Through the Grinder

by Cleo Coyle

  The beep blared in one ear as a curse sounded in the other. Matteo was reacting to the jam just up ahead. After turning onto West Houston, the cab had slowed to a crawl, then came to a dead stop.

  “Matt, I don’t think we have to worry. It’s not like Brooks is going to do anything to Joy right there, in public. She’s okay, I’m sure of it,” I lied. Matt was steaming, and I didn’t want him to blow.

  The cab lurched forward, then stopped again. The traffic signal had suddenly turned red. Matteo cursed.

  Traffic in New York can be as dicey as a freak storm, and, like unpredictable weather patterns, New York traffic has a way of changing when you least expect it—and, for me, usually at the least opportune moment.

  “Sum-zing iz goin on,” grunted our middle-aged Russian driver.

  Indeed there was. The intersection of Houston and Lafayette, where West Houston becomes East Houston, was a roach nest of crawling black limousines all trying to scurry to the same place at the same time.

  “Do you think those limos are going to the Puck Building?” I asked.

  “I don’t think they’re flocking to the sale at Dean and DeLuca,” Matt replied.

  “At eight fifty for a jar of pasta sauce, I doubt there’s ever a sale at Dean and DeLuca.”

  “My point exactly.”

  We waited as the traffic light went from green to yellow to red. The cab never moved. Matt’s leg began pumping like a piston, and I knew from experience that the explosion was coming.

  “Come on,” I said, popping the door to release the pressure. “It’s only two blocks away.”

  Matt climbed out and I tossed the driver my last twenty.

  As we walked down West Houston we got a better look at the passengers of all those limousines.

  “This thing is black tie, and invitation only,” I said. “How are we going to get inside there and find Joy?”

  “The same way we saw Trent and Granger,” said Matt, striding forward.

  “No, Matt, listen—” I tugged his arm. “This isn’t a public seminar. We can’t just walk in. Since 9/11, security at these sorts of things is tighter than ever, especially when celebrities, politicians, and media people are attending. We could give any song and dance we wanted to the people at the door about Joy or anything else, but unless we have real credentials, or an official invitation, they’ll call security and boot us out.”

  “What do we do then? I’m not waiting around for that flatfoot.”

  “I could try Mike’s cell again, but if he isn’t picking up it’s probably because he’s in the middle of something. And Joy’s cell is probably in her bag, which is in a locker or back room while she’s working.”

  “Well, if you’re out of ideas, I’m going to take my chances with shouting my way into this thing.”

  “Matt, it won’t work.”

  Just then, I heard a young woman’s voice, loud and vacuous, and right in front of us.

  “Oh,” she giggled on the sidewalk to a passerby. “It’s not an F at all. It’s really a P! I thought that was a funny name for a building.”

  I turned to see a tall, reed-thin blonde with long straight hair and enough black eyeliner to please an Egyptian pharaoh wobbling on super high heels. Though she was wearing an overcoat, her naked legs and strappy shoes looked totally inappropriate for a cold late autumn night.

  The passerby, a Hispanic man in a delivery uniform, eyed her with a mixture of interest and bemusement. Then her wide blue eyes met mine and I smiled sweetly.

  “Do you need help?” I asked. She looked at me and Matteo at my side and nodded enthusiastically.

  “I just got out of a cab and walked two blocks. I’m looking for the Puck Building,” she said breathlessly.

  “That’s where we’re going. It’s just up the street,” said Matteo. “Are you a model?”

  “Yeah,” the girl said, pushing hair away from her face and offering us a profile.

  “Him, too,” I decided.

  Surprised, Matt opened his mouth to speak. I elbowed him before he could utter a sound.

  “Yes,” I continued. “Brooks Newman hired Fuego here to model some skimpy little thing.”

  “Fuego!” Matt cried.

  I elbowed him again. “I’m Fuego’s agent. My name is Clare.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Clare. And you too, Fuego,” said the woman. “I’m Tandi Page. That’s Tandi, with an I. My agent told me to make sure people always got my name right.”

