The Manolo Matrix

by Julie Kenner

  Beside him, Jenn was clearly in awe. “Isn’t it great?” she said, practically shouting. “I absolutely love this place.”

  “It’s impressive,” Devlin said. But he was thinking: chick pick. Give him a sports bar any day.

  A boy in black with a Euro accent greeted them and offered assistance, but Jenn was already leading the way. Just a quick shift to the left, then a right turn and down a short hallway.

  They moved that way, passing the Hudson Bar, which was apparently the source of the music. Filled to the brim with beautiful people, the bar seemed to vibrate with energy. Glass tables sat on a glass floor where colors flashed then faded.

  Devlin took a quick look as they passed, grateful they weren’t going in there, then exhaled in relief when they rounded the corner and he realized he could hear again. “Hello,” he whispered.

  Jenn stopped and looked at him. “See someone you know?”

  “Just testing. I really can hear myself think now. Nice.”

  She rolled her eyes and continued on, past the table and chairs set up against a windowed wall overlooking a stone patio. Devlin shrugged and followed, wondering when he’d gotten old. He still wasn’t forty, though. So maybe it was a curable antiquity.

  Unlike the too-loud-to-think music coming from the Hudson Bar, the Library Bar was quiet. Old-world elegance coupled with a hint of whimsy. Specifically, overstuffed leather chairs, lots of woodwork, and some paintings of cows. Devlin got a particular kick out of the cows.

  A freestanding bar filled one corner, a tall woman with curly black hair manning the thing. A few men leaned on the bar rail, apparently fascinated with the way she mixed a martini.

  They squeezed in and waited to catch her attention.

  Jenn had her head tilted back as she turned slightly, taking in the entire top section of the room. Although it was called the Library Bar, the place was different from any library Devlin had ever seen. The ceiling was high, with a catwalk about ten feet up. The upper portion of the walls was made up of built-in bookshelves, and they seemed to hold a wide variety of old books. Dusty books, actually. And Devlin supposed that made sense. The point, after all, was that they were old. And rare.

  As the bartender turned to them, Devlin leaned in closer. “Have you got Don Quixote?”

  She cocked her head. “That’s with pineapple juice and tequila, right?”

  “It’s a book,” he said, and she looked so blank he almost laughed. He waved his hand, encompassing the room. “You know…books.”

  “Oh. Right.” Her forehead creased. “I don’t know what we’ve got.”

  He exchanged a quick glance with Jenn, who shrugged. Then he turned back to the bartender. “Well, what if I want to read a book?”

  The girl stared back at him, her eyes narrow behind her fashionable fuchsia frames. “Read?”

  “Yeah. You know. Read. I think it’s the traditionally accepted thing to do in a library.”

  “This isn’t a library,” she said, her mouth quirked all funny. Like maybe he was the dangerous sort and she had to keep her distance. Well, maybe he was and maybe she did.

  “It’s called the Library Bar.”

  She rattled a martini shaker. “I think the emphasis is on the bar.”

  “Devlin…” Jenn had eased in, and now had her hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t even tempted to move away. In fact, he kind of liked it—the feel of her hand and the whole good-cop bad-cop groove they could get going if they tried. He thought of the woman from the pub—the woman whose panties had found their way to his couch. For about thirty-seven seconds, she’d made him feel alive. Maybe with Jennifer Crane the moment would last a full minute.

  And maybe this wasn’t the time to be thinking about it.

  “So the books are only for show?” he asked.

  The bartender nodded.

  “Is there a staircase up to that catwalk or anything?”

  “No,” the girl said, a little sulkily, Devlin thought. “And I think the point was atmosphere. It’s not like a sports bar has to have a baseball team hitting foul balls in the back corner.”

  “Can’t hurt,” he said, earning him a scowl from both Jenn and the bar girl. A doubleheader.

  “And as a matter of fact, we do have an exhibit.”

  “You do?” Jenn managed to ask the question before Devlin could get his mouth around the words.

  The girl pointed somewhere toward the center of the room. “All those big cushy leather chairs? You gotta have someplace to set your drinks, don’t you?”

