The Midnight Club

by James Patterson

  Isiah Parker stared south down the wide, deserted promenade of Broadway. He finally saw the men he had been waiting for on the street corner.

  Jimmy Burke and Aurelio Rodriquez were just stepping out of a black sedan parked in front of McDonald’s and Dunkin Donuts. The three detectives had to talk about next steps; about a final hit, the most important one of all.

  The side of the angels? Parker wondered once again.

  41

  John Stefanovitch; One Police Plaza

  STEFANOVITCH WASN’T JUST being paranoid—a lot of people were chasing him. The furor about the videotapes from Allure had become intense. Heavy rumors implicating government officials and prominent businessmen were appearing in the leading newsmagazines. Articles about sex clubs in Miami, Detroit, Los Angeles, and San Francisco filled the newspapers in those cities.

  Finally Stefanovitch contacted a young film editor from NYU. He enlisted the editor to help him make a condensation of the videotapes, to get them down to a watchable couple of hours.

  Stefanovitch had originally met Gregory Weinschenker while the filmmaker was researching a documentary about the street life of cops in the West Village. He had liked Weinschenker immediately. Unlike many of his university cohorts, Weinschenker had reached the radical conclusion that the average police officer was neither a sadist nor a new centurion. Weinschenker knew better from personal experience. His brother and father were cops. They happened to be honest, hardworking men, doing a difficult job that not too many other qualified New Yorkers wanted to do.

  Stefanovitch and Weinschenker holed up in a room in the basement of Police Plaza. During the day, Weinschenker screened the videotapes by himself. He compiled tapes that included each new client and bits of dialogue that were relevant to the ongoing investigation.

  More important to Stefanovitch was getting a better understanding of the Midnight Club. Police files held evidence of the Club’s existence, but no one had identified the membership—especially those rumored to be business leaders and government officials.

  More questions than answers had been raised, which was typical of most police investigations. Who could be murdering crime chiefs around the world? Why?

  Were the killings actually connected to the Club at all? How could he begin to make sense of something so secretive? In particular, why had St.-Germain been murdered? Who might be next? Who was controlling the death lists?

  At six each night, Stefanovitch arrived downstairs at the screening room. He studied the edited tapes over coffee and deli sandwiches. Usually, he worked with Weinschenker into the early morning.

  He and Weinschenker had divided the clients at Allure into four categories: Entertainment Celebrities, Organized Crime, Business and Political, and Unidentified.

  Very late one night, Weinschenker came and sat next to Stefanovitch.

  “Hey, when this is over, can I tell my old man and my brother that I was deputized by the N.Y.P.D.? How I was holed up in the basement of Police Plaza for three weeks? They’ll freak. Not to mention my friends at film school, who’ll label me as a member of the Fourth Reich.”

  “You shouldn’t tell anybody what’s on these tapes. Remember what happened to Bear Kupchek. We can laugh about it down here, it helps the time pass, but this isn’t a funny business. Especially not to the people on the tapes.”

  Weinschenker slumped back into his director’s chair. Stefanovitch felt bad, but knew he’d feel worse if Weinschenker was ever hurt because of what he’d seen.

  Stefanovitch suddenly sat forward. “Hold it, Greg…Can you go back there?” he asked. “Just run it back until I tell you.”

  “You want me to mark something for the catalogue?”

  “Not yet. Just run it back. There. Let’s watch it from here.”

  Stefanovitch’s eyes strained to capture each detail as the picture played again. The call girl on screen was beautiful, as they all were—professional models, aspiring film actresses, Broadway would-be’s.

  “What the hell is this, Stef? Give me a clue, kemo sabe.”

  “Just watch for a minute. It’s coming up again, right around here. Okay, that’s it. We’re close.”

  The client was still dressed. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing an expensive business suit. Stefanovitch knew who he was.

  “Even I know who that is. He’s Nicky Wilson,” Weinschenker said with a lopsided grin.

