Belladonna Read online

  “Your mound of Luna is normal,” she goes on. “That means you’re resourceful and self-motivating. And your Venus here"a strong and durable constitution. Yes, and a double head line. Duality of nature. That’s very rare.”

  She drops his hand abruptly and takes the seat I quickly vacate.

  “Do I pass the test?” he asks.

  “You’ll do.”

  “So will you.”

  She freezes. Matteo and Orlando look at me with consternation. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re very good,” he says.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The other day, I followed you.”

  “You followed me?”

  “You were with your daughter. She was skipping down the street and back, around the corner from all the scaffolding, and you were singing to her. Both of you laughing. It was delightful.”

  “How did you know who I am, and where I live?”

  So much for tea at the Waldorf.

  “I’m good at my job.”

  Her face pales visibly under her veil.

  “Also,” he hastens to add, “you look a bit like June. A very small bit. She’s a little taller, but hardly svelte.”

  Belladonna is still frozen, not mollified at all. Being followed by an unseen stranger has got to be one of her worst nightmares. Jack, bless him, sees that she is upset, though she’s not moved a muscle, and quickly tries to undo the damage. Yes, he is absolutely the right man for our job. I’m going to send Pritch the biggest keg of Guinness ever brewed. He’s earned it.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack says. “It was wrong of me to do that.”

  “Why did you follow me?” she asks.

  “Curiosity. To see where you were going.”

  “Where was I going?”

  “Macy’s. At least that’s where I lost you.”

  I see her let out her breath with a small sigh.

  “I didn’t know you were there,” she says. “You have no idea how upsetting that is to me.”

  “But you walked as if you did.”

  “Did what?”

  “Knew that you were being followed. I’ve never seen a woman walk with such elusive deliberation before. Fast, and purposeful. Dodging cars. Cutting corners, doubling back. Pretending to slow down to look in a window, then speeding up. Hurrying into a department store with hundreds of people and dozens of corners. I was sure you knew I was there, that you were trying to shake me.”

  “I like to travel incognito,” she says slowly. “Since we arrived here I’ve trained myself.”

  “Ah. Who is he, then?”

  “He?”

  “The person you’re trying to avoid.”

  I thought this question would bother her, but she answers it nonetheless.

  “I don’t know exactly who he is,” she says. “That’s the problem. Trying to find a shadow.”

  “More like the devil himself,” I mutter, thinking of His Lordship.

  “What if he’s dead?”

  “He can’t be dead. I refuse to believe it. So we have to work from that premise.” She looks to me and nods, giving me permission to divulge a few necessary details that she is unable to describe herself.

  “His face was masked,” I explain. There’s no reason to elaborate, to tell Jack that she was blindfolded, too, every time His Lordship came near her. Every time, except the first time. “She saw his hands, once, and he wore a peculiar ring, with intertwined serpents and a ruby. All the members of the Club have them, we believe. Even though we don’t believe they’d wear them in public, at least not often. They have their rules.”

  Jack sits, waiting for more. He is staring at her hands. She hasn’t taken her gloves off.

  “She heard his voice, obviously. So did Matteo and I. He couldn’t disguise that. And there were other voices, too.” I sigh. Belladonna looks like death. “Once you hire the employees I’ll show you a drawing we made of the ring.”

  “You haven’t got any names at all?” Jack asks me. “Faces? Peculiarities?”

  “No,” I say, “only voices and accents.” I think of the ring on Hogarth’s finger, splattered with blood. I’d thought of taking it with us, so we’d have one as evidence, but that would have been too much of a clue for"

  No no no, Hogarth’s blood will not stain this conversation. Not here in the Waldorf. Not at teatime. Hogarth belongs to the darkness.

  “I see,” he says, although I don’t quite think he does. I sure wouldn’t if I were Jack. “What, may I ask, is the connection to June Hauxton?”

  “Belladonna was with her"they’re cousins, as you know"in London years ago when they met the man who was responsible for taking her to His Lordship,” I tell him.

  “Entrapment, you mean,” he says. “By Hogarth, that man June mentioned.”

