Parker 04 - The Fury (29 page)

"Even if you're on the level," Shawn said, "you're

dressed like a homeless person and you have a freaking

suitcase.
I let you in, I might as well go around Central

Park inviting all the assholes sleeping on benches in."

"I didn't want to mention this," I said truthfully, "but

I know Tony Valentine."

"Valentine," Kensbrook said, trying to remember why

he knew the name. "You mean the gossip hound, right?"

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"That's the one. I work with him."

"No BS?"

I pulled out my business card, showing Shawn that

I, like Tony Valentine, worked at the
New York Gazette.

Shawn eyed the card, his head clearly filling with the

possibility of getting a good plug in the gossip pages.

Of course, I had as much intent of talking to Tony

Valentine as I did to O.J. Simpson, but that's the beauty

of an internal monologue.

"You got ten minutes," he said. "And after that your

ass is kicked and your clothes go to the incinerator."

"I accept."

"And I expect some ink from Valentine."

I gave him the most noncommittal thumbs-up in my

arsenal.

Shawn nodded at the bouncer, who unhitched the

velvet rope and allowed me passage. He took my

suitcase and carried it to the coatroom, where a girl in a

tight black top and capris unlocked a door so he could

heave it behind the barrier. There were plenty of groans

from the people waiting on line as they saw me enter. I

hoped if they knew what was going on they'd under

stand.

But this was New York, so I doubted it.

The Kitten Club was a massive place, with two dif

ferent levels of action. This was about as far from my

scene as I could get without being in the desert. I had

no idea where to look first. My eyes were half-blinded

by the strobe lights, and it took a healthy equilibrium

not to get knocked over by the horde of drunken,

dancing revelers. I could barely see five feet in front of

me, let alone distinguish the VIP lounge.

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Jason Pinter

To clarify the mess, I approached the bar, waited to

get the tender's attention. When he came by, he said,

"What'll it be?"

"Where's the VIP lounge?" I asked.

He nodded and turned around. I had no idea what had

happened, but then he turned back holding a glass of

champagne with something sparkling at the bottom. He

held it out to me.

"The VIP champagne," he said. "That'll be a

hundred fifty."

"No," I shouted. "The VIP
lounge.
"

The bartender, looking quite pissed off, said, "Tables

are upstairs." As I turned to go, I saw him fish the gem

from the bottom of the glass and drop it into a small pail.

I pushed and shoved my way through a sea of fitted

jeans, open-collared shirts revealing chests adorned with

thick gold chains, and shimmering bosoms with even

spray tans. At the back of the dance floor I found a short

staircase that led to another level. Sliding through a couple

making out on the railing, I managed to find the VIP area,

a lounge of about a dozen round tables, each with between

half a dozen and a dozen people circling them. Each table

had several bottles of alcohol sitting in buckets of ice, with

various mixers--cranberry juice, orange juice and tonic

water--ready to go. According to Amanda, each bottle

ran about a grand, and nobody bought just one bottle.

Then I heard a laugh. A distinctive laugh.

Amanda's laugh.

I fast-walked past the tables until I finally found the

one I was looking for. Sitting in a circle were Devin and

Darcy Lapore, several suited men with gelled hair and

manicures, and Amanda Davies.

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243

Amanda was laughing hysterically at something,

then she looked up and noticed me. I didn't believe that

smile could spread any wider, but it did.

"Henry!" she shrieked, jumping out of her seat,

knocking over an empty glass and toppling one of the

guys onto the floor. She threw her arms around me,

squeezed tight, and I gave her one right back. Her breath

smelled like vodka, her body like sweet perfume. Her

hair dripped onto my shirt and I held her tight, for

reasons vastly different than hers.

"Hey, baby," I said, struggling to disentangle myself.

Suddenly Amanda looked confused. "Wait," she

said. "What're you
doo
ing here?"

"I don't have time to explain right now," I said, taking

her hand. "But you need to come with me."

A sultry smile spread across her lips. I didn't see her

drunk all that often, so part of me couldn't help but be

slightly amused. "So," she said. "You're taking me

home?"

"Not exactly," I said, pulling her away. I apologized

to Darcy and Devin, who seemed too preoccupied with

how each other's lips tasted to notice.

"If we're not going home," she slurred, "where
are

we going?"

"A hotel," I said.

"Ooh baby!" Amanda said, suddenly grabbing a

chunk of my ass and squeezing. She likely meant to be

flirtatious, but the girl had some serious nails and I was

reasonably certain she broke the skin. Hopefully stitches

wouldn't be required, because that'd be one awkward

explanation for the doctor. "Have you been working

out?"

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Jason Pinter

"Not recently, I haven't had time, but...that's not the

point. We need to go."

Amanda finally relented, and we made our way

down the steps and toward the exit. For the first time it

seemed to dawn on Amanda that something was wrong.

I couldn't walk too fast due to the fact that she was in

heels and had no hand-eye coordination to speak of, so

to other clubgoers I looked like the no-fun boyfriend

dragging his fun-as-hell girlfriend away because he

didn't approve of her shenanigans.

I had to give Amanda credit, though. She looked

stunning. Outclassed every girl at the club. I'd have to

remember to tell her tomorrow, when she would

remember.

We got to the tunnel leading to the outside, and the

girl inside the coatroom remembered me. Guess not

too many guys dropped off their luggage before

entering.

"Can I get my bag?" I asked.

"Five dollars," she said, smacking gum between her

lips.

