Wayne of Gotham (8 page)

So from the basement balcony that looked down into the large rectangle of the sub-basement below, it looked a lot like anarchy to the Harvard Medical graduate in his formal evening clothes. The place was packed, and the ventilation nonexistent. The smell of the unwashed in the room was overwhelming. The July evening had been a cool one outside, but now, in the confines of the Klatch, the heat was oppressive and the smell of booze and cheap perfume cloying.

“Tommy!”

Wayne cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. He had heard his name from somewhere, but it was nearly drowned out in a sea of voices and bongo drums.

“Tommy! Down here!”

Thomas looked down over the railing into a seething pool of dark knit T-shirts, jeans, and hair. It took a few moments before he saw her, looking up at him with a beaming smile as she waved for his attention.

Martha Kane had literally been the girl next door for as long as he could remember, although in his case next door was about a quarter of a mile through a woodland preserve. Her father was Roderick “Roddy” Kane, who had built his business, Kane Chemical, on two world wars, boundless ambition, and an uncanny talent for knowing just how far to bend to make the deal. It was said of him that he did have a personality but that only his wife, the former Maureen Vandergrift of the Pennsylvania steel Vandergrifts, and his daughter knew where to find the switch to turn it on. The Kane holdings, according to the jokes bandied about at all the best cocktail parties, consisted of “that half of Gotham not already owned by the Waynes.” It was a gross exaggeration in truth, but reality seemed to have gone out of fashion at the moment. What was true was that Martha was the heiress to both old and new money from both sides of her bloodline. It was, as her parents so often put before her, an enormous responsibility for which Martha, typically, cared not a whit. Her dark hair and liquid brown eyes were ubiquitous in the Gotham press, although just as likely at times to be appearing in the
Daily Inquirer
tabloid as on the society pages of the
Gotham Globe
or the
Gazette.
But to Thomas she was simply Martha, the strong-spirited neighbor girl who could and had talked him into just about any mad scheme she could concoct from the time he was eight.

Thomas wound his way carefully down the metal stairs. The cast-iron railing seemed to be coated in something unpleasantly sticky, which, he reflected, was not unlike the crowd itself. He waded into the shifting bodies on the floor of the club, a white speck adrift on dark waves. He maneuvered with only moderate success around the small tables grouped too closely together and managed at last to reach the corner that Martha had established as her realm in which to hold court.

“You're such a fashion plate!” Martha chimed. She looked him over with one carefully plucked eyebrow arched. She was wearing a dark cardigan sweater and tight denim jeans that displayed her body to her considerable advantage.

“You said we were going on the town.” Thomas tried to temper his shrug with an embarrassed smile.

“And we
are
, ducky!” Martha beamed, flipping her hair back out of her face as she twined her arm around his. “Just not the town that you're used to—and it's about time you made it. Here, I have some friends you just
have
to meet!”

Thomas leaned closer to Martha's ear. “I thought it was going to just be us tonight.”

“Oh, nonsense, Tommy,” Martha laughed, slapping his arm with her right hand. “Two people alone are entirely too serious. We're here to celebrate. Here, may I introduce Denholm Sinclair?”

The man stood in the corner on the opposite side of the small café table. He was approximately the same height as Thomas but with slightly broader shoulders and a more muscular build. He had wavy black hair that was carefully coifed and an artist's goatee that was expertly trimmed. He wore a sports jacket over an open-collar shirt and pleated gray slacks with loafers. He held his hand out toward Thomas, his face breaking into a bright smile. “Nice to meet you, sport … call me Denny.”

Thomas took the offered hand and regretted it. Denholm had the grip of a gorilla. Before he could say anything, Martha answered for him. “And you can call him Tommy—I always have. And this is Celia, my very best friend!”

Thomas managed to extract his hand and turned to follow Martha's gesture.

