change.”
Fina took her beer and ran the gauntlet through the crowd. At the top of the stairs, she asked for Dante and watched as a neckless bouncer walked over to the largest table in the corner and spoke to a young man seated there. She’d heard of Dante Trimonti, but hadn’t had the pleasure of his acquaintance. He had a reputation as a businessman (read: pimp) on the rise who was ruthless, crazy, and in love with himself.
Dante was ensconced in the circular booth with two girls on either side, like a young Hugh Hefner. A discussion between him and the bouncer ensued, and long stares were leveled in Fina’s direction. She nursed her beer, and after a few minutes, the bouncer came back and beckoned her into the VIP area. As she approached the table, the four young women slid out and scattered like birds. She sat down at the edge of the booth and looked at Dante. He was probably in his early twenties and was handsome, but in an oily way. His hair was slicked back and his T-shirt clung to his pecs. He raised his arms and spread them across the back of the booth, providing a glimpse of his abs, which were hair-free and sculpted. He grinned at her.
“You like what you see?”
“I bet you work out a lot.”
“I don’t get this way by sitting on my ass.”
“Nope.”
Dante leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “You’re a little old for what I’m looking for.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I mean, maybe you could do the naughty soccer mom thing, but . . .” He squinted at Fina. “You got a nice rack.” He raised his glass in a toast to her boobs.
“Yeah, I’m actually not looking for a job.”
Dante frowned slightly. “What are you looking for?”
“Willie.”
“He’s not here, sweetheart.”
“Where is he?”
“None of your business.”
“Hmmm.”
“We’re done,” Dante said, and tipped his head toward a bouncer who began to approach the table.
“Hold on a sec,” Fina said, waving away the bouncer. “How about her?” She pulled out the family photo of Rand, Melanie, and Haley and placed it on the table. She pointed at Melanie.
Dante looked at the picture. There was the briefest flicker of a question mark on his face, which quickly morphed into a scowl.
“This isn’t the goddamn lost and found.” He pushed the picture away dismissively and scanned the room.
“Dante—can I call you Dante?—I’m asking you because you’re in the know. Everyone says that if something is going on, you know about it.” The young, dumb ones were highly susceptible to flattery, too.
He straightened up at the compliment and then reached down and adjusted himself. “Maybe you’re a cop.”
“I’m not.” Fina reached into her bag and pulled out her license. “I’m a private investigator.” She handed it to him, and he studied it for a moment.
“Josefina Ludlow. You related to that lawyer?”
“I’m related to all of them.”
“I know about your pops.”
“Yeah, everybody does. I’m not looking to make trouble for you, and I don’t care about your business.” Fina straightened the picture on the table. “This woman is missing. People care about her and are looking for her.”
Dante flicked the picture toward her with his fingernail. “Can’t help, Josefina Ludlow.”
Fina returned the picture to her bag. “Got it. If you see her . . .” She handed him her card.
He reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Now, why would I do that?”
“Because I know lots of people, and someday, I might be able to do you a favor.”
“You’d do a favor for a guy like me?”
Fina shrugged, pulled her hand away, and slid out of the booth.
Downstairs, she did a cursory search for Milloy, and in the process was cornered by an overeager BU student. Ahmad from Saudi Arabia invited her back to his penthouse apartment at the Ritz, where she could snort some blow and give him a blow job. Tough offer to turn down, but Fina took a rain check and left without
Learning to Kill: Stories