The Tresonne Supper Club was a dark, smoky restaurant on Sansom Street in Center City. It was formerly the Coach House, and in its day-somewhere in the early 1970s-it was considered a destination, one of the tonier steak houses in town, frequented by members of the Sixers and Eagles, along with politicos of varying degree of stature. Jessica recalled when she, her brother, and their father had come here for dinner when she was seven or eight years old. It had seemed like the most elegant place in the world.
Now it had become a third-tier eatery, its clientele an amalgam of shadowy figures from the worlds of adult entertainment and the fringe publishing industry. The deep burgundy drapes, at one time heralding a New York City chophouse ambience, were now mildewed and grimed with a decade of nicotine and grease.
Dante Diamond was a Tresonne regular, usually holding court at the large, semicircular booth at the back of the restaurant. They had run his rap sheet and learned that, of his three trips to the Roundhouse in the past twenty years, he had been charged with nothing more than two counts of pandering and a misdemeanor drug possession.
His most recent photograph was ten years old, but Eugene Kilbane was certain he would know him on sight. Besides, in a club like Tresonne, Dante Diamond was royalty.
The restaurant was half full. There was a long bar to the right, booths to the left, a dozen or so tables in the center. The bar was separated from the dining room by a partition made of colored plastic panels and plastic ivy. Jessica noticed that the ivy had a thin layer of dust on it.
As they made their way toward the end of the bar, all heads turned toward Nicci and Jessica. The men scoped Kilbane, sizing him immediately, cataloging his position on the food chain of power and masculine impact. It was immediately clear that in this place, he was perceived as neither a rival nor a threat. His weak chin, destroyed upper lip, and cheap suit pigeonholed him as a loser. It was the two pretty young women with him who gave him, at least temporarily, the cachet he needed to work the room.
There were two stools open at the end of the bar. Nicci and Jessica sat down. Kilbane stood. Within a few moments, the bartender approached.
"Good evening," the bartender said.
"Yeah. How ya doin'?" Kilbane replied.
"Quite well, sir."
Kilbane leaned forward. "Dante around?"
The bartender gave him a stony look. "Who?"
"Mr. Diamond."
The bartender half-smiled, as if to say: Better. He was in his late fifties, trim and savvy, manicured nails. He wore a royal blue satin vest and crisp white shirt. He had the look of many years behind the mahogany. He placed a trio of napkins on the bar. "Mr. Diamond isn't in tonight."
"Do you expect him?"
"Impossible to say," the bartender said. "I'm not his social secretary." The man locked eyes with Kilbane, communicating that this line of questioning was over. "What can I get for you and the young ladies?"
They ordered. A coffee for Jessica, a Diet Coke for Nicci, and a double bourbon for Kilbane. If Kilbane thought he was going to drink all night on the city's dime, he was mistaken. The drinks arrived. Kilbane turned to face the dining room. "This place has really hit the fucking skids," he said.
Jessica wondered by what criteria a lowlife like Eugene Kilbane judged something like that.
"I see a few people I know. I'm gonna ask around," Kilbane added. He drained his bourbon in one gulp, straightened his tie, and walked into the dining room.
Jessica looked around the room. There were a few middle-aged couples in the dining room whom she had a hard time believing had anything to do with the business. The Tresonne did, after all, advertise in City Paper, Metro, The Report, and other venues. But for the most part, the clientele was hard-looking men in their fifties and sixties-pinkie rings, collar bars, monogrammed cuffs. It looked like a waste-management convention.
Jessica glanced to her left. One of the men at the bar had been ogling her and Nicci since they sat down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smooth his hair and spritz his breath. He ambled over.
"Hi," he said to Jessica, smiling.
Jessica turned to look at the man, giving him the obligatory twice- over. He was about sixty. Sea-foam rayon shirt, beige polyester sport coat, tinted steel-rimmed aviator glasses. "Hi," she said.
"I understand you and your friend are actresses."
"Where did you hear that?" Jessica asked.
"You have that look."
"What look is that?" Nicci asked, smiling.
"Theatrical," he said. "And very beautiful."
"It just so happens we are." Nicci laughed, tossed her hair. "Why do you ask?"
