Chapter 1

It was September 1969. I didn’t know the exact date, because I had spilled a can of beer on my desk calendar the night before, effectively wiping out the entire fall.

It wasn’t a major loss. I had only been using the calendar to keep track of when bills were due. I hadn’t been paying my bills lately, because I was a little short of cash. Looking at the calendar just got me depressed. Maybe that’s why I doused it with beer.

Too bad it was my last one.

I was reclining on the couch in my living room, which doubles as my office, trying to figure some things out. I’m thirty-eight years old, and I’m a private investigator. I make my living figuring things out for people. But lately I’d been having some trouble.

For about a month I’d been trying to figure out how three guys had gotten to the moon. Me, I had trouble getting to Times Square from Forty-Second street. Even accepting that they got there, I couldn’t figure out how I was able to watch the whole thing on my TV set. I could barely pick up the Yankees, and they played right up in the Bronx.

Things just weren’t making sense to me these days.

Richard Nixon was the president of the United States. There was reason to suspect that he had been born on the moon. His opponent in last year’s election was a man named Hubert Humphrey. And just last month, one of our other leading politicians, Ted Kennedy, had managed to drive his car off a bridge—with a young woman in it.

Then there was baseball. The Yankees were rotting in the cellar, a disgrace to the pinstripe tradition. Even the Mets were better, and they had a person named Ron Swoboda in their starting lineup. And the Chicago Cubs, for years the doormat of the National League, were closing in on the pennant. To a discerning baseball fan like me, this was very disturbing stuff.

But probably the thing that baffled me most was an event that took place a few weeks before. Half a million kids from all over the country had descended on a farm in upstate New York to see a rock concert. For three days they’d sat out in the rain, listening to raucous music and burning out their brains on drugs and cheap wine. When I was younger we had the Friday night fish fry. Kids nowadays were having Friday night brain fries. They didn’t bathe, they were sharing something like twenty-five porta-johns, you couldn’t tell the guys from the girls. Worse yet, they were fucking like a school of guppies.

I was mulling over the image of half a million half-naked, brain-fried longhairs boffing each other on a big muddy hill when I finally figured out what it was I was trying to figure out.

These kids were getting laid and I wasn’t. I wasn’t getting laid and I wasn’t getting paid.

It’s not like I consider myself some kind of Don Juan. Just that despite my receding hairline, I’m not a bad-looking guy. My second ex-wife even said so the week before when she stopped by to see if I’d forgotten to send her alimony check. I’m not without flaws, I know. But I’m fairly smart, I’ve got a good sense of humor, I’m told I can be charming at times, I’ve got excellent table manners, and I’m pretty well-read for a guy who didn’t finish college.

But I hadn’t gotten laid for three months. This is the kind of thing you worry about when you’re thirty-eight and business is slow.

I mixed another gin and tonic in the hope of gaining some insight into the problem. I got as far as the ice cubes and gin when the phone rang. There were three likely possibilities for who was calling. I thought them over while adding the tonic and cutting a wedge of lime.

It could be a collections agent—probably that John Jones again; it could be my second ex-wife informing me that the check (surprise!) had bounced; or it could be my best friend and sometimes partner, Nate Moore, calling to say he hadn’t been able to round up a date for me that evening.

We were up to six rings by the time I got to my desk. I deliberated over a sip of my drink. The caller was persistent. You never know when you might get some good news. Positive attitude, right?

I picked up the phone and mumbled the most neutral hello I could muster. One thing I’ve learned in my business: Never answer your phone by name.

I was glad I hadn’t. The person on the other end identified himself as Bill Walters. That was a collections agent moniker if I’ve ever heard one.

I was wrong. It happens sometimes. I don’t like to be wrong, but it has its moments. This turned out to be one of them.

“I’m calling from Chicago,” Bill Walters said. “I’m the public relations director for Paradise magazine.”

“Did I win a contest?”

The voice called Bill Walters had a good chuckle at that. “Oh, no. Is this Mr. Renzler?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “You’ve got the right guy.”

“Oh, I was a bit puzzled.” He wasn’t the only one, but I tried not to let on. “It took so long for you to answer. I thought maybe my secretary had dialed the wrong number.”

