Tom Lowe - The 24th Letter

“That’s reserved for one a.m.”

O’Brien slipped her a twenty and said, “We’ll be gone by then. In the meantime, we’ll enjoy some of your best champagne in that booth.”

The hostess smiled. She spoke into her microphone. “Sheila, we’ll be having guests coming up the lift. Please show them to the Opium Den.”

The glass elevator, shaped like a hot-air balloon, moved very slow, giving O’Brien time to canvas the club as the glass orb rose above the packed dance floor.

Beyond the lights, thought O’Brien, behind the facade of Oz, was the real wicked wizard. Somewhere one of the dark alcoves led to the spot where an evil wizard hid behind a curtain pulling human strings. Somewhere in the building was Jonathan Russo’s office. The key was to find it. But as O’Brien stepped from the elevator to the second floor, he saw a curtain being drawn in a VIP suite.

And now he had a better plan.

Barbie sat on the leather couch and said, “We sure don’t have any sofas like this at the club where I work. Look at this place! Real fur. All these pillows. Soft lighting. Plants and a little fountain flowing over there in the corner. It’s even got curtains. This is nicer than my apartment. Let’s dance, Ken.”

There was a tap at the door.

“Come on in,” said Barbie.

A woman wearing a short white toga dress stepped into the suite. Her dark skin was in contrast to the white fabric. More high cheekbones. No tan lines. She had a regal elegance to her movement. She sat on the couch near them, crossed her legs and said, “I’m Nikki. Welcome to Oz and your suite-the Opium Den. I’ll be your server. I have a staff to assist me, too. We can get you anything you desire. Award-winning food and drink to even a back rub.”

“That sounds nice,” said Barbie.

O’Brien was silent.

Nikki said, “Here are the menus. Our specialty is gourmet tapas foods. May I start you out with a drink or a bottle, perhaps?”

“Do you carry Krug champagne?” asked O’Brien.

“Of course? What year would you like?”

“You pick.”

Nikki smiled. “The 1987 is excellent.”

O’Brien looked at the wine list. The Krug 1987 was priced at $1,500 a bottle.

“Sounds like a good year,” he said with a smile

Barbie said, “I’m really hungry. Can I go on and order?”

“Of course,” said Nikki.

“I’ll take the chicken…how do you say it, cotee-”

“Chicken Cote d’Azur,” said Nikki. She stood to leave.

“Nikki,” said O’Brien.

“Yes.”

“Please tell Jonathan that Mr. Sergio Conti is here and waiting for him in the Opium Den.” O’Brien glanced at Barbie. “Tell Jonathan I brought him a gift…a gift younger than the champagne, and I hope he’ll share with us.”

Nikki smiled, glanced at Barbie and said, “I’ll convey your message.”

As Nikki closed the door, Barbie asked, “Did you just do what I think you did?”

“What”

“Pimp me out?”

“No, Barbie, listen closely. A very bad man will be coming in here in a few minutes. Just play along with me. I’m going to ask you to do one thing and then you can go dance the night away.”

“What’s that one thing?”

“I want you to cuff him when I tell you to.”

“I knew it. You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m unofficially investigating a crime.”

“What kind of crime?”

“Murder.”

“Murder!”

“She wasn’t much older than you when she was killed.”

“Is this guy you just invited in here…this Jonathan dude, did he kill her?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you gonna do? What if he has a gun?”

O’Brien stood and closed the curtains. He pulled the Glock from under his shirt and said nothing.

Barbie looked at the gun and blurted, “Ohmygod! You’re gonna kill him!”

“Calm down, okay? I’m here to see if a shoe fits.”

“You’re one of those bounty hunters, aren’t you?”

“My only bounty is to try to correct a bad mistake.”

“What mistake?”

“An innocent man, Barbie, is in prison. He’s on death row. The guy walking in here might know something that could free this innocent man.”

“I know I’m the one askin’ questions, but you don’t have to tell me if you feel I ought not to know.”

“I believe you’ll make a good witness if I need one. You’re an honest woman.”

There was a tap on the door.

O’Brien slipped the Glock under his shirt. He nodded to Barbie. She said, “Come in.”

Nikki entered with another woman dressed in a short toga. Blonde and shapely. Dimples when she smiled. Nikki sat the bottle of champagne and glasses down. She started to open it and said, “This is Shana, she’s here to assist you in whatever you may need, too.” Shana set the small tray of Chicken Cote d’Azar on the glass coffee table.

“What a delightful menagerie,” said O’Brien, “I hope Jonathan can join us before the champagne is gone.”

“Mr. Russo will drop in soon. May we offer either of you anything else?”

“No, thanks,” said O’Brien.

The women left. Barbie said, “I can’t believe I’m hungry.” She scooped up one of the flat tapas bites. It looked like pieces of chicken on a slice of baked pita bread. “This is sooo good,” she said, pouring a glass of champagne. She sipped. “Wow! Kinda sweet and dry, too. Love the tiny bubbles. Aren’t you eating?”

“I’ve eaten.”

“Ken, cop or no cop, I think you’re a good person. And this is the best, kinkiest sort of date I’ve ever been on.” She finished the glass of champagne just as the door opened.

Jonathan Russo stepped into the room.

Jonathan Russo wore a dark suit with a black tee shirt under the jacket. His salt and pepper hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Wide shoulders. Flat stomach. A bodybuilder’s pronounced way of moving. A gym rat in a tight-fitting Armani jacket.

“You’re not Sergio Conti,” said Jonathan Russo.

“And you’re not the Wizard of Oz,” said O’Brien. “Sit down.”

“Fuck you!”

O’Brien grabbed Russo and threw him into the couch. His eyebrows arched, like they were painted on his forehead. As he tried to sit up, O’Brien used the palm of his hand to shove him back into the couch. Russo’s mouth opened, a protest stopped in his throat as O’Brien backhanded him and pulled out his Glock.

Barbie jumped up, spilling the food on the floor.

“You’re a dead man!” shouted Russo. “Who the fuck are you? Where’s Serg?”

“He’s been silenced.”

“What!”

O’Brien pointed the Glock directly between Russo’s eyes. “I should have arrested you eleven years ago.”

“What? Fuck you, pal.”

O’Brien locked the door, turned the recorder on, and slid it across the glass table. He said, “You killed Alexandria Cole eleven years ago. You killed Sam Spelling, and you killed a friend of mine, a priest, Father John Callahan.”

“Wait a minute!” Russo held his hands up. “I remember you. You’re the cop, the detective, who came around when they found Lexie’s body. You busted her redneck boyfriend on that one.”

“But that was my mistake. And I’m done with letting my mistake make more mistakes. You’re going to trade places with Charlie Williams.”

“You’re fuckin’ insane! I told you back then, I didn’t kill her. She was my meal ticket. Lexie was one of the reasons I had enough dough to partner in with this club. We’ve expanded to three locations on South Beach. I wasn’t happy to see what that stupid shit from podunk Carolina did to her.”