by Cleo Coyle
“Oh, hello there,” I said, feigning surprise. “I’m new here. This is my first night, Mr.—”
“Call me Harry.”
Van Loon’s horn-rimmed glasses were gone, replaced by contact lenses that intensified the green of his hazel eyes. He stepped closer—a little too close for comfort actually—and out came the toothy smile I remembered from Central Park. Only this time it had a decidedly wolfish edge to it.
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said in a tone that sounded more like And what’s in your basket, little girl? Then he held out his hand.
As we shook, I reminded him—“We already know each other.”
“Oh?” His head tilted and his grip tightened. “You must be one of my firm’s clients?”
“Close. You helped me out with your legal expertise this past weekend.”
When he drew a blank, I lowered my voice. “I’m Clare, from the Village Blend.”
“The coffee lady?” Van Loon simultaneously dropped his smile and his hand before taking a giant step back.
“I hope I’m not giving you the wrong impression. I mean about being in this room.”
“No. In fact, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see you here, given your employer—”
My employer? “What do you mean?”
Ignoring the question, he continued babbling, “I must say, you’re very well spoken.” He looked me up and down again, less like a wolf this time than one of those pink-smocked fairy godmothers in the ladies’ lounge. “Yes, you have fixed yourself up quite nicely.”
Gee, thanks. “Listen, I won’t keep you, but I do have a quick question, if you don’t mind?”
“What’s that?”
“You lent a legal hand to my business partner when he was questioned by the police. You remember, don’t you, after the Central Park Festival?”
“Yes. A most unfortunate business.”
“It’s about to become even more unfortunate, and he may need your help again. Would you be willing to—” I took a step closer.
“I’m sorry.” He held up his hand. “I must stop you . . . Clare, wasn’t it? I was happy to make a call on behalf of my work with the festival committee, but I am not a criminal attorney.”
“Can’t someone in your firm handle—”
“No.” He lowered his voice. “We’re primarily divorce lawyers.”
“You don’t do anything else?”
“We draw up prenuptial agreements. But that’s about it.”
I glanced around, getting it. “Fish in a barrel here, I suppose?”
“You could say that. Actually . . .” He leaned closer and let himself share an insider’s smile—one entrepreneur to another. “I often advise my female clients to join the club, so to speak.”
I recalled Leila’s comment about meeting Samantha through the club and their shared divorce lawyer. Was it Van Loon? I took a chance—
“Oh, I’m not surprised”—I casually waved a hand—“you handled Samantha Peel’s divorce and Leila Quinn Reynolds’s, didn’t you?”
“Yes, two of many. And my firm does handle some civil actions for our clients, as well, but not criminal. Tell you what. Call my office in the morning. My assistant will provide a short list of referrals, in accordance with your . . . well, your resources, as limited as they no doubt are. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
And that was that. The furry-faced lawyer was off to sniff out more lucrative prey. I tracked his movements past the espresso bar to a table of two gentlemen and two ladies—the latter dripping in a girl’s best friend.
But the diamonds weren’t as interesting to me as that coffee station he’d breezed by, and I couldn’t help wondering—
Whose coffee are they serving anyway?
My professional curiosity piqued, I headed over and ordered a double. The taste seemed strangely familiar.
“This coffee is quite good,” I told the barista.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Would you mind telling me who supplies it?”
“The Village Blend.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
FLABBERGASTED, I stared at the barista. “Did you say Village Blend?”
“Yes, ma’am, they’re an excellent coffeehouse. They source and roast their own beans.”
“You don’t say?” I was about to pepper the man with questions when a small group approached with orders. Drumming my manicure on the counter, I checked my watch. Still fifteen minutes to go on the transmitter charge.
“You there?” Franco asked.
“I’m waiting for the barista to get back to me,” I whispered. “The club is serving my coffee. Can you believe it?!”
No reply.
“Franco? Do you copy?” I tapped the cubic zirconia switch a few times. Though the transmitter was broadcasting, the signal didn’t seem to be reaching him. As more customers arrived at the coffee bar, I reluctantly gave up.
Better get out of here.
Not an easy task. The lounge was now packed with bodies. As a jazzy rendition of “Amapola” began, I felt someone grip my arm.
“Care to dance?”
Before I could react, a white-haired gentleman stepped in front of me, hooked his hand around my waist, and practically lifted me off the carpeting and onto the hardwood.
This guy was solidly built, in his mid- to late sixties, and tall. Even in my highest heels, I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze; otherwise I’d be staring straight into a red silk tie and crisp white shirt.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to pull away, “but I was just leaving.”
“That’s the point,” he whispered in my ear. “You may not get out of here without some trouble.”
My eyes widened. “I don’t know what you—”
“Your earrings are the problem. If I were you, I’d tap that right one again. They’re jamming you now. But you’re still broadcasting a signal, which means they can follow it to the source.”
I quickly switched off the transmitter. “How did you know?”