“Her dialing’s impeccable. I was just giving a little dictation to my secretary. She’s a good dialer, too. But her shorthand leaves a little to be desired.”

Walters chuckled again. The guy was an easy laugh. I wouldn’t have to waste any of my “A” material on him.

“We thought the secretary in my outer office would answer the phone,” I explained. “She must be busy with a client.”

“Oh, I hope you’re not too busy,” Walters said. “I was hoping to get you involved in something right away. It’s an urgent situation. An emergency that requires immediate attention.”

“No, no. You can never be too busy,” I said. I always say. “What’s the nature of this emergency?”

“I don’t think I should divulge any of the details over the phone, but I can tell you that it concerns our upcoming Angel of the Year. Are you familiar with our magazine?”

“Of course I am. I see it regularly.” Actually, my subscription had lapsed a few years back. But I had seen one of the Paradise centerfolds on “The Joe Franklin Show” the previous week. She was about half my age and had about twice my energy. But I wouldn’t have minded trying to swim a few laps with her.

“Can you come to Chicago right away? Mr. Long would like to see you this afternoon.”

“Arnold Long wants to see me?”

“Yes, you know of him, I assume.”

“Of course.” That was no lie. No one in America didn’t know Arnold Long, the publisher of Paradise magazine and owner of a chain of restaurants called Paradise Rooms. Along with Hugh Hefner and Howard Hughes, Long was one of the best-known entrepreneurial success stories of the twentieth century.

“I’m not sure I can get out there today,” I said. “I’ve got to wrap up a few matters, get a plane—”

“Oh, no. Don’t worry about a plane. I’m sending ours to pick you up. The Paradise 666.”

“You’re sending that to New York to get me?” I make a point of trying to sound undaunted, but this was a definite surprise. With the possible exception of Hefner’s Big Bunny jet, the Paradise 666 was reputed to be the world’s highest-flying round-the-clock orgy. I was a little disturbed that it wasn’t being put to better use at the moment.

“No problem. I’ll have a limo pick you up at your office and take you to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. I can have it there in an hour and a half. Is that all right?”

“Sure, fine. But if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to bring along my associate, Nate Moore.” Nate was a strong, strapping son of a bitch who worked with me in his spare time. His full-time

occupation was painting—canvasses, not houses—but to see him, you would have guessed he was a linebacker for the New York Giants. I met him in 1957 when I was investigating an art theft. Nate’s had been one of the paintings stolen from a gallery in the Village. He was a big help when we finally caught up with the three guys who had lifted the stuff. I couldn’t have taken them all on alone. With Nate there, I got to stand by and smoke a cigarette.

“No problem,” Walters said. “If you’re sure he can be ready.”

“He’ll be ready,” I said. A flight on Paradise 666 wasn’t the sort of invitation Nate would pass up. He would’ve killed me if I didn’t take him.

I thought about putting in a few more requests, but I didn’t want to press my luck. I did have one more question, though.

“Just out of curiosity, Mr. Walters, did you check my references?”

“Oh yes, they’re excellent.”

This guy didn’t know anyone who knew me very well. Until I met Arnold Long, I was satisfied to leave it at that.

Chapter 2

Three hours later, we were landing at Meigs Field, a small airport on the lake—Michigan, I think it is—near downtown Chicago, which locals call the Loop.

If the truth be told, I was a bit disappointed in the Paradise 666. From the outside, it looked just like the pictures I had seen—glossy silver emblazoned with the Paradise logo, a bright red apple with a winking black serpent wrapped around it. Inside there were no orgies in progress that I could see, though there were a half dozen blondes on hand to ensure a beautiful flight.

The women were clad in silver go-go boots and white jumpsuits that were so tight they could take your breath away—and probably theirs, too, if they hadn’t been unzipped so far. Over their right breasts they wore Paradise logo name badges that could draw blood with one wrong move. Two of the girls appeared to me to be under the age of consent; the other four looked as if they had maybe consented too often.

