“the prostitute had a few other things to say. Off the record. She’d been trafficked from Ukraine by the Brother’s Circle.” Carter looked away. “Might be nothing, but… it looks like the Red Fisher may have owned that joint after all.”
Zach easily hid any gratification because it was just so damn small. “And?”
“And it might be Cervenka. She seemed to recognize the name.” Carter scoffed. “What the hell. You need a project, I want a promotion. Win-win.”
“Okay.” Zach leveraged the pencil at such an angle that it looked like it would snap any moment.
Carter reached over and snatched it from him, dropping the utensil back in its metal cup holder. “Should keep you busy enough for the extent of your probation,” he said coolly. He rose from the chair. “Let’s work to find a way in. Discreetly, huh?”
A low growl seemed to emerge from the back of Zach’s throat, bucking the ludicrous command. As Carter walked away, he grumbled, “You should’ve gone the mercenary route.”
Zach didn’t reply. Frankly, the idea appealed to him.
11
It was a freak thing, this audition. She’d heard about it via a client of her father’s, which should have made her jump in her jalopy and head for the border. But Ronald Hightower III, the Hamptons’ most eligible bachelor over 40, had said daddy wouldn’t have to know. “It can be our little secret. And you’d be doing the owner a big favor, honey.”
Who was the owner?
Another client of daddy’s. Joy to the world. No thanks, Ron.
“But Shelley baby,” Ron crooned in his champagne inflection, “your father himself would insist if I told him.” She doubted that. Very much. The Wall Street playboy mentioned how much the gig would pay, but she didn’t care. What was money anyway if daddy wasn’t happy with her? But with three little words, her resistance died a quick death.
The Purple Gazelle.
She decided to take the C train – as opposed to the B train. No reason really. It was just where the overpowering throng had shoved her. From her doorman-guarded UWS digs on Columbus Avenue, it had been a short trek to the 86 th street subway station. Too short. She’d vacillated at the top of the stairs for a while, debating in the surprisingly warm sunshine of this late October day.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket – Daddy. Instant fear electrocuted through her chest. She looked around at the obnoxious news hockers and NYC tour salesmen, and in a quick fit, she sent him to voicemail. For the first time ever. Guilt ricocheted through her temples and chased her into the underground.
But somehow – she blinked and took a breath of recycled air as the train jolted and sped ahead like a bullet – she was on the way to her destination.
Nine minutes. That’s all it took.
The train lurched to a stop. And her heart lurched with it.
She nearly didn’t get off the train. But there was no help for it. Everyone pushed and shoved to get through the doors as fast as possible. She was carried along with the tide.
Before she knew it, she was out in the sunshine again. And in a cloud of complete uncertainty, worrying about what her father would say if he knew, she managed to arrive at the widespread property of the newly-reopened venue. With no skyscrapers in the immediate vicinity, the sun managed to make an appearance and glinted off the club’s elegant glass-façade dome. Standing at the end of the broad, u-shaped driveway, she took in the elaborate water fountain – a small-scale replica of the Trevi in Rome – the surrounding garden on the manicured island, and the original sign from the club’s inception. She felt insignificant and unworthy of the opportunity.
The history of this place impressed itself on her though its decades hardly showed after its recent renovation. It exuded the warm glow and prestige of that golden age of jazz where elite clubs like the Copacabana and the Palladium overflowed with mambo, swing, and
Zach easily hid any gratification because it was just so damn small. “And?”
“And it might be Cervenka. She seemed to recognize the name.” Carter scoffed. “What the hell. You need a project, I want a promotion. Win-win.”
“Okay.” Zach leveraged the pencil at such an angle that it looked like it would snap any moment.
Carter reached over and snatched it from him, dropping the utensil back in its metal cup holder. “Should keep you busy enough for the extent of your probation,” he said coolly. He rose from the chair. “Let’s work to find a way in. Discreetly, huh?”
A low growl seemed to emerge from the back of Zach’s throat, bucking the ludicrous command. As Carter walked away, he grumbled, “You should’ve gone the mercenary route.”
Zach didn’t reply. Frankly, the idea appealed to him.
11
It was a freak thing, this audition. She’d heard about it via a client of her father’s, which should have made her jump in her jalopy and head for the border. But Ronald Hightower III, the Hamptons’ most eligible bachelor over 40, had said daddy wouldn’t have to know. “It can be our little secret. And you’d be doing the owner a big favor, honey.”
Who was the owner?
Another client of daddy’s. Joy to the world. No thanks, Ron.
“But Shelley baby,” Ron crooned in his champagne inflection, “your father himself would insist if I told him.” She doubted that. Very much. The Wall Street playboy mentioned how much the gig would pay, but she didn’t care. What was money anyway if daddy wasn’t happy with her? But with three little words, her resistance died a quick death.
The Purple Gazelle.
She decided to take the C train – as opposed to the B train. No reason really. It was just where the overpowering throng had shoved her. From her doorman-guarded UWS digs on Columbus Avenue, it had been a short trek to the 86 th street subway station. Too short. She’d vacillated at the top of the stairs for a while, debating in the surprisingly warm sunshine of this late October day.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket – Daddy. Instant fear electrocuted through her chest. She looked around at the obnoxious news hockers and NYC tour salesmen, and in a quick fit, she sent him to voicemail. For the first time ever. Guilt ricocheted through her temples and chased her into the underground.
But somehow – she blinked and took a breath of recycled air as the train jolted and sped ahead like a bullet – she was on the way to her destination.
Nine minutes. That’s all it took.
The train lurched to a stop. And her heart lurched with it.
She nearly didn’t get off the train. But there was no help for it. Everyone pushed and shoved to get through the doors as fast as possible. She was carried along with the tide.
Before she knew it, she was out in the sunshine again. And in a cloud of complete uncertainty, worrying about what her father would say if he knew, she managed to arrive at the widespread property of the newly-reopened venue. With no skyscrapers in the immediate vicinity, the sun managed to make an appearance and glinted off the club’s elegant glass-façade dome. Standing at the end of the broad, u-shaped driveway, she took in the elaborate water fountain – a small-scale replica of the Trevi in Rome – the surrounding garden on the manicured island, and the original sign from the club’s inception. She felt insignificant and unworthy of the opportunity.
The history of this place impressed itself on her though its decades hardly showed after its recent renovation. It exuded the warm glow and prestige of that golden age of jazz where elite clubs like the Copacabana and the Palladium overflowed with mambo, swing, and
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