by Cleo Coyle
The limo halted in front of a driveway until there was a break in the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk, then it veered into a dark, narrow alley lined with garbage cans and dumpsters, a stream of brackish water running down the middle of the cobblestone surface. We stopped in front of a brick wall bearing the flaking remnants of a hand-painted sign, part of a fifty-year-old billboard hawking “Gansevoort Hams, Bacon, and other Quality Pork Products.”
The driver stepped out and opened the door from the outside. Tiny’s strong hand closed over my upper arm and he pushed me forward. I gripped my evening clutch as my heels hit the stone street. In the alley’s dim light, other senses took over. Smell, for one. Rotting garbage, mildew, and urine surrounded me. Lovely.
It would be a horrid place to die, and I considered trying to break free of Tiny’s grip, kicking off my heels and running back to the crowded sidewalk. But even if I made it out of his grasp, I doubted I would get more than a few feet before he grabbed me again, or worse—
Did he have a gun? I suddenly wondered. If I tried to run, would he shoot me in the back?
While I pondered these charming possibilities, Tiny and his partner, who was short and wiry like my father but barely in his thirties and wearing a penny-dreadful moustache, led me to an anonymous steel door unmarked and undistinguished, except by layers and layers of graffiti that covered every inch of its surface. A kind of industrial throbbing sounded from the other side of the portal, as if gigantic engines were constantly turning inside the brick building.
Tiny continued to clutch my arm as he banged the door with one massive hand, his pinky ring clacking loudly against the metal. A bolt was thrown, and the door yawned. From the opening, a ghastly lavender florescent hue illuminated the gloom and a pounding wall of techno dance music washed over me.
A dark shape framed by the light came into view. I could feel the man’s eyes studying me, then my abductors.
“Yo, Virgil, it’s us,” said Tiny.
The silhouette in the doorway nodded, then backed up to admit us. Tiny pushed me over the threshold, and in the lavender light I saw that the man guarding the door was draped head to toe in a finely tailored ebony suit. Pale green eyes locked with mine.
“Welcome to the Inferno,” he said without smiling.
The space I entered seemed massive, yet most of its size was lost in dark shadows. To my right was an island of light where a neon bar served up cocktails to a handful of languid lounge lizards.
“This way,” said Tiny, pushing me toward a long inclined ramp that led down to the next level. The floor was concrete, with tall wooden barricades on either side. I realized with a start that I was following the livestock chute. Cattle, pigs, or sheep once ran down this very concrete slope to the slaughter. I hoped I wasn’t following in their hoofprints.
At the bottom of the ramp a wooden gate blocked our progress. Tiny looked up and I followed his stare—surprised to see a man in a leather apron and chaps standing on a wooden platform suspended above us. He gripped a large sledgehammer with both hands, the muscles on his hairy arms rippling against its weight.
“Where is he?” Tiny asked the gatekeeper.
“The Fourth Circle,” the man with the hammer called back. “And watch what you say. He’s in a real pissed-off mood.”
A loud clatter sudden enough to make me jump, and the wooden gate rose. Beyond it only a long concrete hallway illuminated by indigo neon tubes lining the floor, the walls, the ceiling. At the end of that corridor I spied black curtains, heard music and voices from the other side. A pornographic mural on the wall announced in elaborate script that we were now among the “Lustful.”
Beyond the veil, there was a vast area filled to capacity with boisterous partygoers—young, attractive, and affluent, with a smattering of older men and women, sugar daddies and mommies no doubt. The dance floor was large, but not especially user friendly. All the walls and floor were covered with square white tiles, the ceiling crisscrossed with lead pipes and stark aluminum vents; disco and laser lighting scattered about, bathing the revelers in hues of light and dark crimson.
I noticed drains covered by cast iron grates on the gently sloped floor, once used to dispose of the blood and offal of slaughtered animals. On the walls hung bone saws and carving knives. Blades dangled Damocles-like over the dancers. Smoke wafting through the space told me New York City’s rigorous antismoking laws were being only technically enforced—i.e., there was plenty of smoking going on, but none of it smelled like tobacco.