  “You set them on rare books?”

  That earned him another scathing look.

  “Display tables. They’re glass. I guess the powers that be started thinking like you, so they’ve pulled some of the coolest old books and they’ve put them on display.”

  “The powers that be are very astute,” Devlin said.

  “Want me to run a tab?” she said, in a not-so-subtle attempt to end the conversation and send him and Jenn on their merry way.

  “We’re not drinking.” He stepped away, ignoring the bartender’s irritated snort, and considered the room. Jenn had already moved across the room, and was peering into a waist-high display table that was set up against the back wall. She turned to him and shook her head. So much for easy.

  If anyone else cared that there was no “library” in the Library Bar, they didn’t care enough to stay away. The place was packed. Every overstuffed leather chair filled, every brocade couch stuffed full of people. Even those standing were packed in so close that the traditional American rules of personal space seemed no more to apply.

  Since Devlin didn’t give a flying fuck about personal space, he barged into the nearest group with a brusque “excuse me,” then peered down at the table centered between the couch and two armchairs.

  “Do you mind?” That from a woman in fabulous silk suit, with legs of equal quality.

  “Not very well,” he admitted. As the bartender had promised, books were on display in the case. David Copperfield, some C. S. Forester, even a first edition of Alice in Wonderland.

  No Don Quixote.

  He backed out from the crowd—smiling at the woman with a curt “I’ll call you”—then moved behind the group to get a look at a side table nestled between two nearby armchairs.

  Again, nothing.

  He was just about to move on to the next display case when Jenn slid up beside him, taking his elbow and tugging.

  “I found it!” she whispered. “It’s right over there.” She pointed to the far corner of the bar, where two wingback chairs sat, a drunken couple holding hands over an ornate display table. “That’s it,” Jenn repeated, her face practically glowing. “That’s Don Quixote. Now all we have to do is get it.”

  Chapter

  25

  JENNIFER

  W e’d found the book, which was good.

  The book was behind glass. That was bad.

  The glass was part of a table nestled between a particularly amorous couple. I edged closer, craning my neck to see. “Can I get a quick peek?” I asked.

  The man, who reeked of alcohol, shrugged. He also eyed me in a way that should have really pissed off his date. Me, I just ignored it and pressed forward. And there it was, just inches away. A leather-bound volume, underneath which had been placed a typed index card that set out all the particulars of the book, and also announced that it had been donated by Paul S. Winslow.

  I reached over to flip the latch on the case, not terribly surprised when I found it locked. Not surprised, but still annoyed. I looked back at Devlin, but he was already heading to the bartender. I hurried after him.

  “Any chance of getting inside that display case?” he asked the girl. “We need to take a look at that book.”

  “Um, no. I mean come on, dude. What’s your problem?”

  “How about the manager? Maybe we could speak to him?”

  “No manager on duty tonight. What you see is what you get.” And then she flashed a winning—if no
t entirely sincere—smile.

  “Hotel manager?”

  Her shoulders slumped as she exhaled. “Hold on.” She finished making a drink for someone, then told another customer that she’d be right with him. She rolled her eyes as she said it, and the customer smirked, clearly bonding with the girl in sympathy about the crazy people she had to deal with.

  She reached below the bar and pulled out a cordless phone. She dialed, waited, and then she was talking with Harry, presumably the night manager. She explained—without any of the required urgency, I thought—that some patrons wanted to see one of the rare books. She listened, nodding, then said, “Okay, thanks.” And hung up the phone.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “He said sure. Just come back in the morning when Mr. Banister is here. He’ll take care of you.”

  “But we—”

  “Okay,” Devlin said. “Sure. Thanks.”

  He pulled me away, his firm grip annoying me almost as much as his words. “What are you doing?” I asked. “We can’t wait until morning. My deadline’s ten! Can’t you just shoot the lock off? Or better yet, just shoot that bartender.”

  “That’s one idea,” Devlin said. “Another would be to go find Harry and convince him to let us have a peek. Maybe tell him it’s a scavenger hunt and we just need to see the book.”