It was instantly clear that the Angel Flies, as they were called, were on hand to fulfill our every desire—within limits. The limits were basically pouring and repouring drinks, buckling and unbuckling seat belts, adjusting pillows and holding our cues during the billiards tournament. This was not a real tournament; merely a best of five series of eight ball between Nate and me that I won in three straight games. He was shooting with such truculence that at least one ball seemed to hurdle the table on each shot. I thought it might be the altitude, but he later alibied that he enjoyed watching Angel Fly Bonni bending over to retrieve the strays.

Bonni was the youngest of the group. She claimed to be nineteen, but I would have guessed sixteen. By the time you hit your late thirties, you just goddamn can’t tell anymore. The oldest was Terri, the Angel Fly Queen, who must have been pushing forty-five. She looked like a fading flower beside the others, but unless you can die of suntan or stretch marks, she still had a few good years left. She also had a nice personality, which has always counted for a lot in my book, especially when it’s empty.

At the airport, two more blondes escorted us to a limo and drove us north on Lake Shore Drive to Arnold Long’s estate on Lincoln Park West. I don’t know if the car had a special name, but it was silver and had the Paradise seal on each door. The girls had names, Mindi and Maria, but no badges. They wore modified versions of the Angel Fly suits, looser but still fetching.

When we arrived, Mindi went to fetch the PR director, Bill Walters, while Maria waited with Nate and me in the foyer. Like mine, Arnold Long’s home doubled as his office. The similarity in our operations ended there. The foyer alone was twice the size of my office, bathroom and kitchen included. Where my staff consisted of an ersatz recording of a secretary that Nate had wired for me, Long had two very authentic secretaries stationed at an enormous reception desk that was shaped like—I kid you not—a fig leaf. And while my headquarters were merely called 118 West Seventy-Second Street, Long’s place had a glamorous appellative: The Garden of Eden, or simply Eden to those in the know.

Mindi returned with Walters in five minutes. I had expected a runt based on my previous encounters with PR types, but he was what you’d call normal size—about five feet ten inches, 170 pounds. He offered a fish on the shake, however, and that’s always a bad sign.

After exchanging pleasantries for a few moments, we got the good news that Mindi and Maria would be accompanying us to our meeting with Arnold Long. Before that, we had to meet Arnie

Long, Arnold’s only son and apparent heir to the Paradise throne when Arnold Sr. decided it was time to retire from the grueling regimen of having gorgeous women wait on him all day.

Arnie, I figured from initial observation, had spent too many years being told he was a chip off the old block. He had been to Wharton Business School by way of Princeton, he managed to let us know, but I noticed right off that he hadn’t graduated from the Old Spice school of after shave. He was my height, six feet two inches, about ten pounds heavier than my 190 and barely thirty years old. His tone was Ivy League cordial, and he kept us just long enough for the biographical thumb sketch before taking us down the long winding hallways of Eden to the Sanctuary, a room where his dad, Arnold Long, founder and publisher of Paradise magazine, spent most of his waking hours.

The Sanctuary was as long as a hockey rink and wider than a football field. At the far end was a swimming pool. It wasn’t Olympic size, but you could probably get tired after doing a few laps in it. It was bordered with plastic grass and a dozen lounge chairs. From there it was only a few steps to one of four bars in the room. They were stocked with enough booze to get New York drunk every night until New Year’s. Coming toward the near end, there were two Ping-Pong tables and a bank of pinball machines. You like to bowl? There were three lanes. Golf? There was a putting green. Shoot pool? There were four tables. Checkers, chess, backgammon? Pull up a chair at one of the tables.

Nate and I exchanged glances. His eyes were bulging, and I figured mine were doing the same. We were standing in the middle of an adolescent boys idea of heaven. It was the ultimate tree house. I would have spent the night there gladly. And by the way, Mom and Dad, don’t bother coming out to check on me at midnight.

But the Sanctuary was not just a playroom. If the size of a man’s desk has any relation to the value of his work, Arnold Long indisputably had the most important job in the world. Of course, he might be scored down a few points for having a desk shaped like a fig leaf. It was the senior version of the one I had marveled at in the reception area.

Arnold Long was not at his desk when we entered. He was lying facedown on one of six leather-matted surgical tables in the center of the room. He was naked, except for a towel that lay across his buttocks. His back was being massaged and pounded by a pair of buxom blondes—one for each end of the towel, I figured.

“Which one of you is Renzler?” His voice was muffled against the leather mat.

