by Tinnean
When the cab arrived in front of the Bonheur, a uniformed doorman opened the door, waited while I paid the driver and tipped him, then hurried to open the frosted door that had Bonheur etched into it.
“Have a good evening, gentlemen.”
“You too,” I said.
“Thank you.” Quinn nodded at him.
We walked into the Moonlight Lounge, which had been the Bonheur’s bar since the 1960s. The interior was dim, and I knew at one time, it would have been hazy with cigarette smoke, but a city-wide ban had gone into effect the year before. Tables were scattered around a small dance floor, and beyond were a few booths. It could accommodate maybe twenty people, not counting those seated at the bar, but it was a Monday night, and there were only a few men sitting at the bar.
“What would you like, Mark?”
The weather had gotten cool—well, it was fall and the reason why we’d worn overcoats. “I think I’ll have a Sidecar.”
Quinn smiled at me. “Yes, the perfect drink for an October night.” He turned to the bartender. “Two Sidecars, please.”
The bartender set to work making the drinks, and after we paid for them, we took them and found a curved booth with an equally curved glass table in front of it with Moonlight Lounge etched into its surface. After we set our glasses down on coasters the bartender had provided, we removed our overcoats and slid into the booth.
I raised my glass and tapped it against Quinn’s. “Here’s to our life together. Forever.”
“Forever.”
We sipped our drinks.
“Will you put your condo on the market soon?” Quinn asked. In the month between when I’d asked him to marry me and when we actually exchanged vows, we’d started moving his things out of storage and into Mann Manor. Portia promised she and Theo would have it ready for us to move into in a couple of weeks, so I’d disarmed the locking system on my front door so they could enter without getting blown to bits.
Except for my desk and a few other items, I’d originally planned to sell the condo furnished, but in spite of all the things Quinn had in his storage facility, we had a number of rooms in the Manor that needed furniture.
“Next week we’ll start moving whatever Portia and Theo haven’t gotten out of my condo, and then I’ll contact that Realtor Portia mentioned.”
“Good.” He reached across the small table and ran his fingertips over the back of my hand. “What shall we do tomorrow?”
“Would you mind if we played tourist?”
“Of course not. What did you want to see?”
“I thought we could go to the Statue of Liberty.” I’d missed the opportunity when my class at the military academy went on a field trip because I’d been in the infirmary with a bad case of strep throat.
He groaned. “Are you going to make me walk up to the crown?” He’d gotten into the habit of taking the stairs just because I always did.
I stroked his thigh. “It’s given your legs great definition.”
“Ass.” He bumped his shoulder against mine. “At any rate, that leaves out the Empire State Building.”
Shit. “Did you want to go there?”
“I did think it would be nice to go up to the observation deck, perhaps in the evening so we can see the city all lit up.”
“Okay. We’ll take the elevator.”
“Thank you.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Where else?”
“The Museum of Natural History. Ellis Island. The South Street Seaport Museum.” I drew in a breath. “Ground Zero.”
Quinn’s expression became sad. “I don’t want to go there.”
“Neither do I.” I didn’t blame him. He was supposed to have been at the Pentagon, but the meeting had been canceled after the Twin Towers had been hit. I’d been at the Huntingdon headquarters in Boston and flew out of Logan before the shit hit the fan on that Tuesday.
“But we will.”
“Yeah.” To pay our respects to the two thousand nine hundred seventy-seven innocent people who’d died there that day. “Things could have been so different…”
He gripped my hand.
He could have died, and I’d never have fallen in love, because no one but Quinn would have pushed past my boundaries.
I could have died, and he would probably have married one day and had children, but it wouldn’t have been with me.
“It didn’t happen, Mark. We’re together. Forever.”
“Forever.”
Just then, three men pushed off from the bar and sauntered across the dance floor to a small stage. One sat behind a drum kit, another sat at the piano, and the third placed himself behind a bass that was almost as big as he was. They talked among themselves for a few minutes, then began playing “Satin Doll.”