“How do you do, Mr. Wayne?” Celia said from her chair, offering her hand with her pale, lithe arm. She wore a sad and distant expression, her large brown eyes not quite looking at Thomas as he took her hand. Her hair was cut short, the curls lying tight against her head. She had full, pouting lips under a prominent nose, and while the eyelashes were obvious fakes, they looked good on her.”

“Fine, thank you, Miss … ?” Thomas's voice trailed off into the question.

“Kazantzakis,” Martha interjected. “Celia Kazantzakis.”

“Ah.” Thomas floundered for a moment.

“Please, Celia will do just fine,” Kazantzakis said with a slight nod.

“And please call me Thomas,” Wayne said. Denholm had already pulled the chair out for Martha, into which she quickly sat, sliding closer to Sinclair. Her arms snaked around the sleeve of Denholm's sports jacket, leaning into him. “Now isn't this just about perfect? I just knew the two of you needed to get together the moment I met Celi.”

Thomas nodded with as gracious a smile as he could manage. Martha had done it again, and now he found himself as the blind date for another of Martha's projects. To Martha, Gotham was her playground; everything in it either belonged to her or would if she bothered enough to buy it. There were marvelous places in her playground that irritated her parents, in whose discomfort she took private delight because it meant they were at least paying attention to her.

“So,” Thomas said turning to the young woman next to him. “How is it that you know Martha?”

“The orphanage. Copper Street Orphanage. Have you heard of it?”

“Sure, I think it's one of our endowments,” Thomas nodded, his eyes stinging from the smoke. “Over in Burnley near the botanical gardens, isn't it?”

“That's right,” Celia nodded, reaching for her cocktail and taking a halfhearted sip. “I was raised there.”

“Oh,” Thomas said, “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Celia shrugged. “I didn't really know any different. Anyway, I'm a secretary over there now trying to keep the place on its feet. Martha breezed in one day with a check that set us up rather well and the promise of more when we needed it. One thing led to another, I guess, and we just started ending up in the same places accidentally on purpose.”

Thomas glanced back over at Martha, who was curling up closer to Sinclair and whispering something into his shoulder. Celia stopped speaking, letting the conversation stagnate on the table between them and die.

Thomas tried to revive it. “So do you like your work?”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, really … I just asked—”

“Listen, I'm sorry—”

“Thomas,” he prompted.

“I'm sorry, Thomas. I'm a little distracted tonight,” Celia replied waving her hand slightly in the thick air. The smoke in the room was settling thicker than a London fog. “A friend of mine's gone missing, and I just don't know what to do about it.”

“Missing?” Thomas said, raising his eyebrows. “Who's missing?”

“Lorenzo,” Celia said, biting her lower lip. “He's just a guy I know named Lorenzo Rossetti. He vanished about ten days ago. No call. No postcard … nothing.”

“That sounds serious. Have you notified the authorities?”

“Actually, it's probably better if we left the authorities out of this one,” Denholm said from across the table.

“Why?” Thomas asked. He had not been aware that Sinclair was listening to their conversation.

“Well, because in his line of work it probably wouldn't be very profitable in the long run,” Denholm said with a slight arch to his eyebrows. “I think he's just away on business and he'll be back when he's finished is all.”

“You mean … you mean he may be involved in some nefarious activities?” Thomas said with incredulity.

“Oh, honestly, Thomas! You are such a
square
!” Martha laughed, her own martini sloshing slightly in her hand as she waved it. “Loosen up a little, will ya? We're celebrating!”

“And thanks for coming to my place to celebrate,” chimed the nasal voice. Thomas caught the flash of disdain on Sinclair's face before he turned around.

He was a shade under five foot six, barrel-chested, with large, strong hands. His head was shaped like a block, and he appeared to have no neck. He wore a black formal jacket, but the collar of his shirt was open and the bow tie hung completely undone round his neck. His dark hair in a crew cut of bristles from which his ears stuck out slightly. He looked like a fullback slightly scaled down, and he was young; Thomas guessed he must have been in his late twenties at the oldest.

