Once Upon a Grind (27 page)

F
LABBERGASTED,
I stared at the barista. “Did you say Village Blend?”

“Yes, ma'am, they're an excellent coffeehouse. They source and roast their own beans.”

“You don't say?” I was about to pepper the man with questions when a small group approached with orders. Drumming my manicure on the counter, I checked my watch. Still fifteen minutes to go on the transmitter charge.

“You there?” Franco asked.

“I'm waiting for the barista to get back to me,” I whispered. “The club is serving my coffee. Can you believe it?!”

No reply.

“Franco? Do you copy?” I tapped the cubic zirconia switch a few times. Though the transmitter was broadcasting, the signal didn't seem to be reaching him. As more customers arrived at the coffee bar, I reluctantly gave up.

Better get out of here.

Not an easy task. The lounge was now packed with bodies. As a jazzy rendition of “Amapola” began, I felt someone grip my arm.

“Care to dance?”

Before I could react, a white-haired gentleman stepped in front of me, hooked his hand around my waist, and practically lifted me off the carpeting and onto the hardwood.

This guy was solidly built, in his mid- to late sixties, and tall. Even in my highest heels, I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze; otherwise I'd be staring straight into a red silk tie and crisp white shirt.

“I'm sorry,” I said, trying to pull away, “but I was just leaving.”

“That's the point,” he whispered in my ear. “You may not get out of here without some trouble.”

My eyes widened. “I don't know what you—”

“Your earrings are the problem. If I were you, I'd tap that right one again. They're jamming you now. But you're still broadcasting a signal, which means they can follow it to the source.”

I quickly switched off the transmitter. “How did you know?”

“Because I have my own listening devices planted in this place, but I'm not trying to broadcast beyond its walls, which means—at the moment—
you
have a very big problem.” He tilted his white head, indicating the two big security guards who'd entered the room. “They have staff waiting for you at both exits. Do you have an emergency escape route planned?”

No
, I thought—and then I remembered that friendly waiter.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Take this.” He slipped a business card out of his lapel. “It will confirm my identity. There's a bit of a riddle to it.” He smiled. “But I think you can handle it.”

Without glancing at the card, I tucked it down my neckline.

“The song's about to end,” he whispered. “When it does, leave immediately.”

As the final strains of the Spanish love song faded, I thanked the mystery man and attached myself to a small group of couples leaving the Diamond Room.

I hated the idea of returning to that awful Silver lounge to find my helpful waiter, but luck was with me in this subterranean casino: I spied him serving drinks to a couple playing roulette.

“I need your help again,” I whispered. “Another masher is after me. He won't leave me alone. I lost him, but he and his friend are waiting at the doors to catch me.”

“Oh, Chiquita, you're not having a very good night, are you?”

“I'm afraid not.”

He leaned close. “Don't worry. I've done this before. See that curtain behind those potted coconut trees? Slip through there and make sure no one sees you. I'll meet you there in a few minutes.”

Everyone was watching the gaming tables, so I easily slipped behind the coconut curtain. After five excruciating minutes, I began to wonder if I could trust my waiter—not that I had any choice.

That was when a wheeled cart bumped my rear. Pushed by my waiter, the stainless steel wagon was draped in a tablecloth, and piled high with empty tapas dishes.

The waiter pulled the white cloth aside and pointed to a crawlspace.

“Your carriage awaits.”

I ducked inside, sitting with my knees under my chin.

“Here we go,” he said, dropping the cloth. “Keep quiet and you'll be fine.”

After a bumpy ride, the cart halted. I held my breath as the waiter spoke quickly in Spanish to a man with a gruff voice (security, no doubt).

Deep male laughter ensued. I heard the security guard mumble “clear” and then came the sound of elevator doors opening—not the clean swish of the uptown doors but the awkward, industrial clanking of a large service elevator.

(I may not have had much experience as a superspy, but I did cater enough private parties in this town to know “the help” always had its own exit.)

“Almost out, Chiquita,” he whispered after the doors closed. “Stay quiet.”

When we cleared the elevator car, I heard the shouts, hisses, and banging of a busy commercial kitchen, which faded as we rolled down another hall. Finally the cart lurched to a stop.

“When I leave, please count to twenty so I can get clear. Then exit through the closest door. You'll see the ladies room to your left. Take your time, freshen up, and exit through the restaurant's dining room.”

“Thank you.”

“No hay problema,”
he said. “But if you don't mind my saying, are you sure our club is for you? There are plenty of other ways to meet a man, you know? Ever try Match.com? How about Christian Mingle? Or JDate?”

“Thanks, I'll consider it.”

The waiter's footsteps receded. As soon as I counted to twenty, I was out from under and through a swinging door. I found myself in a strangely familiar paneled hallway with a rare public telephone.

Should I call Franco? No. Better get out now!

