The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [27]
“Tell me about Anna.” Sarah’s voice was quiet, confidential. Instinctively, she’d always been a good interviewer. She knew how to listen to people.
“I think that, uh… Let’s see. When I was growing up, somewhere in between the usual bar-hopping stints, I guess I wondered what love was all about. Like how are you supposed to know when you’re actually in love?”
He was much more open than she’d expected. It was almost as if Stefanovitch needed to talk.
“How do you know that this is it for your lifetime?” he continued. “I was kind of lucky. Very lucky. For about four years, my priorities in life were very clear. Anna was first. Then came my job. In that order, and never a doubt about it in my mind.”
Sarah was noticing that Stefanovitch’s hands had slid together. He had workingman’s hands. His fingers were clutched a little tightly, though, white at the tips.
“We just happened to fit very nicely together. I guess we completed each other. When I heard about Anna’s death—I don’t know how to describe what I felt. An emptiness, a sense of nothingness. Something shattered inside. I—I don’t even know what to say to you.”
It was a small, subtle thing, but Sarah heard his voice catch on the last few words.
“End of interview,” he said. “Okay?”
A terrible sorrow had been etched across his face. His brown eyes darted away, infinitely sad in that moment of truth, but then he forced them back to look at her.
Sarah felt ashamed. Something in his eyes had reached out and touched her unexpectedly, completely caught her off guard.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t done that in a long time.” He offered a smile.
Sarah felt warmly toward him for the first time. She understood a lot more about who he was, and she regretted having intruded on his grief. She noticed that her own hands were clenched.
“No, no. I’m sorry. You probably haven’t had somebody asking you personal questions like that. I feel bad. I’m so sorry. Really I am.”
Stefanovitch suddenly extended his hand across the table, carefully threading a path between the wineglasses. He was smiling again. A resilient man, Sarah thought.
“This is going to work out after all,” he said.
Sarah was still feeling embarrassed about her leading questions. She took Stefanovitch’s offered hand and shook it.
She looked into his eyes, and knew she saw honesty there. Maybe he was right, maybe first impressions shouldn’t be trusted anymore.
“So tell me what you saw at the dirty movies today,” he finally asked.
26
Isiah Parker; Cin-Cin
THE ONLY INDICATION that 649 Spring Street wasn’t just another greasy, somber warehouse facade was an inconspicuous blue neon sign. “BAR” was all it said.
Neither the name of the after-hours spot—Cin-Cin—nor anything else that might attract attention was visible from the street. There was no clue that one of New York’s hottest clubs was inside the dreary warehouse.
Isiah Parker leaned against a chain fence across the street from the club’s entranceway.
He watched the usual doorman scene for a little more than an hour.
The caste system at Cin-Cin was based on money, looks, and what was described as “who you know, who you blow.” The two punk-beautiful doormen were arrogant and cruel, contemporary racists, Parker couldn’t help thinking as he watched them work, selecting one or two to be allowed inside, contemptuously rejecting others.
At three in the morning, Isiah Parker crossed the cobblestone street. Properly dressed, interesting enough, he was allowed inside Cin-Cin. He looked like he belonged, with his dark blue Paris blouse, loose black karate-gi trousers, black half boots, a diamond stud in his right ear.
Parker understood the scene at the Cin-Cin club. Friday night was the night here. Just as Monday was the night at Heartbreak, and Wednesday was the night at Area, and so on around the city.
Muscular bouncers were posted everywhere. They were mostly nasty weightlifter types who weren’t really all that tough.
The crowd milling around was the usual for a club of the moment. Commercial musicians and assorted Soho artists.