  “That’s right. And you’re going to forget you ever saw Wilson on any of these tapes.”

  “Yes, sir. Who’s Nicky Wilson, anyhow?”

  “All right, a little more volume.”

  “Yes, sir. And a little less volume from me?”

  Stefanovitch could feel his heart pushing against his chest. The back of his neck felt warm. What he was searching for was coming up on the tape.

  “Listen to this, Greg. Right about here.”

  “And then forget that I ever heard it.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “You’re beautiful, which I’m sure isn’t any great revelation to you. You’re a little haughty about it.” The man in the film spoke. Nicky Wilson. Wilson had run Harlem’s narcotics and most of the prostitution until the district attorney had finally put him away nine months before. Oliver Barnwell had then inherited Harlem.

  “A lot of people say the same thing about you, Nicky,” the girl said back to him.

  Wilson laughed. “Yeah? I guess a little arrogance is good for the soul.”

  “This is the part where I get to undress you,” she whispered. “It’s time to play…Very, very slowly.”

  “This is the Academy Award performance of the year,” Greg Weinschenker cracked.

  “What does ‘slowly’ mean? Exactly what are you planning?” Wilson asked.

  “It might take an hour…just to get you undressed.”

  “You have any other diversions in mind? Any other fun and games while we’re getting undressed? I’m always ready to learn something new.”

  The prostitute slid open a shallow drawer in a lucite night table. The table was attached to the bed. She produced a small black leather case that looked expensive and important.

  Weinschenker glanced over at Stefanovitch. He hummed the theme from Dragnet. They had seen the same black Halliburton case on other videotapes. The leather case contained the works for a homemade cocaine cookout.

  Wilson’s voice level was an octave lower. It was slightly muffled on the tape. Stefanovitch had to listen more closely. He moved himself closer to the machine.

  This was the place in the tape he’d been looking for.

  “They think of everything, don’t they…the Midnight Club…They really do think of everything.”

  “Bingo.” Weinschenker grinned rather proudly. He reached over and pounded Stefanovitch’s shoulder.

  “Play it again. Just that little piece, Greg. Play it a couple of times for me.”

  “…any other diversions…?… any other fun and games…?…They think of everything, don’t they…the Midnight Club… They really do think of everything.”

  Someone else at Allure was talking about the Midnight Club.

  “Keep playing it, Greg. Just that one goddamn piece.”

  42

  Sarah McGinniss; Danbury Federal Prison

  LATE ON JULY 1, Sarah McGinniss took an unexpected trip up into Connecticut. She traveled at night, and she traveled alone.

  Everything continued to be in flux. The unfolding mystery had something to do with illicit sex; and it revolved around wealthy and powerful men: men and the age-old games they loved to play.

  Sarah was seeing a side of men most women weren’t allowed to observe. She was privy to their secret societies—the police, business, the government, the military, organized crime. For years, men had controlled White Houses, Pentagons, palaces, bordellos. The bottom line was always the same. They were in it for the power; for the visceral thrill; because of some lurid and primal fascination with violence. And now Sarah McGinniss was involved,
too.

  Sarah left New York City around quarter to twelve. She drove her Land Rover north on the nearly deserted West Side Highway, which became even lonelier beyond the twinkling lights of the George Washington Bridge. Sarah figured she would be at Danbury Federal Prison by a little past one.

  Sarah had recognized Nicky Wilson the moment Stefanovitch showed her the videotape. She had already interviewed Wilson several times for The Club. Wilson had done business with Alexandre St.-Germain; Wilson had once been the most powerful black crime boss in New York.

  One of the interviews had been conducted at Danbury, so Warden Glen Thomas remembered her when she called. Because of the earlier book interviews, the P.C. felt that she was the right choice to see Wilson now, the least likely to create unwanted attention. Sarah also happened to be the one Wilson consented to talk with.

