"You are always welcome at 52, Mike. You are on the list."
He was on mine.
I said, "Like Doolan?"
"You said it earlier—he had all access. He could go anywhere in my world."
"Like, where can't I go in the club, without that pass?"
This seemed to amuse him. He opened the door and the young boxer in the 52 blazer perked up like a puppy who heard the rustle of a candy wrapper.
"Louis," Tony said, "show Mr. Hammer to the V.I.P. room."
"You mean the lounge, Mr. Tretriano?"
"No—the room."
The kid from Bing's led me down the stairs into the balcony and below to the main floor, then to a door near the stage that was guarded by a pair of blazers. We went down creaky wooden steps into the basement. A path cut between chained-linked supply areas, decorative crap on one side, boxes of liquor and beer on the other. Then I followed my escort down a drywall corridor to a guarded metal-grillwork door through which could be seen another, smaller party.
Like the upstairs, the lighting was dim though no flashing lights or laser lances were cutting through the darkness. The illumination came from the yellow and orange of an old Wurlitzer jukebox, an Elton John pinball machine, some funky vintage neon signs, lava lamps, and glowing fiber optics sprays. The limited lighting provided mood, sure, but it also concealed a multitude of sins. And not just those that might be committed by the guests.
As that grating door yawned open for me, and I stepped inside, I realized Little Tony Tret really was a hell of an entrepreneur. After all, he had transformed a dank, nothing basement into a celebrity lounge that the likes of Mick Jagger, Cary Grant, and Liz Taylor were dying to get into.
I'm not saying Mick, Cary, and Liz were present in this rec room for degenerates, but you would recognize just about every face. The furnishings were strictly thrift shop, mostly '50s atomic-age junk but also comfy easy chairs and couches and even plastic lawn furniture. A wet bar had a single bare-chested bartender, but there was a corner for pot smokers, too. A few of the famous faces were just standing around, chatting cocktail party—style. There was a bathroom marked His & HERS off to one side with an OCCUPIED card hanging on the knob.
But the main attraction was a massive glass-top coffee table with a mirror the size of an LP cover that was heaped with cocaine—a staggering pile of the stuff, like an ungainly pyramid of powdered sugar. Celebrities of every stripe were on the edge of couches and sofas, worshiping at this white altar, leaning in to cut lines with razor blades and sniff through rolled-up C-notes, lolling back laughing with white stuff on their noses, like kids who'd stuck their faces in the snow. And hadn't they?
I moved around the room nodding at people. I'd met some of them before. A lot of them recognized me—I did have the porkpie on—and sometimes laughed and pointed and occasionally patted me on the back as I passed. To them I was a cartoon character come to life out walking among them.
I spotted a big platinum blonde at the bar getting herself a glass of champagne. She had on a pink minidress with shoulder straps, lots of well-tanned flesh on display, and an ass that could make a man sit up and beg. I asked for a beer and was given a bottle of Michelob. The big blonde turned to me and it was Chrome.
Not a tan, then—she was natural bronze, if not natural blonde. That shade of platinum on a brown-eyed doll took help. And I liked the Asian look of her eyes.
"You were in the balcony," she said, with a musical accent, faint but there. Brazilian?
"I thought I imagined it."
A dark, well-shaped eyebrow arched. "Imagined what?"
"That we made eye contact."
We left the little bar for the next customer, finding a two-seater sofa we could plop down in. She crossed her legs and unleashed her very white smile on me.
"Your hat, I like it."
"So do I."
"You are some kind of cowboy?"
"Close. Private eye."
She nodded and laughed. "You are that Mike Hammer person. You are not so well known in my country, but here at 52? They whisper about you being here tonight. Much excitement."
"I make friends everywhere I go." I patted her hand. "You sing good. I hate disco, but I like you."
She shrugged. "I did not start with the disco music. I like the jazz. Jobim? I was one of the first to record his songs, you know."
"I didn't know."
She bobbed her head; the feathered platinum locks bounced off her shoulders—I'd thought that might be a wig, but it was real.
"The records," she was saying, "they were never released in your country. I have six gold records in Latin America. But I have the American contract now. My boys and I, we will do a big tour."
"Of the new Club 52s that Little Tony's opening?"
She smiled. "Little Tony, you say. He hate to be called that."
"Yeah, I know. He prefers Anthony. But I knew him when."
"When?"
"When he was a little punk in his old man's crime crew. They pulled heists and pushed dope."
She smiled a little, but no teeth—it was a pursed kiss of a smile. "The drugs, do they offend you?"
I was looking toward that coffee table with its jet-set worshipers. "It's poison."
"I myself do not use them. I do drink. And that is a drug, too, they say."
"Maybe."
"You are a funny one."
"Yeah, I'm the life of the party."
"I would guess you could be ... if you were in the mood."
I grinned at her and it shook her.
"Ooooh ... that is a nasty smile you have there, Mike. And your eyes—they are very strange."
"Watch this."
I got up and went over to the central coffee table where the rich and famous were tooting it up. I said excuse me a couple of times, and then I edged in close.
An actress I used to know looked up at me and said, "Not you, Mike! Indulging? Oh how the mighty have fallen...."
"Think so?"
I leaned over and picked up the mirror with its pile of coke, and with surprised yelps of protest at my back, I carried it like a busboy with a tray of empty glasses over to the His & HERS. Ignoring the OCCUPIED notice, I yanked the door open and found a guy in the middle of a perfectly good blow job, and from a female, too.
"Hate to interrupt, but would you excuse me?"
The guy, who acted on a cop show, hopped up off the lid of the toilet with his pants around his ankles and almost stabbed the girl in the eye. A redhead with her top down, she quickly got to her feet and plastered herself to the wall in the close quarters.
I lifted the toilet lid, seat and all, and dumped all of the white stuff into the crapper.
People were yelling, even screaming behind me, crowding around, but nobody touched me.
It didn't all go down in a single flush, which meant I had to wait a little while for the toilet water to fill back up again.
Just making conversation, I said to the actor, "Give me a call if you ever have research questions," and he just smiled over his shoulder at me nervously, while the little actress, who was on a top ten sitcom and had lots of Orphan Annie curls, gave me a wide-eyed look and was shaking. Like I was a maniac or something.
After the second flush had done its work, I said to the actor and actress, "As you were," and shut them back in there. I had a hunch they may have lost their momentum. Pity.
I went back to the coffee table and flipped the mirror onto the glass. It skidded a little through the remaining white lines.
An Academy Award—winning tough guy got in my face. Either he thought he had plenty of backup or the coke had made him foolish and brave.
"What the fuck's the idea, you goddamn Neanderthal?"