Icarus. (43 page)

"I'm not used to starting this late," he told her as she hopped into the cab and gave the driver an address in Tribeca.

"Hope you drank a lot of coffee because all we're going to catch right now is the early crowd. For the real players, you're going to have to stay up a little later."

On the way downtown, he gave her all the information he had on Samsonite. She didn't seem surprised at what she heard. She was more surprised when he'd finished the rundown and she looked up to find him staring at her.

"What?" she said. And then before he could answer, "Ohhh. I get it. You feel like you know me. You know all about me because of what Kid's said." When he nodded, she said, "Well, I know a lot about you, too."

"Do you?"

"All the key things, courtesy of Kid. I didn't know it was you at the time… but it was definitely you. You're disgustingly rich…"

"Oh, yes. Disgustingly."

"You went from twenty-four-percent body fat down to fourteen…"

"Twelve."

"Sick, insane Knicks fanatic…"

"Guilty."

"You've been pretty much a celibate shut-in since your wife was killed…"

Jack jerked his head up sharply. His eyes widened as he stared at her.

"Whoops," she said, when she saw his expression. "That was a fairly tasteless thing to say, wasn't it? I'm sorry."

"Is that what he said?"

"Is it true?"

Jack nodded, slowly and grimly.

"I am sorry," she said, and reached over to touch the top of his shoulder. Then: "Was it that terrible, what happened down there? Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Jack said. "I don't. And I can't."

"Kid talked about it all the time. He was obsessed with it."

"Was he?"

"He talked about you all the time, too. You were his idol."

"What I was, maybe. Not what I am now."

"I don't think so, Jack. I think he wanted to be you in any of your incarnations." She grinned, moved one finger to touch his lips to gently change his solemn expression into a smile. "Kind of spooky, isn't it?"

"What?"

"You and me. You're his idol, and if I'm the Destination, I'm his perfect woman. His two ultimate fantasies coming face-to-face, colliding in space… Didn't they do a Star Trek about that once?" The cab pulled to a stop in the middle of the block. "We're here," she said.

Jack looked out the window at the empty and silent Tribeca Street. There were a few warehouses that had not yet been converted into apartments, a few small loft buildings, one four-story office building, and that was it. No sign of activity. No hint whatsoever of any kind of club. "Here where?" he asked.

"Welcome to downtown," she told him. "Follow me."

– "-"-"SHE WENT STRAIGHT up to a heavy steel door, its old red paint barely peeking through the rust, in the middle of the block. As she rang an unmarked buzzer, Jack looked up to see a dark building with no indication of life.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?"

Grace nodded. "There's no sign."

Grace nodded again. "They don't want to be found."

"Then how do you know it's here?"

"You just know."

The buzzer sounded and Grace struggled to push the heavy door open. Jack put one hand on the door and pushed along with her. They found themselves in a dingy hallway, with a wide stairway leading up to the first floor. They climbed and when they got to the equally dingy landing, there was another door. Jack looked questioningly at Grace, who waved her hand toward it with a flourish. He rang the buzzer to the right of the hinges, the door opened, and they were greeted by a huge bouncer, one of the largest men Jack had ever seen. His eyes ran up and down Jack's body, studying him, then he glanced at Grace and nodded.

"Let's go," she said. "You passed inspection." And with a quick raised eyebrow: "Barely."

From that moment on, Jack felt as if he'd stepped onto another planet.

Everything in the after-hours club was sleek, modern, and steel. The people were just as sleek and just as steely. The place was a winding maze, filled with smoke and pounding music, packed with extraordinarily beautiful models, male and female, lounging, sitting, dancing, drinking. Flamboyant transvestites paraded back and forth. Hard bodies were everywhere and almost every body part was exposed. The lights were low and sporadic; everything and everybody looked to be hidden in shadow. Grace took his hand and led him through the maze to a back room where there were sofas and chairs, a few tables, and a long bar. Jack brushed against two women, embracing and kissing passionately, backed against a steel column. One of the women turned and glared at him, then turned back to her partner and began licking her neck.

