by Cleo Coyle
“Sound’s great, Trudy, but not tonight,” Matt replied, squirming in his seat.
I glanced around quickly for rescue and signaled a nearby waiter. An older man with a black bow tie and hair nearly as white as his short jacket swept in smoothly with our menus. Matt appeared relieved.
“Let’s start with cocktails,” he told the waiter. “I’ll have an Atlantic Sunset and my business partner will have a Southside.” He caught my eye. “It’s the club’s signature drink. You should try it.”
Trudy looked at me for the first time. “She’s your business partner?”
“That’s right,” I replied, flashing my ring. “I’m engaged to a different hunk.”
“Lucky you,” she said, hungry eyes drifting back to Matt. “And me . . .”
Is Matt blushing?
Okay, I probably imagined it (who could tell in tavern light?), but his discomfort was obvious enough. Then his expression brightened, and he addressed the waiter—
“If possible, my business partner and I would love to have our dessert in Jimmy’s special booth . . .”
That request seemed to annoy Trudy. Her disappointment was clear.
“Sorry, Mr. Allegro,” the waiter replied. “There’s a private party in there.”
Matt quickly showed the waiter my phone with Hunter’s photo on it. “Is my friend Mr. Rolf part of it?”
The waiter silently nodded, and Matt thanked him with a handshake that just happened to include a folded green bill.
As the waiter departed with Matt’s twenty, Trudy frowned. “Why are you so interested in that blond giant? Are you going for a threesome?” She glanced my way and winked. “Why not make it four?”
“Sorry, Trudy. This is just business. That’s all I’m interested in tonight.”
From the way the young barfly stormed back to her perch, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find poison in Matt’s drink.
“So,” I said, “is that Slow, Comfortable You-Know-What Against the Wall a real cocktail, or was Trudy’s drink suggestion as obscene as I thought?”
“It’s real,” Matt replied. “The slow comes from the sloe gin, it’s comfortable because there’s Southern Comfort in it, the screw is there because, like a screwdriver, it contains orange juice, and finally, it has Galliano, like a Harvey Wallbanger—hence, against the wall.”
His smiled turned devilish. “Cocktails aside, I recall you and I used to enjoy something like that in our shop’s roasting room . . . Just remember, I’m always happy to oblige.”
“You’d have better luck with Trudy.”
“I had better luck with our waiter.”
“Really?” I lifted an eyebrow. “I hope your explanation is less obscene than that cocktail you just described.”
“It’s not obscene at all. He simply confirmed what I suspected.”
“That Trudy is a lush, looking for a sugar daddy?”
“That I now know for certain where we can find Hunter Rolf.”
“You found out where Hunter is? From that quick exchange?”
Matt’s smile was suitably smug. “Guess you’re not the only amateur sleuth in the family.”
FORTY-FOUR
I regarded Matt’s confident smirk with curious skepticism.
“So?” I prompted. “Enlighten me. If Hunter is in this club, where is he?”
“Look, I figured the woman he’s with must really be something if he’s dumping out on his wife while her father is in the hospital, which means he would have booked the most intimate private booth in this club.”
“I doubt Hunter is with a woman. The man promised Sophia he would come to the hospital as soon as his ‘important meeting’ was over. Why would he make that promise if he was on a romantic tryst?”
“Maybe he lied about joining her. He sounds like a real cad.”
“Uh-huh. Well, on that particular subject, I bow to your expertise. So where is this special booth?”
“In a secret room.”
“Go on. Or is the secret room a secret?”
“Not anymore—although it was during the Prohibition years. This club was never shut down by the feds because they could never find any booze on the premises. When the doorman saw agents coming, he sounded an alarm, and the barmen activated a lever and pulley system that dumped all the upstairs booze into the sewers. Meanwhile, downstairs they kept the rest of their hooch safely hidden in a camouflaged wine cellar—and that’s where the special booth is.”
