Except the game was up.
“Who do you work for?” Reinfeld asked.
“Work for?”
“Did you really think I was stupid enough to fall for something as antiquated as the badger game?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Who do you work for?” Reinfeld repeated. “The King family?”
“I don’t know the Kings.”
“That asshole McKenzie?”
“McKenzie?”
“Or are you just a freelance whore trolling for victims?”
“Mr. Reinfeld!”
“Whatever you are, you’re not a member of the club, are you? You’re not the guest of a member.”
Reinfeld waved the bartender over and spoke into his ear. The bartender went quickly to the manager. A few moments later, two security guards were escorting Shelby off the premises, each holding an arm.
“Let me go.” Shelby attempted to wrench her arms free, but they were held firm.
As the guards were pulling Shelby out the door, a second woman entered the bar. The two women were careful not to let their eyes meet.
The second woman paused, navigated past a thrashing Shelby and the guards, and moved around the bar to near where Reinfeld was standing. Unlike Shelby, she was dressed for success in a tailored blazer, matching high-waisted pencil skirt, and a white embroidered top. ’Course, it never mattered what she wore. Even clothed in a green plastic garbage bag she would still have been the most beautiful woman in the room.
“What was that about?” she asked. “You know what? I don’t care.”
The woman continued to the bar and mounted a stool between where Shelby and Reinfeld had originally sat. Reinfeld watched her closely as she pulled her cell phone from her bag and set both on top of the bar. She tapped a couple of icons on the cell and spoke loud enough for Reinfeld to hear.
“This is Heavenly,” she said. “I’m at Club Versailles. Where are you?”
She tapped a couple more icons and leaned back. The bartender approached.
“Vieux Carré,” Heavenly said.
“Vieux Carré?” the bartender repeated.
“Rye whiskey, Cognac, sweet vermouth, Bénédictine liqueur…” Heavenly held up her hand. “How about an old-fashioned?”
“Coming right up.”
The bartender retreated.
Reinfeld moved forward. His glass of whiskey was close enough to where Heavenly was seated that speaking to her as he reached for it would not have seemed like an overt violation of her space.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Hmm.”
“Vieux Carré, a difficult drink to make.”
Heavenly continued to stare at her cell.
“I hadn’t noticed,” she said.
The bartender returned with her old-fashioned and a tab. Heavenly signed it, using Riley Brodin-Mulally’s account number. ’Course, Reinfeld didn’t know that.
“Are you a member of the club?” he asked.
“I’m not a joiner. However, my”—she deliberately hesitated as if she didn’t know which word to use—“friend is.”
“Boyfriend?”
“You’re being a little personal, aren’t you?”
“I’m just trying to find out who I have to kill.”
“Oh my, what a clever line.” Heavenly lifted her glass. “Impress me some more, will you?
Reinfeld mounted a stool one removed from hers and set down his own glass.
“I apologize,” he said. “I can’t recall ever meeting a woman as attractive as you before and for a moment my brain turned to mush. Please forgive me.”
Heavenly wagged a finger at him.
“That was much better,” she said.
“I’m Justus Reinfeld.”
“Heavenly Petryk.”
“That’s a lovely name and very appropriate, if I might add.”
Heavenly grinned and shook her head.
“Two steps forward, one step back,” she said. “Maybe you should quit while you’re ahead.”
“I didn’t know I was ahead. Ms. Petryk, you must admit that Heavenly is an unusual name.”
“I was christened after a character in a play called Sweet Bird of Youth. My mother was very much a cultural maven; very interested in classical music, the ballet, theater. She adored Tennessee Williams. I’m only grateful that she didn’t name me Blanche.”
“Blanche DuBois from A Streetcar Named Desire.”
“Did you see the play?”
“No, but I saw the movie.”
Heavenly laughed as if that was the funniest thing she had ever heard.
“An honest man.” She tapped Reinfeld’s hand. “Another step forward. Excuse me.”
Heavenly gathered up her cell phone and bag, slipped off the stool, and made her way toward the restrooms. Reinfeld watched her go. As soon as she was out of sight, he waved the bartender over and told him what he wanted. Next, he went to his own smartphone and Googled Heavenly’s name.
’Course, that’s exactly what Heavenly had expected him to do; the reason she had spent an hour uploading business profiles for him to find.
She gave him seven minutes to do it.
When she returned to her stool and set down her cell and bag, the bartender placed a squat glass filled with dark liquor and a lemon peel on a coaster in front of her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Vieux Carré,” the bartender said.
“I asked him to make you one,” Reinfeld said. “He had to look up the recipe.”
“I did,” the bartended admitted.
Heavenly took a sip.
“Nicely done, sir,” she said. “Thank you.” She turned toward Reinfeld. “Thank you both.”
“You’re welcome,” Reinfeld said. “I was named after my grandfather, by the way. On my mother’s side.”
Heavenly raised her glass to him and took another sip. Afterward, she picked up her cell phone, tapped a couple of icons, and set it upside down on the bar in front of her. Reinfeld took that as a good sign.
“So, what do you do, Justus?” Heavenly asked.
“I’m chairman and CEO of All Uppercase Investments. We’re a venture capital firm that provides early stage funding for technology firms.”
“Such as?”
“Twitter, Lyft, Netflix, Instagram, Kickstarter, Zoom…”
“No kidding?”
“We have about $3.5 billion in assets under management.”
“At the risk of sounding mercenary, that’s a very big step forward.”
“What do you do?” Reinfeld asked as if he didn’t already know.
“I’m an economist. I do analysis for an investment bank, researching potential opportunities mostly in agriculture and energy.”
“Oh? What should I invest in?”
“Solar. You smirked, don’t pretend you didn’t. But consider—fifteen years ago, coal cost between seven and fourteen cents per kilowatt hour depending on where you lived, natural gas was priced between seven and ten cents, wind four and nine cents, and nuclear came in at
