There were two stools open at the end of the bar. Nicci and Jessica sat down. Kilbane stood. Within a few moments, the bartender approached.
“Good evening,” the bartender said.
“Yeah. How ya doin’?” Kilbane replied.
“Quite well, sir.”
Kilbane leaned forward. “Dante around?”
The bartender gave him a stony look. “Who?”
“Mr. Diamond.”
The bartender half-smiled, as if to say:
Better.
He was in his late fifties, trim and savvy, manicured nails. He wore a royal blue satin vest and crisp white shirt. He had the look of many years behind the mahogany. He placed a trio of napkins on the bar. “Mr. Diamond isn’t in tonight.”
“Do you expect him?”
“Impossible to say,” the bartender said. “I’m not his social secretary.” The man locked eyes with Kilbane, communicating that this line of questioning was over. “What can I get for you and the young ladies?”
They ordered. A coffee for Jessica, a Diet Coke for Nicci, and a double bourbon for Kilbane. If Kilbane thought he was going to drink all night on the city’s dime, he was mistaken. The drinks arrived. Kilbane turned to face the dining room. “This place has really hit the fucking skids,” he said.
Jessica wondered by what criteria a lowlife like Eugene Kilbane judged something like that.
“I see a few people I know. I’m gonna ask around,” Kilbane added. He drained his bourbon in one gulp, straightened his tie, and walked into the dining room.
Jessica looked around the room. There were a few middle-aged couples in the dining room whom she had a hard time believing had anything to do with the business. The Tresonne did, after all, advertise in
City Paper, Metro, The Report,
and other venues. But for the most part, the clientele was hard-looking men in their fifties and sixties— pinkie rings, collar bars, monogrammed cuffs. It looked like a waste-management convention.
Jessica glanced to her left. One of the men at the bar had been ogling her and Nicci since they sat down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smooth his hair and spritz his breath. He ambled over.
“Hi,” he said to Jessica, smiling.
Jessica turned to look at the man, giving him the obligatory twice-over. He was about sixty. Sea-foam rayon shirt, beige polyester sport coat, tinted steel-rimmed aviator glasses. “Hi,” she said.
“I understand you and your friend are actresses.”
“Where did you hear that?” Jessica asked.
“You have that look.”
“What look is that?” Nicci asked, smiling.
“Theatrical,” he said. “And very beautiful.”
“It just so happens we are.” Nicci laughed, tossed her hair. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m a film producer.” Seemingly out of nowhere, he produced a pair of business cards. Werner Schmidt. Lux Productions. New Haven, Connecticut. “I’m casting a new full-length feature. High-def digital. Woman on woman.”
“Sounds interesting,” Nicci said.
“Hell of a script. The writer went to USC film school for a semester.”
Nicci nodded, feigning deep attention.
“But before I say anything else, I have to ask you something,” Werner added.
“What?” Jessica asked.
“Are you police officers?”
Jessica flicked a glance at Nicci. She looked back. “Yes,” she said. “Both of us. We’re detectives on an undercover sting.”
Werner looked slapped for a second, like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. Then he burst into laughter. Jessica and Nicci laughed with him. “That was good,” he said. “That was really fucking good. I like that.”
Nicci couldn’t leave it alone. She was a pistol. Full mag. “We’ve met before, right?” she asked.
Werner looked even more encouraged now. He pulled in his stomach, stood a little straighter. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“You ever work with Dante?”
“Dante Diamond?” he asked with hushed reverence, as if uttering the name
Hitchcock
or
Fellini.
“Not yet, but Dante is a class act. Great organization.” He turned and pointed to a woman sitting at the end of the bar. “Paulette has made a number of films with him. Do you know Paulette?”
It sounded like a test. Nicci played it cool. “Never had the pleasure,” she said. “Please invite her over for a drink.”
Werner was off like a shot. The prospect of standing around the bar with three women was a dream come true. In a moment he was back with Paulette, a bottle brunette around forty. Kitten heels, leopard dress. Thirty-eight DD.
“Paulette St. John, this is . . .”
“Gina and Daniela,” Jessica said.
“Pleased, I’m sure,” Paulette said. Jersey City. Maybe Hoboken.
“What are you drinking?” Jessica asked.
“Cosmo.”
Jessica ordered for her.
“We’re trying to locate a guy named Bruno Steele,” Nicci said.
Paulette smiled. “I know Bruno. Big dick, can’t spell
ignorant.
”
“That’s him.”
“Haven’t seen him in years,” she said. Her drink arrived. She sipped it delicately, like a lady. “Why are you looking for Bruno?”
“A friend is casting a film,” Jessica said.
“There are lots of guys around. Younger guys. Why him?”
Jessica noticed that Paulette was weaving a bit, slurring her words. Still, she had to be careful with her response. One wrong word and they could be shut out. “Well, for one thing, he’s got the right look. Plus, the film is hard S and M, and Bruno knows when to pull back.”
Paulette nodded. Been there, felt that.
“Loved his work in
Philadelphia Skin,
” Nicci said.
At the mention of the movie, Werner and Paulette looked at each other. Werner opened his mouth, as if to stop a Paulette from saying anything further, but Paulette continued. “I remember that crew,” she said. “Of course, after the
incident,
nobody really wanted to work together again.”
“What do you mean?” Jessica asked.
