Devine's Providence: A Novel Page 15

  I found a small opening at the bar and slid in. The bartender nodded an acknowledgment.

  Ah, fuck it. Off the wagon I go.

  “Black Label on the rocks.”

  Even above the music, I could hear the ice cubes crack as the warm Scotch cascaded over them. My mouth was physically watering. It was my first drink in just a few days, but it seemed like longer. Much longer.

  That’s probably an indication of…ah, fuck it again.

  The smoky, spicy, sweetness hit my taste buds and felt like a warm hug from an old friend. A mother welcoming her wayward son home.

  The prodigal son returneth.

  It was most likely just my imagination, but I felt my senses heighten after just one sip, and I was able to focus better.

  A buxom redhead was leaning back against the bar to my right, martini in hand, watching the dance floor and shaking her head.

  “How Eyes Wide Shut is all this?” she asked.

  “Well,” I said, “If anyone can throw a party, it’s Frank Temple.”

  She nodded. “Been to many of his parties?”

  “A few,” I lied. “Which is about all I can handle. You?”

  “Every last damn one of them.”

  She took a sip of her martini and turned to face me.

  I leaned against the bar with one elbow. Time to get to work. I looked her up and down. Her dark red-sequined dress left very little to the imagination. She was middle-aged, but I guessed her ample breasts were still too young to get a learner’s permit, should they wish to. She wore a gaudy, faux-gold mask embellished with red gemstones.

  Jesus, her mask covers more than her dress.

  “Do you work for Mr. Temple?” I asked.

  She laughed the too-loud laugh of a flirt and tossed her fiery hair back.

  “Oh, hell no,” she said. “The only thing I have to ‘work’ at is making sure my dear husband doesn’t spend all of our money before he finally croaks.”

  Ah, so that was it. It didn’t take long to peg her. Real Housewife of East Greenwich.

  Might be useful to find out who her husband is.

  “Everyone has to have a hobby, I suppose,” I said. I held my glass up to hers and we clinked.

  “What about you, stranger?” she asked, arching her back so her breasts—or rather her husband’s breasts, if we go by bill-of-sale—were thrust forward unavoidably into my line of sight.

  Admittedly, this job does have its perks sometimes.

  “Oh me?” I said coyly. “Nah, I’m just a supporter of the mayor.”

  “Aren’t we all,” she said drier than her martini, which she then knocked back in one gulp. She picked up the olive and ran it along the rim of the empty glass.

  “Can I buy you another drink?” I asked.

  “I’d love that, Mr…”

  I couldn’t believe I was so unprepared as to think of a fake handle in case I needed it. I said the first name that came to my mind.

  “Linus. Linus Larrabee.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Like from Sabrina!”

  Goddamnit to hell.

  “My mother had a love of old movies and a lack of imagination,” I said, flagging down the bartender.

  “Harrison Ford is hot as fuck in that movie,” she said.

  “I prefer the original,” I said, trying not break character. “No one can hold a candle to Audrey Hepburn.”

  “True,” she said. “But Humphrey Bogart was so…old. Old and short and whiny.”

  I gulped the rest of my Scotch to keep my mouth too busy to respond. When I looked back at her, she was instantly less attractive than I remembered.

  Terry’s right. Acting is hard.

  I pivoted. “How rude of me. And you are?”

  “My friends call me Ginger,” she said. Then she added, “Since we’re using fake names.”

  I just did my best impression of an official Chelsea Woodstern Wry Smile in response.

  “And where is Mr. Ginger this evening?” I asked as innocuously as possible.

  “Oh, who the hell knows,” she said dismissively. “Or cares.” She leaned in closer to me.

  “Probably off in a shadowy corner somewhere, feeling up some young bimbo.”

  “Plenty of shadowy corners around here tonight,” I said.

  “Sure is,” she said. She ran the olive along her full, bright red lips, staring at me the entire time. She flicked her tongue out to give it a quick lick before slowly popping it in her mouth.

  My instinct was to look away awkwardly, but I maintained the eye contact and the smile.

  The bartender appeared with our next round. I raised my rocks glass.

  “A toast then,” I declared, “to shadowy corners and stiff drinks.”

  “And vice-versa,” she responded with innuendo, taking a slow sip.

  Stiff corners and shadowy drinks?

  That didn’t make much sense, but the implication was clear enough.

  Time to pivot again.

  “So your husband…what does he do?”

  Ginger scowled. And then, Ginger snapped.

  “Can we not talk about him?”

  Pivoted too fast there, Baryshnikov. Slow it down.

  Apparently women don’t like you talking about their husbands when you’re supposed to be seducing them.

  “My apologies,” I said. “Just making idle chatter.”

  She softened.

  “It’s fine. It’s just he’s all anyone ever wants to talk about. I’m a person too, you know.”

  “Oh, I’ve noticed.”

  “A person with needs…”

  “Who amongst us isn’t?”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  She motioned to my hand holding my drink.

  “No ring. Is it in your pocket so you can talk to strange women with a clear conscience? Or are you actually an eligible bachelor?”

