my groove.’
‘I know that song.’
‘Frank never recovered from his Saturday night fever.’ She shrugged. ‘He had gold records then and now he’s managing this place. How far can you fall?’
‘This is a very nice club, Tasha.’
‘Absolute paradise. I hope to retire here one day.’
‘So how could I get a meeting with Frank Polo?’
She studied him. ‘If you’re not legit, honey, I won’t waste Frank’s time with you. No offense. You got a business card?’
He didn’t of course, but he made a show of searching his wallet and his shirt pocket. He’d dressed in khakis and a loose shirt, and now he thought he didn’t look Hollywood enough. No mousse in his hair, no way-cool sunglasses. ‘I don’t have one on me. I must’ve given out the last one at Club Yes.’ This was another fancy strip club; he’d seen a billboard for it on the highway.
‘You must’ve,’ Tasha said, polite and unconvinced.
‘I’ll give Frank a call,’ Whit said. ‘Or does he have an assistant I should talk with?’ He patted his pockets again, as though gathering his thoughts. ‘See… you don’t want to commit to people that you have an interest in filming at their business. Get their hopes up if it’s not right. That’s why they call it scouting.’
‘Sure,’ Tasha said.
Whit realized he was overexplaining, talking too fast for much credibility. ‘My assistant did call club management earlier, though. She spoke with Eve? Eve Michaels?’ He made it a question.
‘Yeah. I know Eve,’ Tasha said. ‘But she’s not…’
‘Tasha,’ a voice rumbled behind Whit. ‘Your presence is requested upstairs.’ A wiry guy who looked rather corporate-drone for a strip-club employee walked past Whit’s chair, leaned down on the other side of Tasha, whispered to her. She nodded once, gave Whit her indulgent but professionally distant smile.
‘Excuse me. It was very nice meeting you, scout. Enjoy your evening at Club Topaz.’
‘Thank you, Tasha.’ She rose and walked past the wiry guy, who turned to leave.
Whit said, ‘Excuse me.’
The guy turned back to him and gave him a smile cold as ice. ‘Yes?’
‘I’d paid for her to sit with me for a bit,’ Whit said. ‘I believe I’m due a partial refund since you’ve whisked her away.’
‘Whisked,’ Cold Smile said. His bad-mood scowl deepened. ‘Sorry. No refunds.’
‘How about a favor instead?’ Whit said. ‘Where could I find Eve Michaels?’
Cold Smile sat down across from him.
‘I understand she’s involved in the management of the club,’ Whit said.
‘Not really. Why were you looking for her?’ Cold Smile did not have the look of a club thug. Nice suit, conservative haircut, a rep tie over a pale blue shirt. But a freshly swelling lip, like he’d taken a punch in the past hour.
‘What are you, her receptionist?’ Whit asked.
Now Cold Smile didn’t smile. ‘What’s your name? I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.’
‘Never mind my name. My business with her is private.’
Cold Smile looked at Whit as though trying to fit him into an odd equation. ‘Well, come with me, buddy. I’ll take you to her.’
Whit glanced through the strobing lights over at Gooch. Desire O’Malley, the wild Irish rose, shimmied out a lap dance for Gooch.
‘You want to go or not?’ Cold Smile said.
This was happening too fast. Being taken before his mother. But he thought of his dad and he stood up. His stomach felt like it was left behind in the chair.
‘This way,’ Cold Smile said and Whit followed him, moving past the velvet rope and upstairs toward the suites. Whit glanced back at Gooch, couldn’t see his friend’s face, obscured by Desire’s smooth back.
The second floor had the reddest, richest carpet that Whit had ever seen, and they made no noise as they went along a row of doors with gold numbers gleaming on them. Cold Smile knocked on number five, opened it, peered in.
Here we go, Whit thought, Hi, Mom. He followed Cold Smile inside.
But the room was empty.
Cold Smile grabbed the back of Whit’s neck in a pincer hold, working the nerves and carotid like dough with his other hand. Whit gasped, the air in his lungs thickening into jelly. One arm went around his throat. Then he felt the unwelcome jab of a gun into the small of his back.
‘I pull the trigger,’ Cold Smile said, ‘and you’re riding a wheelchair for the rest of your life.’
Whit held his breath. Not hard; he barely had any air left.
‘It’s not been a good day at the office,’ Cold Smile said in a low growl. ‘I want to know why you’re looking for Eve, and I want to know in the next five seconds. Five. Four. Three-’
‘She owes me money,’ Whit said. It was the first thing that came to his mind, a blast of lightning through his brain.
The gun didn’t waver from nestling against his spine. ‘For what?’
Whit’s mouth dried. ‘I had money I needed moved offshore, cleaned up.’ Harry had said his mother worked in mob finance, this was a possibility. ‘But she didn’t return my money.’
‘That bitch is freelancing now?’ Cold Smile said. ‘Turn around.’
Whit did and Cold Smile socked him dead-on in the face and Whit staggered back. He closed his hand into a fist and lurched forward but the gun’s cool barrel abruptly pressed against his forehead.
‘How much money?’ Cold Smile said.
‘What does it matter to you?’ Whit said. The guy was being too artful, too fancy in his handling of the gun, in his stance right now, like he held a sword’s tip at Whit’s throat. Enjoying it now, not being brisk and businesslike.
The door eased open behind him.
‘Room’s taken,’ Cold Smile called, not glancing back. ‘Try one down, please.’ Spicing his voice with a little friendliness.
‘But I like this room.’ Gooch slammed the door behind him. Locked it. A knock immediately followed, a young woman’s voice barely audible on the other side of the door. ‘It’s the dorks-with-guns room.’
‘Get out, man.’ Cold Smile darted a glance back at Gooch but pushed the barrel’s point deeper into Whit’s forehead.
‘I will. And I’m gonna go straight back to Detroit and have a little talk with Joe Vasco. You know him. The guy who ran the Bellinis out of Detroit.’
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Your better half,’ Gooch said. ‘You shoot my friend, Vasco’s guys fly down from Detroit, take your stringy ass out to the bayous, and feed you to the gators a pound at a time. Shouldn’t take more than three or four days for you to die.’
‘Vasco,’ Cold Smile repeated.
‘Yeah,’ Gooch said. Cold Smile lowered the gun. Whit didn’t move. The gun wasn’t screwed into his skull now. He started breathing again.
‘What’s your name?’ Cold Smile asked.
‘What’s yours?’ Gooch said.
‘They call me Bucks,’ the guy said.
‘Bucks?’ Gooch asked, a smile on his face for the first time. ‘As in money, or as in rhymes with fucks and sucks, like you’re a prison bitch?’
‘As in money,’ Bucks said in a dead cold voice.
‘I’m Leonard.’ It was Gooch’s real first name, rarely used. ‘The guy you’re threatening is Michael.’ It was Whit’s middle name, never used.
‘And you’re from Vasco?’
‘You’re catching on quick. Is calculus your hobby?’ Gooch asked.