Running along the walls, stainless steel meat-cutting tables doubled for bar space, with a well-stocked raw bar replacing raw meat, and perfectly mixed Bloody Marys substituted for the gore that once pooled here.
It took a few minutes for Tiny and his silent partner to lead me through the throng to the opposite side of the dance floor. We passed a long bar made of glass bricks, illuminated from within by a sanguine red glow. Near the ladies room, I was shown a spiral staircase of heavy cast iron.
“Down you go, lady,” shouted Tiny over the throbbing music.
At the bottom of the stairs, I found myself in a dimly lit, brick-lined basement. Tiny stopped in his tracks, then pointed to a door with a sign that read STAFF ONLY, KEEP OUT.
“In you go. He’s waiting…”
I blinked, not moving. “You’re not coming?” I asked.
“What? You suddenly miss me now?”
“I want my cell phone back,” I said stubbornly.
Tiny rolled his eyes, reached into his leather jacket and pulled out the phone. He flipped it open and checked the display. Then he closed the phone again, and tossed it at me. I caught it with both hands. A glance told me I would get no signal this far underground, so a call for help was out of the question.
“Now get in there,” Tiny barked, slapping my fanny.
Yikes. While I pushed my way through the door, Tiny and the other man turned and climbed back up the spiral staircase. In front of me was a dimly lit room about the size of a small garage. Three old brick walls were completely covered with gold-framed oil paintings of lounging and posed women, dressed in fashions from periods over the last five hundred or so years. The fourth wall was covered with about a dozen flat-paneled TV screens; four were playing high-fashion runway shows, four were playing financial news including stock tickers scrolling data from the Nikkei and the other international exchanges, and the rest were playing news broadcasts from several different countries. All had the sound off.
Background music flowed from an invisible source—not the techno dance beat continuing to pound upstairs, but a retro mix of big bold brass and sax with violins and electric guitar in the back of it. The music was surreally familiar and I suddenly realized why—it was a track from one of the James Bond movies, which Matt had been pretty much obsessed with back in his twenties.
Whatever the floor had been, it clearly had been replaced by new parquet. A huge leopard skin throw rug covered it and mountains of large silk and embroidered pillows had been heaped on top. Antique chairs rimmed the outer edges of the walls and standing glass shelves held an array of red and white wines, colorful liqueurs, and hard liquor.
Two people were immediately evident, and at my abrupt entrance a man lounging on a pile of pillows and watching one of the stock ticker screens turned his head toward me. I saw the bleached hair and knew at once it was Bryan Goldin. Beside him, a beautiful Japanese woman in a bright yellow kimono, with loose, long black hair, gently stroked his neck with small, delicate hands.
From another pile of pillows, next to a large, elaborately filigreed Moroccan hooka pipe, another figure stirred. His arms were wrapped in the finest Egyptian silk, his long legs were encased in pen jeans, his feet in Bruno Magli leather loafers. Like a spider, the man slowly uncurled himself and rose to face me.
I hadn’t seen his image many times in my life, but I recognized him now. Having just seen his younger face, I’d knew he’d once been strikingly handsome, but obviously no Dorian Gray portrait o
f this guy was aging in some secret vault because the man looked old beyond his years—and it occurred to me that the roadmap of creases he now displayed probably did trace the dissolute excesses of his years.
Appropriately eccentric for the international fashion scene, the man sported small silver loops in each of his ears, and his hair, once dark and wavy, now hung in a long, gray braid down his back. The conventional features of his once common life had obviously been obliterated for the expected affectations of a more famous one. With curious, intense eyes he stared at me but didn’t approach.
“You’ve been asking a lot of questions about me, Ms. Cosi.”
“Good evening, Fen. Or should I call you Mr. Goldin?”
An intrigued gray eyebrow arched. “Actually I’m still Stephen Goldin, of Goldin Associates, though few connect my financial endeavors with my line of apparel. While I try to keep a foot in two worlds, I do like to keep them separate.”
“You didn’t have to kidnap me to have a meeting,” I replied. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for days.”
