The Temporary Detective

Chapter Forty-Four

James arrived outside Xavier's at precisely eight thirty. From the length of the line and the look of the people on it, he knew exactly what kind of evening he was in for. Even when he was drinking, he'd avoided places like this. He paced up and down the line looking for Felice, but she hadn't arrived yet. He felt immeasurably older than the coked-up, party-hungry hangers-on who were stupid enough to think that all they had to do was wait long enough to get in. A place as hot as this, it took more than that. It took knowing somebody, being a celebrity, paying off the bouncer, or springing for bottle service.

James eyed the bouncer. He was one tough-looking motherfucker. He wondered what Felice meant when she said they were friends. More reason to tread carefully tonight.

"Hiya, good-looking."

He glanced at the hooker who had sidled up next to him. He was about to retort that he usually got it for free, when he realized to his horror that it was Felice. Her hair was braided around a wide orange scarf shot through with silver thread, and her raspberry-colored, one-shoulder T-shirt featured a sparkling hand strategically placed over her right breast. She had stuffed her plump hips into an impossibly tight leather skirt and her shapely legs into the highest, pointiest boots he'd ever seen. She had glitter around her eyes, and the effect she had created was so clearly the opposite of what she was going for that he almost felt sorry for her.

"Come on. Dexter'll let us in."

James followed her wordlessly to the front of the line, where the bouncer smacked his lips appreciatively at Felice.

"Can we get into the small room tonight?" she asked.

"For you, baby, anything," Dexter said, eyeing her appreciatively. "Dude." He swung his hand up in a brotherly greeting and when James slapped it, Dexter closed his meaty fingers around James's in a grip that shot down to the soles of his feet.

"Right, man. Thanks," said James, resisting the urge to massage his aching hand. If Dante has a circle in hell reserved for me, it looks a lot like this, he thought as they passed through the portal into the inner sanctum.

The club was dark, with barrel-vaulted ceilings and a distinctly medieval look, and it was already throbbing with scantily clad people of every eye-catching variety. There was a long, curved bar and tables with Moroccan fez-caps shading the candles. The seating was low to the ground, divans and couches everywhere, with embroidered satin cushions and the occasional rug. All that was missing were people smoking hash out of porcelain hookahs.

The wall behind the bar was lined, floor to ceiling, with bottles of every kind of alcohol imaginable, and waiters, dressed surprisingly conservatively in classic black and white, milled about. The place was choked with beautiful women. The men were definitely in the minority, and half of them were there with other men. Women and alcohol everywhere, only James wasn't drinking and his date made a cheap whore look like a debutante. It was all a sick joke.

"Come on, the small room is this way," said Felice, propelling him toward the back.

"What is this place?"

"Used to be a wine cellar, then a fancy French restaurant, and then Xavier Barques bought it."

"Xavier Barques? The movie director?"

"Yeah. The small room is the coolest place in the joint."

James did a quick mental tally of the contents of his wallet. "How much does that go for?"

"For me, nothing. The first time I came here, it cost me. Hoo, baby! But Dexter and I were pretty chummy for a while, and now he looks the other way."

They passed a group of low tables set beside a divider topped with an arrangement of blown glass bottles. James sensed a sudden sharp movement behind him. He paused to look, but all he saw was a skinny kid with glasses who looked too young to be there and a blond woman with a face like a painting, dressed just like the waiters. He hurried to catch up with Felice, who had gotten a few steps ahead of him, when he felt someone grab his arm. He turned around and found himself face to face with Isobel.

"You have no idea how happy I am to see you!" she cried.

"What the hell are you doing here?" gasped James. "Are you following me?"

"No, I'm following Stan! He's here, in drag. And that's not all! I found Doreen's Filofax, and she was supposed to meet Stan at one o'clock the day she was killed. And she met with Paula the day before!"

"Whoa...slow down. Why did you follow Stan here?"

"He's on the make. I have a table," she gestured to the bespectacled boy and the blonde. "I can see him from where we are, but I don't think he's spotted me. He's got a bottle of Amaretto and two glasses, but so far he's alone. Come on!"

Isobel started to pull him toward her table.

He shook her off. "No, wait, you don't understand, I'm here on a—with a—"

"James!"

Felice had come back for him and was staring at Isobel.

Isobel regarded her defiantly. "You told me on the phone that James never wanted to talk to me again. But you were wrong. We're speaking again, and right now I need him to come and sit with me."

Felice turned to James. "What the hell is she talking about?" She peered at Isobel. "Wait. I know you."

Isobel shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Felice, this is Isobel Spice, my temp at InterBank."

"Of course," said Felice, nodding. "Hard to see in this light."

Isobel eyes opened wide. "Felice! Wow, I didn't recognize... I didn't realize that you and James were... Okay, now you really have to sit with us."

Felice raised a carefully sculpted eyebrow. "Honey, you don't understand. We're here to be together, just the two of us. I don't mean to be rude—"

"Of course we'll sit with you. Come on," James said, taking Felice's hand.

She wrenched it away. "James!" She whispered through gritted teeth, "This isn't exactly what I had in mind. And I know you didn't either—" Her gaze flicked past him, and she let out an annoyed snort. "What the hell is this, the office Christmas party? What is he doing here?"

"That's why you need to sit with us," Isobel said. "I can explain what happened with Doreen, why he's dressed up like that—"

"Dressed up?" scoffed Felice. "That's the same damn suit he wears every day. Man has no imagination."

James and Isobel exchanged a glance, then, as unobtrusively as they could, they turned their heads and followed Felice's gaze.

Frank Lusardi had just come in to Xavier's.