I admitted my guilt and walked the twenty steps to his outstretched hand. “No need to get up,” I said.

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” he replied.

Nate followed me to the table and winked at Long’s attendants while Arnie made formal introductions. Bill Walters was stationed nearby to correct him if he made any mistakes. He didn’t.

Arnie’s father barely looked at us, but his shake was sturdy. “I’d offer you gentlemen a sauna before we start the meeting, but I’ve got an important party in a couple of hours,” he said.

I told him I understood, but of course I didn’t.

“You’re both welcome to attend.” Long angled slightly to make eye contact with us.

I shrugged. “That’s OK. We wouldn’t want to get in the way at an important party.” The reply earned me a speak-for-yourself elbow in the ribs from Nate.

“I mean you’re expected to attend.” Arnold’s voice was forceful but cordial. “You’re my guests, and my guests attend my parties. It’s as simple as that.” He turned over suddenly and sat up. With perfect timing, one of the blondes adjusted the towel to prevent our glimpsing Arnold Long’s genitalia. I was glad there were two of them.

“Mindi and Maria will give you rubdowns,” Long said, motioning for us to take the two tables on either side of him. “Walters will fix you a drink.”

With Mindi’s assistance, Nate was naked and on the table in no time. Maria was having a little more trouble with me. Very possibly because I wasn’t being as cooperative as my associate.

My reticence did not go unnoticed by the Bard of Paradise, as he was sometimes referred to in his magazine. “Have you got a body thing, Renzler?”

“A body thing?”

“A hangup. Arnie, tell Renzler my philosophy about body hangups.”

“Dad believes the human body is beautiful,” Arnie explained. I watched for embarrassment in his face but couldn’t find any. “Dad thinks too many people in our culture feel self-conscious about their bodies. Dad isn’t self-conscious at all.”

I shot a quick glance at Arnold Long and thought maybe he should be. It was hard to estimate his size while he was sitting down, but he couldn’t have been taller than five feet eight inches. There was enough mass on him to fill a six-foot frame quite adequately, no doubt a result of regular indulgence in Paradise Room prime rib.

“I see,” I answered. “I’ve never really thought about it that much, but I’m inclined to think there comes a time in every man’s life when he shouldn’t be seen naked by anyone other than his lover, his doctor or his cat. I guess I am a bit self-conscious about my battle scars. Knife and bullet wounds are pretty unsightly.”

“They don’t bother me,” Maria said. I was on the table now, and she was pressing her long, slender fingers into my back. Damn, it did feel good.

“Me either,” Arnold Long said. “The human body is beautiful. Of course, some are nicer than others, but there’s nothing for you to be ashamed of, Renzler. After a day or two at Eden, your hangup will be gone.”

“It may take him a week, Mr. Long,” Nate piped up from his mat. Mindi was working him over pretty good, and he was breathing heavily—too heavily, as far as I was concerned.

I tried to shoot him a look that killed, but I was at a bad angle. I’m blind in my left eye, another occupational casualty. This one I suffered in my previous career, when I played AA baseball for the Richmond Sailors. I was hit by a wild pitch thrown by a wild pitcher whose first name was Manuel and whose last name I could never pronounce. I later heard that he pitched for the Pittsburgh Pirates, but he didn’t last long. Control problems, you know. He outlasted me, though. My career ended in Richmond.

Bill Walters returned with our drinks and a cigar for Arnold Long. One of Long’s towel blondes lit it for him, and he began to speak. I sipped my bourbon and tried not to let Maria’s fingernails interfere with my concentration.

It was no easy task, but I’m a professional.

Chapter 3

“I’ll try to make this brief,” Arnold Long began.

Ordinarily, that opening is a sure sign that a verbal assault of unmitigated boredom is imminent, but this time I didn’t mind. I had a big drink and a date with a hand other than my own. Plus I was very interested in hearing about the Paradise legend from the man who started it all.

“I don’t think I’m being presumptuous in assuming that you’re familiar with the Paradise Corporation. Our logo is one of the most widely recognized symbols in the world, possibly in the whole universe.”

