The office was one flight up from the balcony. Tony had said to meet him in an hour, but it was more like two—I didn't bother asking one of his flunkies for my audience until I saw the party's host move out of the d.j.'s perch. The blazer boy who led me up was as polite as he was muscular. On the stairs, he glanced back at me.
"Ain't I seen you at Bing's?"
"Could be."
"I do some boxing. Why's an old guy like you working out for? No offense."
"It's a Zen thing."
That stopped the conversation.
The honcho's office was nothing fancy—drywall painted light blue, some framed Broadway show posters, a bulletin board with news articles about the club, a metal desk cluttered with Rolodex, business-card caddy, ashtrays, pill bottles, a few drink glasses, and a pile of register tapes. On the floor next to the desk was a garbage bag, twist-tied shut, but I knew it was full of cash.
Skinny little Tony had tossed his tux jacket on a couch under the Broadway posters and undone the red tie, the fabric flaccid around his collar. Under the fluorescent lighting, his curly Roman emperor locks appeared shiny and wet. He had the casually drowsy demeanor of a guy who'd been doing an untold combo of drugs, and seemed like anybody but the mastermind behind Manhattan's biggest success story.
He was probably thirty-one and looked like a kid on prom night who'd overdone it.
"Excuse the mess, Mike," he said, not rising, but gesturing genially toward a hard wooden chair opposite his comfy-looking black leather swivel job, the only class appointment in what could have been the office of the manager of a Dunkin' Donuts in Queens. If that manager was into Broadway shows, anyway.
He was beaming at me, the small dark eyes red-tinged and half-hooded. Were those caps under that perfectly trimmed mustache?
"Well, Mike? What do you think? What do you think of my party?"
"People are having fun." The never-ending pounding bass was a reminder of that—no music could be heard in the office, but that relentless thudding went on.
He threw his hands up and the grin got even bigger. "Exactly! That's the point. That's what I was after. Famous people need a place to let their hair down, and not be bothered. Not-so-famous people, if they're good-looking and know how to party, this is their place, too." The dark little eyes flared. "Say, what did you think of Chrome, Mike? Isn't she something?"
"Oh yeah. Crazy. I can see why you're having her open your new clubs."
"She'll hit the top of the charts, wait and see. She'll win a fuckin' Grammy. Love of my life, that woman."
Was that for real, or just show biz talk? In the old days, Little Tony made a point of going out with big, bosomy babes on his arm. But the word was he swung the other way. And with all those bare-chested bartenders downstairs, I had to wonder.
"Tell me, Anthony—that curbside circus out there. Why do you run the door yourself? Can't you trust anybody else to do the picking and choosing?"
He shook his head firmly. "Mike, this place is ... it's my living room. You don't just let anybody into your living room. When you invite guests in your home, you make sure it's a good mix, right?"
"I don't do that much entertaining."
He chuckled. Shook his head. "You're perfect for 52. You're a legend. Larger than life. You are welcome here anytime."
"Do I rate an all-access pass?"
His smile turned pixie-ish. He raised a cautionary palm. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. It's your first night."
"Bill Doolan rated one."
Without hesitation, Tony nodded and kept nodding. "Great guy. Perfect fit. Best addition to the family since the Disco Grandma."
"How the hell is an old-time copper like Doolan your 'perfect fit'?"
Tony lighted up a cigarette, swallowed smoke through a smile. "Mike, he was famous in this city—not as famous as you, but the papers were full of him. He cleaned up his neighborhood, the capper of a career full of putting thieves and robbers and hoods away."
"Some of whom you're related to."
He waved that off. "That's history. That's the past. That's not who I am anymore. But Doolan, he was a real character. He could put away the booze like Sinatra. He liked the ladies, too, the young ones. I think he had a thing for Chrome, y'know. Whether it went anywhere or not, I couldn't tell you. Probably just a flirtation."
"How often was he here?"
Tony shrugged. "Maybe once a week—for a couple of months. Not a regular, but a familiar and always welcome face."
"He took photos here."
"Did he?"
"Is that allowed?"
He gave up a sluggish shrug. "We let media types in, if they behave. If we got somebody here, Princess Grace or Baryshnikov, and they don't wanna get photographed, they don't get photographed. That must be understood."
"Is that who Doolan was to you? A media type?"
"No! He was just another wonderful eccentric. I never saw him shoot photos. If he did, it was probably just snapshots for his scrapbook. To paste pics of Chrome in next to his grandkids or whatever. Or to do whatever dirty old men do with photos of sexy young women in the privacy of their own homes."
"A dirty old man? Doolan?"
"Why, won't you be one someday, Mike? And me, if I live long enough?"
I shrugged. "If you live long enough."
Not much threat had been put into that, but it sobered Tony. Anthony.
The little emperor leaned forward. "Listen, Mike, this place is legit. I got no mob ties whatsoever. My brother Leo and me, we haven't spoken for two years. You saw the mayor downstairs. We got councilmen and congressmen as regulars."
"Like your friend from the Enfilade, Alex Jaynor?"
"No, Alex has never been to 52. And we shoot on different days at the Enfilade. We've spoken a few times at events. Why?"
"He was tight with Doolan. All three of you belong to that gun club. Just wondering what the connection was."
Tony shrugged again. "Just what meets the eye. I think Jaynor and Doolan were in the same regular shooting group, but I wasn't. We got along. Were polite. My hunch is Jaynor may harbor suspicions about me. About my background. He's a do-gooder, and I frankly don't trust do-gooders."
"Yeah. They can spoil a party. No mob ties at all, Tony?"
"Please, Mike—it's Anthony. No. None."
I gestured to the garbage bag. "But that's a mob-style skim you're running."
The smile under the mustache froze. Then it melted and he said, "We don't need the mob for that. It's a cash-and-carry business, Mike."
"How much are you carrying that the I.R.S. doesn't know about?"
"Why, are you a fan of the I.R.S.?"
"Not particularly. They did a nice job on Capone. What have you made in a year, Anthony?"
Another shrug. "Seven million."
"Before or after the skim?"
He shrugged. "After. Skim's around two mil. See, Mike? We got no secrets, you and me."
"And you're not worried? If I could spot that action from the balcony, so could an I.R.S. agent."
That smile again. "He'd have to get past the velvet rope. Look, Mike, we're hot right now. Everybody loves a winner and we're winning."
"So the drugs your bartenders peddle, and the coke I saw those orgy girls and boys using in the balcony—local law enforcement looks the other way?"
"These are hedonistic times, Mike. It's not criminal activity, it's a lifestyle! My God, an individual like you surely can't object. You've laid more pipe than all the plumbers in the Bronx! You killed more people than Audie fuckin' Murphy."
"Not as many at one time."
Little Tony shook his head; the Roman curls stayed put. "You are a pisser. You always have been a pisser." He got up from behind his desk, clearly ready to walk me out.
So I got up. At the door, he stuck his hand out and I shook it. He was my host. But, my God, his palm felt greasy.