Devine's Providence: A Novel Read online

  By the time I made it to my office and found a parking spot (a near-impossible feat in itself), it was already past the time I was supposed to meet Terry and Chelsea. I grabbed my tux and rushed up the stairs just as the sun was casting a bright red glow across the horizon. When I reached the top of the steps, I saw the lights were on in my office and the door was unlocked.

  I reached for my holstered revolver, something I’d been keeping on me the past couple of days, and slowly swung open the door.

  Terry was standing in the reception area with her back to me, putting on lipstick. She saw me in the reflection of her compact mirror.

  “You’re late, Harry,” she said. Then she saw the gun. “Harry!”

  “Sorry,” I said, holstering the revolver. “But you can’t blame me for being jittery.”

  “Likewise,” she said, snapping the mirror shut. “Anyway, how do I look?”

  She was wearing a shimmery gray off-the-shoulder gown and a matching shawl, with her white hair held up in an elaborate updo by a jeweled butterfly.

  “Stunning,” I said. “But then again, you always do.”

  “Oh, stop it,” she cooed. “Your wily charms won’t entrance me tonight, Mr. Devine. We have too much work to do.”

  Chelsea’s voice gave me a jump as she emerged from the sitting room behind me.

  “There you are. You’re not dressed yet?”

  I turned to look at her and the world switched into slow motion mode. Her dress of tight black silk hugged all the curves that hadn’t been able to penetrate the baggy sweatshirt she was wearing when I saw her last. The top of the dress from her bosom to her neck was black and sheer, obscuring the tattoos on her cleavage unless you were outright looking for them.

  I found them right away.

  Long satin Holly Golightly gloves rode up past her elbows, covering most of her arm tattoos. The shawl she was holding would take care of the rest.

  As she steadied herself on the doorframe to adjust the strap of one of her heels, she stood directly beneath one of the recessed lights, illuminating her silky, wavy blond hair and casting shadows down under her face.

  She’s literally glowing—like Rita Hayworth as Gilda.

  Her eyes looked up at me expectantly—bright blue again, behind the contacts, instead of green—and I started to panic.

  She had just asked me something. I should respond. Shit, what did she say?

  As soon as I saw this starlet from old Hollywood in front of me, all previous memories ceased to exist in my brain, no matter how hard I tried to conjure them up. She held her gaze with me, her bright red lips parted slightly, eyebrows raised, and she jutted her head forward, the universal signal for “Helloooo?”

  “Ermph,” I said.

  Chelsea scrunched up her face in confusion.

  “Sorry,” I said. “What was the question?”

  She sighed.

  Terry interjected. “Get that tux on, Harry.”

  Oh, right. She’s not all dolled up for me; we’re on the clock.

  “Be back in a jiff,” I said.

  I went into my office. As I shut the door, I heard Terry whisper to Chelsea.

  “That is one smitten kitten.”

  The tuxedo Terry had gotten for me fit perfectly. The dark blue jacket with shawl lapels was more modern than anything I would’ve picked out for myself, but I still think I pulled it off pretty nicely.

  When I returned to the reception area, the ladies were trying on their masks. Terry’s was silver with feathers and jewels on the corners. Chelsea’s was black and trimmed with lace, making it look like it was something a decent man shouldn’t be looking at.

  They both looked up when I walked in.

  “Wow,” said Chelsea. “You clean up nice, Mr. Devine.”

  The way she poured sweetness on each of her words made my heart beat out a quickstep.

  “Look at you,” said Terry. “You’re like Harrison Ford in Sabrina!”

  “I prefer the original,” I grunted.

  “I figured as much,” she sighed.

  “Let’s not forget what we’re doing here,” I said. “This may seem fun, Terry, but we need to get as much information about Philip Grayle and Marc Winters that we can—discreetly, too.”

  “Speaking of being discreet…” said Chelsea. She tossed me a mask. It was plain and black, with thankfully no embellishments or feathers or beads.

  I tied it on and looked at myself in Terry’s compact mirror.

  “Forget Sabrina,” I said. “I feel like the Lone Ranger.”

  Chelsea gave a wry smile.

  “I think it’s more like Christian Grey,” she said.

  “I don’t know who that is,” I said.

  Terry laughed and put a hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s a compliment, dear,” she said. “Trust me.”

  • • •

  The sixteen-storied Turk’s Head Building towered over a cobblestoned intersection of downtown Providence, just as it has since 1913. The legend goes that before then, a shopkeeper in the area had a ship’s figurehead installed above his shop’s door. The ship was called the Sultan, and the figurehead was that of a menacing Ottoman warrior. The figurehead was lost in a storm, and the building was eventually knocked down to build what would be the tallest building in Rhode Island for nine years.

  But in homage to the landmark, designers of the new building carved a stone replica of the figurehead on the third floor of the façade. The building itself looks to be modeled after the Flatiron Building in New York City, its V-shape jutting out into Westminster Street and splitting it into Weybosset Street. High stone archways adorn the point of the V, above which the turban-wearing sultan sneers down from behind a long, thin mustache.

