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When I got in the taxi and gave the driver the address and name of the restaurant Michele Herbert had suggested, I tried to compartmentalize and clear my mind, tried to look forward to the artist’s company and several glasses of wine.
But something came back to me, something Whitey had said when they had me semi-hog-tied on the bed. He hadn’t just asked about her smoking: he’d specifically mentioned the lighter on the chain around her neck.
What the hell was that all about?
Chapter 41
11th Arrondissement
10:30 p.m.
A LINE SNAKED down the sidewalk outside Le Chanticleer Rouge. Most of the patrons trying to get into the Red Rooster club were well dressed and attractive couples, plus a few single women.
“Unaccompanied males are not allowed in the club tonight,” called a bouncer who was walking along the line with a short, severe brunette carrying a clipboard and studying everyone they passed.
“You,” she said to a woman with a plunging bust. “You four behind her.”
The bouncer stood back to let the woman and two attractive and now happier couples go forward. He ignored the people complaining that they’d been in line longer. It didn’t matter. The Red Rooster was not a first come, first served kind of place. Like at Studio 54 in Manhattan back in the hero days of disco, you had to be selected to enter.
The bouncer and the “hostess” continued to move along the line, dismissing at least twenty people before stopping in front of a brunette with skin the color of fresh crème and a big black guy.
He wore sunglasses despite the hour and a sharp suit with an open-neck white shirt, and
thin black driving gloves. When he smiled, a gold cap glowed on one of his top front teeth. He could have been anything from a rap mogul to a movie producer to a gangsta on holiday, and he certainly looked nothing like Captain Mfune of the French Army, currently assigned to École de Guerre.
The brunette’s attire only added to the couple’s mystery and allure. She wore green cat-eye contacts and carried a black snakeskin purse. Her sleek gray dress was sleeveless, and she wore black elbow-length gloves, black pumps, black hose, and a black pillbox hat with a modest lace veil.
“You two are in,” the hostess said, and the bouncer directed them forward.
“Told you I knew what it takes to get in here,” she said out of the corner of her mouth as they walked along the line, giving scant attention to the envy and resentment in the faces of those who’d been passed by.
“You called it, Amé,” the captain agreed.
A bouncer pulled open the door, and they were hit by a wave of electronic dance music. They entered an opulent lobby, bypassed a coat check, and went to a cashier’s counter, where Mfune paid the forty euro cover charge.
“You have been here before?” the cashier asked. “Or do you need a tour?”
“I’ve been,” Amé said. “I’ll show my friend the ropes.”
“You’ll find those in the dungeon,” the cashier reminded her, and then looked at the captain. “And please, no cell phones. Not even texting when you are inside. This is to protect your anonymity as well as that of the others who enjoy this refuge from the real world.”
“No cell phones,” Mfune said. “Got it.”
The cashier put neon bands on their wrists and said, “We close at four a.m. tonight, but last call is at three.”
“Good crowd?” Amé asked.
“Very sexy,” the cashier said. “Have fun, and please, no means no.”
“Always.”
Amé led the way through plush red curtains and into a vast space decorated as if it were a fantasy harem encampment in the desert, with palm trees and murals of sand dunes and oases on the high walls. Below them stood arabesque tents, all gold and black, some with their curtains open to reveal beds, and others already closed to wandering eyes.
Two large gilt birdcages hung from the ceiling. In them women writhed against each other, oblivious, it seemed, to the crowded floor below them, where fifty or sixty provocatively dressed people danced and pulsed with the techno music.
To the left there was a long bar crowded with hard drinkers and lascivious friends. Within moments of Mfune and Amé entering Le Chanticleer Rouge, couples and single women began offering to buy them drinks and teasing them about what could be enjoyed inside the tents.
Amé turned them all down, saying, “We’re voyeurs for now.”