They found two seats on a sofa near the bar, wedged in next to two men, one shirtless, both busy fondling the other. Grace leaned over and said something into Jack's ear. He waved his hand, indicating that he couldn't hear a word she was saying.

"I said, 'Having a good time?'" she yelled as loud as she could.

He shrugged and yelled, "Come here often?" and Grace nodded happily.

They stayed for two hours, each nursing two drinks, sizing up the patrons, waiting to see if anything sparked any kind of connection to Kid, keeping in mind the description of Samsonite as a singer/bartender/dealer. There were two female bartenders, both attractive, and Grace asked them both about Kid. Neither of them had ever heard of him. One of them responded, "No, but Bruce Willis was in here last week."

When Jack finally signaled that he thought they'd had enough, Grace led him back through the throng and down to the street. The neighborhood was eerily silent after the explosion of noise they'd just been immersed in, and as Jack looked back at the building, the whole experience seemed as if it were a dream, a heavy-metal Brigadoon.

"Ready for more?" Grace asked, and when he nodded, they hailed a cab on Hudson Street and headed into the West Village.

She asked the cab to stop off at an all-night deli, and when he did, she hopped out of the cab, dashed in, and returned a few moments later with a six-pack of beer. Before Jack could say anything, she said, "Just wait. You'll see," then directed the cab toward Eleventh Street, right off Tenth Avenue. There, two buildings in from the corner, was a tiny music club called B Sharp. Jack paid the ten-dollar cover charge, then they stepped into a stripped-down basement. There were maybe ten small tables, each with two or three cheap folding chairs around them and no decorations other than a few black-and-white photos of jazz musicians on the walls. To the left of the room was a long bar. But there was no bartender and no liquor bottles. Spread across the bar was an array of plastic cups. At the front of the room was a small stage, a flimsy plywood platform that could fit four or five musicians. A trio, two black guys in dark suits and ties and one white guy with a buzz cut and a Hawaiian shirt, was playing as they entered – guitar, bass, and piano. Grace grabbed two plastic cups off the bar and they settled into a table.

"No bartender here," Jack asked. "How are we-"

"Just be cool," Grace said. "Have a beer and wait awhile. It's early."

They listened to the music, which was excellent – rhythmic, subtle, and just harsh enough to fit the room and the late hour – and drank some of their beer. By three-thirty, the place was packed with people. By then, Jack had noticed several people, perhaps ten in all, had surreptitiously slipped off behind the stage and disappeared through a curtain shielding the wall at the front of the room. He looked at Grace, nodded his head questioningly toward that wall, and she glanced at her watch. She looked over at a young black man with beaded dreadlocks who was now standing behind the bar. She quickly pointed with two fingers toward the curtain and the man nodded.

"How much money do you have on you?" she asked Jack.

"Why?"

"You have five hundred dollars?"

"Probably."

"Then let's go look for Samsonite."

She stood, walked to the front of the room, and he followed. As they passed the stage, Grace held her hands in front of her and applauded and the musicians eyed her gratefully. Then she was behind the stage, slipping into the folds of the curtain, Jack right behind her.

The curtain was not directly up against a wall, as Jack had thought. There were perhaps three feet between it and the wall at that end of the room. The thin walkway smelled faintly of urine. There was one door to the right that said "Toilet." Grace went to the other door, tried to turn the knob. It didn't turn, but she waited patiently, then Jack heard a faint buzz and she tried again. This time it worked and suddenly, they were in a back room, twice as large as the music room they'd just left. There was no live music here, just quiet jazz playing on a CD. This room was even darker and it took Jack a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he saw perhaps twenty people seated in small, comfortable chairs or love seats. Most of them were smoking, both tobacco and marijuana. There was a small bar, this one reasonably well stocked with alcohol. Two women were behind the bar, one blonde, one brunette, both wearing tight jeans and tighter black T-shirts. The blonde was pouring from a bottle of bourbon. The brunette was using a paring knife to divide a small, flat plate of glimmering white cocaine.

