.”

“Cheer up, Shanahan.” He looked over and nudged me with his elbow. “What’s the matter?”

“If this doesn’t work, I’m not sure what I’ll do. I can’t get in tight with a single one of these hookers.”

He laughed. “That’s because you don’t exactly look the part.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not for nothing, but if I was a hooker, I wouldn’t be spilling all my secrets to you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you look like…like what you are.”

“Which is?”

“A…a manager. A…” He started talking with his hands, which is what he did when he couldn’t find the words, which was almost never. “A businesswoman. Someone who wears…suits. I don’t know. What I’m saying is I don’t look at you and think blow job.”

“You think I can’t give a blow job?”

“Did I say that? What I said was that you don’t look like a hooker, and if I was a hooker, you wouldn’t be the first person I would tell all my secrets to.”

“Well, what…” I uncrossed and recrossed my legs. I clasped my hands together in my lap. “In your opinion, what would I have to change to be more like one?”

“Everything.”

“Start small.”

He scanned the terminal. The good thing about airports is you can always find a type, an example of whatever you’re looking for.

“There. See that girl? The blonde?”

“Looking at magazines?”

“Her. Yeah. What do you see when you look at her?”

“Nice figure. Spiky heels, black roots, a skirt that’s too short. Attractive face, but more makeup than an anchorwoman wears. It looks kind of pancakey.”

“Here’s what I see.” He sat up straight and trained his attention on her. “Big tits. Blond hair. Big tits. Short skirt. Big tits-”

“There is not a chance in hell I’m getting a boob job to work this case.”

“She’s dressed like she wouldn’t mind me coming up and asking her what her sign is. You know what I mean?”

He looked at me looking at myself in my smart linen pants and my silk shirt and my leather flats. “Now, you, for instance-”

“That’s enough. I get the picture.” I couldn’t help but think about what a strange twist my life had taken when I was accused of not looking like a hooker and resented it.

“Anyway,” he said, one hand smoothing his hair in back, “I don’t know if that helps you.”

“No, it helps. You know what it’s like? It’s like being back in high school. Did you like high school?”

“Nobody likes high school, Shanahan.”

“These women, these hookers, they’re like the cheerleaders. Revered or despised by all who are not they. They’re completely unapproachable…a world unto themselves. You don’t get into their little clique-their tiny, exclusive clique-without being invited. And they don’t invite anyone.”

“You didn’t hang out with cheerleaders in high school?”

“I didn’t hang out. I was either taking care of my little brother or working.”

“That’s a sad story. But we’re grown-ups now. We get over that shit, right?”

I stared across the terminal at the blonde buying the magazine. She had probably been a cheerleader in high school. Or at least one of those girls who always knew what to say to boys. Regardless of who she was then, she was now a woman at whom men like to stare, and I wondered what that felt like. I also wondered if changing my clothes would be change enough.

“Shanahan, your fifteen minutes have been up for fifteen minutes.” He stood up and stretched his back, then leaned over and used his most discreet voice. “All I’m saying, you’re working undercover, right? That means you have to be undercover. Maybe if you looked the part more, you’d feel it more. God knows you’ve got the body to pull it off.”

“Yeah?”

“The real question is, do you have the balls?”