"You just saw me with Shawn, I--"

"Five dollars," she repeated, bored by the whole

thing. I didn't want or have time to argue, and pulled a

crumpled ten from my pocket. She counted change,

then swung the door open and let me take the suitcase.

As I lugged it into the hall, Amanda said, "Where

are
we going?"

"A hotel, baby," I said.

"I thought you were kidding," she said, a joyous glow

in her eye. "I have the best boyfriend in the whole

world.
"

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245

She threw her arms around me again, and I nearly

stumbled over a small girl trying to make her way back

into the club. She called me a name that I'd most defi

nitely never been called by a girl before.

Gripping the bag with one hand and Amanda with

another, we stumble/bumped our way outside. A row of

cabs was waiting five deep down the block, knowing

every minute brought another inebriated person out

who needed a ride home (hopefully to another

borough).

It was a delicate balancing act carrying Amanda and

the suitcase outside since they were both essentially

dead weight. The next cab in the line pulled up, and

thankfully the driver came outside to help me with my,

er, belongings. He hoisted the bag into the trunk while

Amanda and I slid into the back. As soon as he closed

the door and said, "Where to?" I realized I had no idea

where we were going.

The list of New York hotels I knew offhand was quite

slim, and one of those, the Plaza, hadn't reopened yet.

Before I knew what I was doing, I said, "Times

Square. The W Hotel, please."

"Henry,"
Amanda cooed, her cheeks flushing red

her hand delicately tracing the curve of my calf. "I

had no idea..."

"Me, neither," I mumbled as the cab sped away.

Amanda spent the whole cab ride either staring outside,

the world swimming by her drunken haze, or awkwardly

trying to grope me. Ordinarily I might have felt frisky

enough to try a little something in the backseat while the

cabdriver wasn't looking, but Amanda was as subtle as

a hyena and I had too much on my mind to truly focus.

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Jason Pinter

Who was that guy outside my apartment? Clearly

somebody knew I was following leads, but nothing had

been printed in the newspaper, which limited the list of

culprits significantly. I wondered, could it have been

Scotty Callahan? Sure seemed like it. The notion that

this guy, an admitted company man, would have spilled

his guts and walked away seemed awfully unlikely. But

there were others. Rose Keller. She was a friend of

Stephen's, perhaps better than I knew. Stephen was

more than I'd previously thought, so it occurred to me

that Rose might have been as well.

I lowered the window, breathing deeply as I inhaled

the warm air. Now Amanda was leaning back against

her seat, eyes closed. I wondered if she was sleeping,

dreaming peacefully.

Fifteen minutes later the cab pulled up in front of the

W Hotel. I ran my credit card through the cab's machine,

gave him a twenty percent tip and helped Amanda out.

We walked into the lobby quite a sight, Amanda wearing

a slinky dress and clinging to my arm, me looking like

I'd just rolled out of a bed in a sewer and carrying a

single suitcase. The building itself was beautiful and

massive. I'd read somewhere that it housed a stagger

ing fifty-seven floors, but in the dark of night it looked

like even more, a mammoth structure in the heart of

Times Square. The lobby was awash in subtle blue and

gray tones, and a waterfall ran down one of the walls.

There were two receptionists on duty, two young

women who looked remarkably similar. They both had

dark hair and skin, red fingernails and bright smiles

that seemed almost attuned to one another. As we

walked up they both said, "Good evening, sir."

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247

Their name tags read Rae and Gabrielle. You could

have switched the tags and I wouldn't have known the

difference.

"I'd like a room, please," I said.

The one with the Rae tag began to punch some keys

on her computer while Gabrielle stared at me with that

same, unwavering smile. Suddenly I felt Amanda's

breath on my cheek, and then a big kiss followed suit.

A split second later I felt her tongue on my jawbone,

winding its way toward my earlobe.

Gabrielle was still grinning, but now it was the kind

of grin you gave to your neighbor who got his morning

newspaper while wearing nothing but tighty-whities.

Rae looked up and said, "We have two rooms avail

able, one with two twin beds and another with one

queen."

"I'll take the queen," I said, trying to push Amanda

away while I feel my face turn bright red. Rae noticed

what was going on, and her bright smile quickly turned

like bad milk.

Gabrielle looked at Amanda, then looked at me, then

looked at my suitcase. Her eyes went back and forth

between the three while I stood there confused. Then I

realized what she was thinking. Attractive girl wearing

revealing clothes. Dorky guy wearing the same clothes

he'd probably worn the last three days. A suitcase.

No doubt Rae and Gabrielle thought Amanda was a

hooker, and would end up chopped to bits and stuffed

into the suitcase by the end of the night. I noticed neither

of them had made any movements to confirm my room

or make a key.

"You okay,
honey?
" I asked, stressing the last word

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Jason Pinter

in an attempt to let Rae and Gabrielle know that we did,

in fact, know each other.

"I'm just peachy, Henry." I smiled.
See, she knows

my name!

"So...about that room..."

"I'll need a credit-card imprint," Rae said. I slipped

her my AMEX, and she ran it through, never taking her

eyes off of us.

"Hen-
ree,
" Amanda whined. "I'm
ti
-red."

"Just a minute, baby," I said.

Gabrielle seemed to be softening up, but Rae was

eyeing me with squinty eyes, letting me know she could

have hotel security at our room if she got the slightest

hint that an ax might make an appearance.

"How many nights will you be staying?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "Can we just keep it open?"

"Sure," Rae said, taking two plastic cards and

running them through the machine to magnetize them.