  “Divorced,” I said truthfully. “But does that really matter?”

  “No,” she said. “I guess I’m just making idle chatter.”

  She was a master at taking things I’d said and throwing them back at me. Like daggers.

  “So let’s keep the chatter up,” she said. “What is it you do, Mr. Linus Larrabee?”

  “As little as possible, mostly.”

  “I see,” she smiled. “I like you, Mr. Larrabee. A man of mystery. Every other guy can’t wait to tell me all about themselves. How successful they are. How enormous their…salary is. Overcompensation, usually. But you…you’re different.”

  She traced a finger down my arm.

  “What do you say we find a shadowy corner of our own?”

  This was going nowhere fast. Time to switch horses. I wasn’t going to get any more information out of her. And I wasn’t about to do anything above flirting with a married woman.

  I considered it, mind you, but she was pretty nasty to old Bogey.

  I downed my drink in a long few gulps to buy some time. I had to somehow get out of this situation. And with grace, preferably.

  Luckily, I didn’t have to do much. As I finished the last drop of Scotch, a voice called out from nearby.

  “There you are, Ginger!”

  Ginger’s face dropped and she rolled her eyes. A short, fat man with a wispy comb-over approached us. He was one of the few that was mask-less, and wore spectacles down on the bridge of his stubby nose.

  The husband, I presume.

  He was a good twenty years Ginger’s senior, which was fine in and of itself. But looking at the two of them together, it was hard to imagine the marriage was built on a foundation of anything other than stacks of money.

  He grabbed Ginger by the waist and pulled her away from me.

  “Where ya been, lovey?”


  She forced a sarcastic smile. “Just grabbing a drink.”

  “Ah, I should’ve known,” the man said. He turned to me. “Is my wife here bothering you, sir?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” I said. “I was just getting ready to call security.”

  The man laughed heartily and held Ginger tighter.

  “She certainly elicits that response wherever she goes! Don’t you, peaches?”

  He stood on his toes to try to peck her on the cheek, but she remained still and he had to settle for her shoulder.

  “Don’t you have more mingling to do?” she asked with venom dripping in her voice.

  “Don’t be sore, baby,” he said. “You know it’s part of the job. I didn’t become chief of staff by being a wallflower.”

  My ears pricked up.

  Chief of staff?

  Ginger wrangled out of his grasp.

  “I need to powder my nose. Pleasure talking to you, Mr. Larrabee.”

  She strutted away, but as she passed me, she spoke softly over her shoulder.

  “Meet me by the security gates in twenty minutes.”

  I nodded, having no intention of keeping that appointment.

  The husband removed his spectacles and wiped them off with his tie. He peered up at me with beady eyes, shaking his head.

  “Women,” he said. “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t kill ‘em.”

  I laughed and slapped his back, walking him up to the bar.

  “You look like you could use a drink, friend.”

  Chapter 12

  DANCING WITH CRIME

  My voice grew louder to really sell the punchline.

  “…so then the priest goes…I thought it tasted funny!”

  Stanley Something-or-Other squealed with laughter, tears streaming down his bloated face. Our cigars were now just stubs, and both of our glasses were empty—again. He had told me his last name at some point, but I didn’t remember. It didn’t matter anyway. He was, as luck would have it, Mayor Crawford’s Chief of Staff. And he loved dirty jokes. The filthier the better.

  Also as luck would have it, there wasn’t a dirty joke I didn’t know.

  After about an hour of slapping our own knees and each other’s backs, I was finally brave enough to steer the conversation toward something hopefully more fruitful.

  “So Stan,” I said. “The mayor’s having quite a great year, ain’t he?”

  “I’ll say,” said Stan. “Things are looking up for our fair city, I’ll tell you what.”

  I leaned in closer.

  Here goes nothing.

  “I gotta say, I’m concerned though, to be honest,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “I heard there was a bit of a setback…”

  Stanley’s eyes narrowed into slits and he chomped down on his cigar. He spoke through his closed teeth.

  “What kind of setback?”

  “The garage on Eddy Street…”

  “O-ho!” Stanley leaned back and fiddled with the buttons on his vest. “So you’re a fellow investor, are you?”

  I didn’t know the right response, so I just shrugged and smiled. Thankfully, Stan returned the smile and leaned back in. I stooped over to hear his low voice better. He grabbed me by the back of my neck and brought me closer until our noses were almost touching.

  “I’m gonna tell you something, Mr. Larrabee,” he slurred, but then stopped. “What’s your first name again?”

  “David,” I said. Ginger had picked out Linus Larrabee as from Sabrina too easily, so I figured I’d try on William Holden’s character instead.

  Why not? They were certainly interchangeable enough for Audrey Hepburn.

  “Davey boy,” Stan said. “I’m gonna tell you something. You need not worry about that. Temple’s got it back on track.”

  “That’s good to hear,” I said.

  “Yes indeed, my boy. We’re expecting all the properties to be cleared and rezoned by October.”

