CHAPTER THREE
When the Naughty Lady’s front door opened Johnny-Boy Watkins squinted into the glare, then frowned. Johnny-Boy didn’t like cops, any cops, and he especially didn’t like Irish cops, and most of all he disliked this particular Irish cop, Big Jim Donegan. Big Jim. What the hell kind of name was that? The guy was only five feet eleven, though he did look like he had a barrel stuffed inside his chest and he had long arms and hands like catcher’s mitts. With a thatch of gray hair going white, pink skin, and pale blue eyes, to Johnny-Boy Big Jim looked like Teddy Kennedy’s long-lost brother.
Johnny-Boy took a long sip from the Venti his bottom girl had just brought him and stared a hole through Donegan and his punk-ass partner. Crap, the guy looked like some motorcycle cop just off the Highway Patrol. Could he be any more white-bread?
“Hi, Johnny-Boy. Mind if we sit down?” Big Jim said, already sliding into the booth. Chris Hunter pulled a chair from a nearby table. Johnny-Boy waved his hand as if giving permission for what Big Jim had already done.
“Deeeetective. What can I do for you this fine day?” Johnny-Boy drawled.
“We’re here about one of your girls, Johnny,” Big Jim said.
“Which one? There are so many fine ladies who want to spend time with me I can’t hardly keep track of them all.”
“The one you’re missing,” Big Jim told him.
“Missing? How can you tell? Women don’t punch no time clock. They come. They go.” Johnny-Boy shrugged as if talking about the weather.
“The one who went out last night and didn’t come back,” Chris snapped. “Reddish-brown hair, gray eyes, Romanian, Albanian, Polish.” Johnny-Boy pursed his lips as if deep in thought then gave his head a little shake.
“That’s OK, Johnny. We’ll just bring the wagon down here and pick up all your girls and take them down to the station for questioning. Sooner or later one of them will give us a name. Of course, you’re going to lose a day’s production, but you’ve got plenty of money, don’t you? Losing a day’s business is no problem for you, right?”
Johnny-Boy pretended to be lost in thought, then suddenly smiled. “Oh, maybe you mean, oh, what’s her name, Darja? Yeah, that’s it, Darja Novoriska, or Novorska or Nov-something-ska. Pretty girl. She’s crazy about me. She calls me Daddy Sugar, ‘cause I’m so sweet to her.”
Big Jim struggled to keep his face blank but Johnny-Boy was pleased to see the detective’s cheeks pink up. Fuck you, cop! he thought.
“Yeah, that Darja, she just can’t get enough of me. ‘Course, she’s got to wait her turn. There’s only so much of me to go around, if you know what I’m saying.”
“When—” Chris began but Johnny Boy cut him off.
“You had me confused there for a minute with that stuff about Albania. She ain’t from anywhere around there. She’s from, oh what’s that place, Rus-something? No, Belarus, that’s it. Belarus. Anyway, what about her? Did she do something wrong?” Johnny-Boy tried to look worried but was unable to keep a smile off his face.
“Yeah, she did something wrong,” Chris snapped. “She got herself dead.”
“Dead? What are you talking about?”
“When’s the last time you saw Ms. Novoriska, Johnny-Boy?”
“Why are you asking me? Why would I kill her?”
“Off the top of my head I can think of at least five reasons,” Chris replied, leaning forward. “Maybe she held out part of the take. Maybe she tried to quit the business. Maybe she disrespected you. Maybe she got so sick she couldn’t work anymore. Maybe she started talking to one of your competitors. There are lots of reasons why a man like you would kill a girl like her. Maybe you just got so drugged up you flipped out and killed her for the fun of it.”
