Chapter 2

Romance.In my line of work, it's hard to give it any credit. Picture this—

A happy couple falling in love on the dance floor of Hart's nightclub or the Rainbow Palace, followed by cocktails at Ginger's Gin Mill and summer kisses on the edge of the old pier. Then comes the occasional wandering gaze as a beautiful woman makes eye contact across a crowded bar. Jealousy flares up, setting insecurities, both old and new on fire. Disagreements turn into fights. Fights fester into resentment. Resentment never forgets. Then, before you know it, someone's cheating, someone's crying… and someone hires a detective. When it all goes pear-shaped, hell, that's what I call good business. The way I figure it, love is the culprit behind every crime, sin and secret that ever existed. It boils down to the fact that someone's getting either too much love, not enough love, or the wrong kinda love. Envy, wrath, lust, vanity… all the deadly sins are nurtured by love in some twisted, heartbroken way or another.

Call me cynical, I guess I am a little. But when you grow up tough, it makes you tough. Sure, I get lonely sometimes. Hell, I'm lonely as God some nights. But love is like fireworks. Yeah, it can be beautiful at times… but it can also blow your goddamn head off.

Speaking of which, the night was ablaze with fireworks. I made my way through the bustling city, past the moviegoers queuing outside the Cinema Paradise at Main and Elm, and the diners who had only recently started returning to Alfredo's Alfresco after Mickey Muldoon—one of Bugsy Brown's boys—was gunned down there during a drive-by shooting two months ago. I could see Hart's nightclub was at the end of the block, down by the river. The explosions in the sky reflected in pinks and blues on the surface of the water beyond the club. Even from here, I could hear the music, the whoops, the laughter, and the cheers that followed every burst of light from the gunpowder-filled heavens above.

I adjusted my tie. I'd dressed up in my sixes and sevens, but that damn tie was too tight, too hot for a night this warm. I unbuttoned my collar and loosened the noose a little.

As I drew closer, my senses clocked into overtime. I could hear the sound of the jazz and the partygoers and the fireworks booming and the champagne corks popping. I could see the dazzling sight of the club bathed in spotlights with its owner's name emblazoned above the entrance in a thousand brightly burning bulbs. I could smell the sweet scent of bootleg and tobacco and pot wafting through the hot night air. I could taste my mouth getting all dry, thirsty for a whistle-wetter. I could feel my sweat soaking into the fabric of my shirt, making it cling to my chest. Yep, this joint wasn't just an assault on the senses. It was a tie-me-up-and-have-your-way-with-me sensory overload.

The entrance was crowded with daddies and dolled-up dames. I headed confidently along the red carpet that led straight to the door, copping a wink from a boozed-up flapper clinging to the arm of a bell bottom looking spiffy in his white, tight sailor's outfit. While she was busy giving me the eye, I was doing the same to her date. I always did like me a man in uniform.

That's when the gorilla at the door shoved his big hand in my chest and stopped me in my tracks.

"Well, well, well. Look what the cat's tryin' to drag in."

I looked up at the gorilla's face and sighed. "Tiny Timmy. What's a goon like you doin' working in a classy joint like this?"

Tiny Timmy shrugged with a grin, his bulky six-foot-five frame lurching up and down as he did so. "I guess Mr. Hart needs all the help he can get swattin' little mosquitoes like you away."

I took offense. For starters, I wasn't exactly little myself. And secondly, when did Tiny Timmy develop a sense of humor? I was about to ask him myself when we were both distracted by a commotion on the street. A crowd had converged as a black Lincoln Limousine pulled up to the red carpet that ran from the curb to the door. Tiny wasn't so interested in me anymore.

"Ladies and gentlemen, step back! Step back! Let Mr. Hart through."

It was all the opportunity I needed to slip through the door and into the club, leaving the crowd outside to swoon and swan over Wilde City's latest flash-in-the-pan playboy. I didn't even wait to see Mr. Hart get out of the car. I had a job to do.