“You and that tiresome detective, Quinn.” Fen waved his hand. “I have little time for such nonsense during Fashion Week.”
“There was time enough to grab me off the street, though.”
Fen chuckled. “Were you surprised by my associates?”
“Oh, no. In fact, I think I’ve seen them before—as extras on The Sopranos.”
“Some things are unavoidable, Ms. Cosi. I design and make my clothing here in America, and you know what that means. Those men…my associates…they help me avoid strikes and other union problems. They are useful in other areas as well.”
“Like kidnapping?”
“Like acquiring this place…I purchased it for a song from an entertainment entrepreneur who had an unfortunate gambling addiction, and was prone to borrowing money from the wrong men…”.
“Loan sharks, you mean. Your associates? How are they at poisoning people?” I shot a sharp glance at Bryan. He gave me a Billy Idol sneer.
Fen sighed. “Now you’re being tiresome.”
“Oh, am I? Then listen to this. I know you were Lottie Toratelli’s lover twenty years ago. I also know that you slept with Lottie’s sister during the same period, and that Mona ended up prematurely dead.”
Fen looked past me, gestured to his nephew. Bryan Goldin jumped to his feet and fetched a French Provincial chair from the corner. A matching chair came by way of the Japanese woman in the yellow kimono.
“Sit, Ms. Cosi. You have suddenly become interesting again.” I sank down, and Fen sat opposite me. He crossed his long legs and leaned toward me. “I had absolutely nothing to do with Mona Toratelli’s death. Nothing.”
Bryan Goldin appeared again and set a delicate carved table between us. The Japanese woman brought us a bottle of plum wine and two crystal glasses. Then she and Bryan Goldin slipped into the shadows of the room, appearing to vanish.
Fen picked up the bottle. While he poured the dark purple liquid into his glass, I examined my own—ran my finger inside it and sniffed. He laughed at me, a mirthless bark. “If I had wanted to poison you, Ms. Cosi, I wouldn’t have brought you to my club to do it. And I certainly wouldn’t be pouring us both drinks from the same bottle.”
I raised an eyebrow as he took the glass from my fingers and poured me a drink. “To your health,” he said, handing my glass back to me and raising his own. I watched him take a healthy swallow.
My lips were dry, my mouth parched. Needing something to calm my rattled nerves, I carefully sipped my own drink, detecting no taste of almonds or bitterness. The only two things that registered were the sweetness and the strength of the alcohol.
“Please, tell me more,” said Fen, taking another sip from his glass. “What else do you know about me—or think you do?”
I took a second sip of the sweet wine, then another before I spoke.
“I know you tried to force Rena Garcia and Tad Benedict to sell you their shares in Lottie Harmon,” I began. “I also know how you entrapped Rena in a fashion design knockoff scheme, blackmailed her, and threatened to expose her unless she sold you her shares. You even waited to make the threat until she and Tad were officially engaged so you could pull him in as well. A two-for-one, so to speak.”
Fen’s left eye twitched. I took it as a victory and pressed ahead. “I know Tad and Rena tried to outmaneuver you by selling their shares to other investors—in an effort to help Lottie retain control of her company. Poor Rena obviously died because she was trying to protect her boss.”
“Rena was a greedy little fool, Ms. Cosi, but I had nothing to do with her death, either. I was as shocked by the news as anyone.”
“Nice try. But I don’t believe you.”
Fen slammed the table with his fist. “Then you are a stupid woman. Her death has thrown her estate into legal limbo. Rena Garcia died without a will. Now I can’t touch those stocks—nobody can. Not until the legal mess is worked out.”
Fen leaned back. Forcing self-control, he coolly crossed his legs again. “So you see, Ms. Garcia’s death in no way benefits me.”
I still wasn’t convinced, but I let the subject drop. “So what were you saying about control of the Lottie Harmon label?” I asked, continuing to boost my nerve by gulping down more of the plum wine.
“Not the Lottie Harmon label. I don’t give a damn about that. I want control of Lottie.”
So, I thought, Madame had been right. “You’re still in love with her.”