Nate and I understood that this was the correct time to chuckle, and we did. Arnie and Walters had their cheeks creased a full five seconds before Arnold Long reached the punch line. They were seated side by side on the table next to Arnold’s. The girls by contrast did not laugh at all. I had a feeling they weren’t supposed to be listening.

“I started this business ten years ago with 666 dollars to my name. I started it the year of Sputnik. Now our country has put a man on the moon. That’s significant of something, I think. The company has grown—well, you know how it’s grown. Meteorically, quantum leaps and bounds. Some people call me a genius, others call me lucky. Some think I’ve had as much influence on the sociosexual development of the United States in the last decade as anyone else in the entire century.”

Long paused. “And of course there are those who think I’m the biggest asshole in the world.”

“I’ve heard you called them all,” I told him. He seemed pleased. I didn’t add that I’d mostly heard him called the last.

“Well, yes. I merely like to say that I feel I’ve done rather well for a boy named Arnold.”

This was another designated laugh spot. The men laughed.

“Now I assume you see my magazine every so often.”

“Every month,” Nate said. He had turned over on his back, and his breathing was regular again. I was relieved. Body hangup philosophy notwithstanding, I was sure Arnold Long wouldn’t have been too pleased if Nate dropped anchor all over one of his rubdown tables.

“OK, that’s good,” Arnold said. “Then you know that each month we have a girl in our centerfold, our Angel of the Month.”

“Right,” Nate said. “Then at the end of the year, the readers vote for their favorite girl, and whoever gets the most votes is named Angel of the Year. That’s in the March issue, right?”

The guffaws were soft at first. But after a moment, Maria, Mindi and the towel girls had joined in. When Arnold Long finally sat up after being doubled over, he smiled at Nate and said, “Walters, why don’t you explain.”

“Mr. Moore,” the PR director said, “you’ll be learning quite a bit about the affairs of the Paradise Corporation over the next few days. I do hope you’ll bear in mind at all times that these matters are of the highest confidence. At certain times, it’s necessary—”

“Oh, hell, I’ll tell him.” Arnold was puffing hard on his cigar. It didn’t smell half bad, though I’ve never been a cigar man. “What Walters is trying to tell you is that the readers’ votes don’t count. We don’t bother to count ’em. We don’t have time to count ’em. We’re too busy enjoying ourselves to count ’em!”

“You don’t count the votes.” Nate’s voice was tentative but not incredulous.

“No, we don’t. There’s only one vote.”

“Let me guess,” Nate said.

That got a laugh, from staff and distaff alike. But Arnold became serious a moment later.

“What Walters says is correct, though, gentleman. You are becoming privy to matters of the highest confidence. You must speak to no one about them. I must have it that way.”

“You will,” I assured him. “That comes with our services. Talking to us is like talking to a pair of priests.”

I thought Arnold Long recoiled slightly at the clerical analogy, which was fine by me. I like to like my clients, but I don’t like them telling me what I can and can’t do. Even if my references are lousy these days.

“Fine, that’s settled.” Arnold looked at his watch and his tone became businesslike. “Let me give you some background. We’ve always had problems with the media. Many of them resent my success, others think we encourage immorality. In two weeks, we will have another competitor on the newsstand, a magazine thrown together by a scurrilous man named Len Wyder. Knowing Wyder, I’m certain it will be done in the worst possible taste. For years I’ve tried to publish a quality publication, one that is at all times sophisticated and tasteful. When Wyder’s magazine comes out, it will no doubt cause some controversy. And you can be sure that Paradise will suffer guilt by association. We can put a man on the moon, but in terms of its attitude toward sexuality, this country is in the Dark Ages.”

I didn’t know where Long was going, but I nodded when he paused and looked at me. I was sitting up now. “What’s the name of Wyder’s magazine?” I asked.

“Nook, N-O-O-K.”

“Very subtle,” I said. “And the centerfold will be called ...”

“That’s right. Nookie.” Long shook his head.

“You don’t think he’ll be able to compete with you?”

Arnold let out a snort that was echoed by his son and Walters. “I’m not the least bit threatened, Renzler. The competitors are all over the place. First there was Playboy, or even Esquire, if you want to count that. Then I came along. Now a man named Guccione in New York is starting a magazine called Penthouse. I’ve held my own and I’ll always hold my own. I give Wyder six months, a year at most, until his rag folds. But in the meantime, we will have to endure another assault from the prudes and the moralists and the censors. I’ve been through that before. I still get hate mail here. I get death threats.”

