she said.
"Information."
"Information is problematic," Patricia Utley said. "I am in a business which deeply values discretion."
"Me too," I said.
She smiled.
"So we will be discreet with one another," she said.
"I need to have some names, someplace to start," I said. "Can you give me a list of her clients in the last year, say, when she was with you in New York?"
"Why would you think that I would have such a list."
"You're a woman of the twenty-first century," I said. "You have a database of clients in your computer, or my name is not George Clooney."
"You're bigger than George Clooney," Patricia Utley said.
"Yeah, but otherwise . . ." I said.
"An easy mistake to make," she said.
"I won't compromise you," I said. "But I need to see if she had a more than, ah, professional encounter with any of them."
She had some more tea, and a scone, while she thought about it.
"I have learned not to trust anyone," she said.
I waited.
"But oddly," she said, "I trust you."
I smiled my self-effacing smile, the one where I cock my head to the side a little.
"Good choice," I said.
"You won't compromise me," she said.
"Of course I won't."
"Of course you won't."
"So I get the list?" I said.
"I'll have it delivered to you tomorrow," she said. "Here."
"Oh good," I said. "I'll pay for tea."
20
The list of April's regular partners was a good one. There were about fifteen names on it; each was annotated with the dates of contact, how they paid, how to reach them, what their preferences were. I was pleased to see that their preferences were within normal parameters.
The direct approach might not be productive: Hi, I'm a private detective from Boston. I'd like to talk with you about your long-term relationship with a professional prostitute. I decided to consult a New York professional. And I knew who to call.
I met Detective Second Grade Eugene Corsetti for lunch at a Viand coffee shop on Madison Avenue, a couple of blocks uptown from the hotel. We sat in a tight booth on the left wall. It was tight for me, and Corsetti was as big as I was but more latitudinal. He was built like a bowling ball. But not as soft. I ordered coffee and a tongue sandwich on light rye. Corsetti had corned beef.
"How can you eat tongue," Corsetti said.
"You know how intrepid I am."
"Oh, yeah, I forgot that for a minute."
"You make first yet?" I said.
"Detective First Grade?" Corsetti said. "You got a better chance of making it than I have."
"And I'm not even a cop anymore," I said.
"Exactly," Corsetti said.
The coffee came. Corsetti put about six spoonfuls of sugar in his and stirred noisily.
"Is that because you annoy a lot of people?" I said.
"Yeah, sure," Corsetti said. "Always have. It's a gift."
The sandwiches came, each with half a sour pickle and a side of coleslaw. Corsetti stared at my sandwich.
"You're gonna eat that?" he said.
I nodded happily.
"Want a bite?" I said.
"Uck!" Corsetti said.
"You remember first time I met you?" I said.
Corsetti had a mouthful of sandwich. He nodded as he chewed.
"You were looking for a missing hooker," he said after he had swallowed and patted his mouth with his napkin.
"April Kyle," I said.
"Yeah," Corsetti said. "And somebody involved in it got killed a few blocks east of here, I think."
I nodded.
"And I caught the squeal," Corsetti said. "And there you were."
"And a few years later, at Rockefeller Center?"
"Heaven," Corsetti said. "I got a lot of face time on the tube out of that one. Whatever happened to the guy you had hold of."
"We arranged something," I said.
"Lot of that going around," Corsetti said. "Whaddya want now?"
"Renew acquaintances?" I said.
"Yeah, sure, want to hold hands and sing `Kum By fucking Ya'?"
"I'm working on April Kyle again," I said.
"The same whore? She run off again?"
"No," I said. "She's in trouble."
"And her a lovely prostitute," Corsetti said. "How could that be?"
"I have a list of names; I was wondering if you could run them. See if any
"Information."
"Information is problematic," Patricia Utley said. "I am in a business which deeply values discretion."
"Me too," I said.
She smiled.
"So we will be discreet with one another," she said.
"I need to have some names, someplace to start," I said. "Can you give me a list of her clients in the last year, say, when she was with you in New York?"
"Why would you think that I would have such a list."
"You're a woman of the twenty-first century," I said. "You have a database of clients in your computer, or my name is not George Clooney."
"You're bigger than George Clooney," Patricia Utley said.
"Yeah, but otherwise . . ." I said.
"An easy mistake to make," she said.
"I won't compromise you," I said. "But I need to see if she had a more than, ah, professional encounter with any of them."
She had some more tea, and a scone, while she thought about it.
"I have learned not to trust anyone," she said.
I waited.
"But oddly," she said, "I trust you."
I smiled my self-effacing smile, the one where I cock my head to the side a little.
"Good choice," I said.
"You won't compromise me," she said.
"Of course I won't."
"Of course you won't."
"So I get the list?" I said.
"I'll have it delivered to you tomorrow," she said. "Here."
"Oh good," I said. "I'll pay for tea."
20
The list of April's regular partners was a good one. There were about fifteen names on it; each was annotated with the dates of contact, how they paid, how to reach them, what their preferences were. I was pleased to see that their preferences were within normal parameters.
The direct approach might not be productive: Hi, I'm a private detective from Boston. I'd like to talk with you about your long-term relationship with a professional prostitute. I decided to consult a New York professional. And I knew who to call.
I met Detective Second Grade Eugene Corsetti for lunch at a Viand coffee shop on Madison Avenue, a couple of blocks uptown from the hotel. We sat in a tight booth on the left wall. It was tight for me, and Corsetti was as big as I was but more latitudinal. He was built like a bowling ball. But not as soft. I ordered coffee and a tongue sandwich on light rye. Corsetti had corned beef.
"How can you eat tongue," Corsetti said.
"You know how intrepid I am."
"Oh, yeah, I forgot that for a minute."
"You make first yet?" I said.
"Detective First Grade?" Corsetti said. "You got a better chance of making it than I have."
"And I'm not even a cop anymore," I said.
"Exactly," Corsetti said.
The coffee came. Corsetti put about six spoonfuls of sugar in his and stirred noisily.
"Is that because you annoy a lot of people?" I said.
"Yeah, sure," Corsetti said. "Always have. It's a gift."
The sandwiches came, each with half a sour pickle and a side of coleslaw. Corsetti stared at my sandwich.
"You're gonna eat that?" he said.
I nodded happily.
"Want a bite?" I said.
"Uck!" Corsetti said.
"You remember first time I met you?" I said.
Corsetti had a mouthful of sandwich. He nodded as he chewed.
"You were looking for a missing hooker," he said after he had swallowed and patted his mouth with his napkin.
"April Kyle," I said.
"Yeah," Corsetti said. "And somebody involved in it got killed a few blocks east of here, I think."
I nodded.
"And I caught the squeal," Corsetti said. "And there you were."
"And a few years later, at Rockefeller Center?"
"Heaven," Corsetti said. "I got a lot of face time on the tube out of that one. Whatever happened to the guy you had hold of."
"We arranged something," I said.
"Lot of that going around," Corsetti said. "Whaddya want now?"
"Renew acquaintances?" I said.
"Yeah, sure, want to hold hands and sing `Kum By fucking Ya'?"
"I'm working on April Kyle again," I said.
"The same whore? She run off again?"
"No," I said. "She's in trouble."
"And her a lovely prostitute," Corsetti said. "How could that be?"
"I have a list of names; I was wondering if you could run them. See if any
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