by Ian Rogers
Chapter 9
I parked around the corner from the club, in an alley between a Thai restaurant and a convenience store. I opened the passenger door and helped Sandra out just as if we had pulled up in front of the Royal York. She looped her arm through mine and we walked around to the main entrance. There was a line-up, but Sandra walked briskly past it. She never waited in lines.
The guy manning the door looked like the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. He was about seven feet tall, with a flat, impassive face and broad, rectangular shoulders. He was wearing a black T-shirt approximately three sizes too small for him, and the clipboard he was holding looked like a drink coaster in his big paw.
Sandra detached herself from me, put her hand on her hip and stuck her elbow out jauntily. “It’s been forever, dahling. How come you never write?”
The big guy looked down at her, and a grin slowly spread across his face. It was like watching a fissure opening in some obdurate stone. “Sandy Clifton. Where you been keeping your fine self?”
“Married life hath crippled me,” she said, and slumped against his chest with a girlish swoon.
“That’s too bad.” He sounded genuinely upset.
“It’s okay,” Sandra said perkily. “I’m getting a divorce.”
“Then come on in.”
He stepped aside and Sandra took my arm once more. She drew me into a storm of multi-coloured strobe lights and pulsating sound that I supposed passed for music in some circles. To me it was like the auditory test they give you at the doctor’s office, or the sound of a computer having the electronic equivalent of a grand mal seizure – high-pitched whining and electronic beeps and boops that made me much too aware of my own thumping heartbeat.
We moved along the edge of the dance floor, where insubstantial shapes gyrated to the rhythm of the cacophony. We went up a set of steep metal stairs to a landing where another man in a black tee took a single look at us – well, Sandra, actually – before letting us pass.
This was Seventh Heaven. It didn’t look much different from the level we just left, except I recognized faces from various movies I had seen. I suddenly realized that I didn’t know what I was looking for.
“Why don’t you circulate?” I said to Sandra, pulling her close so she could hear me. “I’m going to look around, see if I can find someone who was here the night before last.”
“Be careful, Felix. Don’t go asking too many questions. This is one of Cris Donovan’s clubs.”
“Cris Donovan? Donnie Drugs to the Stars? I didn’t know he was still around.”
“He’s more of a drug baron now.” Sandra looked over her shoulder – as if anyone could overhear us with the music pounding. “He’s gone Joe Hollywood. Only sells his stuff to the film types. He thinks it makes him more respectable. But that doesn’t mean he’s any less dangerous.”
“I’ll watch my back,” I promised.
“And try not to kill any more actors.”
“Hardy-har.”
She gave me a little wave, then promptly disappeared into the throng. I made my way back to the entrance. The bouncer eyed me suspiciously.
“I hear you’re famous,” I told him.
He stared at me silently.
“The word is you were one of the last people to party with the late Jimmy Logan.”
The bouncer muttered, “I don’t remember,” and turned away.
I took out a twenty and put it in front of his face. He made it disappear and turned back around.
“He was here. The night before he killed those people. He was with a couple of ladies.”
“Eve Sutter.”
“Yeah. She was in that movie, Backbreaker.”
“Who was the other girl?”
“I dunno. Some broad.”
“A friend of Mr. Donovan?”
The bouncer’s face darkened. He didn’t like my mentioning the owner’s name.
“You better watch your step, little man.”
I held up my hands to show him we were cool, but I could tell that was all I was going to get. I walked back across the room and found Sandra at the bar. I told her how I had struck out and she bucked me up by saying at least I didn’t put a wooden stake through the guy’s heart.
I started to reply – something witty, no doubt – but she put her fingers against my lips, shushing me.
“There he is. Cris Donovan.”
I turned around and saw a tall, pallid man with close-cropped black hair and prominent ears. He was shaking hands with everyone, squeezing the occasional shoulder, patting the occasional ass. He wore a dark red pinstripe suit and an extremely wide grin. He looked like the guy who did all the meeting and greeting in Hell’s cocktail lounge.
“Introduce us.”
Sandra gave me an incredulous look. “What?”
“Take me over there on your arm, perform a quick intro, and then scram. Go home. I’ll call you in the morning.”
She looked like she was going to argue, then she grudgingly took my hand, looped it through her arm, and walked me over to meet Cris Donovan.
He turned to greet us, white teeth gleaming. “Good evening!” he beamed. “Sandra Clifton, it has been an age. An absolute age!”
I don’t know who was more startled, me or Sandra. She touched her chest in an oh-gosh way and stuttered a reply.
“Oh... oh, yes. I haven’t been around in... an age.” She blushed furiously and looked at me for support.
I stepped in, proffering my hand. “I’m Felix Renn. Sandra’s husband.”
Donovan’s smile turned into a wide O of surprise. “Husband? I had heard you two split up.”
It was my turn to stutter. “It’s... we’re...”
Sandra came to my rescue. “We’re still in negotiations.”
The three of us chuckled in that exaggerated way people do at public gatherings, whether the joke is funny or not.
“Oh!” Sandra stood on her tiptoes and waved at someone in the distance – real or imaginary, I didn’t know. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek, said “I’ll be right back!” and was off. Good girl, I thought.
“You’ve got a pretty nice place here,” I told Donovan.
“I’m always changing it. I guess it goes with the name.”
“I guess it does. Makes me think of life and death.”
Donovan gave me an inquisitive look that said, Oh, really? Please elucidate.
“Well, what bigger change is there, right? Alive today, dead tomorrow.”
“Very true, Mr. Renn.”
“Kind of like what happened to Jimmy Logan and Eve Sutter,” I said, cutting straight to the bone. Subtlety has never been my strong point. That’s my gift and my curse.
“I thought I recognized you,” Donovan said dimly. “The Fearless Vampire Killer. I understand you’re a Fearless Werewolf Killer as well.”
“I’m branching out,” I told him. “I’m thinking about extending my service to include drug dealers. Do you know any?”
Donovan turned the smile back on. It was almost blinding in the murky club. He didn’t say anything, which made him smarter than most criminals I’ve known.
I leaned in close and said, “Do you think it was just a coincidence I happened to be there at both incidents?”
The smile faltered, but only a bit.
“The PIA knows all about your operation, Donnie. They’re probably at your house right now, cutting open your mattresses and looking inside your toilet tanks. I bet that’s where you still keep your shit, isn’t it? You got the expensive suit, the chic club, but old ways die hard, right?”
Donovan regained his sang-froid. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The vampires and werewolves are coming home to roost, Donnie.”
I slipped past him, giving his shoulder a little squeeze as I walked by.
I left and went back to my car. I drove around front and parked across the street from the club. I waited. Then I waited some more. A little over two hours later, Donovan came ou
t of Chrysalis alone. I had time to reflect that he was the first person of power I had seen who didn’t travel with an entourage. Even when he was doing the glad-hand bit in the VIP lounge he didn’t have a couple of hoods hovering over him, waiting for the first sign of trouble to punch a hole through someone’s ribcage. Somehow that lack of security made him seem even more threatening.
I was playing on a bluff, and a pretty big one at that. I didn’t know what the PIA knew about Donnie, if anything, and it really was a coincidence that I was at the places where Jimmy Logan and Eve Sutter had transformed into monsters. I was just hoping it was enough to rattle Donnie’s cage.
Someone came around with his car – a silver Mercedes – and I thought, He has a driver; he’s not completely independent. Then the man jumped out of the Benz and I saw the red vest and dark pants of his valet uniform.
Donovan slipped into the driver’s seat and pulled away from the curb.
I followed.