  The Turk’s Head was easily within walking distance from my office—just down the hill and over the river—but then again I wouldn’t have to walk it in heels. So despite the traffic and closed roads, Terry insisted we take a ride-sharing service.

  The Uber could only get us as close as two blocks away, as every street was blocked off surrounding the event site. We got out of the air-conditioned Prius and were greeted with a throng of a million people all heading in a million different directions. Although I could practically see my office from where we were, it was about thirty degrees hotter than it had been there.

  An electronic instrumental version of Nature Boy blasted from both nowhere and everywhere. The smell of grilled Italian sausage tried to float through the air but was weighed down by the humidity and attached itself to our clothes. We walked on the street level, above the Riverwalk, dodging families, couples, artists and vendors. Chelsea put her hand on a tall stone gargoyle to make her way around it, only to realize with a start that it wasn’t stone at all, but rather a costumed performance art student.

  I could see why Zachetti hated this so much.

  But then again, looking at the mesmerizing flicker of the torches just above the river surface, and the reflection of the flames just below, it was easy to see why Terry loved it so much. There was an illogical yet undeniable romance to it all.

  We turned away from the water and up toward Westminster Street, and the crowd thinned substantially. The street was blocked off to traffic with police barriers, so we were able to walk right down the middle as the asphalt gave way to cobblestones.

  The road was narrow, and each of the many high-rise buildings surrounding us were at least a hundred years old. As we walked, for just a few moments, there was quiet as the noise from the WaterFire music and the crowd faded out. There were only the sounds of my footsteps on the cobblestone and the girls’ footsteps on the sidewalk (those pesky heels).

  For those moments, everything on that street was as it had been at the turn of the last century. No cell phones ringing. No car horns honking. No neon signs. I felt connected to the city. I felt
connected to each of the millions of people who had walked this way before me. Everyone from Roger Williams to Edgar Allan Poe to Buddy Cianci. Rich and poor, saints and sinners, all proud to call Providence home. As wonderful as it was to see the hordes of people enjoying the ethereal splendor of WaterFire, it was this quiet street that was Providence to me. This was the city that I loved.

  The moment was fleeting, however, as we drew closer to the Turk’s Head Building. Just up ahead and around the corner, the thump thump thump of bass faded in, along with the sound of a crowd.

  A big crowd.

  A security checkpoint was at the corner where some other latecomers were handing in their tickets. Behind the gate, tall black screens obstructed the view of the intersection beyond. A few uniformed police officers stood by while a burly man in a black suit and a wired earpiece passed a metal-detection wand over a masked guest.

  Shit.

  “Hey, you didn’t bring your gun, did you?” asked Chelsea out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Yup.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I don’t know what exactly we’re walking into. I’ve already been attacked once. They broke into my office. I didn’t want to take any chances. Obviously, I didn’t know they’d have metal detectors.”

  “You had to know it would be possible, said Chelsea. “There’s a lot of big names here.”

  “Look, I don’t know how they handle these events in L.A.,” I snapped, “but Providence is usually pretty chill about these sorts of things. I’m sorry, okay?”

  “What’s the big deal?” asked Terry. “You’re registered, aren’t you?”

  “Sure, but we’re supposed to be incognito,” I said. “I don’t want to just announce myself like this. Word will get around pretty quickly.”

  “What do we do?” asked Terry.

  We were next in line through the checkpoint. The security team already had their eyes on us; it was too late to run away and ditch the revolver somewhere.

  “Just follow my lead,” I said.

  “I’m not very good at acting,” said Terry nervously.

  “It’s not acting,” said Chelsea. “Just play along.”

  “I don’t know…”

  The burly man approached us and held out his hand.

  “Evening, folks,” he said. “Tickets, please?”

  Terry started to reach into her purse but I put one hand on her arm while the other hand made a show of patting down the pockets in my jacket and pants.

  “Aw, son of a bitch,” I said.

  “Oh, honey, tell me you didn’t,” said Chelsea.

  Well done!

  “I did. Stupid me. I left the tickets in the car.”

  “I told you not to forget them,” said Chelsea, convincingly wife-like.

  “Oh well! Guess we can’t get in!” said Terry, turning on her heel and starting to walk away.

  Chelsea shot me a panicked look, as we both discovered Terry was not good at improv.

  “Wait, hold on,” I said quickly, trying to read the burly man out of the corner of my eye. “You two stay here, I’ll just run back to the car and grab the tickets.”

  I spoke as pointedly to Terry as I could without further arousing the bouncer’s suspicion.

  “THAT…IS A GOOD IDEA ALSO,” said Terry. She spoke loudly and deliberately, as if she were reading from a script.

  The burly man just smiled and nodded.

  “Back in a flash!” I said, jogging back down over the cobblestones. I ran back down the street and around the corner. I was thankful that the entire street was completely and unusually deserted. Once I was out of eyesight, I looked around for a place to stash the gun. It had to be someplace it wouldn’t get found, but somewhere I could easily return to later for retrieval.

  I ducked into a bank’s empty ATM vestibule. I pried the lid off of a trash bin in the corner. I just needed a hideaway for a few hours at most, and no one should be emptying the garbage here until the morning.