  “Yes. And now we’re going to set the trap for him, and the rest of them. As I’ve said to you, all we need is one, and then he should be able to lead us to the others.”

  “I will leave you to Tomasino and Matteo to discuss the preliminaries, as well as your salary,” Belladonna says. She has regained a bit of color in her face, although I can tell she is aching to leave. “Take your time to iron out the particulars, how many employees you’ll need, their training, any special equipment. It’s imperative, as you can imagine, that as few staff as possible know anything about what we’re really doing. Tomasino will take you down to the space whenever you like, and you can make your suggestions before the final touches are completed. And sign your contract. I believe that’s an issue for you.”

  “As well it should be.” He would probably smile if this were some other client. But she’s not like any other client.

  “Quite right,” she says. “Any other questions?”

  “What else did June do?”

  Belladonna sits as motionless as the statue of Aphrodite we’ve placed in the back garden. “She left me there,” she says, her voice low. She flips one hand in a dismissive gesture, but then curiosity gets the better of her. “Tell me a little bit about her. Is she aging well?”

  Oh ho, the girlie details. Does she dye her hair; how fat is she; how much of a bitch; how can we make her pay?

  “The only word for June is boring,” Jack says. “She’s a lot rounder than she’d like, always trying to lose ten pounds. I pictured her squeezing herself into her girdle with a grimace. She’s still devoted to the New Look. Her daughters are just as round and spoiled and boring. The husband is loud, and he gets louder with each successive highball. Here, I’ve got pictures.” He pulls a sealed envelope out of his jacket pocket.

  “The Old Look by now,” I say, taking the snaps. Of course, Kansas City is not Manhattan. Or London. Belladonna shakes her head slightly. She doesn’t want to see them. Not here, not yet. Probably not ever. “Would she come here, I wonder?”

  “Once the buzz filters out, I expect she would,” he admits. “Bragging rights to her bridge club. I’d settle in first. Invite her to one of your theme balls later. Perhaps with her parents, if you can bear the thought of it. Perhaps not. Make sure everything runs smoothly. It’ll be too irresistible. Because,” he says carefully, “you don’t know how you’ll react when you see them.”

  “What do you mean?” Belladonna asks.

  “I mean that seeing June in the flesh will most likely take you back to a place where you’d rather not go. It’s unavoidable. See her as a practice run, a guinea pig. That way, when you find the others it’ll be easier to deal with the reality of their presence.”

  Well, what a clever dick, our boy Jack.

  The temperature in Belladonna’s corner drops another ten degrees.

  “Thank you, Mr. Winslow,” she says, tucking her veil

  under her chin and sauntering away with Orlando and Matteo. Every eye in the room is watching her leave, wondering who on earth the veiled creature is.

  Botheration. She might not like what he said, but she has to admit that he’s right

  We send crimson Venetian carnival mask
s trimmed in black lace, along with massive bouquets of blood-red roses, to the best columnists at the more important newspapers, to magazine editors, to theater and movie stars, to the biggest social-climbing blabbermouths, and to several select politicians and prominent businessmen. Attached is a simple note that reads “Club Belladonna. Gansevoort Street. June 11, 1952. Nine o’clock in the evening. Festive dress.”

  No one had heard anything about a Club Belladonna, much less Gansevoort Street There is absolutely no information about the owners to be had, so we soon receive several indignant visits from the city’s top two gossip columnists, L. L. Megalopolis at the Daily Herald, and Dolly Daffenberg, his rival at the New York Reporter. With their noses turned up so high at the derelict neighborhood that you could practically use them as vents, they pound on the door underneath the scaffolding and demand a tour. We ignore them, so they decide we are unworthy upstarts before we’ve even opened. A snub from a stranger"why, how dare we! They make up reams of copy in desperation"all nonsense, but readers believe them. Then I call in a few tales about the mysterious owner. “Belladonna,” I say, “naturally you’ve heard of her. In Europe, she’s already notorious. Beautiful woman. Lovely poison. Belladonna sounds so sweet.” I recite several of the ditties I’d “heard” about her.

