“What the hell do you mean?”
“He’s too personally involved with this one? What are you, Pat? Aren’t you the guy salivating over killing the killer’s chances whenever a parole hearing comes up? Crushing the bastard’s dreams of a life beyond prison walls?”
That made him laugh.
I was glad he hadn’t lost his sense of humor.
The Tube was one of those well-known nightspots that I’d never had a desire to frequent. That was based on what I’d read and heard. Fact was, I’d never been there at all.
On Twelfth Avenue in Chelsea, the notorious club was housed in a warehouse that was part of a onetime railroad freight terminal. The place was massive, something like eighty-thousand square feet. Train tracks from the turn of the century still ran through a sunken section of what was now a long, narrow dance floor. Railroad sidings from the Eleventh Avenue freight line of the New York Central Railroad once ran directly into the warehouses around here, transferring goods to and from freight cars ferried on barges across the Hudson from Hoboken.
Where workmen had once toiled mightily, young New Yorkers now partied with abandon. Flashing lights bounced off metal tubing along the ceiling and off iron pillars rising from old wood floors within sandblasted brick walls. New Wave and other contemporary music, courtesy of a DJ, blasted at decibel levels unknown to man from massive speakers mounted everywhere.
I moved through alone, a figure out of another era in a hat and trenchcoat, surrounded by an under-forty crowd whose clothing above the waist was loud and expensive and angularly cut, with jeans below, sometimes fashionably torn, other times crisply designer.
I had thought about bringing Velda along, and she might have got a kick out of the place. She had more interest in changing times and new fashions than me, to say the least. But she might have wanted to hang around and take it all in, whereas my intention was to get in and out. Kind of like the couple screwing in a booth near the door to a unisex bathroom. What was becoming of this generation? Didn’t they have enough dignity to go into that john and have at it?
I had been led here by Vance Colby, having called my client to say I needed to talk with his son, who I understood still lived with him. Like the late Casey Shannon, the elder Colby had a coop, but his was on Fifth Avenue with a mere twenty rooms or so, none of which held his son, at the moment — Vincent was out for the evening with a lady friend, and the likeliest place to find him was the Tube. So I’d given it a try.
But with the strobing lights in this dark industrial tunnel-like space with its packed dance floor — with three stories of open wrought-iron walkways looming on either side, other patrons hanging over the railings with drinks and joints in hand — I was having no luck spotting my client’s son.
The bar was a squared-off sheet-metal oasis in the middle that I managed to reach and was able to order a rye and ginger from a girl with spiky green hair, a face powdered white and very red lipstick. Her breasts spilled out of the top of her black-and-red bustier like cantaloupes from the back of a produce truck. These kids today.
“Are you Mike Hammer?” a voice said, which clearly had come to terms with a way to be heard over the deafening crap that Velda had told me as was called techno music.
I turned and the guy standing there was handsome in a sharp-featured way, in a gray sports jacket that probably cost a grand and a white t-shirt that cost a couple bucks and dock pants that cost who gives a shit, an ensemble set off by a black eye-patch that screamed for a parrot on his shoulder.
“Parker Beigen,” I said, not quite yelling. “I read about you in the papers. Congratulations on your success.”
“I read about you in the papers, too... as a kid!”
Hadn’t everybody? Me and Flash Gordon.
“Word of advice?” I said.
“Sure!”
I nodded toward the couple sitting a few squared-off metal stools down from me who were sharing a coke-lined mirror, employing a use for a hundred-dollar bill that I’d never tried.
He grinned. He winked with the visible eye. “You disapprove!”
“I don’t give a damn what people do,” I said, though that wasn’t entirely true. At the old Club 52 I had once flushed a pile of coke down the john and got criticized for it. I was more a live-and-let-live guy now.
He seemed amused, his smile as wry as my drink. “Then what’s the problem, Mike? If I may?”
“You may. It’s just too wide open. It’ll catch up with you.”
He shrugged. “I pay handsomely for the privilege.”
“Someday you’ll run into an honest copper or an administration less corrupt than most, and you’ll be finished. A little friendly advice from an old soldier.”
“Appreciated.” He gestured grandly. “I just don’t like to rain on people’s parades.”
“I hear you. Look, I’m trying to find Vincent Colby.”
He frowned just a little.
I said, “Not to bother him. He’s in no trouble. I work for his old man. Consider me a friend of the family.”
The techno crapola stopped and a song I recognized came on — “Heart of Glass,” Blondie. Kind of liked that one, besides which the singer was a foxy little thing. But that song was an oldie, for this place anyway. Like me.
My host said, “Well, Vincent’s here. Out on the dance floor somewhere, I’d expect. I could probably find him for you... unless he’s up in the Dungeon. That’s his favorite of our special rooms, and I’d hate to bother him.”
The fabled S & M Room. Every boy needs a hobby.
I said, “I’d appreciate you trying.”
He patted me on the back. “Listen, Mike. You’re welcome here any time. I don’t believe those crazy rumors about you flushing a fortune in coke down the drain.”
“Yeah! You’re right not to believe everything you hear. But why do you want my business?”
He grinned big. “I don’t want your business. I want your presence.” Another wink. “I’ll put you on the list.”
“Most of the lists I’m on start with the letter ‘s.’ What’s this one about?”
“It’s about you not paying for drinks or food or any damn thing under this roof, including a cover charge. Celebrities are what keep this place going.”
“I haven’t been a celebrity in a long time.”
“Sure you are! You have great camp value!”
I had a feeling he wasn’t talking about me being an Eagle Scout back in Brooklyn.
He patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll find Vincent for you!”
He headed into the crowd and turned colors with the flashing lights. When people saw him, the way parted like the Red Sea for Moses. Then the Blue Sea, then the Green Sea...
Within two minutes, Vincent Colby and Sheila Ryan, hand in hand, emerged from the frantic crush of dancers and stood before me where I sat at the bar. Like I was the principal and this was my office.
The couple was indistinguishable from the other revelers — wild tops, blue jeans, him in Reeboks, her in Mary Janes.
“Vincent,” I said with a nod. “Ms. Ryan.”
The curvy redhead nodded back, but her date looked a little sick.
“Mr. Hammer,” Vincent said, also skilled at working his words above the noise. He seemed embarrassed. “I’m afraid I was rude to you the other day. I hope we can start over.”
“Sure. Is there anywhere in this place where we can talk without yelling?”
He gestured toward the front. “Just step outside, maybe. That work for you?”
“It does.”
I downed the rest of my drink and followed them as they moved between the dance floor and the booths.
Not many people were milling out front; it was just a sidewalk along a city street, and cold. Our breaths steamed.