Long fell silent. He seemed to be leading up to something but was unsure of how to get there.

“Is that the reason you called me? Because of Wyder?”

“No, as I said, that’s background. What I called you about is a matter of much greater gravity. And, as I also said before, absolute secrecy.”

Long looked to Nate and me for acknowledgment. We nodded.

“Gentlemen, our Angel of the Year is missing.”

“Missing?”

“That’s right, Mr. Moore. Missing. She is our October Angel of the Month. That issue comes out September twenty-first. Is that correct, Arnie?”

“The twenty-second, Dad.”

“Close enough. Her name is Sherri West. She is scheduled to go on a publicity tour for us in Minneapolis on that day. After that, we will shoot her for the Angel of the Year issue, next March.”

“How long has she been gone?” I asked.

“Ten days now. We all—Bill, Arnie, the photographer and I— thought she went to St. Louis to see her parents. When Sherri left, she said she wanted some time to herself. She’s a very independent girl. She was supposed to stay in touch with the photographer, Steve Farrell. But Steve, I learned yesterday, has not seen or heard from her since we have. I had Walters check up on her yesterday. Tell them what you learned, Walters.”

“You see, Sherri’s mother and father are not entirely pleased with her association with Paradise. I didn’t want to alarm them, so I checked on her plane reservations. Sherri never went to St. Louis.”

“Not by plane,” I said. “Could she have driven or taken the train?”

“I thought of that. So I called her parents anonymously. Her father said she was in Chicago. He said she hadn’t been home since last Christmas.”

“Have you checked anywhere else? Have you talked to her friends or other relatives?”

Walters nodded. “It looks like she’s vanished.”

“What do you think?” Arnold Long asked. “That’s not good, is it?”

“It’s never good when someone disappears,” I said. “There are a million things that can happen. When it’s a beautiful girl you’re talking about, there are a million and a half.”

“I was afraid you’d say something like that. I must find Sherri.”

The finality of Long’s tone gave way to a dead silence. “I assume you have a picture of her,” Nate said. His humor was lost on all but me.

“Of course. Walters will give you one.”

“We’ll need more than that,” I said. “You probably have some suspicions, if you think about it. Is there someone who might want to get at Sherri? Someone who might want to get at you through Sherri?”

“Mr. Renzler, I’ve made a lot of enemies in a very short period of time. There are crazies out there. Hate groups. Girls who desperately wanted to be centerfolds but didn’t have what it takes. I couldn’t begin to make a list.”

“I’m afraid you might have to try.”

“There are some angles for you to explore. Arnie and Walters are familiar with the situation. They’ll supply you with any information you might need.” Long got down from his table, assisted by the towel blondes. “Well,” he said, “it’s time for my bath.”

Maria secured my towel with professional ease as I returned to my feet. Long extended his hand.

“Whatever your fee is, I’ll double it, Renzler. You and Moore may stay here at Eden for as long as you like. If you need to travel out of town, my plane is at your disposal. I’ve never felt the need for a large security staff around here, but maybe I’ve been wrong. After you find Sherri, there could be a permanent position here for you as security director. Herman Winkles says you’re the best detective in the business. I hope he’s right.”

So that’s how Long got my name. I used to ask, but these days I felt lucky just to get the business. Herman Winkles was one of New York’s biggest real estate developers. He was also one of the world’s biggest pains in the ass. He had hired me the year before to find his teenage daughter. I did—at the Krishna temple in Brooklyn.

Long still held my hand. “You must find Sherri.”

“We’ll do our best, Mr. Long. But...”

“But what?”

“Ten days may not seem like a long time, but it is. You have to consider the possibility that Sherri West could be dead.”

Arnold Long shook his head. “I don’t believe that, Renzler. My instincts tell me that Sherri is still alive. My instincts are what made me the man I am today. Find her.”

My instincts told me that something more than instincts were making Long so certain Sherri West was alive. Something like not telling me everything he knew.

But I didn’t bother to press him. I could get it out of Arnie.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3