That was where Alex would find Jeremy Brewer, the infamous Broker.
Moving slowly but purposefully, Alex picked his way across the floor to the bar and ordered a drink. He felt the need to hurry but stifled it. Before he could go looking for the Broker, he’d need to do some reconnaissance.
The nearest bartender was a short, pudgy man with an elaborate mustache. He had the kind of face that encouraged men to tell him their troubles. An ideal bartender.
“Can I help you, sir?” the bartender asked with a smile. He had a slightly Midwestern accent along with the kind of physique people got from growing up on a farm.
Alex decided to splurge. He told himself it was to better establish his character, but he knew that the Broker wasn’t likely to ask the bartender for a reference.
“Your best single malt, please.”
“That would a Macallan 30-year-old,” the bartender said. “Will that do?”
“That sounds acceptable.”
“Very good, sir.”
A moment later he brought Alex a glass of very smooth whiskey. Alex pulled his fake money from his pocket and peeled off the five spot. When the man returned with his change, Alex tipped him outrageously, then turned and leaned against the bar, surveying the room while he slowly savored his drink.
He wasn’t much of a socialite, but he recognized a few Broadway stars and a textile millionaire in the crowd. As his gaze swept the room, he located the stairs going up to the private areas. There was no guard there, but the Broker would surely have someone watching his door.
Regretfully, Alex finished his drink, setting the glass on the bar, and headed back across the floor to where the band leader was conducting a slower number to give the dancers a rest. He got the man’s attention, then slipped him a twenty along with a note to play In the Mood. Alex needed something brassy and loud to cover any noise he might make, since the private rooms had open balconies.
Taking a deep breath, Alex lit another cigarette and climbed up the risers where the tables sat, then up the stairway at the back. A long hall ran along the back of the building with doors set in it where the private rooms were. At the far end was a door marked Exit that probably led to the fire stairs. It would also explain how the Broker and his clientele could come and go unseen. Alex knew that while the Broker’s clients came in through the front, most of his associates didn’t have that kind of clout.
At far end of the hall, nearest to the fire door, a man in a simple black suit stood next to the last door. He had a broad, flat face with a long nose that appeared to have been broken at least once and eyes that looked as if they were always squinting. His hair was slicked back and his shoes were shined, but something about his face told Alex that he was a plain thug. Maybe it was that nose.
“What do you want?” he asked, doing a fairly good job of hiding a Jersey accent.
Alex reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the card with the name Harold Troubridge on it and held it out. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Brewer,” Alex said in his most aristocratic British accent.
The flat-faced man didn’t move or accept the card; he just looked Alex up and down, trying to take his measure. “Do you have an appointment?” he asked.
“Unfortunately no,” Alex said. “I just arrived in town and I shan’t be here long. Please give him my card and tell him I’m here regarding a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
The man gave Alex another penetrating look, but Iggy’s disguise runes were as solid as he claimed. “Wait here,” he said, taking the card.
Down below, the band was striking up In The Mood.
As soon as the guard was gone, Alex took out one of his rune papers and crumpled it up in his left hand, holding it in place with his thumb. He patted the weight of his brass knuckles in his jacket pocket and hoped he wouldn’t need them. And if he did need them, that they’d be enough.
When the door opened again, the flat-faced man stepped back, allowing Alex to enter. Inside, dim lamps illuminated two men sitting on velvet-lined couches around a small table. Along the back wall stood a well-stocked liquor cabinet with frosted glass panels and bright brass knobs. Chairs were set up along the balcony side so people could watch the band and the dancers below.
One of the men was large with big shoulders and hard, expressionless eyes. His features were sharp, even his beak-like nose, and he had bushy eyebrows that contrasted with his entirely bald head. He wore a loose white shirt and black trousers with a red silk sash around his waist for a belt. Sitting with his legs crossed and his arms over the back of the couch, he had an air of casual violence about him.
The other man was clad in a red smoking jacket, with a cigar in one hand and a snifter in the other. He had an infectious, crooked smile that showed off perfect, white teeth and his blue eyes were alive with curiosity. This was the man Alex was looking for, the elusive Broker.
“Mr. Troubridge,” the man in the smoking jacket said invitingly. “Come in. I do enjoy meeting new people.”
Alex relaxed a little, taking his cigarette between his right fingers. This was going better than he’d hoped.
Just as the thought crossed his mind, his arms were seized from behind by the flat-faced man and held tight.
“Of course I prefer to know people before I meet them,” the Broker said, putting aside his snifter and standing. “And I don’t know you.” He came close enough for Alex to smell the Cuban tobacco on his breath and studied Alex’s face. “No,” he said after a long moment. “I’ve never seen you before, so how is it you know my name?”
Alex began to turn the smoldering cigarette around in his fingers. He had to move slowly so as not to arouse the suspicions of the flat-faced man. He needed to stall, but only for a minute.
“I heard it from someone who wishes to remain anonymous.” Alex said. He didn’t even have to lie. Brewer’s face grew angry and he nodded to his bald-headed companion.
“Search him,” he said. The flat-faced goon pulled Alex’s arms in tighter as the big man began patting Alex down.
“What’s this?” he asked, pulling the brass knuckles out of Alex’s pocket. Alex smiled at him as his cigarette touched the flash paper in his left hand.
“Insurance,” he said.
The paper erupted in fire and light, but it didn’t stop. The light exploded into the room, flowing like water until it filled every crack. The second Alex felt the paper burn, he’d shut his eyes tight.
It didn’t help much.
The light from the flash rune burned brighter than staring at the sun, but only for an instant. He hoped the people in the club below would think the light was just one of the overhead magelights burning out.
The hands holding him let go and the three men not expecting the flash started to swear. When Alex opened his eyes, bright dots swam in his vision, but he had no time to worry about that. Bending over, he picked up the brass knuckles where the bald man had dropped them. Slipping them over his right fingers, he turned to find the flat-faced man and Brewer on the floor; the bald man, however, had pulled a snub-nosed .38 from his waistband. Alex strode over to him and unceremoniously punched him in the arm with the brass knuckles. The runes on the metal flared into sudden life and the man howled in pain, the gun falling from his nerveless fingers.