Inside, the club was booming. A cacophony of jazz, a New Year's Eve of lights and streamers, a throng of people, shoulder to shoulder, chests and breasts, dancing and flirting and clinking cocktail glasses. I inched my way through the crowd, all of them swaying, swinging, twirling, and teasing, until I reached the bar. Instantly I recognized the barman. An ass so tight you could ricochet a bullet off it. I had to confess, my hand had ricocheted off it more than once after a good spanking session at the Velvet Viper.

"Well, whaddaya know, if it ain't Bucky Baxter," the barman said, grinning when he saw me. "What the hell are you doin' here? Glitz and glam ain't exactly your gig."

"Wearing clothes ain't exactly yours, Nick."

He laughed and hooked a finger around his shirt collar as if to let out steam. "You're telling me. But a job's a job, and if you gotta earn a buck, might as well do it in the hottest place in town. You seen the candy in this store? And no, I ain't talkin' about the dames."

Naughty Nick was already pouring me a drink. He knew my poison, which made it a lot easier to order a drink these days. Prohibition was the biggest bitch in this town. The first rule was, never ask for it out loud in a bar. The second rule was, always get to know your barmen.

"Thanks," I said to Nick as I took the drink and handed him some coins. More than the drink and tip combined. As he took the money, I took his hand and put the photograph of Stu Whitmore in it. "Tell me. You seen this face around?"

Nick looked at the picture. "Not around here. But I know who he is."

"Stu Whitmore."

Nick shook his head. "No, the other guy. Marky Marlow."

"Marlow?" I asked. Did he say what I thought he just said?

Behind me the throng of partygoers roared. Nick quickly shoved the photograph back into the palm of my hand. "I gotta get back to work," he said, and swiftly moved on to the next tip-wielding patron.

I turned—gin in hand, elbows on the bar behind me—to see what the commotion was about. Of course. Holden Hart. The suave star of the moment had entered, and already flappers were draping themselves over him. I had to admit I could see their fascination. He was much younger than I was expecting. And handsome. And blond. He had his hair slicked down and parted at the left. His tight, tidy tuxedo fitted to perfection. And when I saw the dimple in his right cheek as he smiled and waved to the crowd… well, I hitched a hard-on right then and there, no apologies ma'am.

While all eyes were fixed squarely on the handsome Mr. Hart—mine included—I gave my gent a gentle squeeze in my trousers. My fist lingered and gave a few short sharp tugs on my cock till I had to pull away for fear of showing a little too much gaiety in a public place.

I watched happily from a distance. Until the distance began to close. Desperate flappers clawed his collar, caressed his lapels, until the beautiful blonde bombshell in the red dress by Hart's side firmly eased them away from her man. I had to grin. Who could blame the dame?

As the crowd parted like a biblical sea, Hart made his way to the bar. He was heading straight for me. That's when I decided to blow this joint. I'm a lay-low private dick. The last thing I wanted was a spotlight on me right then.

I turned to slip away—I've always been a fan of self-preservation—when suddenly that blonde bombshell in the red dress appeared directly in front of me, blocking my path. She smiled, and I did a double take, looking back up at Hart—and his blonde broad—still heading toward the bar.

"What are you, some kinda magician?" I said to the blonde woman standing before me. Apparently, the baffled look on my face was more than obvious.

She simply smiled. "What's the matter? You never heard of identical twins?"

I felt stupid. And before I could make another move, the throng descended upon me, as Holden Hart and his babe appeared right next to me.

I downed my drink and put the glass on the bar, which was when Hart took hold of my forearm. "You're in a hurry to leave?" he asked. "Why don't I buy you drink?"

Women fawned over him at hearing his offer, begging for champagne and more. The twin blonde bombshells on either side of us held them at bay.

Hart looked at me as though he was about to share a secret, as though he was a dear old friend, and said, "I don't think it's me these women like. It's what I give them."

"Oh? And what's that?" I asked.

