Quinn was more lethal than he appeared. He'd obviously use any means to get what he wanted. What Palmer had overheard could be about me but could easily have been about anyone else. Maybe someone not even related to this case.
"Why do you suspect it has anything to do with me?"
"I'm warning you just in case."
"You said you had a couple of reasons for calling."
"I have some information. Not much. Just some names Quinn gathered in his work on the conspiracy."
"How did you get..."
"I just did. I'm at a copy shop at the train station. I'll fax them to your office."
She hung up without a goodbye, after getting the fax number.
My office door swung open and Olga stood there, coat over her arm.
"I am back. You are still dizzy?"
I didn't quite know how to take that remark, so I let it slide. I tossed her a quick smile. As she waddled into the room, the fax machine started spitting out papers.
"You're just in time. Here are some names for you to hunt down." I indicated the fax machine with a thrust of my chin. "And Hollister will bring even more."
"And I am researching names to be finding... ?"
"A detailed background search. Anything and everything you can find. And if you can cross reference any of them, that would help."
"You are wanting everything? Everything?"
"Down to the kind of underwear they liked. Down to the most secret, private details you can hack your way into."
"Hacking. Is cruel word. I am not woman who is hacking. I am researching."
"Just get me as much as you can, Olga."
She scooped the papers from the fax machine, then pecked me on the cheek.
"What was that for?"
"Because you are good boss. And knock on head makes Olga worry."
"You're a peach, you know that?"
"Now I am fruit?" She shook her head and went out the door.
The phone rang and I took it knowing Olga was still settling in.
"Marco?" I recognized Kent's voice immediately.
"Where've you been? I could've used your help on some things."
"Something came up. I'm kinda stuck right now." He didn't sound like himself.
"Meaning you can't do any work?"
"For now. But I will. I promise. I will."
"What's going on, Kent? You sound..."
"Nothin' I can't handle. Don't worry. I'll call you as soon as I can."
The next thing I heard was dial tone. This was strange behavior even for Kent. Anton's warning about him nagged at me. I still felt I was right about the kid. I'm a pretty good judge of character or I'd have been eating dirt a long time ago. Something was up and I'd have to find out what.
Olga buzzed the intercom.
"Is Mr. Hollister, wanting to see you."
"Send him in."
Hollister opened the office door slowly and shuffled in. He looked beaten down.
"Tim. You okay?"
"It's all the arrangements, Marco. Everything is overwhelming." He sounded weary. "Helmut's family is flying in from Germany. I have to plan a memorial service. Helmut didn't want anything traditional. Except he expressly did not want to be cremated."
"I can get someone to help, if you like."
"Lyman is being a real support. I'll get through this. It's incredible how many things you never think about. Never realize you'd need to think about. Even though, when something like this happens, everything is painfully obvious. And you know that all your life you've just been avoiding and avoiding."
He held out a large manila envelope.
"The papers I promised," he said.
I took the envelope. "I'll add it to Olga's pile."
"Did Nina find anything more on the laptop?"
"I'll be calling her later," I said. Hollister looked lost and indecisive. "Listen, I know you want to be involved in the investigation, but you've got a full plate right now. I can keep you posted every step of the way."
"I need to be involved. It helps. Helmut's family is coming and they deserve the truth as much as I do."
I nodded.
"Call me any time, Marco. And for the love of God, don't get hurt again."
"I've got things under control. Let me know if you need anything."
He gave me a mournful look, turned, and left the office.
I opened the envelope and took out three sheets of paper. The first was a list of names I'd give to Olga. The rest was a synopsis of the documents and checklist of things Hollister thought Nina might be able to tease out of the laptop. Things that had been referenced in the documents but which weren't a part of files they'd already found.
The names included those Hollister had mentioned like Villot, Cody, Marcinkus, but there were others, none of whom were familiar and none, according to his notes, who he thought were still alive. I trusted Olga to do a deeper search that would yield something.
***
Anton had agreed to meet for dinner at the Bellini Grill which was a lot fancier than its name implied. Like a little bit of Italy transplanted to 16th Street, it was quiet, out of the way, and just right for talking. It was romantic which I knew Anton would like.
"Okay, what's up?" Anton said as he sat down. He picked up the white cloth napkin and spread it on his lap, then stared at me with those crystal blue eyes.
"Is that all you think of me? Do I only take you to nice places when I want something?"
"Yes." He teased. "Okay, no. But sometimes I can tell you've got an agenda. And this feels like one of those times."
I stared at him. The soft yellow glow of the candle on the table swathed him in otherworldly light. His blond hair and golden hued skin spoke of dreams and fantasies. The square cut of his jaw was strong. His lips were expressive and pink. I wanted to pull him to me and hug him.
But I didn't. Instead I gazed at him and wondered what it would be like to settle down, buy a bigger condo, and make a life together. Would it be a whole lot different than my life now? Yes. There was no getting around that. I looked at his face and there was an innocence beneath his unmitigated beauty. I knew that he cared for me, quite a lot. More than a lot. I knew life together could be good, it might even last. The look on his face made me understand that not everything had to be so up in the air for me. That maybe I could have an island of stability.
