Or she could follow her instincts and trail Stan downtown. Gay, straight, male, female, you don’t get all decked out like that unless you’re meeting someone. And she wanted to know who it was.
Your gut is a better actor than your brain, Delphi had said. And in some cases, your gut is also smarter than your brain, Isobel thought, as she followed Stan into the subway. There would be other chances to perform, in better productions that actually paid something. There wouldn’t be another chance to follow Stan Henderson in drag.
The platform was crowded enough for Isobel to observe Stan at a comfortable distance. Strangely, his new look was an improvement. He simply made more sense as a woman. The soft contours, fleshy lips, even his hips. He must have been wearing shapewear of some kind, because he had an actual figure. He even turned a few heads, although Isobel wasn’t sure if that was because he looked good or because he was still obviously a man.
A downtown R train arrived, and Isobel let herself be carried on by a crush of people. Stan got on at the opposite end of the same car. Given his relative height and his mass of auburn curls, he stood out enough that Isobel could see him get off at Prince Street.
She followed him outside into a soft, misting rain, glad she hadn’t ditched the umbrella, and trailed him west into the heart of SoHo. Isobel hadn’t been to this part of the city yet, but even at this relatively early hour in bad weather, it was quite obviously the place to be on a Friday night. The streets were lined with small galleries, boutiques and clubs, and the air vibrated with a sense of impending party. She followed Stan as he headed south to Greene Street. On the corner was a windowless black building with a large blue neon letter “X.” The only giveaway that it wasn’t an abandoned warehouse was the line of people snaking down the block.
Isobel squinted at the “X” and saw the smaller blue letters underneath spelling out Xavier’s. So this was the place Nikki had told her about: the trendy, expensive new club with the chic celebrity, gay and transgender crowd.
The door was guarded by a man who looked like Mr. Clean. He had a headset wired around his bald pate, and he was clearly not to be messed with. Stan shouldered his way to the front of the crowd and approached Mr. Clean, who stared dispassionately at him, apparently unconcerned that his gender was open to interpretation. Mr. Clean pulled the microphone closer to his mouth and spoke for a moment. Then he nodded and let Stan pass by him into the club. As the door opened, the line of hopeful partiers surged forward, collective arms waving like a giant sea anemone. Mr. Clean set his legs in a wider stance and pushed against the people in front, sending the entire line staggering backwards. Nobody seemed to mind. This abuse appeared to be part of the game. The club door closed, swallowing Stan into the murky depths of Xavier’s.
Undaunted, Isobel approached Mr. Clean.
“Hi, there. I’m with him. Um, her. The person you just let in.”
Mr. Clean stared fixedly at her and pointed to the end of the line.
“No, really! That person—we’re together. I’m meeting her here. Him. Her!”
Mr. Clean gave Isobel a slow once-over. “Name?” he said finally.
“Isobel Spice.”
He tilted his mouthpiece again. “She-male, red hair, just came in. Ask if she’s expecting someone named—”
Isobel’s hand shot out and yanked the mouthpiece away from Mr. Clean’s mouth. He was so startled that for a brief moment, he forgot to look menacing. “It’s a surprise,” she stammered. “I mean, she doesn’t know—I don’t want her to know…”
Mr. Clean glared at her. “Which is it?”
“Can’t you just let me in?” Isobel asked, smiling her sweetest.
Mr. Clean pointed again to the end of the line. A girl who was trying not to look like she was freezing in her skimpy tank top and short skirt gave Isobel a shove.
“Come on, bitch! You can’t just walk up!”
Isobel retreated to the corner. Great, she thought. I blew off my audition, and I can’t even get in to spy on Stan. Now what? She paced up and down Greene Street and peered into the window of a romantic-looking Italian restaurant.
That was what she needed—reinforcements!
Delphi answered her call immediately.
“Where are you?” Isobel asked, without preamble.
“Just leaving work. I had to cover until Gina got in. Why?”
“I need you,” Isobel said. Although brevity was not her forte, Isobel explained, as quickly as she could, the events of the afternoon.
“Please, please come down here,” she begged. “I need a plan, and I need your help. I can’t do this alone.”
“Where are you again?”
Isobel gave her the address.
“Let me just run home and change, and I’ll be right there.”
“No! There isn’t time. Just come straight here. Please?”
Isobel heard Delphi’s exasperated sigh. “Okay, okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Isobel hung up and paced back to the corner. Mr. Clean was still doing his impression of a human fortress, and the line outside Xavier’s seemed to have grown longer. There was nothing to do but take her place at the end of it.
As she parked her heavy bag on the ground behind a gay couple with their hands in each other’s back pockets, her phone rang. It was Percival.
“Iz! How was the audition? Where are you? It sounds noisy.”
“I didn’t go. I’m following Stan.”
“What?”
Once more, Isobel summarized the events of the past few hours, finishing with a description of Xavier’s and Mr. Clean.
“I’m coming down there,” Percival said firmly.
“You are not!” Isobel cried, horrified. “It’s a club!”
“Sounds like fun.”
“You’re underage!”
“Iz, you don’t really think I’d come to New York to visit Columbia without a fake ID, do you?”