  “Can’t you flash your FBI badge?”

  His face hardened, and he shook his head. “If I had it, I’d flash it. But no. Right now, that’s not a possibility.”

  “Oh.” I figured I’d discovered Devlin Brady’s sore spot. But now wasn’t the time to poke at it.

  His mouth quirked. “Or maybe you should just hit a high C. Break the glass. Then we run like hell.”

  I crossed my arms and stared him down. “That’s a myth, you know. Even if I could hit the note, the glass wouldn’t shatter.”

  “Actually, I was kidding.”

  “But it could work,” I said. “An obnoxious woman singing at the top of her lungs is sure to draw the manager. And fast.” Plus, the plan was dramatic. I, of course, am all about drama.

  “I’m not so sure—”

  But I was already shoving my tote bag into Devlin’s arms. “Be ready,” I said.

  “Jenn, you’re not—”

  But I didn’t have time to answer. I was already into my role, shifting from kick-ass Lara to vixen Lola. And as the guy sitting by the book gaped, I settled myself on his lap and started with the sultry tones of “Whatever Lola Wants,” one of my absolute favorite songs from Damn Yankees.

  “Excuse me!” The girl part of the couple didn’t seem too happy with my plan. But since that was part of my plan, I was A-okay with her irritation.

  The guy, I noticed, wasn’t complaining at all. Too shocked. And that, also, was just fine by me. I pulled my legs up and pressed against his chest so that I was snuggled close as I sang about how he was a fool and I was irresistible. “Give in,” I sang. Then I poked him in the chest. “Give. In.”

  By this time, people were staring. Also what I’d wanted. Except that in my fantasies about singing solo numbers, I’d always been on a stage. Not in a bar.

  “Enough, already!” the bartender called. “I swear, if you don’t shut down the disturbance, I’m calling security.”

  Devlin frowned, and I knew what he was thinking—security was no help to us.

  I reached the end of the song, and was trying to decide if I should stop or keep going when I caught Devlin’s eye. More, he mouthed. So I kept going. I wasn’t sure what he had planned, but I trusted him. I was also happy he’d gotten into the spirit of the plan.

  I segued neatly into “Who’s Got the Pain,” still in my Lola character, and on the word “Mambo,” I grabbed date guy’s hand and tugged him out of the chair.

  The song’s bouncy and fast and, hey, it’s about the mambo. So that’s what we did. Or, rather, that’s what I did. And since I had his hands tight in my own, he reluctantly joined me. We weren’t going to win any awards, but the exhibition did have the desired effect. Namely, the girl jumped out of her chair—absolutely furious—and tried to cut in. I wasn’t having any of that, and danced him across the room to another little cluster of chairs. Not that there was anyone sitting there. By that time, they were all gathered around us. Me and date guy, and the girl trying to horn in on our good time.

  I heard the bartender howl from across the room. “I’m calling right now! I mean it!” And then I saw her yank up the phone. I tried not to worry about that because I now had more important things to worry about. Like the fact that I’d glanced toward the Don Quixote table and found Devlin through a break in the crowd, busily shoving the blade of his pocket knife under the top of the table.

  Oh, shit.

  Since I didn’t want anyone else looking where I’d been looking, I turned back to my captive, stepping lively and moving his arm up and down in an exaggerated motion as I sang at the top of my lungs that immortal question of “who needs a pill when they do the mambo?” Then I flipped my leg up in a flirty little kick just as the song hits an UGH!

  Honestly, this isn’t the easiest song to sing without accompaniment, and I think I was doing a kick-butt job. Considering how everyone was staring and laughing, I figured I wasn’t being too conceited. If those guys from the Carousel audition could see me now…

  I glanced back toward the table where Devlin had been, and saw that he wasn’t there now, and figured it was time to wrap this up. I yanked us to a stop, pulled the guy close, and planted a big kiss on him. (On his cheek. After all, I didn’t want to mess things up for his girl.) Then I pushed him away and turned to the girl. “Great dancer,” I said. “He’s a keeper.”

