by Ridge King
“C’mon, they’re waiting for you.”
“Great. Let’s go.”
Derek winked. She winked back and patted his cheek.
“You’re such a preppy little fuck.”
“What do you know about preppy?” he said as he followed her into the lobby of the biggest nightclub on South Beach.
“Maybe it was the ‘fuck’ part I was thinking about,” she said without looking over her shoulder at him.
Inside the Kremlin, the décor was big, flashy and bold, with lots of blood-red velvet walls. Spotlights highlighted huge reproductions of Fabergé eggs mounted on pedestals. Each was modeled after an original egg made for the Russian Imperial family, and plaques beneath each one used the original names: Rosebud, Caucasus, Renaissance, Diamond Trellis, Twelve Monograms, Coronation.
They moved up the curving stairway leading to the second floor lobby that led to the VIP Rooms up above. There, Wilma stopped at a bar and nodded. The bartender quickly chilled some Stoli over ice and poured it into a rocks glass.
“What’ll you have?”
“Rum and tonic with lime,” said Derek
“Martini glasses are such bullshit,” she said as she knocked back her drink. The bartender made her a second one. “It’s two in the morning. Time for me to start drinking.”
Derek sipped at his rum and tonic, hungrily eyeing the narrow stairway at the end of the VIP lobby.
“They up there?”
“All but Vlad. We have a couple of minutes.”
She walked over to the double doors propped wide open that gave onto a wide balcony overlooking the biggest dance floor on South Beach. They stood just above the DJ booth and observed the scene.
“So what do you need from Vlad and Jonah?”
“Some guys to follow some people for me?”
“What for?”
“Not sure.”
Wilma checked her phone. A text was coming through.
“Let’s go.”
She turned and he followed her to the narrow staircase, which they climbed to the top where they entered what once had been the projection booth of the old Art Deco cinema which the Kremlin Club had been back in the 1930s. Here, in what had been converted into the Owners’ Lounge, windows looked out (and down) onto the frenetic club scene unfolding below them. There was a cocoonish feeling to the small room. The pulsating bass from the speakers down below came into the room as a muffled throb that crept through the walls, giving the room an eerie feel.
Derek nodded to Howard Rothman, who was sitting in a huddle with club co-owners Jonah Lomax and Napoleon LaPierre on the other side of the room.
Derek turned back to Wilma at the tiny bar where she was getting them fresh drinks.
“You’ve already got some business with Rothman, correct?”
“You know I do.”
“He’s got business with us,” said Wilma.
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Ah, here’s Vlad,” said Wilma, turning to greet Vladimir Kucherov just entering the room. He came right over to Derek and gave him a big bear hug, acting with the crude gruff manners of the Cossack he was probably descended from.
“Hey-ya, Derek!”
“Vlad, how you doing?”
“Good, good. Making money.”
“Money, money, money,” said Derek with a laugh.
“I hear it makes the world go round,” said Wilma, polishing off her third straight Stoli. “That—and sex,” she added, her eyes burning into Derek’s as she recalled with pleasure all the afternoons she’d spent with Derek at the Hotel Victor around the corner on Ocean Drive.
“Give me a minute with these guys, Derek. Then we’ll sit down.”
“Sure thing.”
Vlad went over and joined the group in the far corner. They finished their conversation in a few minutes and broke up. They all came over to the bar to get fresh drinks and greeted Derek.
“Hello, guys.”
“Derek,” said Napoleon, a thuggish French drug dealer from Marseille with curly black hair who had bought his way into the club when Jonah Lomax owned it by himself (it was called in that incarnation Club Ultimo) till the previous year. It was Napoleon who’d brought in Vlad, who engineered the name change to the Kremlin Club and brought in Wilma from a big club in New York to run things.
“OK, Derek, let’s sit.”
Vlad sat on a couch in a corner and ordered a vodka from a pretty server. Derek, Wilma and Jonah sat with them. Napoleon had left the room to go downstairs.
“Thanks for seeing me, Vlad, Jonah,” said Derek.
“Whatever Wilma wants—” Vlad started.
“Wilma gets,” Wilma interrupted.
They all laughed.
“I need a team of guys to follow a couple of operatives I have to keep tabs on,” said Derek.
Vlad seemed genuinely interested and leaned forward.
“Yes?”
“Yes. It’s a delicate situation. I need to know what these guys are doing and where they go. I thought you might have some people.”
“We do. We have people,” said Vlad with a confirming nod to Jonah.
“Yeah, Derek, we have people,” said Jonah. “How long you need ’em for?”
“A couple of weeks. Maybe three ought to do it.”
“What are these guys to you?” asked Vlad.
“I think they might be trying to double cross me on a deal. Just a deal between us. It doesn’t involve anybody you know.”
“There’s got to be some money involved. It’s not cheap to tail two men for two or three weeks,” said Jonah, a 40-ish guy with thinning hair and a widening belly who’d moved from New York about fifteen years ago and made good money in the club business. Most of that money, however, Jonah had invested poorly by putting it up his nose, necessitating the new partners. He was a long way from Great Neck, but in reality he hadn’t changed much since then.
