The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [44]
Weinschenker slumped back into his director’s chair. Stefanovitch felt bad, but knew he’d feel worse if Weinschenker was ever hurt because of what he’d seen.
Stefanovitch suddenly sat forward. “Hold it, Greg…Can you go back there?” he asked. “Just run it back until I tell you.”
“You want me to mark something for the catalogue?”
“Not yet. Just run it back. There. Let’s watch it from here.”
Stefanovitch’s eyes strained to capture each detail as the picture played again. The call girl on screen was beautiful, as they all were—professional models, aspiring film actresses, Broadway would-be’s.
“What the hell is this, Stef? Give me a clue, kemo sabe.”
“Just watch for a minute. It’s coming up again, right around here. Okay, that’s it. We’re close.”
The client was still dressed. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing an expensive business suit. Stefanovitch knew who he was.
“Even I know who that is. He’s Nicky Wilson,” Weinschenker said with a lopsided grin.
“That’s right. And you’re going to forget you ever saw Wilson on any of these tapes.”
“Yes, sir. Who’s Nicky Wilson, anyhow?”
“All right, a little more volume.”
“Yes, sir. And a little less volume from me?”
Stefanovitch could feel his heart pushing against his chest. The back of his neck felt warm. What he was searching for was coming up on the tape.
“Listen to this, Greg. Right about here.”
“And then forget that I ever heard it.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“You’re beautiful, which I’m sure isn’t any great revelation to you. You’re a little haughty about it.” The man in the film spoke. Nicky Wilson. Wilson had run Harlem’s narcotics and most of the prostitution until the district attorney had finally put him away nine months before. Oliver Barnwell had then inherited Harlem.
“A lot of people say the same thing about you, Nicky,” the girl said back to him.
Wilson laughed. “Yeah? I guess a little arrogance is good for the soul.”
“This is the part where I get to undress you,” she whispered. “It’s time to play…Very, very slowly.”
“This is the Academy Award performance of the year,” Greg Weinschenker cracked.
“What does ‘slowly’ mean? Exactly what are you planning?” Wilson asked.
“It might take an hour…just to get you undressed.”
“You have any other diversions in mind? Any other fun and games while we’re getting undressed? I’m always ready to learn something new.”
The prostitute slid open a shallow drawer in a lucite night table. The table was attached to the bed. She produced a small black leather case that looked expensive and important.
Weinschenker glanced over at Stefanovitch. He hummed the theme from Dragnet. They had seen the same black Halliburton case on other videotapes. The leather case contained the works for a homemade cocaine cookout.
Wilson’s voice level was an octave lower. It was slightly muffled on the tape. Stefanovitch had to listen more closely. He moved himself closer to the machine.
This was the place in the tape he’d been looking for.
“They think of everything, don’t they…the Midnight Club…They really do think of everything.”
“Bingo.” Weinschenker grinned rather proudly. He reached over and pounded Stefanovitch’s shoulder.
“Play it again. Just that little piece, Greg. Play it a couple of times for me.”
“…any other diversions…?… any other fun and games…?…They think of everything, don’t they…the Midnight Club… They really do think of everything.”
Someone else at Allure was talking about the Midnight Club.
“Keep playing it, Greg. Just that one goddamn piece.”
42
Sarah McGinniss; Danbury Federal Prison
LATE ON JULY 1, Sarah McGinniss took an unexpected trip up into Connecticut. She traveled at night, and she traveled alone.
Everything continued to be in flux. The unfolding mystery had something to do with illicit sex; and it revolved around wealthy and powerful men: men and the age-old games they loved to play.
Sarah was seeing a side of men most women