  “Cleared?”

  “Down to the weeds.” He let out a laugh. “And then it’s just a matter of sitting back and watching the cash flow in. And I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Do you?”

  “Sure. I like you, Larrabee. You cut right to it.”

  “Huh. I’m feeling very likeable tonight.”

  “Yes, well, trust me. Zoning won’t be an issue. Temple’s taken care of that, too.”

  “That’s mighty generous of him,” I said.

  “I see. I know what you’re driving at,” Stan straightened up.

  “You do?”

  “You’re a smart fella, Larrabee. That’s good. We need investors like you. Not afraid to ask the tough questions.”

  I had no idea what was happening. I hoped my mask was able to cover up any glimpses of confusion I may have leaked out. I took a gamble and said, “Well?”

  “The answer is yes. Obviously Temple’s got something up his sleeve. Would only make sense from a business standpoint. He’s fronting too much for too little payout.”

  “Okay. So…what’s he got up his sleeve?”

  Stan glanced around to make sure no one was listening, but then said, “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. And you know how these things work. We’ll leave it at that.”

  I laughed and playfully punched his arm.

  “C’mon, you’re Stan the Man. You must have some idea.”

  Stan stared intensely up at me and rolled the remnants of his cigar around in his mouth. His eyes narrowed again. Perhaps I had overplayed my hand.

  “I said I don’t know, boychik,” he said coolly. “And you’d be wise to not push such impertinent questions of our benevolent benefactor.”

  RED ALERT! SHIELDS UP!

  “Aw, I’m just teasing you, pal,” I said. “Say, you ever hear the one about the talent agent and the family act?”

  Stan ignored my question, but kept staring, rolling the cigar.

  “Who did you say you worked for again?”

  ABORT! RETREAT! ABANDON SHIP! MAYDAY!

  “Look,” I said as earnestly as I could. “I didn’t mean any offense. I’ve taken up too much of your time. I should let you get back to your wife.”

  Stan finally blinked away from his stare and looked around, just now realizing that Ginger hadn’t returned from powdering her nose an hour ago.

  “A real treat talking to you though, friend,” I said. “I’ll see you around.”

  As I quickly walked away, I could feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of my head, so I bobbed and weaved my way through the snake pit of guests until I was sure I was lost in the crowd.

  As I reached the opposite side of the ballroom, I spotted Chelsea, chatting with a gray-haired mustached gentleman. His arm was on hers, and he was leaning in close to her ear as he talked. As soon as she saw me, her eyes behind her mask grew wide with relief and she nodded me over.

  “Oh, that’s so funny,” she was saying. “Anyway, this is my boyfriend I was telling you about!”

  Her voice was at least a full octave higher than normal. The man shook my hand vigorously.

  “And a lucky bastard he is at that,” he said. “You got a real fine woman here, mister.”

  He slowly winked one of his bloodshot basset hound eyes at her. He had a way of making even a simple wink into a perverted, gratuitous gesture. It wasn’t even directed at me and I felt the overwhelming need to take a shower just to wash off the crossfire.

  “Don’t I know it,” I said.

  The DJ switched to a slower track and a song unrecognizable to me blared throughout the plaza.

  “Ohmygodbabe!” said Chelsea, for the first time ever sounding like she was actually from California. “It’s my favorite song! We have to dance!”

&
nbsp; She took my hand and led me quickly to the dance floor, leaving the walrus-looking fellow alone with his impure thoughts.

  We made it to the most crowded part of the floor. I placed my right hand on her lower back and we started dancing.

  “Making new friends?” I asked.

  “I got all I was comfortable enough getting from that one,” she said. “Thanks for the save.”

  “My pleasure. Is this really your favorite song?”

  “I’ve never heard it before.”

  I laughed. “Well I’m glad I’m not alone.”

  “Indeed,” she said.

  “I think I’ve got some information,” I said.

  “Not here,” Chelsea whispered. “We’ll debrief later. I’ve got something too.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t know who’s watching us now though, so just act natural.”

  “Naturally.”

  “You smell like Scotch and cigars.”

  “That’s my signature smell. You’ll get used to it. Comes right out of my pores.”

  She smiled a natural, organic, beautiful smile.

  “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” she said.

  Uh-oh. Nothing good has ever followed that intro.

  “…but you are such a type.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re like something out of a book or a movie. The sad but charming detective, with an old-fashioned sense of values. You like Scotch and cigars because of course you like Scotch and cigars. I could tell you liked jazz before I even knew you liked jazz. Before I even met you, as soon as we started looking into you, I had you worked out.”

  “I’m not quite sure I follow,” I said. “I like the things I like. I can’t help it, and I don’t see what’s wrong with that. I’m not out to impress anybody.”

  “I didn’t mean that as a bad thing,” she said, “and I didn’t mean it to sound like I meant you were boring or one-dimensional…because you’re anything but. And even though you’re a ‘type,’ I’ve never actually met someone like you before. I didn’t think they really existed.”

  “I think I’m offended,” I said.