“This is nice, isn’t it?” Quinn leaned against me.
“Yeah, it is.” I tipped his chin up so his eyes met mine and hummed a few bars of a song I wasn’t sure he’d recognize.
He tilted his head and smiled. “Of course you can have this dance, Mark.” He stood up and held out his hand.
I closed my fingers around it and let him pull me to my feet, but instead of leading me to the dance floor, he crossed to where the trio played.
He took his wallet from his pocket. While he fished out a bill, he spoke softly to the man who played the bass.
“Will you have a problem with that?” Quinn asked.
They’d better not have. I gave the three of them a stony look, but the guy Quinn had given the bill to was staring at the tip with huge eyes. How much had Quinn given him?
He looked up at Quinn, grinning. “You got it, man.” He winked, nodded, and turned to the other two. “‘At Last,’ gentlemen.”
As they began to play what we thought of as our song, Quinn turned to me. He smiled, looking really happy. “Shall we?”
I rested one hand just above his waist while I twined the fingers of my other hand with his. And then we began to glide across the dance floor.
Chapter 10: October 5-9, 2004
THE NEXT MORNING, as we dressed before going down to the Bonheur’s restaurant for breakfast, Quinn’s cell phone rang. “‘I Hear You Knocking’?” I was familiar with most of his ringtones, but this one was new to me.
“My publisher. I’m sorry, babe, I should take this.”
“Go ahead.” I didn’t even pretend not to listen in.
“Good morning, Mr. Schutt. … I beg your pardon. Mr. Finchley.” Quinn caught my raised eyebrow and shrugged. “What can I do for you? … I see.” He covered the phone. “He says he’s filling in for my publisher’s executive assistant, who’s on vacation. According to Finchley, my publisher learned I was in New York and wants to take me to dinner.”
“Oh yeah?” I didn’t like that, but Quinn was a big boy, and I wasn’t going to rain on his parade.
He frowned and turned back to the phone. “I’m here with my husband, Mr. Finchley. … Yes, that’s what I said. ... I see. One moment, please.” He covered the phone again. “You’re invited too.”
“You should have told him I was your bodyguard.”
That got a laugh out of him.
“We’re at loose ends tonight anyway.” We had a free night, since one of the plays Quinn had wanted us to see was sold out this entire week, so we’d planned to take in a movie instead, but his writing career was important. “We might as well let them pay for our dinner. Where are they taking us?”
“Mr. Finchley, we’d be delighted. Where should we meet you? … Ah. … What time? … Very well, we’ll expect the car at seven.” He glanced at me. “You might want to bring along the artwork for the cover. … That’s immaterial. Bring it,” he said shortly and hung up. “Bastard.”
I was rubbing off on him. “What was that about?”
“They’ve selected a cover for the book. I’d like your opinion.”
“Yeah?” I rubbed my hands together.
“And no, you won’t get to shoot anyone.”
“Spoilsport. So where
’s dinner?”
“There’s a new restaurant on Court Street in Brooklyn that’s been getting rave reviews.”
“Brooklyn? Well, at least they’re sending a car.”
“Yes. The restaurant is called 1964 Brown.”
“Uh… okay.” It sounded more like an address than a restaurant, but then there was a bar on Mass. Avenue in DC named for a sex act.
Quinn worried his lower lip. “It’s… interesting of them to do this.”
“Why wouldn’t they? You’re going to make them a ton of money, and they’ll want to keep you happy. And didn’t you tell me Dan Conroy wants to do the movie version of Mind Fuck? That’s got to give them the warm fuzzies.”
“Perhaps, but I have a feeling they’re trying to make up for the cover they wanted to foist on me.”
“Jesus. Is it that bad?”
“Trust me, it is. Hopefully, they’ve come up with a new one, which I told him to bring.”
“Yeah. I heard you. You really should have said I was your bodyguard.”
He laughed. “Now, what do you say to some breakfast? Thanks to you, I worked up quite an appetite earlier.”