“Where did you get a fake ID?” Isobel asked, aghast.
“Made it.”
Isobel shook her head vigorously, even though he couldn’t see it. “Okay—no on about five counts! You may be mature for your age, you may be able to run rings around me intellectually, but you’re still only fifteen. And if you get caught—”
“Iz, I don’t want you there by yourself.”
“Delphi is coming.”
“So am I.”
“No, you’re not! I’m supposed to be watching out for you. Mom and Dad trust me, and I’m not taking you to a club—”
“Fine, then. I’m taking you. Don’t you dare go in there without me!” He hung up.
She looked at the silent phone, stamped her foot, and swore.
This is not responsible sibling behavior, she scolded herself, letting him come to a club on the heels of a probable murderer. On the other hand, a male presence wasn’t a bad idea.
James. That’s who she really wanted with her. It was even worth risking calling his cell.
Isobel scrolled back through the log on her cell phone, but his number had been replaced by all the calls she’d made since the night his girlfriend had told her to get lost. She gave up and shoved her phone back into her coat pocket. At least Percival had an IQ higher than most people’s cholesterol. Brains, if not brawn. It was the best she could do in a pinch.
The line didn’t seem to be progressing at all, and the longer she waited, the stupider she felt. Finally, she heard a familiar voice call her name. She looked up to see Delphi crossing the street.
“This is crazy!” Delphi gestured to the line. “We’ll never get in.”
“I know. I don’t understand how Stan got in immediately.”
“His good looks?”
“You’d be surprised,” Isobel said drily.
“Maybe they operate on a quota system?”
Isobel’s cell phone rang. “Probably Percival,” she said, and answered it without checking the number.
“Where the hell are you?” demanded Sunil.
�
�Sunil! God, I’m so sorry! Something happened. I couldn’t get there.”
“You could have called me! I went out on a limb for you, you know. They weren’t exactly thrilled about seeing you again. I had to convince them you were worth it.”
“I know and I’m really, really sorry. I should have called. Did they give it to the other girl?” She glanced at Delphi, who was eyeing her quizzically.
“What do you think?”
“Listen, Stan Henderson is a cross-dresser, and I followed him to this club, and I think something’s going to happen—”
“Whatever. I’ve got to get back to rehearsal. I’m surprised it happened so quickly.”
“What?”
“Putting your survival job before your career.”
“It’s not that, it’s a murder—!”
But he was gone. Isobel stared at her phone.
Sunil was right. In a moment of madness, she had completely lost sight of her priorities. Or had she? The truth was, she had a lot more invested in tracking down the person who killed Doreen Fink than in a mediocre showcase company whose producers had rejected her once already. Despite what Sunil might have said in her favor, that was an awfully bad first impression to have to erase.
Delphi’s voice broke into her thoughts. “What was that all about?”
Isobel told Delphi about the Two by Two audition.
“You blew off an audition for this? Are you out of your mind?”
“Apparently.”
“How come you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to be disappointed.”
“That’s sweet of you, but that wasn’t the part I was going for in the first place.” Delphi looked at the swelling number of clubbers around them. “You should have gone. This is getting us nowhere.”
“I know,” Isobel said gloomily. “And now I’ve let Sunil down.”
A moment later, Percival arrived. “Why are you standing back here?” he asked.
Isobel gestured toward the front of the line. “I tried, but Mr. Clean wasn’t having any of me. How was your interview?”
“Piece of cake. How did Stan get past?”
Delphi shrugged. “Mason handshake?”
Isobel gasped. “Oh my God. I know how he got in. But there’s no way we could possibly…unless…” She turned to Percival. “Do you have any mad money left?”
“About a hundred bucks.”
Isobel took a step off the line and looked down the street. Paradoxically, the line seemed to have gained people in front. Clearly, they were stuck with the losers, and getting past Mr. Clean demanded drastic action. There was only one thing to do.
Isobel closed her eyes. “If we’re ever deluded enough to think we want it, we’ll have to pay for it ourselves.” She opened them and looked at Delphi. “Famous last words.”
“What are you talking about?” Percival asked.
But Delphi had caught on and was shaking her head. “No way. That’s insane! It’ll cost you half your share of the rent!”
“I know,” Isobel said, squirming visibly. “But if we use Percival’s money, I could put the balance on my credit card and worry about it later, like the rest of the country.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Percival said.
“I gave up a callback for this. I’m not walking away now.”
She grabbed Percival’s arm, and with Delphi trailing behind them, protesting, Isobel shoved her way to the front of the line, until she was directly in front of Mr. Clean.
“We’d like bottle service, please.”
He looked at her for a moment, then beyond her at Delphi and Percival, who was trying to stand as tall as possible, while at the same time slouching with just the right amount of hipster attitude.
Mr. Clean looked at Isobel again. “Five hundred. Bottle of your choice. Food is extra.”
Delphi gasped, but Isobel nodded confidently. Mr. Clean stepped aside, and the door to Xavier’s swung open. Behind them, the line heaved and surged, and Isobel, Delphi and Percival rode the human wave through the entrance as the big black door slammed shut behind them.