  You can imagine the rest although nothing they write rivals reality. Let them be caught in their own lies, and choke on them. As opening day grows closer, the buzz is louder than a horde of cicadas emerging after seventeen years of sleep.

  We are ready for them All of us.

  When it came time to hire the staff, Jack’d had few problems. He put the word out to his contacts and brought the lucky ones in for an interview. We let him do his job, and we got along fine. Matteo and I reviewed their credentials and asked a few pointed questions, then briefed them on their duties. Mostly, they are retired cops and former agents who left the FBI in disgust over the blacklist and the Rosenberg fiasco. One, an ex-fireman named Geoffrey, is so adept at karate, although slightly built, that he can actually flip both Matteo and Orlando. He is slightly more effeminate than you’d think a fireman would be, which is probably why he was harassed out of the department, but we ask him no questions and take him on as assistant doorman. Even better, he has lovely green eyes, practically the same hue as Belladonna’s. “We must have been secret twins,” she told him, thus earning his undying devotion. And then Jack found a bandleader, Richard Lascault, who’d been in intelligence with him years back. That was a lucky break because he’ll be sure to keep the musicians in line. The money we’ll be paying them is too good; the opportunity to snoop on the world’s celebrities far more enticing than the drawbacks of a nighttime schedule and wearying hours to be spent on a small bandstand in a nightclub. No bribes, no secret asides to L. L. and Dolly and all the others desperate for a tidbit, will unseal their lips.

  Unless we want that tidbit planted.

  Remaining incorruptible will be too much fun for these straight arrows. Even Richard’s lovely young wife, Vivienne, gets into the game. She will become our cigarette girl, walking around the club with a tiny Minox hidden in the front of the box slung over her shoulders. Honestly, if I were a professional in this line of work a gig here would be a dream come true. Of course, I am what you might call highly unprofessional.

  But I always get the job done.

  “Can you believe the inside of that club?”

  “Whose club?”

  “The Club Belladonna, of course. The one run by the dog.”

  “Yes, but everybody knows about the dog. What they don’t know is how it looks once you get past the dog.”

  “Well, let me tell you. Once Andromeda approves of you"and what a struggle that is"you have to pay twenty dollars to get in. No exceptions, can you believe it! Why, even Clark Gable had to pay! And Rita Hay worth! Nobody"not Hollywood celebrities, not royalty, not reporters, no one gets in for free. And then everything has to be checked"coats, hats, umbrellas, purses larger than your palm, practically"with this really nasty lady who is built like a brick shithouse, if you’ll pardon my expression. I bet she used to work for the KGB. Makes you fork everything over and gives you a blood-red ticket for it. Why, you’re afraid not to tip her, the old bag.”

  Yes, our so-called Russian coat-check lady is actually the very nice Bronx-born wife of our club accountant, but she never lets on to anyone. A paragon of discretion is our Josie. She told me that this job was just about the most exciting thing that ever happened to her, getting to see all the lords and ladies and stars and hangers-on trooping in, chattering in nervous excitement that they’d actually made it through the door.

  Josie mans that spot with an eagle eye. Whenever she hears a man with a thoroughbred English accent, she presses a small buzzer to alert us, and that party would be seated at tables where it is particularly easy to spy on them.

  Then the guests are patted down by one of the tuxedo-clad moonlighting cops. All of them. No hidden camera or notepad is ever going to be snuck into this club. A picture of what the club and its proprietress really look like would be worth a fortune. This is so much of a hoot for our cop employees that they beg to do it"it’s much more exciting than the dreadfully boring street patrol and crowd control"and we won’t let them at it for longer than a week at a time.