"Come on," Jack murmured. "These places don't really exist."

Grace didn't answer. She just walked over to the bar and took a seat. He stood behind her.

"How much?" she asked the brunette.

The woman glanced up quickly, then turned her eyes back to her work. "Three hundred," she said.

Grace looked at Jack, gave him a quick nod. He reached into his pocket, pulled out three hundred-dollar bills, and handed them to her.

"To go or to stay?"

"To go. And two beers, please."

She pulled two bottles of New Amsterdam from beneath the bar. Both bottles were cold and dripping wet. The bartender twisted them open, set them down. Then she wiped her hands on a bar towel and again started separating the coke. Jack watched as she made small piles, about a gram each. When she was satisfied, she took out a baggie, scraped one of the piles cleanly into it, smoothed the powder into the bottom of the bag, folded the plastic neatly into a small square, and handed it to Grace. She then licked the tip of her finger, rubbed it down on the plate where the mound of coke had been. She held the finger out to Grace, who shook her head. The bartender shrugged, rubbed the finger across her own gums, and smiled contentedly.

"Haven't seen you for a while," she said to Grace.

Jack thought Grace squirmed a bit, but she just said, "Been traveling."

The woman said nothing in response to that, simply picked up her plate, turned, and disappeared into another room behind the bar.

"Surprised?" Grace said to Jack, without looking at him. When he didn't respond, she said, "I told you. Everyone's got secrets. This used to be one of mine."

"Used to be?"

"Mmm-mmm. I'm a working stiff now. We fast-trackers can't do this kind of thing anymore."

"I feel like I walked into some twisted version of the sixties. Or a bad Sammy Davis movie."

"Hey, drugs are big again. Coke, heroin, they're back. Even speed. You can't keep a good thing down."

"Kid used to come here?"

"I know he was here once. I brought him. I don't know if he came back, but he liked it, so he might've. I thought it was worth a try." She indicated the bartenders. "They seem like his type."

"Did he do this stuff?"

She shook her head. "The drugs? Are you kidding? Mr. Healthy Body? But he liked being around this kind of place. He thought it was exciting."

Yes, Jack thought. Christ Almighty, it was exciting. It felt sordid and wrong but it stank of danger and eroticism and Jack could already feel the atmosphere and the music seep inside his blood. He could feel his heart pumping faster and his head start to throb. It was light-years away from the confines of his restaurant, even farther from the isolation of his apartment, and it frightened him. But it was exhilarating. The same way the flash of thigh from the Mortician had been exhilarating. And the moment when the Entertainer had straddled him in her apartment. And…

He looked over at the Destination. At Grace Childress. She was watching him.

"I guess you and Kid have more in common than you thought," was all she said.

They stayed an hour, gradually drawing both bartenders into conversations. Neither of them were would-be singers. Neither of them knew Kid. And this time, when Jack took Grace's hand to lift her off the barstool and head her back to the street, that hand dug into his while her other hand lightly touched his back, and he felt his breath come hard now and heavy.

They went to two more clubs, the last one a place called Meyer's, down on the Lower East Side. It was the one Bryan had told Jack about, saying it was one of Kid's main hangouts. Both spots were dark and dominated by pulsating music, both filled with hard bodies and a sense of sexual urgency. But in neither could they find any substantive connection to Kid nor any indication that they might find the next Slash on Kid's team, Samsonite.

It was five-thirty in the morning when Jack brought Grace back to her apartment. She stepped out of the taxi, and by her lack of hesitation it was clear she expected him to get out as well. She sat down on the top step of the three-step landing that led to her building and said, "I'm sorry this didn't lead anywhere."

"It takes time. It's not a TV show where everything comes easy and works out perfectly first time around."

"Jack," she said. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Is there some reason I shouldn't?"

"Do you trust me?" she asked.

"Not entirely," he answered. "But mostly, yes."

"I was about to ask you up to my apartment. I was hoping for something a bit more positive."