I didn’t need to look around to know that Joey had arrived.

“Karen, darling,” he said, leaning to give her the obligatory air kiss. Turning to me he said, “Micky, good to see you again.” We settled for shaking hands. He was too smooth for me to be able to guess whether he really didn’t want me here, whether he didn’t care, or, least likely, he really was glad to see me.

We followed him back into the same private room in which he’d last counted out the money. Joey set his briefcase on the table, but didn’t open it. He got down to business.

“So, Karen, as I mentioned in our phone call, we’d really appreciate it if you’d roll over your investment once again.”

Karen licked her lips nervously, then glanced at me.

“What’s this investment in?” I asked. For five thousand dollars I might do more than be a piece of movable furniture.

“Some offshore work,” Joey replied.

“Can you be more specific?” I returned.

“Trade secret,” was his answer. He tried to give me a disarming smile, but the edge of his irritation was showing.

“So you want Karen to invest in something about which you’ll only reveal that it takes place in the water?” I said.

“She also knows she makes money off of it,” Joey replied. “That’s usually the most important thing.”

“Is this offshore thing legal?” I demanded.

“Who is this lady, anyway?” Joey asked, turning to Karen, trying his disarming smile on her.

“Michele Knight. She’s a financial advisor,” Karen answered.

“Financial advisor?” Joey turned to me. “When did you stop being a private eye?” He didn’t bother smiling.

“This is an unusual investment. Karen felt she needed an unusual type of advisor,” I replied. In the Sans Pareil Club, Joey’s tough act could only go so far.

“Unusual, yeah. A dyke dick from downtown,” Joey responded, giving me a hard look.

“Oh, Joey, don’t be parochial,” Karen cut in. “Anthony has no problem with her being here. You shouldn’t.” Anthony was Anthony Colombé. Joey had been put on notice that Karen was on first-name terms with one of the most powerful men in town. Whatever Karen’s involvement with him, she had no problem using it. With Karen hanging on his arm, Colombé projected the image of a virile man, able to satisfy young, attractive women. It was an impression that he obviously cared a great deal about. Karen, in turn, was treated as one of his inner circle, although I suspected that if she really were a true intimate of his instead of just someone he found very useful, she wouldn’t need my help in dealing with Joey and his unnamed friends.

“Sorry,” Joey answered. “No offense meant.”

“So what is it, Joey? Drugs?” I asked. “I’m not the cops. I just want to know what my client’s getting into.”

“Not drugs. I can promise you that,” he replied.

“Yeah? What else earns money like this?” I returned.

“Come on, Karen. Call off your attack dog,” he appealed to her. “I can’t really tell you what it is. I can promise you it’s not illegal drugs. Not even legal drugs. It’s just a real good and easy way for you to earn money.”

“How do you turn a profit so quickly?” I asked.

Joey didn’t answer my question. He continued speaking to Karen. “I’ll give you some more information next time, but I’m late for another meeting. Yes or no?” he finished with a nod at the briefcase.

“What if she says no?” I asked.

He faked a nonchalant shrug. “If the lady says no, the lady says no. It would, however, come at an inconvenient time. We would really appreciate your continued support.” Joey had his hand on the briefcase.

“I think I’d prefer not to—” Karen started.

“The lady says yes,” I cut in. It wasn’t much of a threat. It didn’t need to be. One person’s inconvenience is another person’s already dug grave.

Joey wasted no time in snatching up his briefcase and smiling ever so pleasantly as he said, “Thanks, ladies. I assume I’ll see you both next time.” Then he was gone.

Karen turned from the just closed door to me and said. “Micky, what the hell was that about? I thought you wanted me out of this?”

“I do,” I retorted. “I’d just prefer you get out of it alive rather than dead.”

“What? Oh, be serious. Joey’s not going to—”

“Karen, I am serious. Don’t let his smooth and pleasant exterior fool you. These are not men you inconvenience. Whatever you cost them, it will cost you more. Understand?”

“I guess. But I—”

We were interrupted by a discreet knock on the door.

