The Ghost and the Femme Fatale by Alice Kimberly Read Free Book Online Page A

words hit me the second I walked into that place: money and masculinity . The wainscoting and tables were dark, heavy wood. The walls and tablecloths were the forest green of a gentleman’s club pool table. And the chandeliers and crystal decanters looked heavy, leaded, and very expensive.
    Middle- aged waiters in bow ties, white shirts, and long white aprons moved silently around the buzzing room, serving craggy- faced men in three- piece suits, most of whom were smoking cigars and cutting up thick slabs of red meat with huge steak knives.
    The leather booths around the edges of the room were occupied by couples. Almost every woman was young and beautiful; almost every man paunchy, graying, and clearly much older.
    One particularly creepy May–December couple caught my eye. Not because of the man, but because of the woman—or, more precisely, the girl . She was very young: seventeen, maybe even sixteen. With the heavy makeup on, I doubted very much she was the man’s daughter or niece. And when her fingers began stroking the back of her dinner companion’s hand, I threw that theory right out the window—while simultaneously trying very hard not to throw up.
    The teen was no raving beauty, more like the girl next door with caramel- colored curls and a dimple in her chin. Her face also looked familiar for some reason, but I just couldn’t place it. I could place the silver gown, though: It was the exact satin dress that Hedda Geist had worn in the opening scene of her famous noir picture Wrong Turn .
    “What is this place?” I whispered to Jack as we moved across the bare oak floor.
    “The Porterhouse.”
    “A steak house?”
    “For our purposes, it’s a stake out house.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Take a seat,” ordered Jack, gesturing to the bar stool.
    I sat and Jack sat next to me. There was only one other couple, at the far end of the polished oak bar, and the young bartender came over to us right away. “What can I get you both to night?”
    “I’ll have scotch, straight up, and—” Jack turned to me. “Tell the man what you’re drinking, baby.”
    I tapped my chin in thought. I wasn’t a drinker per se, but we did ask to sit at the bar so a soft drink would look conspicuous. “I know,” I finally said, “the perfect drink for this occasion would be a Vesper.”
    The bartender’s brow wrinkled. “A what - sper?”
    “A Vesper,” I said, incredulous the bartender at such an upscale restaurant wasn’t familiar with the most famous cocktail recipe in the En glish- speaking world.
    “What’s in it?” he asked.
    “It’s a martini,” I told him, “made with three parts gin, one part vodka, and one- half part Lillet.”
    “Lillet?” The bartender frowned. “Not vermouth?”
    “The Lillet adds more sweetness and tropical aromas than dry vermouth,” I informed the man. “Or at least that’s what I remember from Casino Royale . And, of course, it should be shaken, not stirred, served in a wineglass, and garnished with a lemon twist.”
    “We stir martinis here, ma’am. Nobody shakes them.”
    I threw up my hands. “James Bond does!”
    The bartender glanced at Jack. “Is that you?”
    “Of course he’s not James Bond. Bond’s the most famous Cold War spy in the world.” I glanced around. “What year is this anyway?”
    Jack visibly stiffened.
    “It’s 1948, ma’am,” the bartender replied, eyeing me a little closer. “You that blotto?”
    “Uh- oh,” I said, realizing I’d been off by a few years. The first Ian Fleming Bond novel wouldn’t appear until 1953. “I believe I’ve made a mistake—”
    “Listen, buddy,” Jack quickly told the bartender, “just give the doll a martini. A gin martini, stirred , and put the damn thing in a martini glass . Thanks.”
    The bartender walked away, shaking his head, and Jack glared at me.
    “What?” I asked.
    “Don’t you know the meaning of cov er ? You’re supposed to blend in, keep a low profile, be a fly on the