  “Did Brooks get your name right?” I asked.

  “Hah! I don’t think he even noticed my name.”

  We reached Lafayette and the Puck Building loomed over us. I always thought of this place as a sort of whimsical structure, and not just because of its origins. Named after an irreverent satirical magazine that had its headquarters here, the building still boasted glided statues of Shakespeare’s Puck, the weaver of dreams from the play A Midsummer Night’s Dream, complete with top hat.

  The Puck’s architectural style actually felt whimsical, too. It was a Chicago School steel-framed structure with horizontal bands of arched windows that admitted a vast amount of sunlight. Its skillful use of a cheerful thin-line red brick combined with sober green trim presented a delightful combination of impressions—not unlike reading the comedies of Shakespeare. While on the one hand you could see the lightness and the grace of its simplicity, on the other you could feel its underlying strength and permanence.

  Originally, the entrance to the building was on Houston, but a century ago, Puck’s editors so angered the corrupt politicians of Tammany Hall that they zoned part of the building out of existence to create Lafayette Street. After the partial demolition, the building grew like a phoenix from its fractioned ashes, sprouting additional floors and an opulent new entrance foyer on Lafayette.

  At the moment, I was standing outside that foyer, looking up at a gilded, top-hatted Puck who seemed to be laughing at the foolish mortals entering his building—men in evening suits and women in opulent gowns, all of them impatiently jamming the doorway, their limousines clogging the streets around them. The building itself, a city block large, was ablaze with light, its tall windows casting a golden glow on Houston, Lafayette, Mulberry, and Jersey Streets.

  Tandi drew a letter from her tiny purse. “I think we’re supposed to go to the Jersey Street employee entrance.”

  We dodged the crowd and circled the building. There was also something of a crowd at the Jersey Street entrance, which was lorded over by a portly man in a black suit, black shirt, red bowtie, and conspicuous bright red socks.

  “Hi, Trevor,” Tandi warbled.

  “Tandi, you made it,” the man cried. “The other girls are already inside. Go dish, girl.”

  Tandi waved goodbye.

  “Good luck, Fuego,” she squeaked. Then she catwalked through the door and out of sight.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked, batting his eyes.

  “We’re here to model,” I said.

  He examined me and his eyebrow went up. “Surely not.”

  “Not me, my client, Fuego.” I pushed Matteo forward like an offering.

  “Not bad,” the man said appraisingly. “Where’s your contract and letter?”

  “My what?”

  He thrust his hand out. There was a ring on each finger, but tastefully he’d skipped his thumb.

  “Your contract?”

  “Brooks Newman said he would send it over by messenger but it never arrived,” I lied, impressing myself with how good I was getting at dissembling. “Brooks only saw Fuego a few days ago. Said he’d be perfect for tonight’s event.”

  “So Brooks is shopping for rough trade these days?”

  He looked Matteo up and down as if he were a racehorse.

  “A little long in the tooth but not bad,” the man snorted. Then he folded his arms.

  “But you have to have a letter to get in here, sweetie. I’ve got J. Lo in there. I can’t just let every Tom, Dick, and…Fuego in, you know.”

>   “Brooks did give me his card,” I said, fumbling through my wallet, praying I hadn’t thrown it away since our dinner at Coffee Shop.

  “Here it is!” I thrust it into the man’s hand.

  “Okay,” he relented. “But you’re lucky we have more thongs than the buns to fill them or I’d send Fuego back to the meat packing district.”

  He stood aside and Matteo and I stepped forward. Then his hand shot out and stopped me.

  “Where are you going, sister?”

  “With my client, I—”

  “He’s modeling. You’re not.”

  “But Fuego…He doesn’t speak a word of English,” I stammered. “He’s very obedient. Does whatever I tell him. But I have to tell him what to do because…well, just between you and I, Fuego is pretty but a little dense.”

  The man’s round face broke into a grin.

  “Oh, I love that in a man! Go on then, honey, and good luck.”

  “A little dense,” Matteo hissed after we got inside.

  “I also said you were pretty.”

