Jason Pinter - The Fury

"How do I know you're not messing with me?"

Shawn said.

I didn't know what to say. Then I thrust out the suitcase and said, "A deposit. I'm not back in ten minutes, you keep this. Some nice stuff in here. I know because I bought it for my girl's birthday. Plus, Captain

Shower Rape here can have his way with me."

Shawn looked at the bouncer, confused. The guy shook his head like he didn't know what I was talking about. Shawn turned back to me, the light from the neon signs reflecting in the shine of his suit.

"Even if you're on the level," Shawn said, "you're dressed like a homeless person and you have a freaking suitcase. I let you in, I might as well go around Central

Park inviting all the assholes sleeping on benches in."

"I didn't want to mention this," I said truthfully, "but

I know Tony Valentine."

"Valentine," Kensbrook said, trying to remember why he knew the name. "You mean the gossip hound, right?"

"That's the one. I work with him."

"No BS?"

I pulled out my business card, showing Shawn that

I, like Tony Valentine, worked at the New York Gazette.

Shawn eyed the card, his head clearly filling with the possibility of getting a good plug in the gossip pages.

Of course, I had as much intent of talking to Tony

Valentine as I did to O.J. Simpson, but that's the beauty of an internal monologue.

"You got ten minutes," he said. "And after that your ass is kicked and your clothes go to the incinerator."

"I accept."

"And I expect some ink from Valentine."

I gave him the most noncommittal thumbs-up in my arsenal.

Shawn nodded at the bouncer, who unhitched the velvet rope and allowed me passage. He took my suitcase and carried it to the coatroom, where a girl in a tight black top and capris unlocked a door so he could heave it behind the barrier. There were plenty of groans from the people waiting on line as they saw me enter. I hoped if they knew what was going on they'd under stand.

But this was New York, so I doubted it.

The Kitten Club was a massive place, with two dif ferent levels of action. This was about as far from my scene as I could get without being in the desert. I had no idea where to look first. My eyes were half-blinded by the strobe lights, and it took a healthy equilibrium not to get knocked over by the horde of drunken, dancing revelers. I could barely see five feet in front of me, let alone distinguish the VIP lounge.

To clarify the mess, I approached the bar, waited to get the tender's attention. When he came by, he said,

"What'll it be?"

"Where's the VIP lounge?" I asked.

He nodded and turned around. I had no idea what had happened, but then he turned back holding a glass of champagne with something sparkling at the bottom. He held it out to me.

"The VIP champagne," he said. "That'll be a hundred fifty."

"No," I shouted. "The VIP lounge. "

The bartender, looking quite pissed off, said, "Tables are upstairs." As I turned to go, I saw him fish the gem from the bottom of the glass and drop it into a small pail.

I pushed and shoved my way through a sea of fitted jeans, open-collared shirts revealing chests adorned with thick gold chains, and shimmering bosoms with even spray tans. At the back of the dance floor I found a short staircase that led to another level. Sliding through a couple making out on the railing, I managed to find the VIP area, a lounge of about a dozen round tables, each with between half a dozen and a dozen people circling them. Each table had several bottles of alcohol sitting in buckets of ice, with various mixers-cranberry juice, orange juice and tonic water-ready to go. According to Amanda, each bottle ran about a grand, and nobody bought just one bottle.

Then I heard a laugh. A distinctive laugh.

Amanda's laugh.

I fast-walked past the tables until I finally found the one I was looking for. Sitting in a circle were Devin and

Darcy Lapore, several suited men with gelled hair and manicures, and Amanda Davies.

Amanda was laughing hysterically at something, then she looked up and noticed me. I didn't believe that smile could spread any wider, but it did.

"Henry!" she shrieked, jumping out of her seat, knocking over an empty glass and toppling one of the guys onto the floor. She threw her arms around me, squeezed tight, and I gave her one right back. Her breath smelled like vodka, her body like sweet perfume. Her hair dripped onto my shirt and I held her tight, for reasons vastly different than hers.

"Hey, baby," I said, struggling to disentangle myself.

Suddenly Amanda looked confused. "Wait," she said. "What're you doo ing here?"

"I don't have time to explain right now," I said, taking her hand. "But you need to come with me."

A sultry smile spread across her lips. I didn't see her drunk all that often, so part of me couldn't help but be slightly amused. "So," she said. "You're taking me home?"

"Not exactly," I said, pulling her away. I apologized to Darcy and Devin, who seemed too preoccupied with how each other's lips tasted to notice.

"If we're not going home," she slurred, "where are we going?"

"A hotel," I said.

"Ooh baby!" Amanda said, suddenly grabbing a chunk of my ass and squeezing. She likely meant to be flirtatious, but the girl had some serious nails and I was reasonably certain she broke the skin. Hopefully stitches wouldn't be required, because that'd be one awkward explanation for the doctor. "Have you been working out?"

"Not recently, I haven't had time, but…that's not the point. We need to go."

Amanda finally relented, and we made our way down the steps and toward the exit. For the first time it seemed to dawn on Amanda that something was wrong.

I couldn't walk too fast due to the fact that she was in heels and had no hand-eye coordination to speak of, so to other clubgoers I looked like the no-fun boyfriend dragging his fun-as-hell girlfriend away because he didn't approve of her shenanigans.

I had to give Amanda credit, though. She looked stunning. Outclassed every girl at the club. I'd have to remember to tell her tomorrow, when she would remember.

We got to the tunnel leading to the outside, and the girl inside the coatroom remembered me. Guess not too many guys dropped off their luggage before entering.

"Can I get my bag?" I asked.

"Five dollars," she said, smacking gum between her lips.

"You just saw me with Shawn, I-"

"Five dollars," she repeated, bored by the whole thing. I didn't want or have time to argue, and pulled a crumpled ten from my pocket. She counted change, then swung the door open and let me take the suitcase.

As I lugged it into the hall, Amanda said, "Where are we going?"

"A hotel, baby," I said.

"I thought you were kidding," she said, a joyous glow in her eye. "I have the best boyfriend in the whole world. "

She threw her arms around me again, and I nearly stumbled over a small girl trying to make her way back into the club. She called me a name that I'd most defi nitely never been called by a girl before.

Gripping the bag with one hand and Amanda with another, we stumble/bumped our way outside. A row of cabs was waiting five deep down the block, knowing every minute brought another inebriated person out who needed a ride home (hopefully to another borough).

It was a delicate balancing act carrying Amanda and the suitcase outside since they were both essentially dead weight. The next cab in the line pulled up, and thankfully the driver came outside to help me with my, er, belongings. He hoisted the bag into the trunk while

Amanda and I slid into the back. As soon as he closed the door and said, "Where to?" I realized I had no idea where we were going.

The list of New York hotels I knew offhand was quite slim, and one of those, the Plaza, hadn't reopened yet.