Once Upon a Grind (25 page)

T
HE
space was cavernous and absolutely stunning.

The archway opened on a railing-rimmed gallery. Thirty feet below me stretched the carpeted main floor of the club, an elegant expanse of marble columns, sumptuous draperies, and live flowering trees. Fifteen feet above me, large stained glass leaves, hundreds of them, were suspended from the ceiling.

The lighting in here was ingenious. The upper perimeter looked like a pinkish-blue twilight sky, which made it feel more like a piazza in Europe than an underground garage (which was what I suspected it once was). The
action
on the main floor below, however, was clearly that of a casino, with posh couples laughing and drinking around dozens of gaming tables.

Now I knew why the club's owners had hung those colorful glass sculptures. They were attempting to re-create Dale Chihuly's
Fiori di Como
, the chandelier of handblown glass blossoms that famously adorned the Bellagio.

As casually as possible, I touched my earring.

“Hello?” I quietly said then listened hard.

“Signal's good,” Franco buzzed in my ear. “What do you see?”

Pretending to scratch my nose, I covered my mouth and said: “Las Vegas meets Monte Carlo in an underground parking garage.”

“Oh, man. Watch your back.”

“I'll keep you posted.”

Lowering my hand, I moved toward a grand staircase and noticed men in evening jackets and women in slinky gowns making their way to the very same descent. I scanned the gallery and saw another archway at the far end. Clearly, the street door I'd used was not the most popular entrance to this place. I let Franco know.

“So where is the other entrance?” he asked. “On the street? Inside a building?”

“I have no idea.”

“See if you can find out.”

“I have a few other things to do first!”

“Yeah, I know, but—”

“Fine, when I exit, I'll go through the
other
archway.”

“Copy that.”

Down on the main floor, I strolled around fragrant flowering potted trees, abstract sculptures, and gaming tables, mostly card games with one crowded roulette wheel and a raucous craps table.

The far end displayed a wide doorway to a quietly elegant baccarat room, which clearly had much higher stakes. Security guards flanked that entrance, and I steered clear of it. I noticed a billiard room, also flanked by guards, and at least three games of serious poker going on in there. Mostly men—and cigar smoke.

As I walked along, pretending to mingle, I heard a few different languages—French, Japanese, broken English, and a lot of Russian along with some Mandarin (that or Cantonese, I wasn't sure). The looks I was getting, however, needed no translation. Men openly raked my curves, some giving me nods and smiles—the kind a chef would give a butcher showing off a fresh cut of meat. Some of the women gave me the once-over, too, but no smiles.

I continued searching.

“She's not on the gaming floor,” I whispered to Franco. “I'm going to check out the lounges.”

“How many are there?”

“Three . . .”

Each was set off by a wide decorative archway with different motifs: one glistening in metallic silver, one sparkling with LED diamonds, and another with gold leaf.

Eeny, meeny, miny . . .

I entered the closest one, which was also the loudest and most crowded of the three. Machine-age silver was the clear theme here—everything was Art Deco, including the railings wrapping around the dance floor, the metal sculptures, and mirrored chandeliers.

As I pushed into the crowded space, another theme stuck me that had nothing to do with art movements.

“Are you in the lounge?” Franco asked. “What's it like?”

“An international frat boy party . . .”

Amid a deafening pounding of French disco music, shrieks of laughter erupted all over the room. Men of every race were behaving badly with beautiful party girls riotously amused by their shenanigans.

An Italian soccer star squeezed two young women to him while his forgotten buddy was passed out on his chair. A man I recognized as a deputy police commissioner was groping his female companion, who was most definitely not his wife.

In one corner two Japanese businessmen had drunkenly stripped down to underwear bunched up to look like Sumo pants. Tables were moved and they wrestled to cheers from the others.

At a corner booth a girl was dancing suggestively on the table, with a pair of Middle Eastern men puffing on a hookah and politely clapping.

A long, mirrored bar stretched across one side of the room. Caught in the rocky sea of laughing, dancing,
groping
men—
ouch!
—and mostly inebriated women, I lunged for an empty barstool like a lifeline from the Coast Guard.

Wishing I were back in Queens, sharing Bosnian coffee with a poor but civilized livery driver, I ordered champagne and asked the young male model of a bartender an innocent question—

“What's up with these Silver, Gold, and Diamond lounges?”