“You called it Jimmy’s booth?”
“Jimmy Walker, the mayor of New York. He was a regular here, but he didn’t think he should be seen drinking in public—given that it broke federal law—so the club gave him his own little booth in their secret cellar. Apparently, he also used it to dine with his lady friends, which is why I’m convinced Hunter is down there with another woman.”
“That history is depressing, another example of a hypocritical politician skirting laws he expects the rest of us to follow—it makes me wonder how many public servants have done the same through the years.”
“Don’t expect to find out. Taking down the powerful is no easy feat, Clare. The feds once raided this place while the mayor was in his secret booth. Jimmy got so angry that he called the NYPD and had all the agents’ cars towed—before going right back to his evening cocktails.”
“Okay. I’m impressed you know the secret room’s secret history, but does getting us into that room have to be a secret, too?”
“Why so eager?” Matt asked slyly. “Are you finally ready for that Slow, Comfortable Screw Against the Wall?”
“I’d kick you under the table, but I’m afraid these Cruel Wing shoes would sever an artery.”
“That’s your response to a friendly proposition?”
“Focus, Matt. How do we get to Hunter?”
“We don’t. We wait until Hunter gets to us. That room can only be reached through a hidden passageway below the kitchen, and the entrance to the kitchen is . . . right over there.” Matt pointed to the open doorway fifteen feet away. “Believe me, this is the best place to collar Sophia’s husband. We just have to wait him out. So, like I said, we might as well sit back and enjoy the wait.”
Thus began the most delicious stakeout I’d ever been on. Our drinks arrived, and I proposed a toast to Matt’s promising detective skills then sampled my Southside. The cocktail was bright, like a mint julep, but with the fruity, juniper berry flavor of gin instead of woody bourbon.
“Wow. This is nice.”
Matt nodded. “They really know how to mix a drink here. Now . . .” He rubbed his hands together, and his sly smile broke wide. “What shall we order for dinner?”
“Hold on. I don’t feel right about putting this on your wife’s tab.”
“And how did you feel last Christmas?”
“Excuse me?”
“When I was in Nairobi for the December auctions, Breanne sent you and the flatfoot invitations, remember?”
I groaned. “Trend magazine’s big holiday party. I was surprised she invited me.”
“So was I, until I learned that your invitation was the only one sent without the glossy insert card bragging how Driftwood’s star baristas would be serving drinks made with Driftwood Coffee—which also happened to be one of Bree’s advertisers.”
“And one of our competitors. God, it was awful . . .” I shuddered at the memory. “I spent an hour dodging attempts by Driftwood staffers to tweet me drinking from cups with their logo, until I begged Quinn to get us out of there.”
Matt met my gaze. “You don’t actually think your ‘special’ invitation, sans any mention of Driftwood, was an accident, do you?”
“You’re right. She owes me.” I snatched up a menu and opened it. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
Though I didn’t know much about 21’s history, I knew about som
e of the most famous items on its menu.
This club had invented the concept of the “haute” burger, so common now in high-end restaurants, but I began instead with another of their signature dishes, a crab cake. The meat was the highest quality, as juicy as the sea and as fresh as an ocean breeze, and the peppery cucumber-ginger salad made a wonderful complement.
Matt almost went with the soup du jour, a traditional Senegalese curry and cream bisque. But ultimately he went full carnivore, starting with sweetbreads served with creamed corn and a sauce made of veal stock and truffles, followed by a dry-aged, grill-sizzled New York strip steak with a creamy peppercorn sauce, and a potato whipped to fluffy perfection with seasoned olive oil.
Since I needed comfort after my stressful day, I chose one of the club’s most famous comfort foods for my entrée: Chicken Hash with Mornay sauce—a béchamel with plenty of Gruyère, which made the hash so creamy and rich that I pushed all thoughts of calorie counts out of my head (the bottle of Pinot Noir helped). A golden, cheese-crusted topping continued the Gruyère theme and was so delicious I decided this was something I’d try at home. Even the bed of spinach was special—Bloomsdale, grown since 1925, glossy, deep green leaves cooked to perfect tenderness.
