I called Butch.
I asked him if he knew about the twins.
Sure, he said. Job one is track down the family. You know that.
Of course. It’s just that their existence seems to be something of a secret. In certain circles, anyway.
Could be. I don’t know about that. But we tracked them down pretty quick.
Okay. You interviewed them, then?
Somebody did.
I meant the institutional you.
Right. Not much there. I heard they and the kid didn’t get along too good. But that’s just hearsay.
Anybody ask where they were that night?
Sure. You always ask.
You do?
We do.
One does.
Right. They were at some club. Some exclusive kind of place.
You know the name of the club?
The White Swallow.
Don’t think I know that one.
I’d be surprised if you did. A little upscale for you, I’d think. Besides, you’re way too old.
Really? I guess you’d be in a position to make that kind of judgment.
Butch laughed. I laughed.
He gave me the address of the club, the name of the owner.
The place wasn’t far away. I grabbed Dorita. We walked over.
When we got to the address, I figured I had written it down wrong. There was no sign proclaiming the existence of a club. The street number was crudely painted on a metal door.
Dorita pointed out that this was exactly what you’d expect to find at an exclusive, known-only-to-the-plugged-in-few dance and debauchery joint.
If you say so, I said.
We knocked.
No answer.
I stepped back from the door. From that vantage, I realized that the crudeness was feigned. The numbers were shaped to resemble a bird in flight. A white bird.
Yep, I said. This is the place.
We knocked again.
The door opened a crack. A small thin man with a pencil mustache peered out. Can I help you? he asked. He had a heavy eastern European accent.
Is Anfernee here? I asked. We have a business proposition for him.
The thin man looked suspicious.
Wait here, he said.
It must have been ten minutes before he returned. Time enough for a smoke, anyway. When he finally came back he opened the door wide.
Come in, he said. Mr. Wallender will see you now.
I wanted to ask him where he’d left his hunchback, but thought better of it. Dorita looked like she wanted to say something similar. Or, knowing her, worse. I jabbed her in the elbow, gave her a stern look. She got the message. Reluctantly.
Igor led us through a maze of black-painted corridors, into a large octagonal room in which a dozen or so heavily sweating workers were variously hammering, sawing, humming and wallpapering under the direction of an elegantly high-strung Cole Porter look-alike. If Cole Porter had had a North African mother. The smoothest milk chocolate skin I had ever seen. An elegant slightly curved nose. A fabulously expensive silk shirt. And an air of absolute entitlement that made his warm, sympathetic brown eyes seem strangely out of place.
Anfernee Wallender thrust out a limp hand, as if to indicate that ring-kissing would not be out of place. I was tempted to crush it with a Manly Squeeze, but refrained, remembering that we wanted information from the guy.
Rick Redman, I said. And this is my colleague, Dorita Reed.
Most pleased to meet you, said Wallender. I understand you have some kind of business proposition for me?
Not exactly. Actually, I just used that to get by your assistant here.
I looked around for Igor, but he seemed to have vanished into the darkness.
Igor. Yes. He’s very protective.
You’re kidding, right?
Kidding?
His name isn’t really Igor, is it?
Sure. It’s like ‘John’ in Russia. Very common.
Wow.
Wallender looked puzzled.
Never mind, I said.
Dorita suppressed a giggle.
I must let you know, said Wallender. As you can see, I’m very preoccupied here. We have to get this room ready for the VIP opening tonight. And there’s a great deal left to be done. If you don’t really have any business to discuss…
He said this in a sincere, apologetic tone. He looked frankly into my eyes. I could feel the pull of the professional facilitator. He aimed to please. You wanted to like him. You wanted to accommodate his needs.
Yes, I said. Sorry about the little ruse. We won’t take much of your time. We’re investigating an incident. We just have a few questions we’d like to ask you.
An incident? he said, raising his eyebrows.
A murder. A homicide.
Good Lord. What could such a thing have to do with me?
Nothing to do with you, I assured him. But maybe something to do with some people you know.
Lucious. I knew I never should have brought him back. What’s he done now?
I don’t know who Lucious is, I said, but I don’t think he’s the person we’re interested in. Do you know Ramon and Raul – I paused involuntarily at the incongruity of the last name – FitzGibbon?
The Fitz brothers! Wallender exclaimed. Of course. They have something to do with this?
His mouth hung open in a convincing show of incredulity.
How is it that you know them? Dorita asked.
I could feel her itching to take over the conversation.
Um, perhaps I should know who you are, Wallender said. Are you with the police?