"Well," he said. "Do you? Have an agenda?"
The waiter placed a slivery basket of crusty rolls on the table and cruets with olive oil and thick balsamic vinegar. Anton took one of the rolls then promptly ignored it.
"Honestly? No. I just wanted to have dinner with you. I know I've been kind of wrapped up in this case and then getting knocked on the head... I haven't been at Bubbles enough."
"I assumed you wanted me to get used to handling things on my own." Anton took a piece of the roll and popped it into his mouth.
"I know you're handling things just fine. I'm happy about that. But this case has gotten to me and I'm spending more time on it than I thought I'd be." I jumped into every case with everything I had. You don't give it everything, you don't solve a case. But there was something about this one that took hold of me and wormed its way into my being. The memory of Brandt when I'd met him years before and the energy of his life force had stuck with me. Without realizing it, seeing him so alive and content with himself gave me the courage to come out and be myself all those years ago. It was nothing he said. We'd never actually spoken. It was his spirit.
"I can see the case has gotten under your skin, Marco. I know you. You feel the answer is just out of reach and that makes you crazy. I've seen it before."
"You're right. Problem is there are plenty of people who had some axe to grind with Brandt."
"None of them actually had an axe, though, so to speak. Right? Or, you'd have nailed them by now. You always get them."
"Yeah, sure," I said and broke my roll into pieces, choosing to skip the oil.
The restaurant wasn't yet
crowded. Anton and I felt comfortably private in our little corner. We were able to enjoy each other's company without intrusions.
Our waiter was a plain-faced kid, kind of like the child in a family where the looks went to everyone else. All he got were facial quirks. Eyes too close together, thin lips, and no chin. Still he was attentive and gave us tiramisu on the house.
We lingered over coffee. Anton hadn't touched his tiramisu. When he looked at me, concern colored his expression.
"What?" I asked.
"Nando seems to be missing."
"Missing? You sure he's missing or just ducking work?"
"He hasn't shown for two nights. And," Anton paused and I could tell there was a bit of a zinger meant for me perched on his tongue.
"And? What?"
"And Kent hasn't been around either." His tone full of I-told-you-so.
"I'm sure Elton John and Boy George haven't been seen in Bubbles lately. You think there's some kind of group thing going on with the four of them?"
Anton harrumphed and took a large forkful of tiramisu, which I knew he didn't really like.
"Or, maybe..." I pressed.
"Okay! I get it. You think I'm jumping to conclusions." Anton took a long drink of water. "But I was trapped in the dressing room with Kent and his gun. Not you. I had to wait for you to come and do your hero thing. Then you took him under your wing and offered him a job. I was willing to go along with it, but now..."
I was amazed at his ability to keep his voice under control while effectively eviscerating me.
"I wasn't happy you hired him. And Nando was a little unnerved. But you're the boss. The padrone. Neither of us could say much. I knew Kent would be trouble. He's gone and so is Nando. That can't be a coincidence."
"All right, I'm not gonna minimize your suspicions. Wouldn't be the first time you were right about things like this," I said, practicing diplomacy. "Tell me what you'd like me to do and I promise I'll take care of it."
Anton's breathing slowed, he drank more water and looked at me skeptically.
"Very smooth, Fontana. No wonder all the boys fall over when you pass by. But this is Anton you're trying to con." He stared at me and smirked. "What should you do? Well, for starters you can help me find Nando. Kent I don't care about. But I'll bet a week's salary you'll find them together. I wouldn't be surprised if Kent has Nando against his will."
"Kidnapping? You're kidding, right?"
"No, I'm not. I'm willing to risk a week's pay that I'm right."
"Sounds good. You're on. This'll be easy money."
"Hold on, what're you putting up?" Anton asked.
"That you'll lose a week's salary and will have to dance to make up the loss."
"Not good enough, Marco. How about loss of a week's pay for me, if you win. And for you," Anton closed his eyes and thought. A smile slowly spread over his face. "For you, if you lose the bet..." He paused relishing the moment.
"What?" Suddenly I realized what he was thinking. "No. Oh, no. I'm not..."
"If you lose, you agree to strip for two successive weekends." He smiled broadly and it was a dazzler. "Well? Can't be a tough decision, Mister Private Eye."
"I don't think so." I saw the trap he was closing and I couldn't do anything.
"Afraid you were wrong about Kent?"
"Not at all. I have confidence in him."
"Then why not take the wager?"
He'd backed me into a corner. It'd become a matter of pride.
"All right. You're on. There's no way I'm losing anyway."
"I hope you still own a few g-strings."
The waiter brought the check and I took it.
"My treat for not being around as much as I should," I said.
"Don't be crazy." Anton placed his hand over the check.
"Let me pay, Anton, because when you lose the bet, you'll need all the savings you have to carry you through that week without pay."
"Oh, I'll get paid. And I'll see a lot more of the boss than I've been seeing lately."
"I'm heading over to Stella's to follow up on a lead. Wanna come along?"
"I'd rather clean toilets. Come to think of it, Stella's is a toilet."