“I have money.”
“We know you do,” said Vlad, glancing quickly at Rothman who stood observing them from the bar across the room, keenly aware that he hadn’t been invited to sit in with them.
The server came over and leaned down to whisper something to Wilma.
“Gotta go, boys. They need me downstairs,” said Wilma. She got up, went around to Derek and tousled his blond hair. “See you tomorrow?”
Derek smiled and nodded, thinking, My God, the bitch is insatiable. Wilma left them, gave a nod to Rothman and slipped away down the stairs.
Vlad got up and held out his hand to shake with Derek.
“Check in with Jonah tomorrow and he’ll set you up with our guys.”
“Great. Thanks, Vlad. Jonah, thanks a lot.”
“No problem,” said Jonah.
Vlad and Jonah disappeared down the stairs, nodding to Rothman as they passed the bar.
Derek went over and ordered another rum and tonic.
“So, you have business in the Kremlin this late?” said Rothman.
“I do, Howard. Just like you.”
“I’m sure our business is different,” said Rothman.
They took their drinks away from the bartender’s ears and stood looking through the old projection windows that once saw Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing on the silver screen, and now saw thousands of drunken and drugged out nightlife revelers partying their asses off and pouring millions of dollars a year into the club’s cash registers.
“They moving money in or moving money out?” asked Derek. “Or does that involve client confidentiality?”
Rothman shrugged and laughed.
“In, of course. One thing money does, Derek, is move. Whether it’s in or out, it moves.”
Derek held up his glass to clink with Rothman’s.
“And we’re there to skim off our little share, right, Howard?”
“You got that right, pal. You got that right.”
“We’re risking jail, you know?” said Derek.
“Death, even, with these fucking guys,” Howard a
dded, indicating Napoleon and Vlad with a glance at the stairs leading down.
“No, these fuckers don’t take any prisoners.”
“Shoot first types.”
“Yeah.”
“Why do we do it?” asked Howard.
“Beats working,” said Derek, sipping his drink. “Beats the hell out of working.”
Chapter 17
Jonathan and Rolando
That afternoon Patricia Vaughan went to tea at Jane Turner’s house. She and Jane were old friends, or as friendly as two rival hostesses could be. She got there earlier than the rest of the guests. She knew that Peggy Thurston would be there and wanted to see her again. She had seen the Thurstons off and on but only at parties and didn’t really know them well. She was also anxious to get away from Horizon to go somewhere—anywhere—to keep her mind busy with anything she could. She was exhausting herself thinking about Neil and the party and Jonathan. She thought ruefully as the chauffeur pulled up to the Turner house that she spent her whole life just trying to pass the time.
Jane Turner was a tinted blonde and hated being forty-four. Her face was powdered over white every morning after getting up and every evening before going out. She wondered how she would ever hide the lines in five more years. Her husband was a wealthy lawyer and a member of a prominent Washington firm.
Her affair with Neil Scott was one of the few things Patricia kept from Jane. Among ordinary Washington love affairs, it was an extremely well guarded secret. When she and Jane sat down to “talk,” Patricia could not really unburden herself to Jane, something she wished passionately she could do. But she knew Jane Turner. If she told her, all Washington would know in a week. So they gossiped—about other things—till the others arrived.
Jane had rushed back from the south of Spain, where she and her husband had been vacationing, right after the election. She was planning a party a week after Patricia’s and kept telling Patricia how lucky she was that everyone would be coming to her Thanksgiving party.
“Everyone’s talking about it. I heard everything might be decided under your roof that night. You never know these days—anything can happen,” she babbled. Patricia smiled at her.
There were very few “outsiders” at the tea, mainly just Washington hostesses who’d returned to town. Patricia became the center of attention because hers was the first party scheduled. After the first twenty minutes, she was sorry she came. Peggy Thurston was a good friend of Jane’s. They were about the same age and went back about five years. Patricia watched her most of the afternoon. She admired Peggy’s calm nature and controlled demeanor.
Although the tea lasted about an hour, it seemed to Patricia to last forever. After the other women left, Patricia, Peggy, and Jane were alone. As the servants cleared the dishes, Jane took them to her morning room.
“I know Fred is looking forward to your party, Patricia,” said Peggy.
“I’m happy to hear it,” said Patricia. The only thing she didn’t like about Peggy Thurston was that she always seemed so clean and perfect, like those old housewife TV commercials in which women wore shirtwaist dresses, pearl necklaces and high heels—it was always so labored. She wasn’t First Lady yet, thought Patricia.
“Isn’t Fred pretty sure he’s got it?” asked Patricia.
“Oh, no,” said Peggy seriously, shaking her head. “He’s hoping he might get a few final commitments at your party. That’s why he’s looking forward to it so much.”
Patricia didn’t say she voted for St. Clair. She really couldn’t care less at this point who won. It was all far beyond her right now.
“Will Jonathan be there?” asked Jane, prying as usual.