I found my way out to the main dining room, and stood stunned for a long moment. I may have failed to pick up a cannoli for Franco, but I did find him that second club entrance.

It appeared the Prince Charming Club was directly under one of New York City's most iconic eateries—Babka's, the restaurant owned by that little old grandmother Barbara Baum.

I thought back to my snooping in the entryway of Leila's apartment. That box with the golden key included a note card.
“Invitations to come,”
it read with a signature of two initials.
“BB.”

BB . . . Barbara Baum. Holy cow!

O
N
the car ride down to the Village Blend, I gave Franco back his Spy Shop costume jewelry and filled him in on the Mystery Man, my service elevator escape, and the Babka connection.

Still swathed in electric blue Fen, I unlocked my small office on the second floor of the coffeehouse, settled in behind my battered wooden desk, and fired up my computer. Franco took the chair opposite and wasted no time popping the strings on the pastry box. (Yes, since I was already at Babka's, I figured why not stop by its famous bakery counter?)

As Franco tore off pieces of their most popular babka, the heady scents of chocolate and cinnamon filled the cramped space, along with similar aromas from our steaming cups of Sumatra Sunset.

“I should have suspected something,” I said, staring at the twilight purple box. “Babka's is located right around the block from that black mystery door. And Leila's club key came in a box the same shade of purple as the awning over Barbara's restaurant—and her bakery boxes.”

“Matchmaker, make me a match,” Franco said between bites. He licked his fingers and smiled.

“Very funny,” I said, but we were both thinking the same thing. Madame's old friend had brought much more than Lower East Side comfort food and courtship rituals to her uptown address. “It's hard to beat a Silver disco, Diamond gourmet buffet, Gold-flowing fountain, and gambling floor, complete with pink-smocked fairy godmothers in the women's room.”

“Sounds like
Hello Dolly
does Vegas in a storybook speakeasy,” Franco declared. “And what happens in her underground parking garage
stays
in her underground parking garage.”

I pointed to my computer screen. “According to this news article I'm skimming, Dwayne Galloway is in her league—he can afford to buy silence. The man is one of the richest NFL players in the history of the game. How did he manage that?”

“Hatchet for Men is my guess.”

“Excuse me?”

“Galloway used to make commercials for men's body wash, shampoo, and deodorant. They posed him with a sexy woman on each arm while he delivered the tag line ‘Slay them with Hatchet.'”

“He also owns a ranch and raises Angus beef in Wyoming. That explains the Meat part of this Meat-dieval Tournament and Feast, I guess.”

“Dwayne Galloway was a major player, Clare. Sportswriters called his time with the Giants ‘The Reign of Dwayne.'”

“I can see that. But, hey, look at this!”

I pointed to my screen again. ESPN archives had a clip of Galloway horseback riding on his Wyoming ranch, and a much older clip of him practicing on a parallel bar. The narrator noted—

“In college, Galloway studied gymnastics under Olympic coach and Soviet defector Rolf Tamerov . . .”

“Gymnastics,” Franco said, scratching his shaved head. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Galloway was famous for jumping incredibly high over tacklers. And after making a goal, he'd somersault in the air and land on his feet.”

“The Russian connection is what intrigues me. Is that why he went for Anya and Red?”

“Probably has a thing for Russian girls.”

“I wonder if he speaks Russian, too . . .”

I studied the most recent photo of Dwayne Galloway. He had dark brown eyes, and I was fairly sure he was the same predatory knight I'd seen in Central Park, staring at Anya.

My phone rang. I checked the caller ID and quickly told Franco to stay quiet while I answered on speaker mode—

“Hello, Samantha, I've been waiting for your call.”

“Sorry it came so late, Clare. Committee work kept me busy all evening.”

Not everyone on the committee was busy,
I mused
. Harrison Van Loon went clubbing.

“It's okay,” I replied. “We're still working here.”

An awkward pause followed. “You know, I used to hear that
exact
phrase from my disaster of an ex-husband.” Sam expelled air. “Mr. Wall Street was working, all right, on getting interns into bed . . .”

Oh, good grief, has she been drinking?
I tensed. This was no time for 1-800-therapy, especially with Franco listening.
Better keep her on topic—

“I'm sorry, Sam, but I'm so worried. You said you'd talk to me about my business partner's situation. Why do you think Matt is being set up to take the blame for Red's death?”

“That's easy. Do you know about Dwayne Galloway and his connection to Red?”

“Now I do. I ran into Leila Reynolds tonight at . . . a social gathering and got the story out of her.”

Sam sighed again. “You must think all I do is gossip. But I was frantic, Clare, I had to talk to someone, so I told Leila. She was
supposed
to keep it a secret—”

“It's okay. She didn't want to tell me. I more or less dragged the truth out of her.”

“Well, not even Leila knows
everything
. Did she tell you the police are protecting Galloway? Because they are.”

