Page 74 of Burn this City

Even out here they could hear the music beat thumping. “Any signals I should be aware of?”

“I don’t do safewords.” Spadaro squeezed his hand and straightened up. “Let’s play it by ear.”

Jack closed the car door and walked Spadaro to the entrance. The bouncers on duty only spared him a brief glance before they waved Jack through. Spadaro got a disinterested look, but nobody asked questions, probably because they’d seen several similar girls brought in. Spadaro regarded the front door and the area around it with interest, even pulling down her sunglasses for an unobstructed view.

Once inside, the thumping beat of the music, in combination with the milling crowd, and the red, pink and purple strobe lights, crashed over Jack like a violent wave. He paused to steel himself. He remembered standing right here, in what back then had been a warehouse, as Andrea’s father had laid out his plans for strip club. Ultimately, it had become a loud, busy disco that, back that, existed so that local college kids could deal ecstasy and Ritalin under the table.

When Andrea took the helm of the Lo Cascio, he’d closed it for three months and it had reincarnated as The Matador. Part bar, part club, it was a place where a virgin cocktail set you back at least thirty bucks, but some house specials easily went into the hundreds. The clientele had then shifted to the kind of people who liked to see and be seen and appreciated both an extensive cocktail list and a talented DJ—as well as all the people who stalked them, from confidence tricksters and drug dealers to sex workers.

Thankfully, Andrea didn’t rub shoulders with the locals down here. Spadaro in tow, Jack crossed the room and walked up the stairs, past a bald security guy who had his hands folded in front of his groin and whose job it was to make sure people who’d gotten lost on the way to the bathrooms didn’t stumble into one of Andrea’s meetings. Once upstairs, another security guy stood outside the VIP lounge, and he too let Jack pass.

Jack opened the door and walked through first.

Once the door closed behind him, the infernal noise from downstairs had lessened to a pervasive vibration in the pit of his stomach, A less ear-splitting version of the same track was playing here. Andrea’s party had already started. The private bar was staffed by two women who wore the usual high-waisted black pants and sequined bolero jackets cut in a way to show more than a hint of their breasts and bare stomachs.

Shirt undone to his solar plexus, Andrea sat in one of the niches with four other guys ranging in age from forties to late fifties, drinking and laughing, and a mirror was out with lines of white powder. His father would never have tolerated that stuff, firmly believing that drugs of any kind were a weakness that brought too much attention from the Feds. He’d had wiseguys vanished whom he suspected of having taken so much as a nose full.

Andrea stilled and blinked slowly when he noticed Jack. “Jack! Great! We were just talking about you.” He waved Jack closer. “Guys, that’s Jack Barsanti, best fucking right-hand man a guy could want.”

Jack listened for a while to the haphazard introductions: real estate developer, a local politician, two rich “sponsors” apparently happy to get fleeced and skinned.

Jack took a step away from Spadaro. “Didn’t think wine suited the occasion, so I brought a different gift.”

“Thank you, Daddy.” Spadaro shifted her weight in a way that displayed her whole body.

Pleased, Andrea laughed. “Get a drink, honey, we gotta do some business first.” He wasn’t even subtle, eyeing her ass when Spadaro turned around and walked toward the bar. There were other girls, some lounging near the bar, some dancing, and Jack forced himself to study them for a while before he sat down among the guys, heartsick to even pretend he cared in the least.

The music made it hard to concentrate too, and he almost startled when Spadaro returned a while later, hips swaying, and offered him a tumbler with what looked like two fingers of whiskey and ice. When Jack tried to ignore the glass, Spadaro shook it in a long-fingered hand, making the ice cubes sing.

All right, then. Jack took the drink, noticed Spadaro dip a finger into it and, once she’d released the glass, place the finger between her lips to suck off the liquid. All the time, all of Spadaro’s attention was on him, and damn, he wasn’t even interested in any way in the killer, or the presented façade, but something about that total focus made his heart beat harder.

Andrea was grinning, tip of the tongue against his front teeth, head tilted, and gaze raking Spadaro, who, probably to spite him, didn’t grace him with a single look. Jack didn’t know how to respond, so he took a big gulp of the alcohol, bracing himself for the burn.

That didn’t come.

Fucking iced tea.

Spadaro waited for him to drink down the whole glass, and part of Jack wanted the promised alcohol, but Spadaro had probably decided they’d both stay sober. Then she gathered up the glass and walked back toward the bar as if that were the only thing on her mind.

“You’re fucking her?” Andrea asked.

“Used to. Might again. Not currently.” Covering every base there was. “As I said, she’s a gift. Not exactly wife material, that one.”

Thankfully, the four suits weighed in with observations about wives and mistresses, and the desired qualities of each. Jack tried to relax and pretend he cared by repeating whatever people said out loud in his head to himself. When he felt Andrea was starting to get restless, he leaned in to him. “Can I talk to you in private?”

“Something important?”

“’Fraid so. But it’s brief.”

“Right. Need to piss anyway,” Andrea muttered, stood and nodded to his guests. “Gentlemen, the buffet is open. Enjoy. I’ll be back in a minute.” Since there was no food, the suits caught the meaning, and so did the girls, some of whom now joined the guests with more drinks.

Andrea headed for the private bathrooms down the corridor. Jack entered the bathroom, but faced away. “What’s this about? It better be fucking urgent.”

“I think Sal Rausa is a problem.” He didn’t like talking to the wall, but turning his head was out of the question until Andrea had zipped up. Though, would a straight guy do the same, or would he simply not worry?

“Rausa?” Andrea scoffed. “Haven’t seen nose or tail of him. He still around?”

“Apparently.” He tried to ignore the sound of splashing piss. “I talked to Cassaro at the Prizzi wedding, and he thinks Rausa isn’t done.”

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