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“I bet you have. I hear that you’ve sold property to the Sub Rosa.”
Chanchala puts her hands on the desk.
“How did you know that?”
“I didn’t. I just made it up.”
“Cute. Chris was a century ago. Why are you asking questions now?”
“Because he’s back. A part of him is at least.”
“What does that mean?”
“You were in the party scene with Stein way back when. Tell me about it.”
She picks up a pen and taps it impatiently on the pretty desk.
“If you’re here to insinuate something, you can turn around and leave right now.”
But her pupils have gone wide. I struck a nerve. Time to bear down on it.
“I’m here to ask questions, not call people names. Tell me about Chris and money.”
She shrugs.
“When he needed money I introduced him to people who might be willing to pay for his services. I never made a dime off of him, you understand.”
“Of course. Were Jimmy Summers and Claire Hennessey customers?”
She makes a face.
“God no. They were playmates. He did them for free.”
This isn’t getting me anywhere. Time to circle back to Gentry’s stuff.
“Tell me about the parties. Toward the end. Did anything change?”
She laughs, but it’s a sarcastic stage bark.
“You’re talking about the sex magic angle.”
“Exactly,” I lie.
“I thought it was silly, but it was the seventies. Anton LaVey was all the rage. Black candles, pentagrams, Aleister Crowley, and pretend sacrifices? They gave the parties a new frisson.”
“But you didn’t believe any of it.”
“Not a word.”
“But you were there.”
“Of course.”
“Even after Stein was murdered?”
She looks uncomfortable again.
“Chris wasn’t so much into the parties anymore. He’d changed. Gone a little over the edge. Maybe it was the coke. Still, he was busy being paid for his services. And, of course, he had his regular.”
