Priya, Kaga’s drop-dead gorgeous assistant, meets me at the side door. “You’re late,” she says in greeting. Priya lives and dies by her schedule, and his. I’ve suspected more than once that she suffers from at least a mild case of OCD. I once accidentally moved the stapler on her desk and she about melted down until it was repositioned.
But her attention to detail was why she was the perfect match for Kaga, a guy who ran two empires—one in the US and one in Japan. I often wondered if they had a thing. Priya is almost too beautiful not to make at least one play for, but I never got anything but a boss/secretary vibe. Probably Kaga would say that it was dishonorable to take advantage of an employee.
“Only by fifteen minutes. That’s early by New York standards.”
Priya frowns, but says nothing. She silently leads me up the stairs to the owner’s suite. In every bar Kaga owns, he has a private suite that overlooks most of the club. It’s equipped with televisions if you are bored with the floor show, a private bar, catered food, and several flat, soft surfaces for when you want to take your dancing from vertical to horizontal. I’ve done my own share of fucking in his private suites. There is just something about clubs that makes women want to take their clothes off. The one-way privacy mirror feeds their exhibitionist fantasies without exposing them in any way.
I wonder what fantasies Natalie has.
“You look fierce. Kaga’s not even here,” Ian says as Priya opens the door. “Japan. A family issue,” he adds before I can ask where and why.
Kaga’s comment about cleaning house followed by his quick departure gives me pause. I’m glad when a knock at the door interrupts us. A dark-eyed beauty walks in with a sultry smile and a tray holding two glasses of amber liquid. God love Priya’s efficiency.
She bends near Ian first, her body brushing his. He draws back and makes a show of reaching for the glass with his left hand so that the platinum of his wedding band flashes in the light. She’s smart enough to recognize the rebuff and turns her attention to me.
My left hand is noticeable too, but in a different way. Either Priya gave her a heads-up or she’s got good self-control, because she doesn’t react at all. She treats me with the same seductive attention. A cynical part of me knows that of course she’s going to treat me the same. A guy with a prosthetic—who is a personal guest of Kaga—likely has a big enough bank account to make up for all kinds of deficits, including the lack of a limb. Or two.
“Anything else I can provide?”
Ian raises his eyebrows to indicate that the invitation and response are mine alone. Another time, maybe I would’ve taken her up on it. Ian would have excused himself and this young lady would discover that the rest of my body still worked just fine.
Instead, I shake my head. “We’re good.”
Her regret seems genuine as she nods and leaves.
“Not feeling it tonight?” Ian asks. “Too easy?”
He likes the chase—a waitress offering herself along with Kaga’s aged whiskey wouldn’t have enticed him before his marriage. I don’t mind easy offerings. “Not interested.”
“Why not? She was gorgeous. All legs and boobs.”
“There are dolls for you if all you are interested in are legs and boobs.”
He nods and without another question turns back to the large windows overlooking the show.
In the cages and on the stages at Club 69, couples simulate sex acts—there’s something for everyone. Gays, lesbians, heteros. In the center a rotating stage rises and lowers on a hydraulic lift—something that gave Kaga a dozen headaches pre-opening.
From this room, we can see the various acts and the clubgoers writhing on the dance floor. Ordinarily one of the acts would’ve stirred me, but tonight all I can think of is Natalie.
“How can you even see her down there?” I ask, referring to Ian’s wife and my employee, Victoria. Ian calls her Tiny, which I freely admit I don’t get. She’s average sized.
“I just know. I could pick her out from a thousand look-alikes. She’s on the dance floor, northeast corner.”
I squint and make out a pretty light brown head next to a curly-topped head and one security guard, standing as a buffer between the crowd and the two girls.
“That doesn’t look like one of mine,” I comment, pointing to the guard.
“Kaga’s security,” Ian admits. “Steve wouldn’t come. He’s too busy chasing that waitress.”
“Still? I don’t know what to be more impressed by. His persistence or her ongoing refusal.” It seemed like months since we’d discovered that Cecilia Howe, a wealthy socialite, was blackmailing a number of people in order to maintain their silence about her husband’s infidelities—among other things. One of Howe’s victims was a waitress trying to keep her younger brother from going back to prison.
“His persistence,” Ian says. “Because who’d want to wake up to his crabby ass every morning?”
Steve is Ian’s bodyguard, driver, and good friend, but surly is his default setting.
“Why are you up here with me? Shouldn’t you be down there marking your territory? I think I saw a male hand come within six feet of Victoria.”
He scowls at me. “I’m up here learning to be an evolved man, not the Neanderthal she keeps calling me.”
“How’s that working?” I note his hands are curled around the arms of the leather club chair.
“I’m here, aren’t I? Instead of down there, pissing a circle around her,” he responds drolly.
I could needle him more by talking about how hot she looks in her sparkly dress, which is so short I swear I can see her underwear, but she works for me and that feels vaguely wrong.
“I’m surprised you even let Victoria out of the house after dark.”
“It was either ease up on the chain or face divorce. We compromised with the guard after she was kidnapped off the street.” He nods toward the solidly built man keeping the crowd away from the dancing pair.
“Good call.”
“Thanks. Tiny doesn’t seem to appreciate how much of a sacrifice I made for her.”
I can’t tell if he’s serious or not.
“If we’re mentioning surprises,” he continues, “I’m surprised there’s nothing here that interests you. You weren’t interested at the game, and you aren’t tonight. I think your reporter girlfriend is down there.” He gestures toward the main bar. I don’t even bother to look.
“We parted ways a few weeks ago.”
“Too clingy?”
“Too nosey.”
“She is a journalist.”
“So I noticed.”
“Tiny’s got a friend,” Ian starts.
“No.” I raise my left hand. “I get that enough from my mother. I don’t need it from my friends.”
“Okay, but don’t say I never warned you. Tiny’s worried about your long hours and thinks that her friend Sarah would be perfect for you.”
Great. I could see I was going to have to avoid Victoria for the next few weeks.
Our conversation changes to the Mets and Yankees and which team is going to disappoint the city the most this year. I stay for one more drink and then use my aching left leg as an excuse to leave.
But I don’t go home. When I get in the car, I head south instead of north, and I find myself in Tribeca, sitting outside a seven-story apartment building watching the third floor for signs of life. I thump myself a few times with my prosthetic because it’s heavier than the skin and bones on my right hand, but it doesn’t have the right effect. No sense is knocked into me. I’m not suddenly free of my growing Natalie obsession. In fact, I don’t leave for a long time, not until after the cop car circles the block a second time.
The lights in Natalie’s apartment never turn on—at least not from my vantage point.
Tomorrow.