The Fury - Jason Pinter [83]
dressed like a homeless person and you have a freaking
suitcase. I let you in, I might as well go around Central
Park inviting all the assholes sleeping on benches in."
"I didn't want to mention this," I said truthfully, "but
I know Tony Valentine."
"Valentine," Kensbrook said, trying to remember why
he knew the name. "You mean the gossip hound, right?"
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"That's the one. I work with him."
"No BS?"
I pulled out my business card, showing Shawn that
I, like Tony Valentine, worked at the New York Gazette.
Shawn eyed the card, his head clearly filling with the
possibility of getting a good plug in the gossip pages.
Of course, I had as much intent of talking to Tony
Valentine as I did to O.J. Simpson, but that's the beauty
of an internal monologue.
"You got ten minutes," he said. "And after that your
ass is kicked and your clothes go to the incinerator."
"I accept."
"And I expect some ink from Valentine."
I gave him the most noncommittal thumbs-up in my
arsenal.
Shawn nodded at the bouncer, who unhitched the
velvet rope and allowed me passage. He took my
suitcase and carried it to the coatroom, where a girl in a
tight black top and capris unlocked a door so he could
heave it behind the barrier. There were plenty of groans
from the people waiting on line as they saw me enter. I
hoped if they knew what was going on they'd under
stand.
But this was New York, so I doubted it.
The Kitten Club was a massive place, with two dif
ferent levels of action. This was about as far from my
scene as I could get without being in the desert. I had
no idea where to look first. My eyes were half-blinded
by the strobe lights, and it took a healthy equilibrium
not to get knocked over by the horde of drunken,
dancing revelers. I could barely see five feet in front of
me, let alone distinguish the VIP lounge.
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Jason Pinter
To clarify the mess, I approached the bar, waited to
get the tender's attention. When he came by, he said,
"What'll it be?"
"Where's the VIP lounge?" I asked.
He nodded and turned around. I had no idea what had
happened, but then he turned back holding a glass of
champagne with something sparkling at the bottom. He
held it out to me.
"The VIP champagne," he said. "That'll be a
hundred fifty."
"No," I shouted. "The VIP lounge. "
The bartender, looking quite pissed off, said, "Tables
are upstairs." As I turned to go, I saw him fish the gem
from the bottom of the glass and drop it into a small pail.
I pushed and shoved my way through a sea of fitted
jeans, open-collared shirts revealing chests adorned with
thick gold chains, and shimmering bosoms with even
spray tans. At the back of the dance floor I found a short
staircase that led to another level. Sliding through a couple
making out on the railing, I managed to find the VIP area,
a lounge of about a dozen round tables, each with between
half a dozen and a dozen people circling them. Each table
had several bottles of alcohol sitting in buckets of ice, with
various mixers--cranberry juice, orange juice and tonic
water--ready to go. According to Amanda, each bottle
ran about a grand, and nobody bought just one bottle.
Then I heard a laugh. A distinctive laugh.
Amanda's laugh.
I fast-walked past the tables until I finally found the
one I was looking for. Sitting in a circle were Devin and
Darcy Lapore, several suited men with gelled hair and
manicures, and Amanda Davies.
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Amanda was laughing hysterically at something,
then she looked up and noticed me. I didn't believe that
smile could spread any wider, but it did.
"Henry!" she shrieked, jumping out of her seat,
knocking over an empty glass and toppling one of the
guys onto the floor. She threw her arms around me,
squeezed tight, and I gave her one right back. Her breath
smelled like vodka, her body like sweet perfume. Her
hair dripped onto my shirt and I held her tight, for
reasons vastly different than hers.
"Hey, baby," I said, struggling to disentangle myself.
Suddenly Amanda