His plastic smile fell. “You don't know?”

I shrugged. “I'm new here.”

The frowned deepened into a look of hard suspicion. “Wait right there,” he said. “Don't move.”

But when he moved away, so did I—and fast. On my bumpy way to the exit, I downed my expensive champagne (for courage) and set the empty flute on one of the tables ringing the dance floor. Bad move. The man sitting there thought I was making an overture.

“Ciao, bella!”
the red-faced Romeo exclaimed, grabbing me around the waist and pulling me onto his lap. “Dance with me!”

The crowded dance floor was steps away, but he didn't bother getting up. The type of dancing he wanted was the kind you do sitting down.

“No, thanks!”
I insisted—in three languages. He pretended not to understand. Then his big hands began moving north of my Mason-Dixon Line, and I threw civility to the wind, along with the contents of the glass on a passing waiter's tray.

Romeo was not pleased to have his martini shaken (not stirred) right into his face, and he let me know it. Jumping to his feet, he called me the most vulgar things in Italian. We were both standing now, but I couldn't get away. He was gripping my wrist during this tongue-lashing, hard enough for me to prepare a good swift kick when the waiter swept in with a linen napkin.

“My fault, sir, my fault,” he gallantly insisted as he patted the man down.

The move was smooth, breaking Romeo's grip. Now the big man focused his abuse on the poor waiter, a baby-faced Latino man no more than an inch or so taller than I, but head and shoulders above his abuser in dignity.

After Romeo stormed off, I thanked the waiter sincerely for the rescue.

He blinked at me, practically in shock. “You are quite welcome,” he said, as if no one had ever bothered to thank him before, at least not in this club.

As we spoke, a pair of German businessmen traded beer shots while a colleague entertained their dates by juggling cocktail glasses. Then someone's fedora whizzed by us like a Frisbee.

The waiter leaned close. “Forgive me, but are you sure Silver is the right room for you?”

At last, a compadre!

“Silver is for hookups,” he explained in my ear. “It's a big party. Men and women here are looking for short-term fun. If they hit it off, they move to Diamond.”

“And what is Diamond?”

“Diamonds are a girl's best friend.” He shrugged. “Men in the Diamond Room are usually older. They are looking for a longer-term girlfriend experience but not necessarily marriage. You know . . .”

“Mistresses?”

He nodded. “And Gold—”

“Gold bands of marriage?”

“That's right. Gold is for matches. Men and women who are wanting a partner in marriage.”

After thanking the waiter again and asking for directions to the restroom, I moved back onto the main floor and took another look at those handblown glass leaves suspended above me.

Whoever put this club together wasn't just making a metaphor about love and marriage. They were re-creating Anya's favorite folktale,
The Secret Ball
—

Twelve princesses wishing to dance all night slip away through a trap door in their bedroom floor, passing through an enchanted grove with trees of silver, gold, and diamonds.

I took a deep breath and moved with anxiety toward the restroom.

While the ball sounded glorious enough, the secret kept by those fairy-tale princesses ended up costing lives; and if I was found out before I found Leila Quinn Reynolds, this little masquerade could very well cost me mine.

P
OSH
potties were nothing new in this town, but I'd never seen a restroom like this. While the perfumed stalls were as elegant as the Waldorf's, the adjacent mirrored area looked less like a ladies' lounge than the communal dressing room of a Fashion Week runway show.

Wingless fairy godmothers in pink smocks worked on a half-dozen female club members who needed stains removed, buttons resewn, or hair demussed. When one of the smocked godmothers gestured for me to take a padded chair in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, I gratefully sat.

Lying low for fifteen minutes was a smart idea. That Gestapo bartender was clearly suspicious of my membership status; and besides, Romeo's lap dancing had left my hair a fright and my nose in need of serious fairy dusting.

I tried eavesdropping on the multilingual “chatter” around me but didn't hear more than global anxieties over running stockings and broken nail tips.

“Did I miss something?” Franco buzzed in my ear. “Sounds like you left the club and dropped into a hair salon.”

“I'm reglamming.”

“Clock's ticking,” he reminded me, but needn't have bothered.

As my beauty godmother redid my makeup and hot-curled my locks into cover girl smoothness, I spied my target coming through the restroom door.

