The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [28]
Parker found himself wondering how these people could do the scene—starting to party at one or two, often continuing until eight or nine. Then maybe breakfast at the Moonlighter, or the Empire Diner. Then what?
There was the usual crush of bodies mingling around the large horseshoe-shaped bar. Most of the men and women were dressed in black—black boots, black shoes and socks, black leather and buckskin vests, black turtlenecks and pants. Some of these people would casually drop four hundred dollars for a pair of black combat boots at nearby Comme des Garçons.
A few adventurers were outfitted in trash and vaudeville getups, pointy shoes from London, Betsey Johnson finery. Tattoos decorated an occasional cheek or forehead.
Isiah Parker’s brother, Marcus, had once said that New York’s night people were “living rock ‘n’ roll.” Marcus had meant that they were actually living rock and roll lyrics, not faking it for show. This was their life.
As he drifted away from the central bar, Parker found his body beginning to respond to the music: European disco mainly, not recognizable songs. Groups from the Netherlands and West Germany, from Italy, Sweden, and Norway dominated. Occasionally an American tune would break through, by experimental groups like Husker Du, the Blow Monkeys, Fine Young Cannibals.
“You want to dance? Dance with me, okay?” A tall slender black woman had come up to Parker. She wore a molded-to-the-body black leather dress with zippers at the neck and across her breasts. A Pomes Segli veiled hat completed the outfit.
Pickups were made by both women and men, but more often by women at Cin-Cin. Parker wanted to be friendly, but not to stand out tonight.
“Sure, let’s dance.”
They walked onto the dance floor and began to move.
“You’re a good dancer. Smooth. Nice,” she whispered, smiling shyly after the song had ended. “I have to go to the bathroom. Want to come avec moi?”
“Not right now. I’ll see you later, maybe.”
“Okay then. Ciao. Thanks for the dance. I like your diamond, the earring. It suits you.”
“Ciao.”
Parker moved on. The girl was pretty, at least in these party lights, but he couldn’t get connected tonight.
He passed into a smaller, more intimate chamber. Everything was glowing pink. Humorous, posturing flamingos were set into the walls.
Some of the club’s owners, plus a few heavy hitters, were clustered in the pink room. A well-known tennis player was giving audience. So was a famous rock singer. His fashion-model wife was at his side.
Isiah Parker couldn’t help thinking about his brother as he strolled around the room. He and Marcus had come to Cin-Cin in the glory days. He remembered a private room near the kitchen where crack was smoked in water pipes.
He noticed a clique of Oliver Barnwell’s associates congregated in the room. Barnwell’s group was the most territorial of New York’s narcotics gangs. They controlled Harlem, Bedford-Stuyvesant, and most of Soho. They were vicious about intrusions into their neighborhoods. Supposedly, Barnwell had been linked to Alexandre St.-Germain, to the sprawling syndicate currently invading the U.S. To the Midnight Club.
Parker spotted Oliver Barnwell comfortably ensconced beside the bar. Worth two hundred million in his stocking feet, the mob overlord was outfitted in a brown suede sport coat, beige silk shirt, and tan slacks. Oliver Barnwell liked white women, and Parker immediately thought back to Allure, the connection to sex.
Two spectacular-looking women were talking to him, whispering and posing. One of them toyed with the gold necklace around Barnwell’s throat. She had long, nervous fingers. Isiah Parker thought that she was definitely drug-sick.
There were several possibilities. Parker carefully began to roll them around in his mind. Somehow, he had to get Barn-well out of the pink room.
He decided to work under the worst assumption: that the bodyguards had already noticed him. Maybe they remembered