“Come in,” Karen said, then, “Hello, Francois,” to the man who entered. He was tall, still handsome, but the long, late nights were beginning to show. His dark hair was receding, the bags under his eyes needed the soft light of evening to remain imperceptible. Their gray color matched his distant expression.

“Miss Holloway, Mr. Colombé wishes your company, if it is convenient for you.” Mr. Colombé wanted his façade in place.

“Of course,” she replied, then to me, “I’ll call you later.” Karen turned and followed Francois out of the room. I trailed behind.

As it was clear that I wasn’t included in the invitation (not that I wanted to be), I told Karen, “I’ll find my own way home.”

“That’s not necessary,” she replied, giving me a quick social kiss on the cheek. It wouldn’t do for our parting to be too businesslike in the Sans Pareil Club. “Francois, please see to Micky,” Karen instructed, then left us for Anthony Colombé.

“If you’ll follow me, Ms. Knight,” Francois said.

Impressive, I thought, as I followed Francois to the entryway, his smooth transition from Miss to Ms., knowing automatically which I would prefer. It was a skill a man like Anthony Colombé could afford.

“Charles,” Francois said softly. One of the doormen snapped to attention despite several other people vying for his services.

I noticed a black Porsche turning down the long drive of the club. Joey. Of course, he would have a Porsche. And, I noted, a vanity plate: ET OR B E10. “Eat or Be Eaten”—the perfect sentiment for a shark.

“Please bring one of Mr. Colombé’s cars for Ms. Knight,” Francois instructed the doorman. “The Mercedes, I think.”

“Thank you,” I told Francois. He nodded briefly and reentered the club.

The car was a vintage Mercedes driven by a strikingly good-looking woman. I gave her my address, then offered directions, which she declined. “That’s beyond Desire, isn’t it?” she asked, her smile full lipped and sensual. Anthony Colombé probably required his drivers to memorize the streets of the greater New Orleans area.

“Will there be anything else?” she asked as she pulled in front of my place.

I thought about asking her if she was flirting with me because she wanted to or if it was part of the job. I also thought of inviting her upstairs and pumping her about Anthony Colombé, but knew she was too well trained and well paid to divulge anything.

“No, nothing,” I replied. “Thanks for the ride.”

“My pleasure,” was her well-trained answer.

I got out of the Mercedes, which looked drastically out of place on my run-down block. The car disappeared, its engine a bare purr. I entered my building and climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment.

Cordelia had left a message. She was just going to bed when I returned her call; I had forgotten it was an hour later in Boston. We chatted for a bit, I agreed to pick her up at the airport, and then I let her go on to bed, as she had to give a presentation in the morning.

I prowled around my apartment for a while, doing a few necessary and neglected chores like dealing with Hepplewhite’s lovely litter box. I was trying to figure out the best approach to get Karen out of the deep shit she had done a swan dive into. Nothing elegant and easy came to mind.

I went to bed. But it wasn’t Karen and her troubles that drifted by as I began to fall asleep. Instead it was Cissy, with her downcast and hidden eyes.

Chapter 8

I had been awakened sometime past midnight by the lash of rain and the boom of close thunder. The storm had gone nowhere during the night and was still pouring rain with a vengeance when my alarm clock goaded me out of bed.

Already in an irritable mood, I decided to compound it by calling Karen. All I got was her answering machine. I left a message telling her to call me. I had a few questions I wanted answered.

Karen didn’t call back until late in the afternoon.

“About time,” I greeted her.

“I just got in,” she defended. “I spent the night at Anthony’s.”

“And, of course, cooed and aahed at breakfast as if you’d really had sex.”

“All right, Micky, what do you want?”

“Answers. Honest answers. How did you get involved with Joey?”

“I’ve already told you that. I met him at the Sans Pareil Club.”

“So you met this guy, he said, ‘Yo, babe, want to earn some money’ and you just coughed up, what? Fifty?”

“No. I met him several times. And I started out with five.”

“Five?” Another lie she had told me. “How long has this been going on?” I demanded.

“Uh, I guess about eight months.”