I nodded, then said, “I’m glad you noticed.”

“Why?”

“Because if you really thought those were your friends, there’d be no hope for you.”

We turned into the gates of the San Pareil Club. The grounds were an immaculate green, something off a touched-up postcard. I was still impressed by the smoothness of the doormen and parking valets. They opened the car doors at precisely the right moment, just as you were ready to get out, with no fumbling or delay as there usually is when someone else does something you’re accustomed to doing.

The maître d’ led us to the back booth where we had been before. A waiter instantly appeared and asked, “The usual?” At Karen’s nod, he glided away. When he reappeared with a white wine for Karen and club soda for me, I had a vision of drill maître d’s grilling the waiters on drink orders (“No, no, it was club soda with a twist of lime, not lemon. For that you have to bus tables for a week”).

“So,” Karen asked as she sipped her wine, “what are you going to do?”

“Tell Joey to leave you alone.”

“Do you think he’ll do that?”

I nodded, then added, “I’m not asking for your money back.”

Karen took another swallow of wine and said, “That’s a lot of money.”

“So? Economize. Buy a few less friends.”

Karen glared at me, but didn’t reply. She put down her wineglass and got a cigarette out of her purse. She lit it, making no attempt to keep the smoke out of my face. For the moment, I ignored it.

She blew another cloud of smoke in my direction, and, still getting no reaction, went on the attack. “Don’t give me your goddamn holier-than-thou shit. I know your reputation. Every bar dyke in town has a story about you. Is there any lesbo trash in this city that you haven’t slept with? ‘Slept’ isn’t the right word, is it? A few minutes in the backseat, a drunken roll in the park. At least I’ve never broken off an affair by telling someone that I was too drunk to remember sleeping with them.”

“That’s enough, Karen.” That was my past, it was over, and I didn’t want her throwing it in my face.

“I’m goddamn-well-not perfect, but I’m not dirt beneath your feet. You may be sipping club soda now, but there isn’t a drug I’ve tried that you haven’t used and I know you’ve been in a lot more sexual positions than I ever have or will be.”

“That is enough, Karen.”

“Do you still like to be tied up? Still like taking it up…”

I grabbed her wrist, roughly twisting her arm onto the table. I took her cigarette and stabbed it out in the ashtray. “I told you that that was enough. I’m not going to have rumors and gossip thrown in my face like you own them.”

“Just rumors and gossip?” Karen shot back. “Then a lot of women are telling lies about you, Micky. They think you had sex with them. That you got drunk or high with them. I’ve been asking about you and I always get the same answer.”

I twisted her arm hard enough to hurt her, anger spilling beyond my control. “Don’t fuck with me, Karen. Get it out of your empty little, rich girl head that you know anything about me. Anything at all. If you say anything else to anybody, I will make you regret it.”

“You’re hurting me,” Karen gasped.

I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to lash out, and Karen was an easy target.

“Don’t, please don’t,” she whimpered as my hand tightened around her wrist. “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly I let her go. I had been out of control, following my anger. I wanted my past to let go of me. I didn’t like Karen reminding me of how hard a task that would be.

Karen stared at me from across the table, clutching the hand I had twisted as if protecting it. I knew I should apologize, give some reassurance that I wasn’t going to hurt her, but I didn’t, leaving her fear in place. And the power that fear gave me.

“Ms. Holloway, Ms. Knight.”

“Francois.” Karen turned to him, hiding her wrist under the table as if it were something to be ashamed of. For me, it was.

“Mr. Colombé asks that you join him.”

“Well…” Karen shot me a quick glance.

“At your convenience.” Francois was too astute not to notice the charged air. I hoped he wasn’t astute enough to notice what the air was charged with.

“Thank Anthony and tell him…we will be along shortly.”

Francois bowed and disappeared.

“Cigarette smoke bothers me,” I said. It was as close as I could come to an apology.

“I can make excuses for you later,” Karen said in reference to her accepting Colombé’s invitation for both of us.

I shrugged noncommittally, wondering how interesting it might be to meet Anthony Colombé.

“Karen, Micky.” Joey arrived at our table.

Karen started to get up. I took a slow sip of club soda, before I put it down and stood up to go with Joey. I wanted to be in control. We would do things at my pace. I followed behind Joey and Karen, lingering a bit, slowing them down. They were turned and waiting for me when I entered the room.

“Shall we sit?” I said after I had shut the door.

“No, thanks, I’ll stand,” Joey said.

I sat down, arranging my dress, keeping control of the pace. Karen, following my lead, also sat.

“So, you want your money back?” Joey asked, trying to take the initiative from me.

“No. Who said anything about money?”

“Whadda you mean?” Joey’s Ninth Ward accent was peeking out.

“It’s simple. You want money, Karen wants peace and quiet. We’re going to make a deal.”

“What if I don’t like your deal?” Joey retorted. He wasn’t happy with my setting the terms.

“Then you don’t like it,” I said calmly. “The deal is that you keep the money. No strings, free and clear. The trade is that you let Karen go, no strings, free and clear. You don’t call her, you don’t see her, you don’t take Sunday afternoon drives in her neighborhood.”

