Jack slowed as he approached Kelsey’s house, but he was a few minutes early. He waited in the driveway, giving her enough time to try on dress number sixteen, then at precisely 10 P.M. he walked to the front door and knocked. Kelsey answered with a smile.
“Ready?” she said.
“Yup.”
She was wearing red, a good color for the South Beach club circuit. Rather than blatant sex appeal with a heaping helping of cleavage, she’d opted for a more tasteful, striking look, and she’d hit a home run. Her hair was up in a twist, and the dress was strapless, which let the beauty of her long neck and sloping shoulders play out. Jack had never really noticed before, but she had great arms, beautifully sculpted. Her walk was clearly that of a dancer, poised and graceful, perfect posture without a hint of stiffness.
“Nice dress,” said Jack.
“This? Oh, thanks. Just something I threw on.”
Jack smiled to himself, deciding not to tell that Nate had already ratted her out.
It was a fifteen-minute drive over to South Beach and a thirty-minute wait at the valet entrance to Club Vertigo on busy Washington Avenue. By the time they got inside it was after eleven, which was like the early-bird special in this sleep-till-noon, party-till-dawn neighborhood.
It seemed like forever since Jack had done the South Beach club scene, even longer since he’d done it with a woman who turned heads the way Kelsey did. One thing that never changed about South Beach was the utter lack of subtlety in the way people checked each other out. There was nothing casual about it. This was the stuff by which one’s clubbing worth was measured. If South Beach were in Silicon Valley, people would be wearing the high-tech equivalent of Web site counters around their necks. Naturally, the ones with the most hits would vault to the head of the line behind the velvet ropes.
“See your bodyguard friend anywhere?” asked Kelsey.
“I’m not even sure what he looks like.”
“Just look for the guy with the thickest neck.”
Jack chuckled. “He said to give our name to the woman bartender. She’d call him over.”
The line was moving slowly, and they were nearing the entrance. Each time the doors opened, Jack was hit with a flash of swirling lights and a blast of music, and he could feel the vibration in his feet. He suddenly had an unnerving thought, one that made him glad this wasn’t a date. He was entering a dance club with a professional dancer. Sort of like going to bed with a sex therapist. No, no, no. Your hips go this way. Who needed that?
Finally they were at the velvet rope. The goon at the door gave Jack a once-over, then focused on Kelsey. Her proverbial hit counter was overheating.
“You with him?” he asked, as if he couldn’t believe it.
Jack was about to give it right back to him, but Kelsey moved closer and locked arms with Jack. She was clearly just playing the game and pushing the goon’s buttons, but Jack liked the feeling nonetheless.
“Is that a problem?” she replied flatly.
Attitude ruled in South Beach, and it both amused and intrigued Jack to see that Kelsey had it in her. The goon unhooked the rope, and with a jerk of his head he signaled them to enter.
Club Vertigo was in an old hotel that had been gutted on the inside and completely reconfigured with a tall and narrow four-story atrium. The main bar and dancing were on the ground floor, and if you looked up into the towering atrium from the center of the dance floor, the mystery behind the club’s name immediately unraveled. Several large mirrors suspended at different angles made it difficult at times to discern whether you were looking up or down. With even a slight buzz, the pounding music, swirling lights, and throngs of sweaty bodies were enough to give anyone a sense of vertigo. The sensation worked both ways, with hordes of people-watchers looking down on the dance crowd from second-, third-, and fourth-floor balconies.
Jack gave his name to the female bartender at the main bar and told her he wanted to see Javier. She picked up a phone for about a ten-second conversation, then looked at Jack and said, “Second floor, Room B.”
Jack and Kelsey meandered through the crowd and took the stairs to the second floor. A muscular guy dressed in tight black clothing and wearing a thick, gold chain around his neck was standing outside Room B. It was one of the champagne suites, a private room away from the commotion where people could have more intimate gatherings. Sort of a sex and drug club within a sex and drug club. The night was young enough that most of the suites were empty.
“You Tatum’s friend?” he asked.
Jack shook hands, then introduced Kelsey.
“Nice to meetchya,” he said, looking past her. Javier looked Hispanic, but he talked like a New York Italian. It seemed that everyone on South Beach was pretending to be something they weren’t.
“Please,” he said, inviting them into the suite. Jack and Kelsey entered first. Javier followed and closed the door behind him, shutting out the noise. The sudden solitude was a strange sensation, like submerging into the silence of the deep end. The room itself was nothing spectacular, just a fake-leather couch, an armchair, smoky glass-topped table, and cheesy red velvet wallpaper.
Jack started to explain what he was after, but Javier stopped him. “Tatum already filled me in,” he said. “And I can only give you about ten minutes.”
“Let’s get to it,” said Jack. “Kelsey, why don’t you start.”
Kelsey gave a little smile, as if to thank Jack for keeping his promise to let her take an active role. She scooted to the edge of the couch, leaning forward slightly, trying to make eye contact. Javier seemed to be looking beyond her, just as he had with their handshake, as if something on the wall behind her had caught his attention.
“How long did you work for Sally?” she asked.
“Few months, on and off.”
Kelsey paused, as if she’d expected at least a little eye contact with his response. But he still seemed obsessed with something over her or behind her.
“What did you do for her exactly?” asked Kelsey.
“Bodyguard.”
“Did she really need a bodyguard?”
“She was a rich lady. And she scared pretty easy. She’d be alone a lot. Her old man-and I do mean old man-was from France or someplace. And you heard about what happened to her and her daughter a few years back.”
“Yes,” said Kelsey, “we know about that.”
“So, she’d be alone, sometimes afraid to even go anywhere. She hired me to drive her around. The mall, restaurants, wherever. I’m not saying she needed me. But I made her feel safe.”
Kelsey asked, “Didn’t she have any girlfriends?”
“I suppose. None that I saw, though. She struck me as a loner. Real pretty lady, but not a very happy person. Know what I mean?”
Javier was talking to Kelsey, but he wasn’t looking at her face. His focus had seemed to shift from the wall behind her to the top of her head. Kelsey tried to sit taller and make eye contact, but his gaze rose with her, as if he’d developed some bizarre fixation with the crown of her skull.
“For crying out loud,” said Kelsey. “What are you looking at?”
“Huh?”
“Did a bird shit on the top of my head or what?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then what is it? You’ve been staring at the top of my head from the moment I opened my mouth.”
“I’m not looking at your mouth,” he said.
“I know. You’re staring at the top of my head.”
“I understand that this is what you think. But what I’m actually doing is not looking at your mouth.”
“You’re losing me.”
“I’m a recovering porn addict.”
“A what?”
“I was addicted to porn. I can’t look at a woman’s mouth without having impure thoughts, which is a very distracting thing when you’re trying to have an intelligent conversation. So I don’t look at her mouth.”
“I see.” Kelsey glanced at Jack and said, “Why don’t you take it from here, boss?”