“Because I have my own listening devices planted in this place, but I’m not trying to broadcast beyond its walls, which means—at the moment—you have a very big problem.” He tilted his white head, indicating the two big security guards who’d entered the room. “They have staff waiting for you at both exits. Do you have an emergency escape route planned?”
No, I thought—and then I remembered that friendly waiter.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Take this.” He slipped a business card out of his lapel. “It will confirm my identity. There’s a bit of a riddle to it.” He smiled. “But I think you can handle it.”
Without glancing at the card, I tucked it down my neckline.
“The song’s about to end,” he whispered. “When it does, leave immediately.”
As the final strains of the Spanish love song faded, I thanked the mystery man and attached myself to a small group of couples leaving the Diamond Room.
I hated the idea of returning to that awful Silver lounge to find my helpful waiter, but luck was with me in this subterranean casino: I spied him serving drinks to a couple playing roulette.
“I need your help again,” I whispered. “Another masher is after me. He won’t leave me alone. I lost him, but he and his friend are waiting at the doors to catch me.”
“Oh, Chiquita, you’re not having a very good night, are you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
He leaned close. “Don’t worry. I’ve done this before. See that curtain behind those potted coconut trees? Slip through there and make sure no one sees you. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
Everyone was watching the gaming tables, so I easily slipped behind the coconut curtain. After five excruciating minutes, I began to wonder if I could trust my waiter—not that I had any choice.
That was when a wheeled cart bumped my rear. Pushed by my waiter, the stainless steel wagon was draped in a tablecloth, and piled high with empty tapas dishes.
The waiter pulled the white cloth aside and pointed to a crawlspace.
“Your carriage awaits.”
I ducked inside, sitting with my knees under my chin.
“Here we go,” he said, dropping the cloth. “Keep quiet and you’ll be fine.”
After a bumpy ride, the cart halted. I held my breath as the waiter spoke quickly in Spanish to a man with a gruff voice (security, no doubt).
Deep male laughter ensued. I heard the security guard mumble “clear” and then came the sound of elevator doors opening—not the clean swish of the uptown doors but the awkward, industrial clanking of a large service elevator.
(I may not have had much experience as a superspy, but I did cater enough private parties in this town to know “the help” always had its own exit.)
“Almost out, Chiquita,” he whispered after the doors closed. “Stay quiet.”
When we cleared the elevator car, I heard the shouts, hisses, and banging of a busy commercial kitchen, which faded as we rolled down another hall. Finally the cart lurched to a stop.
“When I leave, please count to twenty so I can get clear. Then exit through the closest door. You’ll see the ladies room to your left. Take your time, freshen up, and exit through the restaurant’s dining room.”
“Thank you.”
“No hay problema,” he said. “But if you don’t mind my saying, are you sure our club is for you? There are plenty of other ways to meet a man, you know? Ever try Match.com? How about Christian Mingle? Or JDate?”
“Thanks, I’ll consider it.”
The waiter’s footsteps receded. As soon as I counted to twenty, I was out from under and through a swinging door. I found myself in a strangely familiar paneled hallway with a rare public telephone.
Should I call Franco? No. Better get out now!
I found my way out to the main dining room, and stood stunned for a long moment. I may have failed to pick up a cannoli for Franco, but I did find him that second club entrance.
It appeared the Prince Charming Club was directly under one of New York City’s most iconic eateries—Babka’s, the restaurant owned by that little old grandmother Barbara Baum.
I thought back to my snooping in the entryway of Leila’s apartment. That box with the golden key included a note card. “Invitations to come,” it read with a signature of two initials. “BB.”
BB . . . Barbara Baum. Holy cow!
SIXTY-EIGHT
ON the car ride down to the Village Blend, I gave Franco back his Spy Shop costume jewelry and filled him in on the Mystery Man, my service elevator escape, and the Babka connection.
Still swathed in electric blue Fen, I unlocked my small office on the second floor of the coffeehouse, settled in behind my battered wooden desk, and fired up my computer. Franco took the chair opposite and wasted no time popping the strings on the pastry box. (Yes, since I was already at Babka’s, I figured why not stop by its famous bakery counter?)
As Franco tore off pieces of their most popular babka, the heady scents of chocolate and cinnamon filled the cramped space, along with similar aromas from our steaming cups of Sumatra Sunset.
“I should have suspected something,” I said, staring at the twilight purple box. “Babka’s is located right around the block from that black mystery door. And Leila’s club key came in a box the same shade of purple as the awning over Barbara’s restaurant—and her bakery boxes.”
“Matchmaker, make me a match,” Franco said between bites. He licked his fingers and smiled.
“Very funny,” I said, but we were both thinking the same thing. Madame’s old friend had brought much more than Lower East Side comfort food and courtship rituals to her uptown address. “It’s hard to beat a Silver disco, Diamond gourmet buffet, Gold-flowing fountain, and gambling floor, complete with pink-smocked fairy godmothers in the women’s room.”
“Sounds like Hello Dolly does Vegas in a storybook speakeasy,” Franco declared. “And what happens in her underground parking garage stays in her underground parking garage.”