  I hope.

  I took off my holster from under my jacket and stuffed it, gun and all, into a mostly-empty McDonald’s bag. I shoved the bag back down into the bin and replaced the cover.

  I wasn’t loving it, but it would have to do.

  I jogged back to the security checkpoint, panting as I approached the girls.

  “You know what,” I said to Terry. “I think you must have them. Check your purse.”

  Terry reached in her purse and removed the tickets.

  “OH. DRAT,” she said. “SILLY ME. HAD THEM WHOLE TIME.”

  Why is she talking like that?

  Terry must have been thinking the same thing, because she just looked at me and shrugged as she gave me the tickets.

  I handed them to the burly man, and leaned in with a soft voice.

  “I’m sorry about her. She’s not…all there.”

  “It’s okay, man,” the guy said. “Your wife already explained.”

  “She…did?”

  “Yeah,” he shook his head. “Had a grandmother with the same trouble. Dementia’s hard on everyone. But it’s nice of you to take your mother out to things like this. Actually does ‘em wonders of good.”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  He waved the wand over each of us without any issues, and allowed us to pass through.

  “You have fun,” he said loudly to Terry. “And keep these kids out of trouble!”

  “OH. YES,” she said, wide-eyed. “YOU HAVE FUN…too?”

  I put my arm around Terry and ushered her away.

  “Come along now, Mother,” I said.

  “I…Mother?” Terry dropped whatever acting voice she was doing and glared at me. I shrugged to the burly man, who smiled and nodded to me.

  Once his attention was off of us, I whispered coarsely to Terry.

  “What in the hell was that all about?”

  “My goodness,” she exhaled, “acting is hard. I don’t know how those kids on The Big Bang Theory do it every week. I just got so nervous.”

  “You think? We’re not even in yet and you almost blew our cover.”

  “Harry,” chided Chelsea. “Don’t be so hard on her.”

  She turned to Terry.

  “Don’t think of it as acting…because it’s not. Just be yourself, but…omit certain facts. You must be used to doing that, right?”

  “I’ll say she is,” I said.

  “Just because my business is illegal,” Terry said to me, “doesn’t mean I don’t have a moral compass. I don’t like lying.”

  I sighed.

  “Well, then try to do as little talking as possible,” I said. “If you’re ever in doubt, just say nothing.”

  “Not a bad mantra to live by,” said Chelsea pointedly. I ignored her.

  “Okay,” I said. “So let’s see what we can find out. Ask around casually, see if anyone knows anything about the public garage and lot sales. But don’t push it too hard, we don’t want to raise any red flags. Play it cool.”

  The girls nodded and we made our way behind the black screens.

  The plaza opened up in front of us like a children’s pop-up book and the music’s beat grew all-encompassing. The buildings surrounding the “ballroom” rose so high their tops all but disappeared into the darkness. Searchlights floated across and back over the facades like giant fireflies. A staggering amount of up-lighting changed the colors of the bottom few floors of each building.

  High cocktail tables dotted the outer perimeter of the place, which was full of people dressed to the nines. Most had masks similar to ours, a few had masks even more elaborate (by which I mean expensive), but even fewer had no masks at all.

  Servers weaved their way through the crowd carrying silver tra
ys of cocktail glasses, champagne flutes, and small plates of food. Fire-eaters on stilts drew ooohs and aaahs from the guests.

  In the center of everything was a spacious black shiny dance floor. A DJ at the back was blasting out a far-too-up-tempo remix of an Etta James standard, as people bounced along in rhythm.

  The Turk’s Head Building served as the dancefloor’s backdrop, with massive red curtains hung up in each of the stone arches. And above us all, the highly displeased Sultan leered down, hands grasping the third floor edifice, ready to conquer the partygoers.

  I scanned the crowd but saw no one familiar. Between the masks and the ever-changing lighting, it was thankfully too easy to blend in.

  “We should split up,” said Chelsea. “Cover more ground and circle back to each other. Get an idea of who’s here and may have some information.”

  “Agreed,” I said. I turned to Terry. “Best leave the ‘acting’ to us, kid. Just do some listening. Figure out who’s worth talking to. Do some mingling. Maybe some dancing. Have a good time. We’ll take care of all the heavy lifting.”

  “I think I can handle that,” said Terry. “There’s a dessert table over there with lots of people clustered around. I can fuss over there without anyone paying too much attention to me.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “I saw a bar in the far corner. I’ll start there.”

  The lace mask covered Chelsea’s arched eyebrow, but I knew it was there.

  “I’ll be good. Scout’s honor.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Chelsea shook her head.

  “If either of you see Zachetti,” I said, moving on, “Don’t acknowledge him directly. We’ll touch base with him later.”

  “Laters, baby,” said Terry with a wink.

  We each went our separate ways into the crowd. I cut my way through a sea of evening gowns and tuxes. The music, the heat, and the posh and downright sexy ambiance were having an effect on the partygoers. Inhibitions were running out faster than the champagne as eyes and hands wandered interchangeably between friends and strangers alike. Something about even a simple mask makes people abandon whatever social cautions they normally possess. There were no sheep here, only wolves.