“Maybe, but you know he’s busy,” said Patricia mainly for Peggy’s benefit. She was inwardly furious at Jane for asking such a question when she knew everything that went on—and everything that didn’t—between her and Jonathan. She thought Jane was just being nosy, hoping to let Peggy feel she was being let in on something.
“We hope he’s there. I know Fred would like to see him again,” said Peggy politely.
Patricia smiled and thanked her graciously. She said she knew Jonathan would appreciate that, and she would tell him.
“Oh, yes,” said Jane, raising her eyebrows, “he always comes back this time of year, doesn’t he?” Patricia smiled viciously at Jane Turner and excused herself, saying she had to get back to Horizon.
* * *
As dusk gathered a few hours later and the expansive grounds of Horizon grew more somber, Patricia heard the sound of a car pulling in, making that grinding sound on the gravel you could hear a mile away.
She went to an upstairs window and saw Jonathan emerge—alone—from a Carey Town Car.
She dashed down the stairs to see him. She hadn’t expected him to come to the house, but rather to go to the W Hotel with the hated boyfriend, Rolando, if indeed he’d brought him.
He was giving his coat to Simkins when she got to the bottom of the stairs.
“Jonathan!”
“Hello, sweetie,” he said with an amiable smile.
She went over and he kissed her on the cheek.
“So, you’re staying here with me?”
“Well, actually, I’ve got Rolando in the car. I just stopped by to pick up a few things. Then we’ll go to the hotel.”
“Oh. I see.”
Her heart sank. For all that had happened between them, she really did still like Jonathan.
“I’ll be right down, Simkins,” he said, and dashed up the stairs.
“Very good, sir.”
Patricia went to the door, opened it and went outside. There was no portico at Horizon, just an open oval driveway. It was quite cold. She walked deliberately down the steps and up to the car. The rear window slid down and she saw a beautiful Latin boy—man—in his mid-twenties with rich dark skin and black hair slicked back and sensuous molten eyes.
He gave her the once over. His eyes were noncommittal. She couldn’t tell where the pupil stopped and the iris began. These were dark eyes. But he was gorgeous, she couldn’t deny him that.
“I’m Patricia. Why don’t you come in for a few minutes? It might not be such a bad idea if we got to know each other.”
His mood brightened immediately. Obviously, he hadn’t known what to expect. The driver had hurried around the car.
“That would be nice,” he said, as the chauffeur opened the door and he got out.
She led him up into the house and across the hall into a little parlor with a fire burning.
“Something to drink?”
“Something warm?” Rolando smiled.
And what a dazzling smile, she thought. She couldn’t help wondering what he looked like in his underwear. Right out of a Calvin Klein ad.
“Tea or Cognac?”
“Cognac.”
Jonathan was down in a few minutes, and Patricia could see over Rolando’s shoulder as Simkins pointed to the parlor. Jonathan hurried in and saw them sitting by the fire and chatting away.
“Well, I see, uh, you’re—uh—” he said awkwardly.
“Getting to know each other,” Patricia said.
Looking at them together, she thought they made a fine looking pair. Rolando with his dark and brooding good looks, Jonathan with his neat blond hair, properly combed, his ready smile, his average frame clothed fashionably but not too fashionably, his somewhat large, flatter than ordinary, but still beautifully shaped nose.
“Why don’t you both just stay here,” she finally blurted out. “There’s no reason for you to go to the W.”
Jonathan demurred, saying they’d stay at the W tonight, and maybe come over the next day. When she saw them off at the door, Rolando took her hand and smiled.
“I look forward to seeing you again … soon,” he said. She could tell he meant it.
All she could think as the car pulled away was what Jane Turner would be telling people if she could see her now.
Chapter 18
“The keysto
ne fits the arch”
As Jonathan Vaughan walked through the front door of Horizon, Will Nesbitt was meeting for the second time with Albert Delamar in his office in the Longworth House Office Building.
Delamar was a four-term congressman from Tennessee. When he smiled he had rather pudgy cheeks. His hair was brown and neatly combed and he tended to dark suits of a poly-wool mix and white shirts. He wore glasses with white metal rims because he thought they made him look snappier. When he smiled he looked quite baby-like, his cheeks making his chin look weak. He looked like the type of fellow who was regularly beaten by older boys when he was in junior high school. But he was a smart Tennessee lawyer now and he liked Thurston.
“I don’t care who the hell you like, Al, this thing is too big for you to make your judgments on that basis alone. They’ll burn you alive if you don’t vote for St. Clair, I’m telling you now,” said Nesbitt, slamming a fist down on Delamar’s desk.
“What can they do?” said Delamar in a soapy accent. “Anything they stirred up would die down.”
“If Thurston is elected on the third, they can still get Justice to open an investigation before the twentieth. He made that mighty clear.”
“Hell, I don’t believe ’em, Will,” said Delamar, bringing his light brown, almost invisible, weak eyebrows together. “I’ve been here four terms now.”
“You listen to me, Al,” said Nesbitt, leaning over, “if you could’ve seen this Phil Slanetti when he talked to me, you’d have believed every single God damned word he said, and I mean that.”