"I'm a film producer." Seemingly out of nowhere, he produced a pair of business cards. Werner Schmidt. Lux Productions. New Haven, Connecticut. "I'm casting a new full-length feature. High-def digital. Woman on woman."
"Sounds interesting," Nicci said.
"Hell of a script. The writer went to USC film school for a semester."
Nicci nodded, feigning deep attention.
"But before I say anything else, I have to ask you something," Werner added.
"What?" Jessica asked.
"Are you police officers?"
Jessica flicked a glance at Nicci. She looked back. "Yes," she said. "Both of us. We're detectives on an undercover sting."
Werner looked slapped for a second, like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. Then he burst into laughter. Jessica and Nicci laughed with him. "That was good," he said. "That was really fucking good. I like that."
Nicci couldn't leave it alone. She was a pistol. Full mag. "We've met before, right?" she asked.
Werner looked even more encouraged now. He pulled in his stomach, stood a little straighter. "I was thinking the same thing."
"You ever work with Dante?"
"Dante Diamond?" he asked with hushed reverence, as if uttering the name Hitchcock or Fellini. "Not yet, but Dante is a class act. Great organization." He turned and pointed to a woman sitting at the end of the bar. "Paulette has made a number of films with him. Do you know Paulette?"
It sounded like a test. Nicci played it cool. "Never had the pleasure," she said. "Please invite her over for a drink."
Werner was off like a shot. The prospect of standing around the bar with three women was a dream come true. In a moment he was back with Paulette, a bottle brunette around forty. Kitten heels, leopard dress. Thirty-eight DD.
"Paulette St. John, this is…"
"Gina and Daniela," Jessica said.
"Pleased, I'm sure," Paulette said. Jersey City. Maybe Hoboken.
"What are you drinking?" Jessica asked.
"Cosmo."
Jessica ordered for her.
"We're trying to locate a guy named Bruno Steele," Nicci said.
Paulette smiled. "I know Bruno. Big dick, can't spell ignorant."
"That's him."
"Haven't seen him in years," she said. Her drink arrived. She sipped it delicately, like a lady. "Why are you looking for Bruno?"
"A friend is casting a film," Jessica said.
"There are lots of guys around. Younger guys. Why him?"
Jessica noticed that Paulette was weaving a bit, slurring her words. Still, she had to be careful with her response. One wrong word and they could be shut out. "Well, for one thing, he's got the right look. Plus, the film is hard S and M, and Bruno knows when to pull back."
Paulette nodded. Been there, felt that.
"Loved his work in Philadelphia Skin," Nicci said.
At the mention of the movie, Werner and Paulette looked at each other. Werner opened his mouth, as if to stop a Paulette from saying anything further, but Paulette continued. "I remember that crew," she said. "Of course, after the incident, nobody really wanted to work together again."
"What do you mean?" Jessica asked.
Paulette looked at her as if she were crazy. "You don't know about what happened on that shoot?"
Jessica flashed on the scene in Philadelphia Skin where the girl opened the door. Those sad, haunted eyes. She took a chance, asked. "Oh, you mean with that little blonde?"
Paulette nodded, sipped her drink. "Yeah. That was fucked up."
Jessica was just about to press her when Kilbane returned from the men's room, pink with purpose. He got in between them, leaned into the bar. He turned to Werner and Paulette. "Could you excuse us for a sec?"
Paulette nodded. Werner held up both hands. He wasn't going to take anyone's play. They both retreated to the end of the bar. Kilbane turned back to Nicci and Jessica.
"I've got something," he said.
When someone like Eugene Kilbane comes rushing out of a men's room with a statement like that, the possibilities are endless, and all unsavory. Instead of speculating, Jessica asked: "What?"
He leaned closer. It was clear he had just splashed on more cologne. A lot more cologne. Jessica nearly gagged. Kilbane whispered: "The crew that made Philadelphia Skin is still in town."
"And?"
Kilbane raised his glass, rattled the cubes. The bartender poured him a double. If the city was paying, he was drinking. Or so he thought. Jessica would cut him off after this one.
"They're shooting a new movie tonight," he finally said. "Dante Diamond is directing it." He gulped his drink, put the glass down. "And we're invited."