“It might have been. It might be something else. Jay wasn’t found on the floor where he lived, and the neighbors tell me everyone hated him – the dude liked to sit on his balcony and throw pee on people – so he wouldn’t have been visiting anyone on a lower floor.”
Andre leaned back in his chair. “He threw pee on people?”
“The dude was disgusting and hilarious.” I told Andre the story about Jay throwing bread on people to attract seagulls and he was as amused as I was when I first heard it. “No one wanted to hang around him. So why did he end up on the seventeenth floor?”
“Maybe he got confused.”
“Or maybe something else was going on.”
Andre tilted his head to the side, considering. “I think you’re just bored and looking for something to distract you so you don’t have to play nice with the boyfriend’s mother.”
That could’ve been true, but I chose not to admit it – to him or myself. “There’s something here. I just know it.”
“I don’t have any answers.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“I do happen to know a place where you might find some answers.”
I immediately perked up. “Where?”
“You might not like it.”
“I’m fine with that.”
“Your boyfriend won’t be.”
“He’s not the boss of me.”
Andre gave me a challenging look.
“Fine,” I conceded. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. I won’t tell him I’m questioning people. He’s distracted with other stuff. It will be fine.”
Andre didn’t look convinced. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Just tell me what you have. I’ll work from there.”
“Okay, but it’s going to sound weird. You have to bear with me.”
“I thrive on weird.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
11 Eleven
Andre offered to visit my next destination with me. Even though Eliot was adamant that I shouldn’t spend time with my new friend – he had visions of shootings and drug deals gone wrong flitting through his head – I didn’t think Andre was all that bad. I was under no delusions about what he did with his days, but I also didn’t feel threatened in the least when I spent time with him. He was simply another source, and this time he came through like a champ when he pointed me toward a speakeasy I’d had no idea existed.
The Domino Club was in a basement.
No joke.
The club was housed in an older home – one that I guessed was built during Prohibition given the look and feel of the building – and what was supposed to be the neighborhood’s most popular bar was essentially hidden in plain sight in a residential area. The back of the house opened to the Clinton River, and it looked as if at one time there was a walkway from the back door (which was now the entrance to the speakeasy) to the river.
When Andre told me there was a club operating in a house in the middle of what was supposed to be one of Mount Clemens’ quieter neighborhoods I thought he was full of crap. I accused him of messing with me, but when he refused to back down I agreed to check out the place for myself.
From the front, it looked like a normal house. Granted, it was huge – like The Brady Bunch crew (including Alice and cousin Oliver) all lived here together and had separate rooms huge – but it still looked like a normal house.
It was well kept, with updated trim and cobblestone walkways. The siding was a mint green, which I hated for a house but found sort of endearing for a business. There were no signs in the yard to indicate it was a bar, although the gate that led to the back of the property was open (just like Andre told me it would be) so I wandered that way until I found the door he’d told me about.
Andre said people simply walked inside. There was no one at the door to greet you, and knocking was frowned upon. If you knocked, it was a sign you didn’t belong, and you weren’t allowed to stay. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, but I decided to follow the rules Andre laid out before I left his place. He had no reason to lie to me and, in this case, I figured he knew much more than I did.
I squared my shoulders and breezed through the door, hoping I didn’t have an arrest in my future if this was some elaborate ploy on Andre’s part. To my surprise, once past the door, there was nothing about the building that resembled a house.
Someone had stripped the insides bare at some point, perhaps down to the studs, and the space had been updated. The walls were painted a bright orange – more of a pastel sunrise than anything else – and through a set of rich mahogany doors with ornate glass panels was an extremely large entertainment area. We’re talking a bar with seating for at least twenty-five, at least ten booths and several tables, all surrounding what looked to be a dance floor.
“Huh.” I had no idea what to make of the club. I’d spent the better part of the past seven years working in Mount Clemens and had no idea this place even existed. I hadn’t heard as much as a whisper. To discover something like this was running right under my nose – it wasn’t even noon yet and the place boasted at least twenty bodies milling about – was a bit disconcerting.
“Can I help you?” A man in a vintage suit oozed from the hallway behind me, his expression flat and uninterested as he looked me up and down. I realized after the fact that I wasn’t exactly dressed for a trip to a speakeasy, which was the term Andre used to describe the club, but it was too late to turn back. Andre had instructed me to act as if I belonged here, so that’s exactly what I did.
“I need a drink,” I said, feigning annoyance. “Actually, I need ten drinks, but I’ll start with one.”
“Uh-huh.” The man’s affect was flat, as if everything I said was boring. “The bar is that way.” He pointed for emphasis.
“I see it.” I didn’t bother to rein in my annoyance. I figured if the people inside, the business owners themselves, were worried about me making a scene, that could only work to my advantage. “I was just debating if I wanted to stop by the restroom first.”
“The restroom is also that way.”