No, Dorita said. We’re just lawyers.
Oh. Are you representing the Fitzes?
No, I said. We’re representing someone else. Did the police not talk to you about this?
Not me. He paused. His mouth opened, closed.
Ah, he said. I remember now. Yes. I wasn’t here. They talked to Igor.
I see.
Who might it be? he asked. That you represent?
Nobody you would know, Dorita said.
All right. I think I understand. Am I to take it that you’re not at liberty to reveal the identity of your client?
That’s correct, I said.
This seemed to reassure him. He returned to the topic of the twins.
They’re one – two – of our best customers, he said. More than customers. Friends. Part of the fabric of the place. They were here at the inauguration. They pitch in. It’s like the Club is their second home. They’ve been intimately involved in the renovations. They have very good taste.
He paused, perhaps suddenly aware that he was babbling.
So, he said, surely they’re not implicated in some…crime?
He said the last word after a long pause. As if the notion required a serious screening before admittance.
I’m not saying that, I said. Not at all. We’re just trying to put together facts.
Okay, he said, not entirely convinced. What facts can I provide you with?
Let’s start with whether they were here the night of February 18th.
Oh dear. I don’t know if I can tell you that. I’m not so good with dates. I’ll have to check my calendar. Although I can’t guarantee you that will help.
Give it a try, I suggested. You really don’t have anything to lose.
I wasn’t sure what I meant by that last. Apparently he wasn’t either. He gave me a quizzical look. Went into a small room in the back. To check his calendar. Or maybe to call up some guy named Luigi and his lead-pipe-wielding minions to come and break my kneecaps.
Fortunately for my figure-skating career it turned out to be the former. Wallender came back with a smile and a nod.
As it happens, he said, we had a private party here that night. For an old friend. Tenth anniversary. Of his divorce. So I can tell you that they were here. They wouldn’t have missed that party for the world.
I see, I said. Do you remember when they left?
Oh, I don’t know. These things tend to go on all night. Maybe five or six, they left.
Are you sure about that?
Pretty sure.
Is it possible that one or the other left for, say, half an hour?
Well…
Wallender smiled, shrugged.
Listen, I’d love to keep chatting, he said, but this is a very big night for us. We’re opening the new VIP room. The Dalai Lama will be here. And a thousand things have already gone wrong, of course. Everything was supposed to be ready a week ago. I’m a tad overwhelmed.
The Dalai Lama. Jesus.
Wallender seemed to be sincere. Although since he also appeared to be a man whose vocation was to exude sincerity, I wasn’t sure that meant anything.
Well, I said, thanks for your time. Can we speak to you again at a later date, if necessary?
Of course, of course. Any time. Juan, please, that wallpaper is crooked! he shrieked at a muscular young man on a ladder. We’re going to have to redo the entire wall!
We’d lost him.
I tried one last question as we turned to leave.
By the way, I called to him, how do you come to know the twins?
Oh, goodness, said Mr. Wallender, they’ve been around the club scene forever. They helped design this place. He’s… they’re very sophisticated. I can’t really say when I first met them. Juan, come down here right now! I’ve got to talk to you.
He shrugged an apologetic shrug at us, and scampered over to give Juan a wallpaper-hanging lesson.
We left. I suggested that we drop into a local pub for a quick pint of Guinness. Clear the perfume from our heads.
I suppose, Dorita said, Mr. White Swallow could have called the twins when he went into his office, asked them whether they wanted to have been there that night.
Possible. He certainly seems to think highly of them.
Or wants us to think he does.
Yes. Well. I don’t know what we expected to find out, to tell you the truth. But anyway, it’s one more fact to add to the list.
What’s that?
That we don’t know if they could have been near Jules’s place.
That’s a hell of a fact.
Best I could come up with.
Anyway, you’re right, Dorita said. He wasn’t exactly unequivocal about it.
Or forthcoming.
Nor.
Nor. If you insist. I mean, the cops talked to Igor, but Igor didn’t tell his boss what they talked to him about?
And anyway, they’re twins, remember? Couldn’t one of them have been gone for a while? Without anybody noticing?
Sure. The Patty Duke Show.
Right.
Dorita began humming the theme song.
Well, I said. Another theory for the pile. But there’s a small piece missing before we can give that one any credence.
What’s that?
I’ve only met one of them. I don’t know that they’re identical. Or even similar.
Ah. Good point.
For all I know, Raul’s got a handlebar mustache.
Or some other hideous deformity.