“Hiya, Lew!” Martha beamed, raising her glass.

“Miss Kane, it's nice to see you again.”

“You know my friend Tommy?”

The crew cut gestured for Thomas to stay seated. “It's all right, Mr. Wayne. Don't trouble on my account. Just happy to have you here. Moxon's the name, Lew Moxon.”

“Thank you, uh, Lew,” Thomas said as Moxon pumped his arm. “Have we met?”

“Nah, but a guy would have to be blind not to recognize a Wayne in this town,” the man said. “I appreciate you coming and classing up the joint. You need anything at all, just call for Lew.”

“Generous of you, Moxon,” Sinclair said through a tight smile. “I didn't know you kept up with the social set.”

Lew's smile chilled slightly. “Oh, I didn't see you there, Sinclair … but then Miss Kane has a habit of taking care of the needy.”

“We all have friends,” Sinclair answered. “Some are bigger friends than others, and we all need a little help now and then. How about you, Moxon? You buy this place all by yourself or did your friends help you?”

“You're barking up the wrong tree, friend,” Lew replied, a chill in the air despite the heat in the room. “I been working nights since I was twelve. This place is a hundred percent mine.”

“And just how much
did
your old man pay you for those jobs when you were twelve?” Sinclair sniffed. “I mean, surely the big Julius Moxon with all that money trickling up to him from so many low places has enough to finance a swank place like this for his baby boy.”

“Not cool, cat,” Moxon replied, his fists clenching and unclenching at his side. “My hands are clean, and my joint's on the up and up. By the way, how are things working out with you and old man Rossetti? I haven't seen Cesare's boy around here for a while. Did you send him on a vacation?”

Celia caught her breath, her lower lip trembling.

Sinclair slowly started to stand, pushing Martha away from him.

“My house,” Moxon said through a smile. “You really wanna do this here?”

“Excuse me,” Thomas said standing up suddenly, the metal legs of his chair squealing over the sound of the bongo drums.

Both Sinclair's and Lew's heads snapped in his direction.

Thomas held up both hands as he spoke. “I'd just like to interject something here, if I may.”

Sinclair froze with one hand in his coat pocket. Moxon's right hand hovered just inside the lapel of his jacket.

“I'd just like to point out that we're celebrating my graduation from Harvard Medical School which, as you probably know, is a really big deal for me … and thank you for your congratulations, but the thing is, I don't start my internship until tomorrow morning, so I'm technically not supposed to actually
use
any of that medical stuff they've been pouring into my head for the last, oh, eight years or so. I mean, you would think it counted for something, but apparently I need some additional on the job training.”

Moxon gave Thomas a look of bewilderment. Sinclair blinked.

“So it all comes down to this: I've got this really swell white dinner jacket on and, yes, I know I probably should have worn something leather or torn, but it's what I'm stuck with for the evening. And it would be really hard to get bloodstains out of this, and I'm not supposed to save anyone's life for a few more weeks at least. So, Lew … how about getting me a drink so we can toast my future instead of making my coat all messy?”

Lew stared at Thomas for a moment.

“Please?” Thomas urged. “Coffee would do. I can toast myself with coffee … Do you serve coffee here?”

A wide grin grew on Lew Moxon's face. “Sure, Mr. Wayne, whatever you say. You're all right in my book. If you ever need a favor, I'm your guy.”

Sinclair sat back down, chuckling as he did. “Nice moves, Tommy!”

“Call me Thomas,” he said as he fell into his own chair. Wayne reached across the table, snatching Martha's partial martini from the table and downing it in a single gulp.

Denholm nodded. “I think I'm beginning to like you, Thomas. What say I show you a few places I know about?”

“Great,” Thomas answered, setting down Martha's martini glass. His hand was shaking slightly. “But first, let's order Martha another drink.”

Martha looked into her empty glass and started to laugh.