Catwalking like the lingerie model she once was, Mike Quinn's ex-wife sashayed her chic figure toward the bathroom stalls.

“Well, well, well,” I whispered, “of all the powder rooms in all the towns, in all the world, it looks like she just walked into mine . . .”

“Guess you were right,” Franco admitted. “Good hunch. And good luck . . .”

Counting the minutes, I waited until Leila's off-the-bony-shoulder gown glided into the lounge area. Her money green skirt was slit high to show off her brand-new pedicure in designer stiletto sandals, and her auburn locks were tightly slicked into a cheek-lift-worthy twist. Gazing into the mirror, she studied her dominatrix 'do then inspected every line and curve of her delicately sculpted face for the crime of imperfection.

Disdainfully waving off a pink-smocked lady, she began the delicate task of touching up her own expertly applied makeup—until she saw my reflection looming in the glass.

“Good evening,” I said. “I have a few questions . . .”

The woman whipped her head toward me so fast she streaked her entire right cheek with lipstick. Quietly cursing, she clawed for a nearby box of tissues and began furiously swiping off the high-end war paint.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed.

“I told you. I need a few questions answered.”

“You're not a member. I'll have you thrown out!”

“This is Anya's key,” I calmly replied. “If you turn me in, I'll tell them you sold it to me. Then they'll throw you out, too. Is that what you want?”

Like an overtaxed computer, Leila froze. This was my chance. Grabbing her arm, I yanked the bewildered beauty queen toward a corner of the lounge. The branches of a potted tree gave us cover, its tart lemons hanging down. Rebooting her disdain, Leila crossed her slender arms and glared at me as if she'd sucked on one.

“You have five minutes,” she spat. “What do you want to know?”

“How do you know Anya? Did you meet her through this club?”

“Oh, please. I only recently rejoined. And Anya was too naïve for this place. She wanted out.”

“Why?”

“She thought she'd find her Prince Charming here, but girls from her background don't get princes, they get sugar daddies. She played the game for a little while, but she got disillusioned and decided to cash in her chips.”

“Until someone did it for her. Who drugged her?”

“I have no idea.”

“Because it was
you
?”

“Me?! Absolutely not! Why would I drug that poor girl?”

“I've had a look around. These women aren't Girl Scouts. They're hard rivals for men with money. Maybe Anya and you were after the same sugar daddy.”

“That's ridiculous for more reasons than I can list.”

“Well, you better list a few because I'm prepared to give you up to the police.”

(Okay, so I was bluffing, but rattling the woman appeared to work.)

“Anya was never my rival,” Leila quickly insisted. “I'm here strictly for Gold while Anya wanted money without matrimony. She was a Diamond girl. Not me. In the circles I travel in, I need a legit husband.”

“Don't you have one?”

“Had.” Leila glanced away. “Humphrey's become enamored with some tarty business associate.” She waved her French tips. “Whatever. I'm done with him, too. Unfortunately, the prenuptial agreement he made me sign is a joke.” She quoted me the arrangement. “So I'm in the market for a new match, one that will make life as easy as possible for me and my children.”

“You make it sound like a transaction.”

“Oh, please. When you get down to it, that's all relationships are.”

I didn't agree, but I wasn't here to debate her personal philosophy—except in one matter.
“Most of the men in this club appear to be foreign nationals.”

“So?”

“So if you marry one of them, at some point in the future, he may take you and Mike's children to another country. You can't do that to him.”

“I'll do what I must for my needs.”

Her needs?
It took some control on my part not to laugh in her face. Leila's prearranged split settlement left her an annual figure that was twice my salary. Then again “needs” had a flexible definition for a woman who was raised with money and wished to maintain a “respectable address” with a regimen of day spa beauty treatments, lavish vacations, and a closet full of designer togs.

“Like I said, Anya was a Silver and Diamond girl, and I'm here only when I have an invitation for a match date in the Gold Room. Tonight I'm meeting with a very polite older gentleman from Abu Dhabi.”

I couldn't believe my ears. “You want Jeremy and Molly to grow up in the Arab Emirates?! Mike would never agree to that!”

“When and if it comes to that,
Mike and I
will deal with it. Not
you
. As for Anya, it's clear enough who drugged her, and you can tell the police that.”

“Oh, really? Then you better tell me first.”