  Divested of all nonessentials, frisked and flummoxed, the club guests quickly recuperate and walk in, their senses heightened with expectation. A desperately hoped-for invitation into the Club Belladonna is like falling down Alice’s rabbit hole into an enchanted realm. Through the thick purple velvet curtains, past the stoic Josie in coat check; down a long, curving corridor where the carpet is so thick your shoes sink into it"which conveniently helps muffle extraneous noise from being picked up on the tape recorders. This hallway is lined with mirrors: for ladies to pat their hair and check their lipstick and their hemlines; for men to strut; for us to sit behind the two-way glass and watch them, trying not to roll our eyes at their preening. They can’t help themselves, and we’re glad. We set it up this way intentionally, of course. To snap their souvenir photographs for our files, neatly dated and cataloged. Nervous giggles ensue as the guests push through two sets of swinging soundproofed doors, each time into a still-curving yet progressively narrowing corridor lined in sparkling mirrors.

  It is like Belladonna herself, an exotic facade constructed only to lure you in and suck you dry. All they can see is what we want them to see. A perfect illusion of fun and excitement.

  Finally, they push open the last door, and there is the club itself. At last.

  It’s not gigantic, seating only about three hundred. The room itself appears to be a large square, with a soaring ceiling held up by thick painted plaster pillars carved with dancing satyrs chasing horrified nymphs. More mythological scenes of gods and goddesses dressed improbably for a carnival in Venice decorate the frescoes shimmering on the walls, seemingly lifelike whenever the spotlight on the stage shifts onto them. There is a long bar against one wall, a small dance band up on the stage opposite, and a huge shiny dance floor glistening under a massive skylight. No, nothing could possibly be more romantic than dancing in the Club Belladonna with summer rain pelting the glass of the roof.

  But who really cares about the dancing? Everything else pales next to the possibility of snagging a seat at the U-shaped banquettes flanking the back wall. That’s because Belladonna herself sits at the one in the middle. If, naturally, she shows up the night you are one of the chosen few. No one knows whether she’ll be there or not. There’s no pattern to it Sometimes she’s in the club every night for two weeks, and then not again for days. Then she’ll appear for an hour, and as swiftly seem to vanish again.

  Sometimes the club itself closes for a week or two, just because we feel like shutting it down. But tonight, that’s not anyone’s worry.

  Please oh please oh please let her be there. Please. Just tonight. Just for me.

  That’s the club mantra, muttered under the breath of all our h
opeful dancing, booze-swizzling patrons, smug and oh so satisfied that they’ve breached the ramparts outside, yet soon to be socially bereft if the evening ends without a visit from the supreme being herself. They try not to complain to the Ringer. He’s the host who leads them to their tables. Actually, his name is Phillip Ringbourne, and he is very tall, very lanky, and very unhelpful to the clientele. I gave him the nickname because under his imperturbable club facade beats the heart of one of the world’s great worriers. Everything must be perfect: the flowers just so; the band in tune; the drinks promptly served; the guests seated and mingling as Belladonna wants them. Ever since I caught him wringing his hands in the kitchen on one of his breaks, I think of him so. I mentioned it to Jack, and he told me not to worry, that the war frazzled his nerves a bit but that Phillip’s memory was so photographic he could remember the shape of a flea that bit him on March 8, 1945, in a bivouac somewhere in the German countryside as his battalion was approaching Berlin. As well as all the rest of the fleas on all the rest of the soldiers.

  Luckily, the nickname suits him. Lucky for us to have him. He knows all the repeat customers, all the English snobs who’ve come for a visit, and he pulls their photos from the files, so Matteo and Geoffrey can be vigilant about letting them in.

  Yes, the excitement is palpable inside, the guests trying not to glance at their watches, as the minutes tick by without a sign of Belladonna. They’re not hungry, no, and besides, there’s not much to eat. Earlier in the day, a caterer brought us racks of trays of cold snacks, delicate sandwiches, and an assortment of desserts. We didn’t want a full kitchen. Too much space, too much mess, too many unsupervisable employees to hire. No one comes to the Club Belladonna to eat. They sit at their tables, nervously kicking at the blood-red taffeta table skirts, the color of the house drink. The Belladonna, naturally. Really, it is just a simple martini made with gin stained red with food coloring and two drops of bitters replacing the vermouth, turning it the same scarlet as Andromeda’s toes.