SUSANNE SCHWEITZER CANN. You better believe she can. Filthy rich by both blood and marriage (sole heiress to the fabled Schweitzer beer fortune; married to the most celebrated criminal defense lawyer in Los Angeles, a man twice her age), this long-legged blonde with the permafrost gaze is accustomed to getting her way. And accustomed to getting away with it too, when necessary, at least according to the sotto voce scuttlebutt one overhears during lunch at Barney Greengrass. So what’s a low-rent working-stiff P.I. to do when a babe like this appears out of the blue and knocks on his door with a proposition too good to be true? Three words: Hold. On. Tight.
CHARLIE “THE GO” NADLER. A slippery fixer with the second-best hair-plugs money can buy, a smile waiting to be slapped off his face, and a law degree from the University of Where? He works in the New York City public defender’s office. Or, more precisely, he works the New York City public defender’s office, works it for all it’s worth. The Go Nadler knows where the bodies are buried, who buried them, and – most importantly – what that information will bring on the open market. Is there a moral line the Go Nadler can’t be paid to cross? Possibly, sure, why not? He’s just yet to meet it.
JOE COOVER, aka “JOE CAREFUL.” Dark gray suit, nothing fancy, straight off the clearance rack at Gentleman’s Warehouse. The watch is a Timex, the beer is Schweitzer Lite. He tips his waitress at Olive Garden well, but not enough to write home about. Not enough, in other words, to remember. Wire-rimmed glasses even though he doesn’t need them, close-cropped hair graying at the temples, a round, open, friendly, forgettable face. Ask him what he does for a living, on the airport shuttle into town from O’Hare, and he’ll bore you to death with details about the booming extruded-foam industry. He’s expensive, absurdly so, but when you can’t afford a screw-up, Joe Careful is the first call you make. And the only one you have to.
CHARLIE “THE GO” NADLER. A slippery fixer with the second-best hair-plugs money can buy, a smile waiting to be slapped off his face, and a law degree from the University of Where? He works in the New York City public defender’s office. Or, more precisely, he works the New York City public defender’s office, works it for all it’s worth. The Go Nadler knows where the bodies are buried, who buried them, and – most importantly – what that information will bring on the open market. Is there a moral line the Go Nadler can’t be paid to cross? Possibly, sure, why not? He’s just yet to meet it.
JOE COOVER, aka “JOE CAREFUL.” Dark gray suit, nothing fancy, straight off the clearance rack at Gentleman’s Warehouse. The watch is a Timex, the beer is Schweitzer Lite. He tips his waitress at Olive Garden well, but not enough to write home about. Not enough, in other words, to remember. Wire-rimmed glasses even though he doesn’t need them, close-cropped hair graying at the temples, a round, open, friendly, forgettable face. Ask him what he does for a living, on the airport shuttle into town from O’Hare, and he’ll bore you to death with details about the booming extruded-foam industry. He’s expensive, absurdly so, but when you can’t afford a screw-up, Joe Careful is the first call you make. And the only one you have to.
NICK “THE PINK PIG” ZARBANO. Was another Italian dude named Nicky, wrote some book about Prince, that other Italian Nicky said, ‘It’s better to be feared than loved.’ The hell it is. It’s better to be ‘terrified of,’ not just ‘feared.’ Nicky Z. may not be a made guy yet – if you want to split hairs about it he may not even actually know any made guys – and he may be stuck working the warehouse at the Best Buy in Manalapan for the time being, he may be forced to use the free weights in his cousin’s basement because that bitch runs La Fitness was out to get him from day one, but Nicky Z. knows how this shit works. The big animal eats the little animal. Then the bigger animal eats them both. That’s Nicky Z. He’s the big fucking animal. Just a matter of time.
JESSICA “LA REINA” LADA. House mother at the Jungle, a Vegas gentleman’s (ahem) club in the seedy wilds of the north Strip, this queen rules her domain with the protective ferocity of a lioness – and a sawed-off pump-action 12-gauge just in case some tarugo perv or ex-boyfriend is foolish enough to mess with any of her girls. Going on 40, she still looks 30, and if it weren’t for the knife scar – a perfect heart circling her heart-shaped face – she herself could still be up there on stage, dancing money from the sky. But she treasures that scar, the wisdom it brought her, the way it reminds her every day of the man she loved and lost.
JESSICA “LA REINA” LADA. House mother at the Jungle, a Vegas gentleman’s (ahem) club in the seedy wilds of the north Strip, this queen rules her domain with the protective ferocity of a lioness – and a sawed-off pump-action 12-gauge just in case some tarugo perv or ex-boyfriend is foolish enough to mess with any of her girls. Going on 40, she still looks 30, and if it weren’t for the knife scar – a perfect heart circling her heart-shaped face – she herself could still be up there on stage, dancing money from the sky. But she treasures that scar, the wisdom it brought her, the way it reminds her every day of the man she loved and lost.