Paulette looked at her as if she were crazy. “You don’t know about what happened on that shoot?”
Jessica flashed on the scene in
Philadelphia Skin
where the girl opened the door.
Those sad, haunted eyes.
She took a chance, asked. “Oh, you mean with that little blonde?”
Paulette nodded, sipped her drink. “Yeah. That was fucked
up.
”
Jessica was just about to press her when Kilbane returned from the men’s room, pink with purpose. He got in between them, leaned into the bar. He turned to Werner and Paulette. “Could you excuse us for a sec?”
Paulette nodded. Werner held up both hands. He wasn’t going to take anyone’s play. They both retreated to the end of the bar. Kilbane turned back to Nicci and Jessica.
“I’ve got something,” he said.
When someone like Eugene Kilbane comes rushing out of a men’s room with a statement like that, the possibilities are endless, and all unsavory. Instead of speculating, Jessica asked: “What?”
He leaned closer. It was clear he had just splashed on more cologne. A
lot
more cologne. Jessica nearly gagged. Kilbane whispered: “The crew that made
Philadelphia Skin
is still in town.”
“And?”
Kilbane raised his glass, rattled the cubes. The bartender poured him a double. If the city was paying, he was drinking. Or so he thought. Jessica would cut him off after this one.
“They’re shooting a new movie tonight,” he finally said. “Dante Diamond is directing it.” He gulped his drink, put the glass down. “And we’re invited.”
48
AT JUST AFTER TEN O’CLOCK, THE MAN FOR WHOM BYRNE WAS waiting rounded the corner, a thick ring of keys in his hand.
“Hey, how ya doin’?” Byrne asked, cap brim pulled low, eyes hidden.
The man found him in the dim light, a little startled. He saw the PDW jumpsuit and relaxed. A little. “What’s up, chief?”
“Same crap, different diaper.”
The man snorted. “Tell me about it.”
“You guys got any problems with the water pressure up there?” Byrne asked.
The man glanced at the bar, then back. “Not that I know of.”
“Well, we got the call and they sent me,” Byrne said. He glanced at the clipboard. “Yeah, this is the right place. Mind if I take a look at the pipes?”
The man shrugged, glanced down the steps to the access door that led to the cellar underneath the building. “Ain’t my pipes, ain’t my problem. Help yourself, bro.”
The man walked down the rusting iron steps, unlocked the door. Byrne glanced up and down the alley, then followed.
The man flipped on the light— a bare 150-watt bulb in a metal mesh cage. In addition to the dozens of stacked upholstered bar stools, disassembled tables, and stage props were maybe a hundred cases of liquor.
“Holy
crap,
” Byrne said. “I could stay down here for a while.”
“Between you and me, this is all shit. The good stuff is locked in my boss’s office upstairs.”
The man pulled a pair of boxes off a stack, set them down by the door. He consulted a computer readout in his hand. He began to count some of the boxes that were left. He made a few notes.
Byrne put the toolbox down, quietly shut the door behind him. He assessed the man in front of him. The man was a little bit younger, without question faster. But Byrne had something he didn’t. The element of surprise.
Byrne flicked the baton out, stepped from the shadow. The
snick
of the baton reaching its full length caught the man’s attention. He turned to Byrne, a questioning look on his face. It was too late. Byrne swung the twenty-one-inch tactical steel rod as hard as he could. It caught the man perfectly, just below the right knee. Byrne heard the cartilage rip. The man barked once, then crumbled to the floor.
“What the . . .
Jesus
!”
“Shut up.”
“Fuck . . . you.” The man began to rock, holding his knee. “Mother
fucker.
”
Byrne pulled the SIG. He dropped onto Darryl Porter with all his weight. Both knees on the man’s chest, two-hundred-plus pounds. The blow knocked the air out of Porter. Byrne pulled off his ball cap. Recognition alit on Porter’s face.
“You,”
Porter said between gasps. “I fuckin’ . . .
knew
I knew you from somewhere.”
Byrne held up the SIG. “I’ve got eight rounds in here. Nice even number, am I right?”
Darryl Porter just glared.
“Now, I want you to think about how many things you have on your body that comes in pairs, Darryl. I’m going to start with your ankles, and every time you fail to answer my question, another pair is mine. And you
know
where I’m heading with this.”
Porter gasped for air. Byrne’s weight on his chest didn’t help.
“Here we go, Darryl. These are the most important moments of your rotten, pointless life. No second chances. No makeup exams. Ready?”
Silence.
“Question one: Did you tell Julian Matisse I was looking for him?”
Cold defiance. This guy was way too tough for his own good. Byrne put the barrel against the Porter’s right ankle. Upstairs, the music pounded.
Porter squirmed, but the weight on his chest was too much. He couldn’t move. “You’re not gonna fucking
shoot
me,” Porter yelled. “You know why? You know how I know that? I’m gonna
tell
you how I know that, motherfucker.” His voice was high and crazy. “You’re not gonna shoot me because—”
Byrne shot him. The blast was deafening in this small confined space. Byrne hoped the music covered it. Either way, he knew he had to wrap this up fast. The bullet had only grazed Porter’s ankle, but Porter was way too jazzed to know that. He was sure Byrne had blown his foot off. He screamed again. Byrne put the barrel of the weapon against Porter’s temple.