  Just then, a lean, muscular young man with no visible body hair strode by wearing a leather codpiece and a string holding it up—and nothing else.

  “You’d better be pretty, if you want to compete with that.”

  Matteo snorted.

  “The dressing room is this way,” cried a scrawny man. He held a hair dryer and was waving us forward with it. Behind him, the room was full of nubile young bodies in various states of undress. There was no privacy, and models of both sexes were changing into their outfits together.

  “This might not be so bad after all,” said Matteo, grinning.

  “Break a leg. Once you’re changed, you should be able to move around freely and look for Joy. I’m going to try to find the kitchen.”

  It took me ten minutes to locate the damn thing. Between banks of steel refrigerators and an expansive range, dozens of cooks in white coats were preparing trays of elaborate canapés—all vegan.

  “Excuse me,” I said to a man who was checking the trays as they left the kitchen. “I’m looking for a young woman working with one of the caterers. Joy Allegro? I was supposed to meet her here.”

  “Not here, upstairs,” the man replied. “We’re the Puck caterers. The private caterers are working the Skylight Room upstairs. Are you one of the wait staff?”

  “Why…uh…Yes.”

  Since I wasn’t dressed as a guest for a formal function, I figured it was the only answer I could give. Telling him anything else might have just gotten me thrown out—and I couldn’t risk it. Besides, the Skylight Room sounded exclusive, but posing as a waitress would certainly get me right in.

  “Thank goodness!” he said. “The boss told me if one or two of the no-shows didn’t get here soon I’d have to send one of my own staff up there to fill in.”

  “Well, here I am!” I chirped. This was perfect. I’d worked for a caterer part-time in Jersey, so this act was sure to be a breeze.

  “Yeah, none of my girls wanted to wear the outfits.”

  My blood froze. “Outfits?”

  “You can change in here, but hurry,” the man said, opening a locker room. “Victoria’s Secret contributed this stuff for the event, so you’ll probably find something that fits. Let me know when you’re done and I’ll take you upstairs.”

  I hesitated and I guess he saw the dread on my face. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s not underwear you’ll be wearing.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “More like a flimsy nightgown kind of thing.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  I emerged from the dressing room ten minutes later wearing red mules and a silky floor-length nightgown with a low but not grossly immodest neckline. The design was a pink floral pattern with tiny red roses sewn around the neckline, and the material itself was clingy, accenting my curves. Still, it was awfully thin material and downright drafty. Okay, I admit, it looked quite elegant, and I might have loved wearing it, too, if I were at home, in my bedroom.

  The chef returned. I suppressed the urge to cover myself.

  “The service elevator is taking more cases of beverages upstairs. It’ll take some time, so just go through the main ballroom and use the elevator up front.”

  “What? Through the main ballroom? Like this?”

  “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of—”

  Oh, good god.

  “Besides, compared to the women out there serving drinks, you’re dressed modestly. Anyway, there are two hundred people in the Skylight Room who are going to see you in that getup, so you might as well get used to it. There are a lot of celebrities upstairs, too, so don’t lose your cool.”

  He pushed the kitchen door open. “Right through the middle of the room to the door on your right, then up the elevator to the top. Speak to Ellie at the bar up there, and she’ll get you a serving tray.”

  I didn’t want to do it, but it was the only way to get to Joy. So, after a deep breath, I took the plunge.

  The floor of the brilliantly illuminated main ballroom was jammed with elegant partygoers drifting gracefully between the columns to the strains of harp music, the men in black tie, the women in floor-length gowns or skimpy haute couture. Jewels dripped from throats and sparkled on ears and fingers. Even the lingerie models who drifted across the hardwood floor serving refreshments looked somehow in character with the décor, like delicately flitting fairies in a Victorian painting.

  Only two things ruined the picture perfection of the scene.

  Hanging from the main ballroom’s sixteen-foot ceilings were huge, bloody sides of beef, shanks of lamb, whole, gutted suckling pigs, and hundreds of dead chickens. Though it didn’t take me long to figure out that, mercifully, all the animals and animal parts were fake—rubber chickens, luridly painted plaster of Paris shanks, etc.—the message was far from subtle.