“And if I don’t take your deal, Knight? Where’s your muscle?”

“I prefer not to deal in threats. I think we’re both aware that we could make life uncomfortable for each other.”

“You’re talking to the air, Knight.”

“Yeah, that’s possible. Maybe my ex-M.P. friends will never find your skinny little ass. And maybe Anthony’s not going to listen to Karen when she says you’re causing her problems. And the cops might have better things to do than figure out what you’re up to.”

“You’re scaring me,” was his final piss in the wind, because he then said, “But I tell you what, I’m a gentleman. I don’t go where I’m not wanted. Karen wants to end our relationship, it’s over. How’s that?”

“Almost. But, Joey, this relationship isn’t just over, it never existed.”

“Whatever you want. Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies, who I never met before, I’ve got to get going.” And he was out the door, slamming it behind him, his coiled impatience finally let loose.

“‘Whom,’” I corrected after him.

“What?” Karen said.

“‘Whom I’ve never met before.’ I was just correcting his grammar.”

“Do you really think he’ll leave me alone?”

“I think so. Unless he gets desperate for something you have. Or something he thinks you have.”

“Should I go to the police?”

I thought for a moment before replying. What Joey was involved in wasn’t legal and it wasn’t pretty. But Karen had very little to give the police and what little she did have was only enough to wake a sleeping monster, not behead it. “No, not as long as he keeps his part of the bargain. You’re better off out of it.”

“Thanks, Micky. I was afraid…I thought you might abandon me.”

“Next time you get yourself into a mess like this, you can get yourself out.”

“I don’t plan on there being a next time.”

I shrugged and forewent pointing out that she hadn’t planned on this time either.

“Well, I guess I need to put in an appearance with Anthony,” Karen said. She got up, checked herself in the mirror, hesitated, then turned to me. “About those things I said earlier—”

I cut her off. “You don’t know anything about me. That’s all there is to say.”

“Okay,” she said very softly, chastened. She turned from me for one last look in the mirror, but nothing had changed outwardly. Then she opened the door, letting me go first.

When we returned to our table, Francois appeared.

“Ms. Holloway, Mr. Colombé is in the Blue Room. Ms. Knight, will you join us?”

Karen looked at me, as if in apprehension of whatever answer I might make.

“Yes, of course, I’d be delighted,” I answered coolly.

He nodded and led us up the stairs. Surreptitious glances followed us as we ascended, the select of the select. The stairs led to an inner balcony overlooking the main floor of the club. At the far end of the balcony was a heavy oak door with ornate brass handles. Francois ushered us through the door into a room that resembled a very rich man’s library. Oak-panelled walls led into a series of bookshelves, all stocked with expensive leather-bound books. Brass wall sconces gave off a soft, amber glow. A number of paintings, all original from the look of them, were illuminated by lights hidden in the ceiling. I recognized an Audubon, a Walter Anderson, and, as the centerpiece of the room, a Picasso from his Blue Period. At the far end of the room was a huge fireplace, a picture-perfect fire blazing. Leather chairs and couches were placed at comfortable intervals throughout the room.

I recognized a number of the people in the room. The rich and powerful. A major Hollywood actor, in town for the shooting of his latest movie, was holding court in one corner. Many of the men were there with women not their wives. It was a parade of the young and the beautiful flattering the old and the powerful.

At the far end, next to the fireplace, the most beautiful surrounded the most powerful. Anthony Colombé sat in a rich black leather chair, a throne really, on a pedestal that offered him an overview of the room. He took a final puff on his expansive cigar, then handed its remains to a young, handsome man at his side. The young man took it as if it was an honor and privilege to handle Colombé’s chewed cigar butts.

Karen and I made our way across the room to stand at his outer circle. Francois hovered discreetly, all of us waiting until it was convenient for him to notice us.

“What does he do?” I asked, turning to Francois, meaning how did he earn his money.

“I’m sorry, Miss Knight, I don’t really know.” He spoke with a slow, sad smile as if admitting he had the soul of a servant. I noticed that he called me “Miss” not “Ms.” Colombé’s preferred form of address held sway here.

“Karen, how are you?” I heard Colombé say, holding out his hands as if he were some potentate at his castle. I almost expected her to kiss his ring. Instead she took his hands, then leaned forward to give him a kiss. I suppressed a shudder as their lips touched. He was in his seventies, skin freckled with age spots, his lips thin and dry.

“Anthony,” Karen murmured, “it’s so good to see you again.”

“Introduce me to your friend,” he directed, although I knew he already knew who I was.

Karen did and he held out his hands to me just as he had to her. It would be foolish to needlessly antagonize this man, so I gave him my hands, but made no motion to lean in and kiss him. He didn’t seem to expect it, however, instead holding me at arm’s length and appraising me. I held his gaze. His eyes, beneath the glasses and wrinkled folds, were sharp and bright, like a gleaming blade.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said.

“Not the truth, I hope,” I replied. While I didn’t want to antagonize him, I didn’t intend to be obsequious either.

“Some of it true, I suspect. I hear you lead an interesting life.”

“Isn’t that a Chinese curse, ‘May you lead an interesting life’?”

