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Authors: Jeffery Deaver
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we’re now on our way to Meg’s. The club. You know it?” “Absolutely no idea.”
“There, my point exactly. I’m thinking: Jesus, I’m doing something wrong. Taylor is a primo woman but she doesn’t know about this club.
I’ve
fucked up.
I’ve
got it wrong.” Taylor smirked. “Does this usually work?” Sebastian paused then slouched back in the cab seat and lit a cigarette. “What?”
“That line? The one you’re using on me now?” Sebastian waited a few more seconds and must’ve decided there’d be no recovery from her busting him. “You’d be surprised at some of the lines I’ve gotten away with.” He laughed. “The thing is
women
suffer from the fallacy of the man who knows what he’s doing. We never do, of course.” He gave her what might pass for a sincere glance and said, “I like you.”
They pulled up in front of nothing. A row of warehouses and small factories, not a streetlight in sight, only the distant aurora borealis of industrial Jersey across the Hudson River.
“Welcome to my main club.”
“Here?”
“Yep. I’m here six, seven nights a week.”
Sebastian led them through an unguarded, unmarked door into what looked like a Victorian bordello. The walls were covered with dark tapestry. The tables were marble and brass. Oak columns and sideboards were draped with tooling and floral chintz. Tiffanyesque lamps were everywhere. The uniform for men was tuxedo or Italian suits, for the women, dark, close-fitting dresses with necklines that required pure willpower to keep nipples hidden. The rooms were chockablock with high-level celebs and politicos, the sort that regularly make
New York
magazine and Liz Smith’s columns.
Sebastian whispered, “The three little piggies,” and pointed out a trio of hip young novelists whom a
Times
critic had just vivisected en masse in an article called “Id as Art: The Care and Feeding of Self-Indulgence.” Skinny women hovered around the threesome. Sebastian eyed the women with dismay and said, “Why are they wasting time with those dudes? Didn’t they see the article?”
Taylor said dryly, “You assume they can read.” And bumped into Richard Gere. He glanced at her with a polite acknowledgment, apologized and continued on.
“Oh my God.” She gasped, staring at the man’s broad back.
“He’s
here.”
“Yes,” Sebastian said, bored. “And so are we.”
The music wasn’t as loud as at the previous club and the pace was less frantic. Sebastian waved to some people.
“What’re you drinking?” he asked.
“Stick with R&C.”
They sipped their drinks for a few minutes. Sebastian leaned over again and asked, “What’s your biggest passion? After handsome men like me, I mean.”
“Skiing, I guess.” Taylor was circumspect about telling people her second career—the music—and was particularly reluctant to give a robbery suspect too much information about herself.
“Skiing? Sliding down a mountain, getting wet and cold and breaking bones, is that it?”
“Breaking bones is optional.”
“I did some exercise once,” Sebastian said, shaking his head. “I got over it. I’m okay now.”
She laughed and studied him in the mirror. The lawyer didn’t look good. His eyes were puffy and red. He blew his nose often and his posture was terrible. The coke and whatever other drugs he was doing were taking their toll. He seemed deflated as he hunched over his drink, sucking his cocktail through the thin brown straw. Suddenly he straightened, slipped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her hair. “Does anyone ever get lost in there?”
She kept the smile on her face but didn’t lean into him. She said evenly, “It’s true that I had date failure tonight. But I still do things the old-fashioned way. Real slow.” She eased away and looked at him. “Just want the ground rules understood.”
He left his arm where it was for a noncommittal ten seconds, then dropped it. “Fair enough,” he said with a tone that
“There, my point exactly. I’m thinking: Jesus, I’m doing something wrong. Taylor is a primo woman but she doesn’t know about this club.
I’ve
fucked up.
I’ve
got it wrong.” Taylor smirked. “Does this usually work?” Sebastian paused then slouched back in the cab seat and lit a cigarette. “What?”
“That line? The one you’re using on me now?” Sebastian waited a few more seconds and must’ve decided there’d be no recovery from her busting him. “You’d be surprised at some of the lines I’ve gotten away with.” He laughed. “The thing is
women
suffer from the fallacy of the man who knows what he’s doing. We never do, of course.” He gave her what might pass for a sincere glance and said, “I like you.”
They pulled up in front of nothing. A row of warehouses and small factories, not a streetlight in sight, only the distant aurora borealis of industrial Jersey across the Hudson River.
“Welcome to my main club.”
“Here?”
“Yep. I’m here six, seven nights a week.”
Sebastian led them through an unguarded, unmarked door into what looked like a Victorian bordello. The walls were covered with dark tapestry. The tables were marble and brass. Oak columns and sideboards were draped with tooling and floral chintz. Tiffanyesque lamps were everywhere. The uniform for men was tuxedo or Italian suits, for the women, dark, close-fitting dresses with necklines that required pure willpower to keep nipples hidden. The rooms were chockablock with high-level celebs and politicos, the sort that regularly make
New York
magazine and Liz Smith’s columns.
Sebastian whispered, “The three little piggies,” and pointed out a trio of hip young novelists whom a
Times
critic had just vivisected en masse in an article called “Id as Art: The Care and Feeding of Self-Indulgence.” Skinny women hovered around the threesome. Sebastian eyed the women with dismay and said, “Why are they wasting time with those dudes? Didn’t they see the article?”
Taylor said dryly, “You assume they can read.” And bumped into Richard Gere. He glanced at her with a polite acknowledgment, apologized and continued on.
“Oh my God.” She gasped, staring at the man’s broad back.
“He’s
here.”
“Yes,” Sebastian said, bored. “And so are we.”
The music wasn’t as loud as at the previous club and the pace was less frantic. Sebastian waved to some people.
“What’re you drinking?” he asked.
“Stick with R&C.”
They sipped their drinks for a few minutes. Sebastian leaned over again and asked, “What’s your biggest passion? After handsome men like me, I mean.”
“Skiing, I guess.” Taylor was circumspect about telling people her second career—the music—and was particularly reluctant to give a robbery suspect too much information about herself.
“Skiing? Sliding down a mountain, getting wet and cold and breaking bones, is that it?”
“Breaking bones is optional.”
“I did some exercise once,” Sebastian said, shaking his head. “I got over it. I’m okay now.”
She laughed and studied him in the mirror. The lawyer didn’t look good. His eyes were puffy and red. He blew his nose often and his posture was terrible. The coke and whatever other drugs he was doing were taking their toll. He seemed deflated as he hunched over his drink, sucking his cocktail through the thin brown straw. Suddenly he straightened, slipped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her hair. “Does anyone ever get lost in there?”
She kept the smile on her face but didn’t lean into him. She said evenly, “It’s true that I had date failure tonight. But I still do things the old-fashioned way. Real slow.” She eased away and looked at him. “Just want the ground rules understood.”
He left his arm where it was for a noncommittal ten seconds, then dropped it. “Fair enough,” he said with a tone that
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