  And then, with the hum of the crowd buzzing behind me and the bartender calling out, “Hey, hey!” I hauled ass out of there.

  Devlin (thank God) was waiting for me at the end of the hall, and he took my hand and we raced across the lobby, the ceiling of ivy looming above us and the music from the bar pounding all around us. We skidded across the floor, then raced down the escalator until we emerged onto the sidewalk.

  My heart was pounding in my chest, and I leaned back under the scaffolding, breathing hard. In front of me, Devlin was leaning over, his palms pressed against his knees, and his eyes on me.

  “Tell me you have the book,” I said between gasps.

  “I’ve got it,” he said. “Keep moving.” And he took off at a clip toward Seventh Avenue, me keeping pace behind him.

  I glanced back before we turned and didn’t see armed security guards barreling down on us. That was a good thing.

  Finally, we quit running, but still walked quickly, and Devlin took my hand. “You’ve got one hell of a voice on you, that’s for damn sure. But have you ever heard of subtlety?”

  “It worked, didn’t it? And I didn’t see you coming up with any other brilliant ideas.”

  “No,” he said. “You didn’t. You did good in there. Not subtle. But it worked.”

  “Oh.” I stopped on the street. “So you weren’t being critical?”

  “Just stating facts. Don’t stand there. We need to keep moving.”

  Right he was. I kicked back into step beside him. “Where are we going?”

  “Someplace we can sit down and look at the book.”

  “Right.” It suddenly occurred to me that we’d just committed theft. Not something I would have ever considered doing before. Now, though, I didn’t even feel a twinge of guilt. We needed the book to keep me alive. We got the book. That deserved a pat on the back, not handcuffs and a mug shot. For that matter, it deserved a standing ovation.

  He rounded a corner, then ducked into a bar. The place was elbow-to-elbow with people, but Devlin miraculously snagged us a table, conveniently tucked away under a bronze crawfish rotating on a pedestal. I kid you not.

  We collapsed into the chairs, and Devlin shoved the previous occupants’ dirty glasses aside. Then he pulled the book out from under his jacket and plunked it on the table.

/>   I have to admit that I did feel a tiny bit of guilt at this point. Not for stealing the thing—we’d give it back when we were done with it—but for taking it out of its sealed and locked little homestead. I don’t know much about books and preservation and all that kind of stuff, but I couldn’t help but wonder if we’d just consigned this poor book to mold and worms and other versions of bookish hell.

  The cover was red leather, with a stylized drawing of a knight all in black on the cover. Gold gilt bordered the cover and also decorated the spine. All in all, it was a pretty book. And solid. And probably incredibly expensive.

  Devlin had just opened the cover when a waiter appeared. “What can I get for you?”

  “Nothing!”

  Devlin looked at me sharply. “Scotch. On the rocks. Single malt.”

  “Nothing for me,” I said. “But could you take those away?” I nodded toward the dirty glasses. They still had some liquid inside them. “What if he spills your drink when he brings it? What if you spill it?”

  “I won’t.” He was slowly flipping the pages.

  “How can you be so sure? That book has to be, what, four hundred years old?”

  He stopped his inspection of the pages and looked up at me, curiosity in his eyes. “You know Cervantes?”

  “When you were on stage, did it bother you when people thought you were dumb? Does it bother you now if they think you’re just some FBI flunkie with no brain, a black suit, and the party line?”

  “Point taken.” He tapped the book. “But this isn’t a first edition. It’s in English.”

  My cheeks warmed a little at that. I mean, I know Cervantes wrote Don Quixote back in the 1600s. During the years of torture that my father called a liberal arts education and that I called twelve years of hellish private schools complete with uniforms, I’d studied Cervantes on more than one occasion, though I can’t admit to retaining all that much of it. I’m very proud of my straight-C average. But I’m not going to be discussing the impact of fifteenth-century literature at cocktail parties anytime soon.

  “So, what does that mean? It’s not really rare? Does that matter? We got it from the Library Bar. There’s no way we got that clue wrong. It was too freaky and obscure. And the book was there. We have to have gotten it right.”