The Long Way Down (Daniel Faust #1)(18)
“I’m not,” I said, tapping the envelope, “but Peter Greyson is. You set it up how I wanted?”
“You got the platinum package. That ID is bulletproof. You know you owe me big time, man. Prices on quality paper are going up all the time. Feds closed all the old, easy loopholes after 9/11. Well, almost all of ’em.”
I’d bought a nice leather wallet on my way over, and I quickly stocked it with the goodies from Paolo’s envelope.
“You’re an artist.”
“I know,” he said with a grin. “So what’s the plan?”
“Just get me in, and I’ll do the rest. I’m about to become Artie Kaufman’s new best friend.”
? ? ?
Artie lived in Henderson, a half hour’s drive southeast of Vegas. His house was nestled on a quiet suburban cul-de-sac, the looping road lined with perfect lawns and scallop-roofed houses with a vaguely Spanish style. He had money, that was for sure. A white windowless van sat parked in his driveway, probably for toting his camera equipment. Not surprisingly, there was no company logo on the sides.
“I wonder if his neighbors know what he does for a living,” I said, pulling up behind the van.
“Probably not something that comes up at the Sunday potluck dinners,” Paolo said. “Hey, remember what I said. This guy’s dangerous.”
“That makes two of us,” I told him, taking the Black Eye from my pocket and putting it on. I squeezed my eyes shut, leaned back, and gripped the wheel with both hands, riding a sudden wave of panic and vertigo.
“Hey. Hey, you okay?” Paolo frowned.
“Fine,” I lied, taking deep breaths and counting to ten in my head. “Just peachy. Stomach’s a little upset, that’s all.”
I felt anything but dangerous getting out of the car and walking up the paved path to Artie Kaufman’s front door. I was powerless and about to stroll into the den of a rapist, blackmailer, and possible murderer with no weapons but my wits. For that matter, I had doubts about my wits.
I didn’t know what to expect when the front door swung open. Artie’s movies were shot with a handheld camera, so I’d never seen him above the waist, and I’d seen far too much below it for my liking. Finding a California-tanned bodybuilder in a muscle shirt and a bleach-blond perm didn’t surprise me, though. He carried a mixture of unearned arrogance and frat-boy wealth like a badge of honor. I realized, as he pumped Paolo’s hand and gave him a wolfish smile, that I’d want to punch him in the face even if I didn’t know what he did for a living.
“Paolo! How the hell are ya, bro? Been too long, way too f*ckin’ long.”
“Hey Artie,” Paolo said, looking pained, “this is my buddy…”
He paused, looking at me, and my stomach dropped as Artie quirked an eyebrow. He forgot my cover name. I stepped up and beamed, projecting a confidence I wasn’t remotely feeling.
“Greyson! Peter Greyson, and I gotta say, sir, this is one hell of an honor. I’m a huge fan, huge, huge fan, and when Paolo told me he knew you, well I just had to meet the artist himself.”
Artie grinned, nearly crushing my hand in his. I made a mental note to steer Paolo away from discussing his and “Peter’s” friendship. Great forger, lousy at improv.
“C’mon in, both of you!” Artie said, ushering us inside. “I’ve always got time for a fan. I was just finishing up a conference call with…well, let’s just say they’re the biggest distributor in L.A. and they want to buy me out. I’m like, ‘Guys, please, my movies top all the sales charts, what do I need you for?’ They just don’t get it.”
Behind Artie’s back, Paolo gave me a tiny no f*ckin’ way eye roll and a shake of his head.
“Hey,” I said, reciting the ad copy from his website, “you’re the most dangerous man in porn. They ought to respect that.”
“Damn right!” Artie grinned at me. “Let me show you around.”
Artie’s house screamed new money. It was styled in art deco and as pristine as an art museum. We followed him down a curving hallway, the ivory walls lit by cubic skylights, even the sun harnessed to show off his wealth. The hall opened up into a living room bigger than my apartment, where black leather sofas squatted on a sea of snow shag carpet, angled artfully around a mammoth flatscreen set into the wall and flanked by five-foot speaker stacks.
Paolo’s shaking head stuck with me, and it jibed with my research. Second Circle Studios was a tiny player in the porn game, a one-man operation catering to a very specific kind of fetishist. Whatever Artie earned on his videos, it couldn’t be netting the kind of cash needed to buy a place like this. What else was he involved in?
I looked behind him, to the woman strolling toward us on black stiletto heels, and all my thoughts fell away like the losing tickets from a gambler’s hand.
She was beautiful, any fool could see that. A pale angel with a body built for daydreams, her scarlet hair worn in a twist over one shoulder. She wore a French maid’s outfit barely a step removed from lingerie, her long legs sheathed in black fishnet, garter fastenings on display a quarter inch below the flare of her ruffled skirt. Any fool could see that.
Not just any fool could see the molten glow she gave off when my eyes slipped out of focus, or feel her presence in the room like someone pressing a diamond against my sinuses. Whoever she was, she was so ripe with occult energy that even the Black Eye couldn’t entirely keep her from my muffled senses.