“Is that why you fingered Matt when you spoke with Endicott's partner?”

“Fingered Matt? Where in the world did you get that idea?!”

“Detective Plesky said you told him that Anya was last seen with a man wearing medieval garb—”

Sam cursed. “I said ‘armor,' Clare. I told that chubby detective that the man with Anya was wearing armor, which meant he was dressed as a knight, and guess what? The only people dressed as knights at the festival were Galloway, his football buddies, and—”

“The officers from the NYPD Mounted Unit.”

“Listen, I'm sorry. I feel bad about what happened to Red, but I'm only a volunteer trying to help the city organize a few events. What I'm telling you is in the strictest confidence. I'm in no position to go up against bad cops trying to protect their celebrity football hero.”

Franco's frown deepened.

“Okay, Sam, I understand,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

By the time the call ended, I'd come up with a plan of action.

“Are you free for dinner tomorrow night, Franco?”

“At ye olde Meat-dieval Tournament and Feast?”

I nodded. Both Samantha and Leila said the police were protecting Galloway. Well, there was one member of the Mounted Unit moonlighting for Galloway that I knew by name: Troy Dalecki. I didn't know if I could trust Troy; but since I still had his knight's cape, I had a perfectly innocent excuse to drop in on the young officer—not something I wanted to attempt alone.

“You're on, Coffee Lady. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you. And I've always wanted to see that place.”

“Bring your badge. You'll be out of jurisdiction in New Jersey, but we're going medieval, so you might need
ye olde
NYPD shield.”

“I don't leave home without it. And I'm glad you're taking backup, especially after what you allowed to happen tonight—”

“Not that lecture again.”

“That guy you danced with could have had a needle full of poison. With one stick, he could have killed you and walked away.”

“But he didn't, all right? Let it go. Besides, he seemed like a nice guy.”

Franco rose. “I've heard that before, usually from victims of sexual assault.”

“It wasn't like that. Without his help, security would have caught me in there.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Con men use that ploy all the time. Before they fleece suckers, they ‘help' them to gain their trust.”

“Does my daughter know you're this cynical?”

“I call it
careful
. And the next time you run into this guy, you better be careful, too.”

Franco tucked the purple bakery box under his arm and headed for the door. “Pick you up at seven. Dinner's on me, and bring your appetite. I hear the portions are huge.”

“How huge?”

“Their biggest seller is the Brontosaurus Rib.”

Note to self. Bring ye olde wheelbarrow to cart home ye olde leftovers.

As Franco's footsteps clanged down our spiral stairs, I studied the business card my white-haired dance partner had left with me.

He claimed it contained a “riddle” that explained who he was, but I couldn't figure it out and neither could Franco. The card displayed no address. Not even a web address. Simply the name
Wilson
and a phone number with far too many digits.

Maybe it's a phone number plus an extension number,
I thought and tried to dial it again. As before, all I got was a busy signal. For the umpteenth time I read the card:

R
ED
, B
LACK
& A
EGEAN

I
NTERNATIONAL

A
UDI
TORS

I ran several Internet searches, but there was no corporation or institution with that name.

I remembered the acrostic that Esther used to spell out LOVE STINKS, but the only thing that key unlocked was RIA—an Italian television network.

Is Wilson a European television producer?
If he was, why would he hand me such an obscure business card?

The words themselves didn't help. I couldn't even find a definition for an “international auditor,” and Red and Black were both colors, while Aegean was a sea—

Hold on
,
I thought,
Red, Black, and Aegean are all seas
.

I literally smacked myself. Change the word
sea
to the letter
C
and the acrostic suddenly made sense, along with Mystery Man's ability to locate a rudimentary transmitter—

CIA. Central Intelligence Agency!

“No way. It can't be . . .”

Letting the card game go, I removed Anya's key necklace and tucked it into my evening bag. Then I closed my computer and called it a night.

As I locked the door, I noticed my cell phone vibrating. It was Gardner, calling from downstairs.

“Hey, boss. Nancy had to go, and it's time to close.”

“I'm coming.”

Gardner met me at the bottom of the spiral staircase, loaded down with a tray of used cups and saucers. “There's an older gent in back,” he said. “I'll dump this stuff and tell him we're locking up.”

“I'll do it,” I said.

“In electric blue Fen?” Gardner laughed. “That makes you the best dressed bouncer I ever saw.”

I headed for the table near the hearth, where a white-haired man in a black jacket sat with his back to me.
That can't be him
, I told myself.
But when he moved his head, I caught a glimpse of his profile and tensed.

The Mystery Man had followed me to my place of business.

Remembering Franco's warning, I hurried behind the counter to find my favorite club—and it wasn't silver, diamond, or gold. This club was aluminum with a rubber grip.

“Gardner, stay here. If that man takes one step toward me, you hit the speed dial, and—” I raised my Louisville Slugger. “I'll hit him.”