I thought I was hungry, but Matt devoured his meal so fast I doubted he’d actually chewed.
We were debating dessert (over shots of liqueur) when I noticed a man emerging from the kitchen doorway who, for once, wasn’t wearing a white jacket.
Young and olive skinned, this strongman wore a fine black blazer over an open-necked black shirt and slacks. His inky eyes scanned the Bar Room with such intensity that I pegged him as a bodyguard.
But whose body was he guarding?
I poked Matt when more well-dressed men began exiting the kitchen.
Wearing designer suits and sporting watches and bling I couldn’t afford in a lifetime, three of the men were stout, middle-aged, and wearing traditional Arab head scarves.
The keffiyeh-wearing trio was followed by someone I did recognize.
In his fifties, this slight man sported salt-and-pepper hair, a hawk nose, and a snow-white beard that looked even brighter against his aggressively tanned complexion. He wore no tie with his pin-striped suit, but the lavender silk handkerchief in his pocket exactly matched the open-necked shirt, where gold chains flashed, even in this low light.
It’s Eduardo De Santis, I realized, the nightclub-owning drug dealer whom Quinn once tried to take down. What is this guy doing back in New York?
Just then, a younger man came through the door, joining the rest of the group in backslaps and handshakes. Matt and I immediately tensed.
The last man was Sophia’s errant husband, Hunter Rolf.
FORTY-FIVE
MY first impression?
Hunter was tall and broad and scary big, like a Viking who’d docked his longship on a West Side pier and promptly visited a high-end barber for a shave and haircut before pillaging Barneys men’s department.
Eduardo De Santis looked almost like a child beside him—if not for his close-cropped white beard and more wrinkles than one typically saw on a man in his fifties.
Despite their differences in complexion, age, and shoe sizes, however, the two men were alike in mood. As they shook hands, their eyes remained locked in silent communication, their expressions confident.
No, I thought. More than confident . . . triumphant. The question was why. What was their meeting about?
I leaned toward Matt. “Give me back my phone.”
He handed it over. “Why do you need—”
“Time to play tourist,” I whispered then loudly declared, “SMILE!”
Thank goodness Matt realized what I was trying to do, if not why, and positioned himself to give me the best shot of Hunter and the men around him. To the rest of the world, it looked like I was simply shooting photos of my date at the famous 21 Club. But I was actually snapping shots of Hunter and De Santis. Then I zoomed in and took four more snaps of the former club owner, including a close-up.
When Hunter moved to the center of the entourage to wish everyone a final farewell, I pretended to be enamored of the “toys” above us, pointing and snapping until I got more pictures that included the three smiling sheikhs.
I quickly sent the photos to Mike with the text message—
Look who’s here!
When I glanced back to the group, they were still talking. None of the men had noticed my interest in them—none, that is, but the shifty-eyed bodyguard, whose dark focus was now frozen on me.
Crap, I thought, before shaking it off. The photos were with Mike Quinn now, so let him stare!
Ignoring the young man’s penetrating gaze, I pretended to chat with Matt about the memorabilia, pointing and laughing, while still keeping a peripheral eye on Sophia’s husband.
When the group finally began to break up and move out, I signaled Matt, who rose to block our outsized prey.
Okay, so Hunter was only a head taller than my six-foot-two ex, and his shoulders weren’t quite as broad as the Verrazano Bridge, but with the fashion of the day, his snugly tailored blue suit revealed an impressive shoulder span, a trim midriff, and arms that would do Mr. America proud.
Hunter was aptly named, too. He had a cat’s vigilant gaze with dark blue pools that seemed serene but remained wary, reacting with alertness to any movement his way—including Matt’s quick approach.