I pointed to my computer screen. “According to this news article I’m skimming, Dwayne Galloway is in her league—he can afford to buy silence. The man is one of the richest NFL players in the history of the game. How did he manage that?”
“Hatchet for Men is my guess.”
“Excuse me?”
“Galloway used to make commercials for men’s body wash, shampoo, and deodorant. They posed him with a sexy woman on each arm while he delivered the tag line ‘Slay them with Hatchet.’”
“He also owns a ranch and raises Angus beef in Wyoming. That explains the Meat part of this Meat-dieval Tournament and Feast, I guess.”
“Dwayne Galloway was a major player, Clare. Sportswriters called his time with the Giants ‘The Reign of Dwayne.’”
“I can see that. But, hey, look at this!”
I pointed to my screen again. ESPN archives had a clip of Galloway horseback riding on his Wyoming ranch, and a much older clip of him practicing on a parallel bar. The narrator noted—
“In college, Galloway studied gymnastics under Olympic coach and Soviet defector Rolf Tamerov . . .”
“Gymnastics,” Franco said, scratching his shaved head. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Galloway was famous for jumping incredibly high over tacklers. And after making a goal, he’d somersault in the air and land on his feet.”
“The Russian connection is what intrigues me. Is that why he went for Anya and Red?”
“Probably has a thing for Russian girls.”
“I wonder if he speaks Russian, too . . .”
I studied the most recent photo of Dwayne Galloway. He had dark brown eyes, and I was fairly sure he was the same predatory knight I’d seen in Central Park, staring at Anya.
My phone rang. I checked the caller ID and quickly told Franco to stay quiet while I answered on speaker mode—
“Hello, Samantha, I’ve been waiting for your call.”
“Sorry it came so late, Clare. Committee work kept me busy all evening.”
Not everyone on the committee was busy, I mused. Harrison Van Loon went clubbing.
“It’s okay,” I replied. “We’re still working here.”
An awkward pause followed. “You know, I used to hear that exact phrase from my disaster of an ex-husband.” Sam expelled air. “Mr. Wall Street was working, all right, on getting interns into bed . . .”
Oh, good grief, has she been drinking? I tensed. This was no time for 1-800-therapy, especially with Franco listening. Better keep her on topic—
“I’m sorry, Sam, but I’m so worried. You said you’d talk to me about my business partner’s situation. Why do you think Matt is being set up to take the blame for Red’s death?”
“That’s easy. Do you know about Dwayne Galloway and his connection to Red?”
“Now I do. I ran into Leila Reynolds tonight at . . . a social gathering and got the story out of her.”
Sam sighed again. “You must think all I do is gossip. But I was frantic, Clare, I had to talk to someone, so I told Leila. She was supposed to keep it a secret—”
“It’s okay. She didn’t want to tell me. I more or less dragged the truth out of her.”
“Well, not even Leila knows everything. Did she tell you the police are protecting Galloway? Because they are.”
“Is that why you fingered Matt when you spoke with Endicott’s partner?”
“Fingered Matt? Where in the world did you get that idea?!”
“Detective Plesky said you told him that Anya was last seen with a man wearing medieval garb—”
Sam cursed. “I
said ‘armor,’ Clare. I told that chubby detective that the man with Anya was wearing armor, which meant he was dressed as a knight, and guess what? The only people dressed as knights at the festival were Galloway, his football buddies, and—”
“The officers from the NYPD Mounted Unit.”
“Listen, I’m sorry. I feel bad about what happened to Red, but I’m only a volunteer trying to help the city organize a few events. What I’m telling you is in the strictest confidence. I’m in no position to go up against bad cops trying to protect their celebrity football hero.”
Franco’s frown deepened.
“Okay, Sam, I understand,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
By the time the call ended, I’d come up with a plan of action.
“Are you free for dinner tomorrow night, Franco?”
“At ye olde Meat-dieval Tournament and Feast?”
I nodded. Both Samantha and Leila said the police were protecting Galloway. Well, there was one member of the Mounted Unit moonlighting for Galloway that I knew by name: Troy Dalecki. I didn’t know if I could trust Troy; but since I still had his knight’s cape, I had a perfectly innocent excuse to drop in on the young officer—not something I wanted to attempt alone.
“You’re on, Coffee Lady. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you. And I’ve always wanted to see that place.”
“Bring your badge. You’ll be out of jurisdiction in New Jersey, but we’re going medieval, so you might need ye olde NYPD shield.”
“I don’t leave home without it. And I’m glad you’re taking backup, especially after what you allowed to happen tonight—”
“Not that lecture again.”
“That guy you danced with could have had a needle full of poison. With one stick, he could have killed you and walked away.”
“But he didn’t, all right? Let it go. Besides, he seemed like a nice guy.”
Franco rose. “I’ve heard that before, usually from victims of sexual assault.”
“It wasn’t like that. Without his help, security would have caught me in there.”