  The monolithic outline of Danbury Prison finally appeared against the backdrop of deep blue and moonlit sky. Bright searchlights glared out from the complex, pinpointing trees and dirt roads surrounding the prison. The silence in the night air was palpable.

  Sarah had visited the federal prison twice before, but never late at night, and certainly not under the current circumstances. Massive stone gateposts, with elegant bronze plaques, flanked the entrance drive. A thick, stubby row of evergreens served as a wall between the road and the sweeping acres of lawn that rose behind. Cyclone fences appeared left and right as the Land Rover proceeded up the otherwise gracious drive. Then came decorative split-rail fences. Finally a turnaround unfolded in the driveway. Official parking stalls were labeled against a cement wall.

  It was nearly impossible to prepare herself for the isolation and eerie sterility inside the prison at night. Nicky Wilson had insisted that their meeting be after lights-out. That way, none of the other prisoners would see his visitor.

  Warden Thomas escorted her to the visitors’ area, which was deep inside the cream masonry central building. Sarah took out a notepad with a list of prepared questions. She heard steel bolts sliding open, then slamming shut again.

  Her eyes returned for a check of the questions she hoped to ask Nicky Wilson. Then Wilson was standing before her inside the visitors’ cell.

  43

  THERE WAS NO Plexiglas divider. No bars separating the two of them. There was no protection for Sarah.

  Ironically, Wilson wasn’t considered a dangerous prisoner. Hardly anyone at Danbury was, including mob bosses who had ordered scores of murders.

  “You’re always prepared, aren’t you, babe?” A smile touched the black man’s lips. He gestured toward Sarah’s notepad.

  The past few months of prison had changed him dramatically. Wilson was gaunt now, with patches of silver shot through his wiry black hair. He was wearing a loose-fitting African-style shirt over light gray trousers, and fashionable European slipper-loafers. Nicky Wilson no longer looked like a drug overlord of New York and most of the East Coast.

  When she had first met him, Wilson had been on trial for murder. He’d chosen Sarah as one of the reporters he would talk to. By the end of the trial, she had written two long articles about him.

  “Hello, Nicky. I thought I did okay the last time we talked, but yes, I’m always prepared. I’ve got my questions ready.”

  Wilson laughed. “Write this down, then. The white media wanted a black man to atone for the sins of drugged-up America. They wanted to show how organized crime was dead. So, you tell me, is organized crime dead now that Nicky Wilson has been put away?”

  Wilson smiled as he hunched down in the metal chair across from Sarah. He was close enough to reach out and grab her. One of the things he liked about her: she had never shown any fear of him.

  During his trial at Foley Square, in New York, Sarah had attended the court sessions each day, trying to study and understand Wilson. He was articulate, impressively so for a man who hadn’t been inside a schoolroom since the seventh grade. He had even considered defending himself at the trial.

  He had always been polite to her, soft-spoken. His style was part of the reason he’d become the darling of the New York press—a killer and drug trafficker who regularly appeared at exclusive Manhattan parties and the best restaurants.

  Sarah thought of the “blue list” tapes again; the curious mismatching of criminals with the créme de la créme of high society. Why was that? What did it mean?

  “So what brings you up here, to my big house in the country? Why are we having meetings in the middle of the night?”

  “Why do you think I’m here?” Sarah asked.

  Nicky Wilson smiled again. He had always liked to play mind games with Sarah. His fingers made elegant steeples in front of his face.

  “Well, all right… The warden leaves the room, which means you want to talk serious business. That’s one observation.

  “…There’s nasty violence raging all over the place. New York, Detroit, L.A., over in Europe. I know about these gang wars, but not too much. Not too much anymore. I just finished a real book, Sarah… The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Am I rehabilitated now?”

  Sarah remained patient, always the good listener. The reporter. She’d reread all of Nicky Wilson’s prison files before meeting with him again.

  “No, I don’t know anything more than you do about the mob war, the assassinations that are going down,” Wilson finally went on.

