You start something, there’ll be a dozen of them all over you.
Just ease on out the door and go on over to the
Forget it. No face lost, okay, it’s a no-win thing.”
“You’re a real hero type,” Gerald said.
“Listen, kid,” Keegan said, and his voice became harsh and brittle, “I don’t like the odds. I don’t want to spend the rest of the night sitting beside you in the hospital or calling your folks to tell them you’ve just become part of the cobblestone walk out front. This isn’t football weekend at Harvard, these people are dangerous.”
Deenie’s tiny voice piped up. “Please,” she implored. “I’m frightened.”
“Ahh Gerald said in disgust.
“We’re going to the American diner,” Donald said as assertively as he could. “Are you two coming or not?”
“No,” Vanessa said.
“Then good night.”
“Vanessa ….. Deenie began.
“What, Deenie?”
“I think we better go.”
“Don’t be silly!”
“I want to go with them.”
“Then go. The key is at the desk. Enjoy your breakfast.”
“You really should come along, you know,” she said, her voice barely audible in the din.
“Good night, Deenie.”
Deenie and the two boys left the club. Vanessa turned to Keegan.
“Guess what,” she said. “You’re stuck with me.”
“You have a real stubborn streak, lady,” Keegan said.
“No,” she answered firmly, “I just know what I want. . . and I usually get it. Are you going to take me to Das Goldene Tor?”
He thought for a moment and shrugged. “Why not,” he said. “But I have something to do first”
When he got backstage, Jenny Gould was about to leave the club, having finished her last set for the night. She stood near the door, wrapped in a raincoat, waiting for a sudden downpour to clear.
“Miss Gould?” Keegan said.
She turned abruptly, startled to hear her name. She stared at him with her big eyes.
“Yes?”
“I’m Francis Keegan,” he said. “I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your singing.”
“I was wondering. . . if we.. . might have lunch tomorrow,” he said.
She seemed frightened by the suggestion, her eyes darting toward the door as if hoping the rain would suddenly stop.
“I don’t think so,” she said, managing a weak smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go.”
“It’s raining so hard,” Keegan said with a smile. “At least let my car take you home.”
She looked at him again, then shook her head.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said softly. “But I must refuse.”
And just like that she was gone, huddled against the rain as she scampered out the stage door and down the alley toward the street.
When he got back to the bar, Vanessa studied the look in his face. “It looks like my last obstacle has been removed,” she said. “Shall we go upstairs?”
They entered a room that smelled of perfumed body oil and candle wax. At its center was a carpeted circle perhaps twelve feet across and on it were two large mats covered with yellow satin sheets. Around its perimeter were a dozen head-high candlesticks, which provided the only light in the room. Behind them, three tiers deep, were the loges, each with a full-length, thick-piled couch big enough to seat four. Eight to each tier.
The price for the one-hour show was a hundred dollars a person, payable in either American dollars or British pounds, enough money to feed a German family for a month.
A tall, lean hawk of a man in tails strolled among the boxes, greeting the patrons, his long, aesthetic fingers caressing the hands of the women as he brushed his lips across them. Conrad Weil was the owner of the club and had spawned the show that was to follow, a manifestation of his own corrupt fantasies. The Gold Gate was a private club, by invitation only, and the man who extended the invitation was Weil. He also could waive the rules at the door if you looked prosperous or important—or if he did not have a full house, since there was only one performance a night.