"The chance to escape and forget their troubles, if just for a little while." He leaned back then and held out his hand to greet me properly. "The name's Hart. Holden Hart. I hope you're enjoying my club." He gestured to Naughty Nick with a nod of his head. "Nick, make it another four of whatever he's drinking. One for him, one for me, and one each for Lucy and Lois." He realized then that he hadn't introduced me to his bombshells. "Forgive me, how rude. Please let me introduce you to Lucy and Lois Logan."

"Pleased to meet you, ladies," I said. "You three make a very handsome couple. Or is it, threesome?"

Hart grinned and shook his head. "Oh, we're not a threesome. Lucy and Lois are my personal assistants."

"Oh," I said, feeling a little stupid again. But in the best of ways this time. I felt my cock twitch happily. Perhaps Holden Hart was single and available. Sure, he wasn't exactly my type. In fact, he wasn't my type at all. Like Nick said, glitz and glam weren't exactly my gig. But there was something about Holden Hart that tugged at more than just my dick.

At that moment, Lois leaned in to the conversation. "Mr. Hart, is this a good time to remind you that you have a nine o'clock meeting with your investors in the morning?"

"And that you haven't reviewed the figures for this Saturday's launch party," Lucy added.

"Probably not," Hart said as Nick served the drinks. Hart handed one to Lucy, one to Lois, one to me, and held up his own glass for us to cheers. "It's nice to meet you, Mr…?"

"Baxter," I said, shaking Hart's hand, which was already extended. "Buck Baxter." I paused and added, "You have a launch party coming up? Haven't you been partying since you opened the doors?"

"Any excuse for more fireworks. Why don't you come? As my guest."

I shook my head. There was nothing about this conversation that was good for business. "No, thank you. I'm not really into parties or clubs."

"Then what are you doing here now?"

I dodged the question. "I appreciate the offer, but I should be going." I polished off my gin and added, "And thank you for the drink."

I put down my glass and nodded to the blondes by Hart's side. "Ladies, it was a pleasure meeting you."

"Likewise," they said simultaneously, at which point I turned and walked away. I pushed back through the throng as the trumpets of the jazz band blasted and the dancers swung and spun across the dance floor.

A woman bumped into me.

She looked up with a panicked expression and apologized, just before she was yanked backward by a large man, obviously sozzled beyond the point of civility. Or chivalry.

"Where the fuck do you think you're goin'?" He scowled at the woman, pulling her back toward him with what looked like a very painful grip on her forearm.

She glanced about in fear and humiliation as the dancers around them began to give them a wide berth. "Arty, don't. Not here. Just let me go."

He did so, but only to raise his arm and backhand the woman so hard across the face she hit the dance floor with a thump that could be heard over the band.

"Hey," I shouted as I lunged at the lout, acting out of instinct.

Before he could see me coming, I planted a right hook on his chin that sent him staggering back in shock. People screamed as he bulldozed backward through the crowd before tumbling into the stage, knocking the drum set over with a clash of cymbals. But he didn't stay down long. In seconds, he was up and charging his way toward me like an enraged bull. Flappers and dappers parted swiftly in a wave of shrieks and gasps. I bunched up my fist and my knuckles turned white, ready for a real fight, but a couple of feet before he reached me something shot through the air out of the corner of my eye, taking both me and the angry Arty by surprise.

It was Holden Hart's fist.

He had charged in from the left and socked Arty in the jaw. The big oaf crashed to the floor so hard I thought the boards would crack. He groaned and tried to get up, but the drunk, beaten buffoon had no hope of climbing back to his feet after that.

Hart stood over him, pointed a finger furiously at him, and declared, "Nobody hits a girl and gets away with it. Not in my club."

The women nearby sighed at his gallantry. I could have sworn I saw one actually buckle at her gartered knee. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't impressed myself. In that tux, with his hair so slick and his pearly whites so shiny, I never would have picked Holden Hart for a fighting man. It was a surprise. And a total turn-on.

Tiny Timmy and the other bouncers finally pushed their way through the crowd and hoisted Arty to his feet by his lapels.

Hart straightened his bow tie and smoothed his blond hair down before telling Tiny, "Throw this piece of garbage out onto the street and never let him back into this club again."