FORTY-FOUR
James arrived outside Xavier’s at precisely eight thirty. From the length of the line and the look of the people on it, he knew exactly what kind of evening he was in for. Even when he was drinking, he’d avoided places like this. He paced up and down the line looking for Felice, but she hadn’t arrived yet. He felt immeasurably older than the coked-up, party-hungry hangers-on who were stupid enough to think that all they had to do was wait long enough to get in. A place as hot as this, it took more than that. It took knowing somebody, being a celebrity, paying off the bouncer, or springing for bottle service.
James eyed the bouncer. He was one tough-looking motherfucker. He wondered what Felice meant when she said they were friends. More reason to tread carefully tonight.
“Hiya, good-looking.”
He glanced at the hooker who had sidled up next to him. He was about to retort that he usually got it for free, when he realized to his horror that it was Felice. Her hair was braided around a wide orange scarf shot through with silver thread, and her raspberry-colored, one-shoulder T-shirt featured a sparkling hand strategically placed over her right breast. She had stuffed her plump hips into an impossibly tight leather skirt and her shapely legs into the highest, pointiest boots he’d ever seen. She had glitter around her eyes, and the effect she had created was so clearly the opposite of what she was going for that he almost felt sorry for her.
“Come on. Dexter’ll let us in.”
James followed her wordlessly to the front of the line, where the bouncer smacked his lips appreciatively at Felice.
“Can we get into the small room tonight?” she asked.
“For you, baby, anything,” Dexter said, eyeing her appreciatively. “Dude.” He swung his hand up in a brotherly greeting and when James slapped it, Dexter closed his meaty fingers around James’s in a grip that shot down to the soles of his feet.
“Right, man. Thanks,” said James, resisting the urge to massage his aching hand. If Dante has a circle in hell reserved for me, it looks a lot like this, he thought as they passed through the portal into the inner sanctum.
The club was dark, with barrel-vaulted ceilings and a distinctly medieval look, and it was already throbbing with scantily clad people of every eye-catching variety. There was a long, curved bar and tables with Moroccan fez-caps shading the candles. The seating was low to the ground, divans and couches everywhere, with embroidered satin cushions and the occasional rug. All that was missing were people smoking hash out of porcelain hookahs.
The wall behind the bar was lined, floor to ceiling, with bottles of every kind of alcohol imaginable, and waiters, dressed surprisingly conservatively in classic black and white, milled about. The place was choked with beautiful women. The men were definitely in the minority, and half of them were there with other men. Women and alcohol everywhere, only James wasn’t drinking and his date made a cheap whore look like a debutante. It was all a sick joke.
“Come on, the small room is this way,” said Felice, propelling him toward the back.
“What is this place?”
“Used to be a wine cellar, then a fancy French restaurant, and then Xavier Barques bought it.”
“Xavier Barques? The movie director?”
“Yeah. The small room is the coolest place in the joint.”
James did a quick mental tally of the contents of his wallet. “How much does that go for?”
“For me, nothing. The first time I came here, it cost me. Hoo, baby! But Dexter and I were pretty chummy for a while, and now he looks the other way.”
They passed a group of low tables set beside a divider topped with an arrangement of blown glass bottles. James sensed a sudden sharp movement behind him. He paused to look, but all he saw was a skinny kid with glasses who looked too young to be there and a blond woman with a face like a painting, dressed just like the waiters. He hurried to catch up wi
th Felice, who had gotten a few steps ahead of him, when he felt someone grab his arm. He turned around and found himself face to face with Isobel.
“You have no idea how happy I am to see you!” she cried.
“What the hell are you doing here?” gasped James. “Are you following me?”
“No, I’m following Stan! He’s here, in drag. And that’s not all! I found Doreen’s Filofax, and she was supposed to meet Stan at one o’clock the day she was killed. And she met with Paula the day before!”
“Whoa…slow down. Why did you follow Stan here?”
“He’s on the make. I have a table,” she gestured to the bespectacled boy and the blonde. “I can see him from where we are, but I don’t think he’s spotted me. He’s got a bottle of Amaretto and two glasses, but so far he’s alone. Come on!”
Isobel started to pull him toward her table.
He shook her off. “No, wait, you don’t understand, I’m here on a—with a—”
“James!”
Felice had come back for him and was staring at Isobel.
Isobel regarded her defiantly. “You told me on the phone that James never wanted to talk to me again. But you were wrong. We’re speaking again, and right now I need him to come and sit with me.”
Felice turned to James. “What the hell is she talking about?” She peered at Isobel. “Wait. I know you.”
Isobel shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Felice, this is Isobel Spice, my temp at InterBank.”
“Of course,” said Felice, nodding. “Hard to see in this light.”
Isobel eyes opened wide. “Felice! Wow, I didn’t recognize… I didn’t realize that you and James were… Okay, now you really have to sit with us.”
Felice raised a carefully sculpted eyebrow. “Honey, you don’t understand. We’re here to be together, just the two of us. I don’t mean to be rude—”
“Of course we’ll sit with you. Come on,” James said, taking Felice’s hand.
The Temporary Detective Page 23