  “A little much, don’t you think, Brooks?” I muttered, frowning at the collection of fake dead fowl.

  The second disturbing element was the beautiful couple posing on pedestals near the ballroom entrance across the room. They were two of the most perfect physical specimens I’d ever seen. The man wore nothing more than a Speedo, the woman a thong and skimpy bikini top. Their muscles were toned and tight, their flesh smooth and healthy—and divided by bold black ink into their various cuts of meat, just like the poster for this event.

  I got about halfway across the ballroom when I heard a woman’s voice slurring a familiar name.

  “Oh, Maah-Teyyy-Oooooh.”

  I turned to find Matteo, wearing velvet slippers, silk boxers, a look of stunned terror—and nothing else. He was obviously rushing to get my attention when an older woman had intercepted him, her spidery arm locking itself around my ex-husband’s bicep.

  I recognized her at once. It was Daphne Devonshire.

  Well, well, well, Daphne, whaddya know.

  The last time I saw Madame’s friend, she was a well-preserved glamour queen who had gotten into the habit of luring my husband to a seaside love nest in Jamaica. But that was almost fifteen years ago and those years had not been kind. Daphne’s once classic features now appeared frozen in a plastic surgery and Botox-induced death mask. Her skin, once tanned and healthy, took on the sallow look of a heavy drinker and excessive smoker. Worst of all, her lycra, strapless number was far from figure flattering. Daphne still looked shapely, but that gown was made for a twenty-five-year-old built like Pamela Anderson—not a woman in her late sixties.

  “Matteo, darling! It’s so wonderful to see you,” Daphne cried, air kissing him. Her arm never loosed its iron lock around his bicep. As she talked she spilled some of her drink. “Remember what I used to sing to you down in Jamaica, mahn?”

  Now she was affecting a Jamaican accent, a really bad Jamaican accent.

  “Maah-Teyyy-Oooooh, Maah-tey-eh-eh-Oooooh. Daylight’s gone and you’re comin’ to me home…”

  Matt looked at me with desperation. His eyes were imploring.

  “Joy’s
upstairs,” I told him. “I’ll see you up there.” Then I blew him a kiss and moved on, leaving Matteo to extract himself from his ex-lovebird’s death grip all by his little old self.

  I hadn’t gone far when I heard a familiar female voice call my name.

  “Clare, my dear, that’s quite a daring outfit, though I must admit you carry it off well.”

  I turned to find Madame, my ex-mother-in-law and owner of the Blend, standing in front of me. She was arm in elegant arm with a “special friend” she’d met a few months ago, Dr. Grey Temples—a.k.a. oncologist Gary McTavish.

  Standing there, feeling half naked, I think I may have blushed.

  “You remember Dr. McTavish,” Madame said, deftly covering my discomfort.

  He smiled and took my hand. “You look stunning, my dear.”

  “Yes, she does,” said Madame critically. “Though a little jewelry would have made her seem a little less…naked.”

  Madame gazed past me, searching. “Are you here with anyone in particular?”

  I bit my tongue about the murders and Brooks Newman and my trying to get to Joy. I’d sound like a raving lunatic blurting it all out for one thing, and it would just waste more time for another. Neither was this the time or place to give Madame a heart attack over the safety of her granddaughter. I just needed to extract myself politely and get my drafty rear upstairs.

  “Matteo,” I replied quickly. “I’m here with Matt.”

  Madame’s eyes lit up.

  “That boy of mine,” she said. “He’s been back from Africa for days and hasn’t visited me yet. Where is he?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Well, I…”

  Madame frowned when she looked around the room and found her son, still trapped with her old friend, Daphne Devonshire. (Really, an ex-friend ever since her fling with Matteo.)

  “Oh, god, Clare,” Madame said with a sad sigh. “Why did he ever get involved with that woman?”

  “We weren’t getting along. It was the early nineties. Rap was eclipsing New Wave…”