“Hey, that’s my job.”
He kissed me, made sure the key card was in his pocket—I already had mine—and we headed for the stairs and the first floor.
~*~
THE CAR PICKED us up at seven. Instead of taking the FDR Drive to the Brooklyn Bridge, the driver chose to cross over into Brooklyn using the Manhattan Bridge. And of course, thanks to getting stuck in traffic, it took more than forty-five minutes to arrive at the restaurant.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” the driver apologized. “I was instructed to take that route.”
“Hmm.” Quinn observed him but didn’t say anything else.
The driver cleared his throat. “Mr. Finchley has my cell number. He’ll call me when it’s time to come get you after dinner.”
“Thank you.” Quinn got out of the car, and I followed.
We entered the little restaurant, which turned out to be the ground floor of a brownstone. The lighting was muted, but the scents of Italy—onions, garlic, oregano, basil—filled the room and were what was so important. Quinn closed his eyes, inhaled, and uttered the same small sound he made when he came. It was a good thing my trousers were on the loose side; otherwise my erection would have been visible.
We approached the hostess, who smiled at us.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome to 1964 Brown. Table for two?”
“No, we’re meeting Warren Schutt.”
“Oh yes. He hasn’t arrived just yet, but his executive assistant is here. If you’ll come this way?” She picked up two leather-bound menus and led us toward a round table covered with a checked cloth. In the center was a straw-wrapped Chianti bottle with a drip candle stuck in the neck.
The man seated there rose when he saw us approaching. He was short, shorter even than Max Futé, the WBIS’s in-house doctor, who only stood about five foot seven. Finchley wore a red bow tie, a red, white, and blue striped dress shirt, and a brown suit. His hair looked dark, probably because it was slicked back with some kind of product, and black-framed glasses perched on his nose, making his blue eyes appear pale and washed out. He topped off his appearance with a pencil-thin mustache.
He smiled, but something about it looked off. “Mr. Mann, it’s good to finally meet you.” He extended his hand to Quinn.
Quinn had told me he’d never come across Finchley when he’d been meeting with his publisher. If he hadn’t met Quinn before, how did he know which of us was which?
“And Mr. Vincent. I’ve heard a good deal about you.”
How? Quinn and I didn’t exchange glances—we’d talk about this after we returned to our suite—but I could feel tension radiate off him. I was known in the intelligence community, and I had contacts in various law enforcement agencies, but outside of that, not at all.
“If you have heard about me, then you know I prefer to sit facing the exit.” Which was the seat he had right then.
“Of course, of course. That isn’t a problem at all. I just wanted to be sure I saw you when you walked in.” He shifted over, taking a portfolio with him and propping it against the leg of his chair, and I took the seat he’d vacated.
Quinn sat to my right. He had a good view of the room.
“When can we expect Mr. Schutt?” he asked.
“I’m so sorry. Mr. Schutt won’t be able to join us.”
“Oh?” This time Quinn and I did exchange glances.
“A family matter came up unexpectedly. But I assure you I can handle any questions you may have.” A waiter approached, carrying a tray with three glasses on it, while another brought bread and appetizers. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a nice Chianti and a cold antipasti platter for our appetizer.”
“I’m sorry you went to that trouble,” Quinn said smoothly. “Mark doesn’t drink, and I’m afraid I have a very finicky palate.”
I turned to the waiter. “Do you have bottled club soda?”
“Uh… yes.”
“Quinn?”
He nodded.
“Bring two unopened bottles to the table. Thanks very much.”
“What do you want me to do with these extra glasses?” the waiter asked Finchley.
“Leave them here for me. I’ll drink them.” He had finally sat down, and his gaze went from me to Quinn and back.
“So what’s the story about the cover you were trying to get Quinn to accept?” I asked as I helped myself to a square of cheese.
“The art department was quite happy with it. As a matter of fact, we’ve had the promise of numerous sales based on it.”
“I’m not satisfied with it,” Quinn said.