Ugh. I hated this guy. He had a stick shoved somewhere uncomfortable. That was the only explanation. “Well, thank you for the tip.” I strolled through the double doors and immediately headed to the bar, selecting a stool that was isolated – at least for my initial study – so I could get a feel for the room before interacting with anyone.
“I’m Lloyd. I’ll be your server.” A man appeared in front of me and smiled. “What’s your flavor?”
Hmm. That was an interesting question. I didn’t want to get hammered because I was driving, but I also didn’t want to request a weak drink that would seem out of the ordinary. “Bourbon and Coke, light ice,” I said after a beat. That seemed like a simple enough request that wouldn’t raise any red flags. “Er, make it Diet Coke.” That was less normal, but I found regular soda too syrupy.
Lloyd nodded once. “You’ve got it.”
I took the opportunity to search the space, furrowing my brow when I recognized a familiar face in one of the corner booths. “That’s Michael Porter.”
“Who’s Michael Porter?” Lloyd asked, returning with my drink.
“He’s a judge … and that’s not his wife.” I stared at the woman sitting across from Porter, her hand resting on top of his on the tabletop and her foot very obviously running up his leg under the table. “I think that’s his secretary.”
“I have no idea.” Lloyd’s tone told me he disapproved of my comments. It was clear this was the sort of establishment people frequented when they didn’t want others to know what they were doing. “Do you need something else?”
“I’m good for now.” I pasted a fake smile on my face and sipped my drink, cringing at its strength. If I finished the entire thing I would undoubtedly be drunk, which limited my options for escape, so I had to pace myself. “What can you tell me about this place?” I swiveled on my stool to face Lloyd. Instead of finding the taciturn bartender watching
me, I discovered the space behind the counter empty and a new presence peering at me from the stool to my right. “Hello.” I tried to contain my surprise. “You’re quiet like a mouse.”
The man cocked an eyebrow as he smoothed the front of his shirt. Like most everyone else, he wore a vintage (and clearly expensive) suit. Unlike the other people I’d managed to get a gander at, he looked amused by my presence.
“You’re Avery Shaw.” He delivered the statement in a matter-of-fact manner that set my teeth on edge.
“I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself to anyone,” I countered.
“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re Avery Shaw.”
“Yes, well … .” I decided to switch tactics. “You seem to have me at a distinct disadvantage. You recognize me, but I have no idea who you are.”
The man’s eyes twinkled. “Do you want to know?”
That was a loaded question. “I wouldn’t mind knowing who I’m talking to.”
“I guess that’s fair enough.” The man pursed his lips as he regarded me. “My name is Philip Keane. I own this establishment. You can call me Phil.”
“Well, Phil, this is an interesting place you’ve got here.” I took another sip of my drink and fought the urge to make a face. “This is quite the set-up.”
“It is,” Phil agreed, nodding as he drew his sparkplug eyebrows together. He was older, probably in his seventies, and he appeared more amused than annoyed by my presence. “I’m curious how you found out about our humble establishment.”
I flicked my eyes back to the judge and his friend, who were so wrapped up in each other they didn’t notice me as they petted one another under and over their table. “I hear things.”
“Yes, you’re good at hearing things,” Phil acknowledged. “You’ve got quite the reputation in this town.”
I couldn’t say the same for Phil. I didn’t recognize his name, yet something told me when I got a chance to search for information on him later I was going to come up with plenty that would pique my interest. “Oh, yeah?” I dragged my attention from the corner booth and focused fully on Phil. “What kind of reputation do I have?”
“People say you’re a ballbuster.”
“That’s probably fair.”
Phil offered an exaggerated wink that reminded me of a lecherous pimp on the prowl. “I happen to like it when people bust my … balls.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes at his overtly sexual – and patently lame – statement. If he was trying to play the part of the dirty old man he was doing quite well. “I’m sure you do.” I cocked my head to the side as I looked him over. “How long have you owned this place?”
“Is this an interrogation?”
“I’m merely curious.”
“Well, I find I’m a bit curious, too.” Phil shifted on his stool, his smile never slipping. “I’ve often wondered if you would stumble across this place. You have a reputation for being a bit too nosy. There have been times when I worried you would walk through the front door. But I’ll be honest. I wasn’t expecting you today.”
That was interesting. He clearly knew who I was and what I was capable of doing. He also wasn’t afraid to admit it. That meant he was either trying to schmooze me or legitimately respected me. I leaned toward the former because the way his eyes roamed over my body made me believe he was a predator in vintage gentleman’s clothing.
“I’m looking for information. Someone suggested you might be able to supply it.”
Phil’s eyebrows migrated higher. “May I ask who suggested that?”
“You can, but I won’t answer.”
“And why is that?”
“Because it doesn’t matter.” I did my best to keep my natural smugness at bay. “I would’ve eventually found this place. You just said that yourself. It doesn’t matter how I found you.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Well, you’ll have to get used to disappointment.” I didn’t miss the momentary flash of annoyance that exploded behind Phil’s eyes when I took another sip of my drink. “I need information on Jay Truman.”
