Night Film(78)

It had to be a high-end bondage club. Never underestimate the desire for wildly successful men to torture themselves for fun.

“May I bring you something, Mr.… ?”

I turned to see the bartender standing across from me. Though he was dressed in a slick gray suit like everyone else, a double-Windsored blue silk tie, he was muscular, with a crew cut, craggy features, and an iron-rod posture that made me guess he was ex-military.

“Scotch, straight up,” I said.

He didn’t move, the friendliness draining from his face. I was doing something wrong, revealing myself as a sham. I didn’t react. Neither did he. He was so brawny from anabolic steroids he looked like an action figure, as if his arms might not bend at the elbows and his head could pop off from heavy play.

“Any preference of scotch?” he asked.

“Your choice.”

He grabbed the bottle of Glenfiddich from the shelves.

As he poured my drink, a hidden door opened beside the bar—a pastoral scene of a Tuscan landscape—and the young kid I’d seen outside hauling trash slipped in carrying a crate of glasses. His head lowered—he, too, seemed to have been told not to make eye contact—he began stacking them on the mirrored shelves.

The bartender returned with my drink and stood there expectantly.

“Your card?” he prompted.

“Which one?” I made a production of fumbling for my wallet.

“Membership.”

“Yeah, I don’t have one of those. I’m a guest.”

“Whose guest?”

“Harry, can I have a glass of water, quick? I feel dizzy.”

I couldn’t have timed it better. One of the women—or boys, if that’s what they were—had slunk up beside me. She had a pouting doll profile, long blond hair, a purple silk dress so tight it looked like it’d been poured over her.

The bartender, Harry—he looked more like Biff—shot her a furious look, indicating she was breaching serious protocol by asking such a thing.

“Try downstairs,” he said with a tight smile.

“I can’t. I—I just need some water and I’ll be fine.”

He glared at her, and with a hard look at me—I’m not done with you yet—he stepped away.

“He’s fun,” I said, turning to her.

She eyed me uncertainly, her hands—they, too, had those long black painted fingernails—tightly holding the edge of the bar as if to keep herself moored there; otherwise, so skinny, she’d waft to the ceiling like a helium balloon. Her blue eyes, heavily made up, looked watery, the pupils dilated. She’d done something to her mouth to make it puffy, injected it with something, which made it exaggerated and sad like a clown’s.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

That prompted an immediate Game Over. She cast me an icy look. I was sure she was going to move away, but instead she tilted her head.

“You’re a friend of Fadil’s,” she said.

“Where is Fadil? Haven’t seen him.”

“Back in France, isn’t he?”

Harry banged the glass of water onto the bar. She grabbed it, gulping it down, a drop of water trickling out the edge of her red mouth, sliding down her chin. She set the empty glass down, wobbling unsteadily on her heels, and the bartender wordlessly moved away to refill it. He’d been through this drill with her before.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her fingers.

“Sure you’re all right?” I asked in a low voice.

She didn’t answer me, instead inspected the plunging V-neckline of her dress, her puffy mouth in a clownlike frown as she straightened the fabric.

“You should eat something. Or go home. Get a decent night’s sleep.”

She glanced at me in drowsy confusion as if I’d again said something off-putting. Harry shoved the second glass in front of her, and without a word she guzzled it.

I cleared my throat, smiling at him. “As I was saying, I’m a friend of Fadil’s.”

The name—Arabic—meant something to him. He nodded grudgingly and moved to the other end of the bar, where a short, fat man signaled to him.

I leaned in toward the woman.

“Maybe you can help me.”

But her attention was on the young busboy stacking glasses under the bar in front of us. With shaggy brown hair, freckles, he looked no older than sixteen, like he’d just popped out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Do me a favor? Get me a vodka cranberry?”

He ignored her.

“Oh, f*ck. Don’t worry about Harry. He’s a *cat. I’m dying.”

Her pleading, threatening to get shrill, caused the boy to look up at her reluctantly, then down to the other end of the bar, where Harry was busy fixing another drink. The kid must have felt sorry for her because he turned, grabbing a bottle of Smirnoff.

“You’re an angel-boy,” she whispered.

He added the juice, set it in front of her, and resumed stacking the glasses.

“Any chance I can get some ice?” I asked, sliding my drink forward.

He nodded. When he brought it back, I slid a folded hundred-dollar bill into his hand. He glanced at me, startled.

“Don’t react,” I said, glancing down the bar at Harry. “I need some information.” I took out the photo of Ashley from my pocket, slipping it across the bar.