"That may be true but someone there knows something about this case. And I'm gonna find out who it is and what they know."
Chapter 22
Stella's was nowhere near the gayborhood. It was a place for hustlers and johns, for guys on the lookout for sugar daddies, and for anyone seeking whatever they couldn't get elsewhere. It was especially the spot for guys who didn't want anyone knowing they were in the market for things no one would mention in public. The location had to be out of the way and off the beaten path.
To say Stella's represented the underbelly of gay life was both an understatement and a misstatement. There were lowlife types but there were also politicians, rich men, celebrities, and people who felt they didn't fit anywhere else. Of course, they often became prey for the lowlifes using Stella's as a hangout.
Sayda and Dora, who everyone called S&D, were the owners now, Stella having long before passed on to a much better bar. Tougher than nails, S&D, as far as anyone knew, were straight. They never spoke about themselves, if they ever spoke at all.
I knew I was close to Stella's when I noticed a few drug-soaked hustlers dotting the pavement. S&D never let obvious druggies muck up their place. If you even appeared to be high on something, you were forced to hit the bricks.
One young guy, wearing a torn and weathered coat two sizes too big for him, stood wavering on the sidewalk like a phantom. I'm not sure if he knew where he was or even who he was, but he knew he needed cash to feed his habit. That was the beast urging him on and it didn't matter who or where he was.
"Hey, whach'u up to tonight, man?" He placed a hand on my shoulder. His fetid breath smudging the air. "Need some company?" He stared as best he could while blinking away drug induced sleepiness and wavering to and fro trying to stay on his feet.
"Do I look like I need company?" I said shucking his arm from my back and moving off. Seeing the wasted potential made me angry then sad. Not that he'd remember I blew off his advance, he didn't respect himself enough to resent anything. I guess I thought maybe I should be a little kinder even if I didn't have to be.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw he was already trolling for another prospect.
I saw the muted lights of Stella's bleak front entrance a block away. There wasn't much to identify it, no crackling neon, no sign. You just had to know where it was and, more importantly, what it was. This time of night, Stella's was the only thing happening on this shabby end of Mole Street, a low traffic area that was not at all welcoming. No one would accidentally wander into this bar. With all the shady dealings going on under Stella's roof which was virtually in the shadow of City Hall, I had the distinct impression it was allowed to stay in business so the authorities knew where they could find whatever they needed whenever they needed it.
Once you moved past the dull, time-worn entrance with its battered bricks and chipped stucco, you were confronted with a wide but shallow vestibule. A velvet rope prevented you from getting to the inner doorway. Behind the rope was an ugly hulk of a man, Bork by name, whose face had seen one too many illicit extreme-boxing matches. His nose was bent to the side, one eye stared into nothingness, its milky pupil useless. His shaved head showed a variety of unsightly lumps and scars. Despite his appearance, he was dressed impeccably. Not a stitch out of place. Black silk suit, white shirt, deep purple tie. And a blue carnation. The expression on his face was one of serene maliciousness. You didn't dare barge in. Bork would let you through as long as S&D didn't object. If they did, Bork would raise one of his tennis racket sized hands like a stop sign. If you resisted, he would wrap that hand around your throat and toss you out. Few gave him trouble. Those that did never gave him any more.
A faint glimmer of recognition crossed Bork's face when he saw me. What passed for a smile on that mug appeared and faded. He raised no objections
as I moved past him into the club. I caught a glimpse of Sayda sitting at her desk in the front office. There were TV monitors allowing her to keep an eye on her domain. Dora was undoubtedly in the back office attending to the financial life of the club.
The first floor bar was all understated lighting with a lot of blacklight dusting the atmosphere. It gave the place a cool, almost stylish, air unless you knew the bar's reputation then you understood it wasn't about style.
Some of the older guys glanced furtively in my direction as I entered, then ducked their heads, either not wanting to be recognized or not interested in me as a type. Some of the hustlers looked at me as a new income possibility, others seemed to wonder if I was competition.
The long, rectangular first floor had a gracefully curved bar against each of the long walls. Littering the middle ground were tables occupied by hustlers and johns negotiating arrangements. I knew, from experience, there was an area to the back, off the main floor, that housed hidden alcoves for that private rendezvous everyone craved.
I headed for the curved bar to the left where Jimmy, one of my sometime dancers, tended bar. Few patrons sat at the bar. Most either hugged the walls or occupied tables. The hustlers scanned the place for clients.
"Marco, slumming again?" Jimmy laughed and placed a paper napkin on the bar in front of me. "What can I get you?"
"Molson's and some information."
He moved deftly behind the bar, pulled out a beer and set it before me. I plunked a twenty on the counter but he didn't move to touch it.
"What kind of information, Marco? Y'know, S&D don't like employees with loose lips. Bad for business." Jimmy leaned on the bar, propping his head on one hand.
"Murder's bad for business, too." I took a pull on the beer and set it back down. "I'm looking for a guy name of Scanlan. Seamus Scanlan. Know him?"
"Scanlan," Jimmy tasted the name and thought, eyes closed.
I described the man as best I could from the times I'd seen him.
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