Finchley frowned. “That’s immaterial.”
“Not according to Schutt,” Quinn said.
Finchley swallowed. He’d just met the Ice Man.
“Let me see the cover.” I held out my hand.
Finchley’s reluctance was obvious.
“Let me see the cover,” I repeated and waggled my fingers. “Otherwise, we’re walking out of here and contacting Quinn’s lawyers.”
“Fine.” He took a sheet of paper from the portfolio and handed it to me.
I stared at it, my jaw tense. “Are you fucking serious?” The colors were vibrant, but the images… Two figures, a male and female, were front and center, and yeah, I’d kind of expected that, but Jesus. The man was tall, muscular, shirtless, and blond. The woman, who was supposed to represent my character, was fucking short. Her tits looked ready to burst out of her bodice, and she clung to the man, looking up at him as if his presence was all that kept her from falling apart.
“I thought I was going to be shown another option.” Quinn’s mouth was in a grim line. “I already turned down this cover.” He tossed his napkin onto the table. “Let’s go, Mark.”
“You have no way to return to your hotel!”
“We’re grown-ups,” I told Finchley. “We know how to use the subway.” I pushed back my chair, about to rise.
“No, wait! You can’t—” Finchley didn’t turn scarlet from either temper or embarrassment, as I’d have expected. He turned pale. As if he was scared? “I… I beg your pardon. This is the image I was given. If, as you say, you’ve already rejected it, then obviously someone was playing an ill-conceived prank. I give you my word this will be rectified.”
“And heads will roll?” I suggested. Fear could be the result of fearing for his job. It could also be for any number of other reasons.
He glared at me but spoke to Quinn. “If that’s what it will take to keep you from reneging on the contract, then yes.”
The waiter approached, and he cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir. I have your sodas.” He placed two unopened bottles of club soda on the table. “May I… may I take your orders?”
“Give us a few moments,” Finchley said, and the waiter, looking very relieved, took off. “Please stay and have dinner. I promise I�
��ll deal with this.”
“Mark?”
“Your call, babe. You know I’m good at making bodies disappear.”
I expected Finchley to jump all over me for being overdramatic, but he fisted his right hand and nodded.
Quinn opened his menu and glanced through it. “Do you see anything that appeals to you, Mark?”
Aside from him? “Want to try the veal piccata?”
“Actually, I’d feel as if I were cheating on Raphael’s.”
That lightened the atmosphere, and we selected the veal Marsala instead.
The rest of the evening passed tolerably well. If you were willing to overlook the fact that Finchley was a corporate asshole, he wasn’t a bad dinner companion.
~*~
IT WAS ALMOST eleven by the time we returned to the Bonheur. This time the driver took us straight to the Brooklyn Bridge and from there to the FDR Drive.
“Want to stop in the Moonlight Lounge for a nightcap again?” I asked Quinn as the doorman opened the door for us. We nodded our thanks and entered the hotel.
“I think I’d rather go to bed.”
“Works for me.”
We climbed the stairs to the sixth floor and made our way down the corridor to our suite. I crouched down to examine the thread of gum I’d left sticking from the door to the jamb—something I always did when I wasn’t staying at my own place—and went still.
“It’s broken.” When we’d registered, I’d told the desk clerk we didn’t want anyone entering the room after a certain time; we didn’t need chocolates left on our pillows, and we’d deal with turning down the bed ourselves.
“Shit.”
Yeah. I drew my Llama Mini-Max from its ankle holster, and Quinn stooped to draw his own clutch piece. We might have been on our honeymoon, but we were still prepared. He backed away to give me room. We exchanged glances, and when he nodded, I swiped my key card, turned the doorknob, then flung the door open, tucked and rolled into the suite, and came up with the subcompact braced in my hand.
“Nothing to see here, folks,” I heard Quinn say. “Please move along.”
I went farther into the room, quartering it with a thorough glance, but it was empty. “Clear, Quinn,” I called. “Looks like someone left us a present.”