I decided to push my advantage. I’d thrown Phil off his game, so there was no reason not to push him when he was floundering to find a foothold.
“Jay Truman?” Phil was incapable of hiding his surprise. “Why would you come here asking questions about him?”
“I guess that confirms my theory that you knew him.” I decided to tread lightly. When Andre pointed me toward The Domino Club he didn’t give me a name. I wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t have one or that he didn’t want to break too many mutual respect rules – criminals have them, too – in one day. Either way, it didn’t matter. I was positive Phil was familiar with Jay Truman. That was already a win in my book.
“I knew Jay,” Phil said after a long moment, his eyes harder than they were only seconds before.
“I’m guessing that means you know he’s dead.”
“I heard. It was all over the news yesterday.”
“He died in a fire,” I supplied. “I haven’t seen the autopsy report yet, but from what I heard his death is considered suspicious.” That was a gross exaggeration. For all I knew the medical examiner’s office already could have ruled the death accidental. I was the only one who seemed to believe his death was suspicious. Phil didn’t need to know that.
Instead of being angry at the statement, Phil looked legitimately intrigued. “Someone killed him?” He turned thoughtful as he stroked his chin. “Who would do that?”
“I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“And you came here because you think I did it?”
“No. I came here because Jay was a full-fledged mobster back in the day and I’m looking for people who knew him when he was active.”
Phil visibly relaxed, which I found odd. “A mobster?” His lips twitched. “I think you might be over-exaggerating what it was he did for his previous employers.”
Oh, well, now we were getting somewhere. “Did he break kneecaps and shoot people in the back of the head? Hey, did he have something to do with Jimmy Hoffa’s disappearance?”
Phil snorted as he shook his head. “You watch too much television.”
He wasn’t the first person to point that out. “If I’m off in my assumptions, you should tell me what Jay really did for his employers back then.”
“I don’t think that’s my place.”
“What harm could it do?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Hmm. He was being purposely cagey. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Even if his criminal days had long since passed, that didn’t mean he wanted to own up to the activities he participated in thirty years ago. I understood the inclination to cover one’s butt. Still, he was the best shot I had at digging up information about Jay Truman.
“I’m not interested in printing these stories in the newspaper,” I said finally. “I just want to know more about Jay. According to his neighbors in the building, he wasn’t exactly a likable guy.”
Phil barked out a warm laugh as he shook his head. “That’s an understatement. What did these neighbors tell you he was doing?”
“Well, apparently he liked to pee in a bottle and throw it off the balcony at people in the parking lot.”
Phil’s expression twisted. “Get out of here!”
I nodded. “He also threw loaves of bread on people so the seagulls would swarm them, although I found that story entertaining more than traumatizing. The urine stuff is gross.”
“That’s definitely gross,” Phil agreed. “I wish I could say it sounded out of character, but Jay wasn’t exactly a gregarious and fun guy. People hated him.”
“I’m not looking to get you guys in trouble,” I offered. “I’m trying to figure out if Jay was murdered, and, if so, why someone chose to go after him in a busy apartment building when other people could’ve been killed.”
“Was the fire deliberately set?”
That was a very good question. “I don’t know. I’m waiting for more information from the fire investigators.”
“Well, I don’t know what I can tell you.” Phil looked more resigned than excited at the prospect. “Nothing I do tell you is on the record.”
“I can live with that.”
“I guess we’ll have to see if that’s true.” Phil’s words were laced with an unsaid warning. “Ask your questions. I can’t guarantee I’ll answer them. If I find even a whisper of my name in your newspaper, we’re going to have issues.”
“I have no interest in publicizing your name.” That was mostly true.
“Also, I don’t want you telling anyone about this place.” Phil held up a cautioning finger as he stared into my eyes. “Only certain individuals are invited here. You can keep coming if you want – I have a feeling you’ll be entertaining and that’s worth a few headaches – but if you push things too far, well, then I’ll push back.”
“I can live with that.” I didn’t see myself visiting The Domino Club very often, but I wasn’t blind to the possibilities the secret club offered.
“You also can’t report on anything you see here,” Phil added.
Ugh. That was so not what I wanted to hear. Still, I was in no position to argue. “Fine. I can live with that.”
“Then ask me your questions.”
“Great. What is it exactly that Jay did for the mob and how long did he work for them?”
Phil let loose a long sigh. “You’re going to be a pain, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea.”
12 Twelve
What started out as several short stories and mindless chatter turned into hours of tales that didn’t sound quite right but somehow seemed to have at least a basis in truth. I was fairly certain Phil was a compulsive liar who was trying to impress me, but I had no doubt that at least some of the stories boasted nuggets of truth.
I switched to iced tea after the first bourbon and was sober by the time I left. Phil walked me out, which was uncomfortable when he got a little too close, but I was happy to quickly slam shut my car door and wave goodbye. My last glimpse of him was in my rear-view mirror. He looked intent as he watched me drive off.
On Deadline & Under Fire Page 11