Fen sighed and glanced away, his gaze raking the wall of gilded oil paintings, women posed in empire waists and velvet gowns, Elizabethan collars and powdered wigs, hoop skirts and floor-length furs. “She was addictive, back then,” he said softly. “Intense. Soft and sensual, but dangerous too. Tempestuous and totally unpredictable. Like a psychotropic drug. I’ve had countless women since her, but I’ve never met one whom I could feel even a fraction as strongly about. I want her back in my bed, you see?”
“And you’re a man who gets what he wants?”
Fen shrugged.
It was sad, really. Fen’s memories of the wildly sensual Lottie just didn’t add up to the somewhat restrained woman I knew Lottie to be now. Clearly, the woman had changed over the past twenty years, but Fen hadn’t noticed—or didn’t want to.
I didn’t know much about this Fen/Stephen Goldin character sitting across from me. Maybe the man lived his life in a succession of obsessions and Lottie was just the latest. Or maybe middle-age panic had recently kicked in and regrets were making him yearn desperately for something that simply didn’t exist anymore—if it ever did. He certainly wouldn’t be the first person to idealize a past relationship to make up for a present emptiness.
I set the glass down on the intricately carved table with a loud clink, and realized this particular plum wine was much more powerful than any I’d ever consumed. “Those feelings,” I said, a little woozy, “I suspect they all came back for you when Lottie contacted you again after all these years?”
Fen nodded as he refilled my glass. “Lottie was finished when she walked away all those years ago—from her business and me. She’d been washed up for decades. This new line of hers, the java jewelry thing, it was interesting and commercially viable—if wholly conventional. But I saw it could be lucrative. Like something Isaac might produce for Target. Or David Mintzer for the Bullseye stores—”
My jaw dropped. David Mintzer. Good lord, I thought, that’s who I’d been talking to at the Pierre Hotel, one of the most successful clothing designers in the industry. Mintzer owned two restaurant chains; three magazines; and lines of clothes, handbags, shoes, fragrances, and bath products; plus exclusive product lines just for the Bullseye chain of mass merchandisers. For god’s sake, Clare, the man regularly appears on Oprah, and you didn’t even recognize him!
I took another swig of the plum wine as Fen continued to talk. “I knew I could help sell Lottie’s collection, of course, so I helped her, expecting she’d want to beco
me involved with me again—but she’s kept me at arm’s length for over a year now, and I’ve run out of patience.”
Then why are you trying to kill her? I wondered. Clearly, it didn’t add up. About then, the room began to spin. “So what’s the big deal, Fenny?” I found myself babbling. “Woo her. Win her. Marry her even—just like everybody else.”
“You don’t understand. She wants nothing to do with me. The past is still alive for her as it is for me. But Lottie only remembers the hurt I inflicted on her, not the ecstasy we shared. Now with her line a success, I fear she may soon not even need our business relationship. And I’m not taking the chance she’ll disappear on me again. I have the power to take over what means the most to her—so I will. Then I’ll have power over her, too, you see?”
“No, I don’t see. If you cared so much for Lottie all those years ago, then why the hell did you sleep with her sister?”
Instead of answering my question, Fen rose. He seemed taller now as he loomed over me. I looked up, startled as I realized the ceiling was a stylized mirror—inside it I saw the reflections of the oil paintings that covered three of the room’s four walls.
“My god, look at them,” I murmured, “all those women…” The room spun faster, and I couldn’t seem to control my tongue. “Oh, wait. Now I get it!” I cried, a tad too loudly. “This club of yours is called the Inferno because it’s Dante’s hell, and we’re in the Fourth Circle—the circle of the hoarders. You hoard women, Fen. You’re a hoarder!” I was now shaking my finger at the man like a scolding little nun.
He stared at me with pure disgust. “You have grown tiresome again. I would like you to leave.”
“Ha! First you kidnap me, then you throw me out. You’ve got some nerve, Fenny!” I waved my arm to emphasize my point, and knocked over the half-empty wine glass. It fell off the carved table and bounced softly off a silk pillow, staining it beyond redemption.