If any dame was going to buy up all those four hundred dollar bottles of Cristal inside, it was going to be the one wearing this necklace.
The bouncer winked at me and unlocked the velvet rope, which was exactly what I was banking on. People on the line booed, but not too loudly, since no one wanted to risk being shunned by the Gatekeepers of Gargantua.
After the rope guy moved aside, I strode up to the club’s door, where another WrestleMania candidate held open the slab of heavy oak.
I stepped over the threshold, took off my overcoat, and tried to speak with the woman staffing the coat check, but she cupped her ear and shook her head, pretending not to hear me over the pulsing electronica flowing off the club’s dance floor.
With Madame’s green beaded clutch in my hand, I entered Flux’s massive interior. It appeared exactly as I’d expected: flashing lights and jam-packed bodies writhing to a pounding, relentless beat.
I moved through the crowd, avoiding the central dance floor. A young man jostled me, excused himself, and I realized—as he flashed a toothy Hollywood smile—that this dude was a fairly famous television actor. I searched for other familiar faces, half expecting to see Madame here with her new, “younger” flame (she did say they were going clubbing Saturday. Maybe they’d come out Sunday night, too?).
But the only familiar face I noticed was on the crowded dance floor: Anton Wright, Solange’s owner. He was clad in the same outfit he’d been wearing at the funeral home: a tailored black jacket over a black, open-necked shirt. And he wasn’t alone. The man was dancing with a young woman in a daring red dress.
Oh, damn…another theory shot to hell…
Earlier in the evening, at Keitel’s viewing, I’d suspected Anton was getting a bit too cozy with Faye, but now I could see I’d been wrong. Anton was dancing with this young woman, but he was also touching her suggestively, occasionally kissing her. Clearly, he was interested.
Wright hadn’t seen me in the packed room and probably wouldn’t have recognized me if he had. Nevertheless, I moved quickly along to the largest bar, which was located in approximately the same spot that the church’s altar once stood. It took me a few minutes to push through the milling, thirsty mob and get the attention of a bartender.
“Where can I find Billy Benedetto?” I yelled. “I believe he’s the beverage manager.”
The man nodded. “Billy’s expecting you.”
I frowned. How can he be expecting me? Because of the loud music, it took me a moment to register the fact that the bartender hadn’t asked my name. Obviously, Benedetto was expecting someone else to ask for him. Oh, well. Too bad. I’m in.
“It’s through that door there. It’s unlocked,” the bartender said, pointing to a section of the mirrored wall next to the bar. I saw a knob and turned it; a door swung inward.
“Go to the top of the stairs. Billy’s office is the first door on the left. If you walk into the control booth, you’ve passed it.”
“Got it.” I stepped through the opening, and the door closed behind me.
The dark space was soundproofed, the music muffled to a muted throb. The narrow corridor and the staircase beyond were surreally illuminated by ultraviolet lights, the black walls covered in psychedelic patterns reminiscent of retro sixties pop art.
At the top of the stairs I saw several doors, including the door to the control booth at the end of the dark hall. It was open, and I could see banks of dials and switches for the laser lights and sound system. I found Benedetto’s office easily enough; his name was displayed on the door. I knocked, and a voice boomed.
“Come in!”
I pushed through the door.
The beverage manager’s office was smalclass="underline" a desk and computer, a couple of chairs. One wall held shelves crammed with bottles of all shapes and sizes, many tagged with labels that read Sample Only: Not for Resale. The wall behind the desk was dominated by six full-color monitors, each displaying live security-camera footage from each of the club’s serving stations.
Crowded and tight, the office was further reduced by the impressive girth of its occupant. Billy Benedetto was a large man—at least as large as one of the linebackers outside the club and much bulkier than the lithe Russian bodybuilders at Pedechenko’s banya.
I guessed he was over sixty, but the age thing was iffy. Judging from his bloodshot, sad-sack eyes and the deep lines on his puffy face, Benedetto could easily be a hard-living fiftysomething. Tonight he was swathed in a loose-fitting Hawaiian shirt, decorated with little art deco rocket ships. His gray hair was worn long and tied back in a ponytail. One ear was pierced with a diamond stud.
The second he saw me, Benedetto scowled. But then the man was expecting someone else.
“Who the hell are you?”
Charmed. “I’m Roman Brio’s collaborator.”
The scowl immediately vanished. “Roman Brio, the food writer and restaurant critic?”
“The same. Roman and I are working on a lengthy piece exposing the peccadilloes of Chef Tommy Keitel. You’ve heard, haven’t you, that he—
“Kicked? Bought the farm?” Benedetto’s sad-sack eyes brightened, and his face actually broke into a grin. “Yeah, honey. I heard.”
I noticed the man had been writing on something when I walked into the room. Now Benedetto lifted the item. It was a white label. I watched him affix it to a glossy black envelope, the same size and shape of the envelope I’d seen Tommy open the day he was murdered.
So, I thought, Dornier told me the truth… I was relieved to be on the right track, but a part of me tensed, knowing full well that I might have just placed myself in a room with Keitel’s murderer. But he had a motive to kill Tommy. He’s not going to kill an associate of Roman Brio’s, so just keep up the act, Clare…
“You don’t seem too broken up about the news of Chef Keitel’s demise,” I noted carefully.
Benedetto laughed. “That’s because you didn’t know Tommy like I knew Tommy. Consider yourself lucky. The great chef didn’t live long enough to stab you in the back.”
Benedetto tossed the black envelope aside, leaned back in his chair, and sighed heavily. “So who are you? You work with Brio, but what’s your name?”
“Clare Cosi. I’m here looking for background so Roman can write his piece. He may want to call you, even take you out to dinner. Would that be all right with you?”
Judging from the man’s girth, I figured that was a pretty good carrot. And I wasn’t wrong.
“Well, now,” Benedetto said, lacing his hands over his belly, “this is turning out to be one pleasant weekend. Tommy Keitel gets sliced up like red meat, and I get offered a plate of it. That’s rich!” He tossed his head back and laughed; then his gaze came back to me. “Okay, I’ll bite…What do you want to know about Keitel? I’ve got lots to tell you.”
Benedetto gestured to a chair opposite his desk. I sat down and crossed my legs. Motive. I need the motive…
He regarded me. “Don’t you have a notebook or tape recorder?”
I did my best to channel the amazing BB Gun—“I keep it all up here,” I said, tapping my temple.
The man’s bushy, gray eyebrows rose. “You have that good a memory, eh? Well, all right, here’s something to remember. Tommy Keitel is a son of a bitch who ruined me and my whole family. How do you like that for something to remember?”
“Good. Very good. Please go on…”
“The restaurant he ruined was more than a business. It was three generations of my family’s blood, sweat, and tears.” He held up three sausage fingers to make his point.