He chuckled dryly, squeezed my hands, then let them go. “Do make yourself comfortable. If there’s anything you need, let Francois know.” He turned his attention to someone else. I was a plaything and I had amused him for a bit. I stepped away, back into the outer fringes of the circle.

I hovered nearby long enough to be polite, then I wandered around a bit, got a glass of mineral water, and listened to the conversations around me.

The rich are not different from you and me, they just have the money to buy the comfort most of us can only wish for. I didn’t feel enlightened and privileged as if I had been let into some sanctified world; rather, it seemed as if these people were diminished, blinded by what their money could buy to the point that they had forgotten that there are things that money can’t buy.

I found Francois and asked him, “Have I been here long enough?”

“You wish to leave? Is there no…amusement that appeals to you?”

“I don’t wish to offend…anyone.” We spoke in the code that was part of the game. I looked around the room, the young and beautiful bodies I was being offered. Vintage wines, pure drugs. “But no, there’s nothing that appeals to me.”

Karen was in the inner circle, seated next to Colombé. They seemed content in their mutual usury—he pretending he was a man with conventional sexual desires, potent enough to attract a beautiful young woman; she pretending that she had access to real power. I couldn’t think of anything to say to Karen; even good-bye seemed pointless.

“Allow me to get you a car,” Francois offered. We left through the solid oak doors.

“What would happen if I just hoofed it out of here and caught the trolley? Would you be shot at dawn?” I asked as we descended the stairs.

“No, madam, the firing squad was disbanded several years ago,” he answered smoothly. “However,” and for a moment he let down his servant’s mask, “it would make my life easier if you play by the rules.”

“I have no reason to make trouble,” I granted.

Francois led me out to the veranda, signaling one of the doormen to get a car. “Good, I hope it remains so.”

So do I, I thought as I got into the car. This time it was a modern limo driven by a silent man.

The case of the Blond Bitch is closed, I thought as the car sped noiselessly through the late night traffic. “Closed” was a better word than “ended.” Joey and whoever he was working for were still doing what they were doing. Karen was still looking for money to buy her happiness. The rich and powerful people of the Sans Pareil Club were still beyond the law. All this case was, was closed.

My silent chauffeur dropped me off at my place, waiting while I fumbled with the keys to get into my apartment. Then the car purred away into the night.

I hiked up the stairs, uncomfortable and off balance in my high heels. There were no messages on my answering machine, not that I expected any. I kicked off the heels, pulled off the dress, and unhooked my bra. I was tired of these uncomfortable clothes. I looked around my apartment for a moment.

Then I picked up the phone. I dialed Karen’s number. “Why did Colombé want to meet me? What have you told him?” I left on her answering machine. She would get my message whenever she got home from the club.

Somehow I couldn’t stop asking questions.

I hung up Torbin’s dress, turned out the lights, and went to bed.

Chapter 16

Rain had arrived in the night, a rumbling lightning storm that had Hepplewhite cowering under the covers. Her flicking tail and the boom of thunder were very efficient at disturbing my sleep. Consequently, when I awoke again, it was late afternoon. I lay in bed for a bit, the grogginess of mixed-up hours and interrupted sleep slow to let go of me.

Finally, forcing myself out of bed, I went to the kitchen to start coffee. With the assurance of a brewed pot awaiting me, I forced myself through a shower.

With another cup of coffee in hand, I checked my answering machine. The first message was from Karen, answering my questions from last night. “I never mentioned you to Anthony. I don’t know how he knew who you were.” Not a very illuminating answer.

The next message was from Cordelia. “Hi, Micky. I hope your night went okay. My day’s been hell here. I’ll tell you about it tonight. Is it okay if we just order in? I don’t think I’m up to either going out or cooking. If that’s not okay, give me a call.”

I was in the Quarter at a few minutes past seven. On impulse, I made a detour to a flower shop over on Chartres. I didn’t dwell on the fact that it was Karen’s money buying Cordelia flowers.

At her doorstep, I realized that I had again not brought the keys she had given me. I had envisioned sneaking into her apartment and presenting her the flowers with a flourish, but instead I rang her buzzer. She was waiting with the door open as I came up the stairs.

I awkwardly thrust the flowers at her. “Here, just call me a hopeless romantic,” I said. “Or a hopeless something.”

The flowers between us, Cordelia took them. “Thank you, Micky, they’re beautiful,” she said as she went to the kitchen to find a vase.

I stayed in the living room, suddenly feeling awkward and foolish. Flowers were hopelessly romantic. Cordelia returned with them in a vase.

“What happened to the blue pottery one?” I asked.

“Nothing. It’s just that Rook has discovered how tasty some flowers can be. I don’t want her to pull it over and break it.” Rook was her cat, a rambunctious one-year-old.

“Of course. Save it for some special occasion.”

“Lindsey gave it to me. I’d hate to have it broken.”

“How long do we have to be together before you use things old friends gave you for me?” I snapped, suddenly jealous.

“Micky, that’s not fair,” Cordelia flared back. “I’d put the damn flowers in the blue vase if I thought it would convince you that I love you, but it’s just one more hoop for me to jump through.”