Arty was dragged away as Hart walked over to the woman who had been hit. He extended a hand to her and helped her to her feet. "I'm sorry that had to happen under my roof," he said to her. "Lucy and Lois will see to it that you get home safely."

Lucy and Lois appeared on either side of the appreciative woman and gently escorted her off the dance floor.

Hart gestured for the band to start playing, and the revelers began dancing again like nothing had just happened. He walked up to me then, and to my surprise, he took my hand.

I flinched at his touch, but he held my fingers tight and wouldn't let go.

He raised my hand close to his face.

He inspected the graze on my knuckles from the blow to Arty's chin. "We should put some ice on that. Come up to my office."

Before I could say no, he was leading me away.

Hart's office was a plush pad on the mezzanine level of the club, with a wall-to-wall glass window looking down over the dance floor and stage below. The glass must have been thick, because the sound beyond it—the raucous party below—seemed muffled and distant. As I stood at the window looking down, I noticed not a soul looked back at me. Hart must have noticed.

"It's one-way glass," he explained. "You can see out, but all they see is the reflection of the lights and streamers. Makes the club feel bigger, as well as the party, while I get to keep an eye on everything, undetected." He was standing behind a bar in one corner of his office, rattling ice in an ice bucket and placing cubes onto a cloth. He tied the cloth, then set it down, tipped more ice into two tumblers and poured gin over the top.

"I like the sound of that," I said.

"Which? The one-way glass or the sound of ice in a glass?" He was crossing the room toward me with the ice cloth in one hand and the two tumblers in the other.

"Both."

I looked around. Hart's office was palatial to say the least. There was the bar in one corner, a bookshelf running along the back wall housing several expensive-looking vases and small sculptured art pieces. His desk was mahogany and probably close to the size of my entire office apartment. In the center of the room was a coffee table that matched the desk, flanked by two long, low sofas with exotic-looking throws from India or Africa draped over the arms.

"India," he said, as if reading my mind, then excused himself for prying. "Sorry, I could see the look in your eye, trying to figure out where the throws were from. The Lake Palace in Udaipur is the answer. I've had a fortunate upbringing. My parents' finances have allowed me to see places I never even knew existed." He handed me one of the gins and clinked my glass with his. "Do you travel, Mr. Baxter?"

"Only by subway."

His charming smile vanished, his brow creased, and his entire demeanor changed. "Oh, I'm an idiot," he said, sighing. "I sound like a pompous asshole, don't I?"

I sipped my gin and nodded. "Yep. Pretty much. But I like your gin."

"For fear of making a fool of myself again, I'm not even going to tell you where it's from."

"Don't matter. I can tell ya where it's going. Down the hatch."

I took a hefty swig and Hart did the same, smiling once again. I noticed the knuckles on his own hand were as red and raw as mine. "Looks like you need some ice on your bruises as much as I do. Here."

I took his hand in no delicate fashion and smacked my tumbler against his knuckles. He didn't wince or pull back. I admit, I wasn't exactly the gentle type, it just wasn't in my nature, and sometimes I didn't think about my brash ways till after the fact. But the glass was cold, the ice unmelted. As for the gin, well after one swig it was almost completely gone. Heck, I ain't stupid. I wasn't about to give good booze like that a chance to let ice melt through it.

After a few moments, I took the glass away and let go of his hand.

"Please, don't stop. That was quite… soothing."

I finished the last gulp of my gin and set the glass on the coffee table. "I gotta get goin'. If you'll excuse me, Mr. Hart."

"Please. Call me Holden."

I headed for the door. "If it's all the same to you, I'll stick with Mr. Hart." He looked hurt at my rejection of his offer to call him by his first name. In fact, in that moment, he looked as vulnerable as a kid. This time I was the one who felt like an asshole. He must have sensed it from the look on my face, and he quickly fortified himself again.

The suave smile returned. "Well, I hope to see you again in my club sometime, Mr. Baxter."

I didn't wanna make any promises. I'm not that kinda guy. So I just smiled politely and left.