  “One of the guinea families, the old-line guineas around New Jersey, has a million-dollar reward out for whoever hit the Grave Dancer. Alexandre St.-Germain was immortal, Sarah. He was supposed to be untouchable. The bosses are nervous.”

  “I hadn’t heard about that,” Sarah said. “You see, you do still get good information. You were right earlier, though—that I wanted to talk about something serious. I have some questions.”

  Nicky Wilson lit up an English cigarette, a Silk Cut. “I always enjoyed our talks. Even the one we had up here. I have all the time in the world. What kind of questions?” Wilson used a Cartier lighter, which seemed out of place in the austere visiting cell.

  “The first question is whether you still have your nerve.”

  Wilson’s eyes were beacons. They searched into Sarah’s eyes. “If you’ve got something on your mind, say it.”

  “I can help you get out of here. We can make a trade. If you’re willing to cooperate with the investigation into the murders of Alexandre St.-Germain and Oliver Barnwell.”

  A physical shock traveled through Wilson’s body. His hands curled into stiff clubs. Sarah realized that she was looking at the real Nicky Wilson.

  “We want you to look at some videotapes,” she said. “A lot of films were shot at Allure. I don’t think many of the customers knew they were being filmed.”

  Wilson said nothing; the corners of his jaw quivered. He was good at not giving away too much.

  “We need identification, but most of all, connections. We know about federal judges, important politicians who went to parties at Allure. Entertainers, wise guys, went there regularly. Influential businessmen visited Allure. You were there yourself, Nicky.”

  “No, I was never at Allure,” Nicky Wilson said. A hard tone had come into his voice.

  “You were on one of the videotapes, Nicky. I watched the tape several times.”

  Nicky Wilson stared at Sarah. To be sitting eighteen inches away from a murderer was such a strange, chilling experience. To stare into eyes that were tiny mirrors. Watching her. Revealing nothing.

  Finally, Wilson spoke again. “You better leave now. If that’s what you wanted, you wasted a long trip.”

  Sarah decided to keep pushing, although the look on Nicky Wilson’s face told her to back off.

  “I can help, Nicky. What is the Midnight Club? ‘They think of everything, don’t they… the Midnight Club.’ That’s what you said at Allure. Who is in the Midnight Club, Nicky? What’s happening? Who’s killing who?”

  Nicky Wilson suddenly rose. He called down the hallway to where the warden was waiting.

  “I w
ant to go back to my cell. Let’s go. C’mon, man, let’s go.”

  Sarah wanted to stop Nicky Wilson. He knew something about Midnight. He could point them in a direction at least.

  “You can call me in Manhattan. I’ll come back up here. People are ready to help you,” Sarah said.

  Nicky Wilson was peering down toward the warden. Finally, his head turned back. The smile, all familiarity, had vanished from his eyes.

  “You think about something, babe. Think about why they sent you. Because they knew I’d talk to you? Maybe so. What kind of story does somebody want you to write?… C’mon, man, take me back to my cell,” Wilson said to the warden. “I don’t want to see her again under any circumstances.”

  44

  The Midnight Club; Kyoto, London, West Berlin…

  THERE HAD NEVER been anything quite like it.

  The Club.

  A secret society that stretched across the world.

  In Kyoto, Japan, a powerful Yakuza member dutifully sat through an exotic and beautiful ancient tea ceremony. One of the geishas gently whirled an elegant bamboo whisk through waves of murky green tea. She moved the stirrer at just the right tempo to produce the tiny bubbles whose appearance separated master from apprentice at the task.

  The geisha finally bowed twice and presented a small china bowl to the tall, silver-haired Japanese man. As he lifted the crisp rice cake it contained, he once again read a note that had reached him at this private garden. On the index finger of his right hand was an expensive black onyx and diamond ring, identical to the one worn by Alexandre St.-Germain at Allure.

  The powerful Yakuza leader finally rose from the table and went inside for a massage, and other ministrations from the geisha. The Midnight Club was to meet again.