“You’re Hunter Rolf?”
“That would depend on who you are,” Hunter replied in that same vaguely European accent I’d overheard at Campana’s jewelry store.
“I’m Matteo Allegro. A friend of Sophia’s.”
“Oh, yes . . . my wife has mentioned you. You are the Bean Man.”
I moved to join the two men, but Matt didn’t bother with introductions. Instead, he stepped closer to Hunter, putting chest to manly chest.
“Well, this Bean Man would like to know why you’re in a private meeting, when you should be at the hospital consoling your wife!”
Matt’s raised voice turned heads. As a waiter moved to ask if anything was wrong, Hunter’s arrogant confidence suddenly folded.
“We can’t talk here,” he hissed to Matt. “Come with me.”
He turned and moved back through the kitchen doorway.
Matt threw me a look, and I followed him into the crowded stainless steel kitchen. We headed down a flight of crooked, rubber-coated utility stairs that landed us in a basement storage area.
With the clangs and shouts of the busy kitchen echoing above, Hunter paused in front of a bricked-up alcove, removed a metal meat skewer from a hook, and shoved it into a tiny crack between the bricks. With an audible click, the lock was undone, and Hunter pushed the two-ton “wall” inward.
For the second time that day, Matt and I entered a secret underground chamber. Looking around, I had to admit this one was much cozier than the World Diamond Tower vault.
The muted glow of golden lamps and flickering candles illuminated a surprisingly inviting room lined with finished wooden wine bins. Their shelves gleamed in the romantic light, with the dark glass of vintage bottles filling every nook.
Hunter led us to a long dining table in the quiet, cozy space. Dessert and after-dinner drinks had recently been served on its polished expanse, the remains not yet cleared away.
Matt and I took seats while Hunter stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, glaring at my ex. Matt glowered back.
Great, I thought. Another rooster fight.
We weren’t going to get anywhere like this.
Time for a woman’s touch . . .
FORTY-SIX
“MR. Rolf,” I gently began after politely introducing myself, “your wife is worried and upset. She sent us here to question you. After what happened to her father, she wants to know why you visited him this afternoon.”
<
br /> Hunter blinked in surprise. This was not the conversation he was expecting.
“How does she know I did?”
“Sophia and I both saw you come and go on the surveillance recording. You were with Gus Campana for over an hour, and you were the last person to see him before he was stricken.”
Hunter lifted his chin. “Are you accusing me of something—” A faint chirp interrupted him, and Hunter checked his smartphone before putting it back in his dinner jacket. “I was discussing business with my father-in-law, that’s all.”
“The jewelry business?”
I doubted that. My mind raced back to the argument Matt and I overheard at the shop. Hunter had sounded desperate to speak with Gus, but not about precious gems—
“I have something far more valuable—information,” he’d said. “News that Gus will surely want to hear . . .” It was about “a man in Rome . . . who was aboard that sinking ship . . .”
“I think you went to tell Gus about a man in Rome,” I said, “a man who was aboard the Andrea Doria when it sunk. Who is this man? And why did you need to tell Gus about him so urgently?”
Hunter slapped his hands on the table and leaned into my face.
“Why does Sophia want to know this now? She turned deaf ears when I brought her this information. Now I fear it is too late.”
“Too late for what?”
I saw Hunter’s jaws working. “Not your concern. I’ll discuss this only with my wife, not strangers.”
Matt was already simmering about the demeaning “Bean Man” remark. Now he pushed his chair back and stood.
“We’re not strangers. I knew Sophia long before you entered the picture. And Gus Campana is my godfather. I’ve known him—”
“You know nothing, Mr. Allegro. Nothing.”
Matt balled up his fists. “No? Then why don’t you enlighten me.”
I jumped between them, backing Matt off with a firm hand. Then I faced Hunter.
“I won’t keep you from your wife much longer. Just tell me one thing. What was your business with Eduardo De Santis?”
