Grace Takes Off(16)
Irena shrugged. “He doesn’t mind.”
For the first time since I’d encountered Angelo, I began to feel empathy for the big man. He, Marco, and Gianfranco were nowhere to be seen. I assumed they were taking their dinner in a less opulent spot in the house. I wondered what life must be like for Angelo—for all of them. To be on call for Nico all day and then for Irena all night. No wonder he asked about me. Other than the temperamental chef, Antoinette, I might very well be the only female he’d met in a long time.
“Speak of the devil,” Irena said as Angelo strode into the room. She addressed him in Italian and he responded in the affirmative.
Dropping her spoon and making her apologies to her father and Bennett, she reached across the table to grab my hand. “Are you ready?” she asked. Behaving more like an enthusiastic twenty-year-old than a fortysomething woman, she sighed contentedly. “It’s been so long since I’ve visited the United States. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to talking with you. I want to know everything about what goes on there.”
I knew Bennett could read my mood. I also knew how much he appreciated the fact that I was allowing him this evening with Nico. I hoped that hard-smiling Cesare would take his leave sooner rather than later. Perhaps tomorrow, maybe even before we left, I’d find out more about the problem with the Picasso skull.
As I walked around the table, thanking Nico for a wonderful dinner and expressing my delight at spending the evening with Irena, I decided that while Bennett pumped Nico for information, there was nothing stopping me from digging into what Irena might know. I could do that. And maybe the evening wouldn’t be such a waste after all.
“What are we waiting for?” I said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 5
THE LAST TIME I WAS IN AN ESTABLISHMENT like this one, it was more than five years ago in New York City—and I’d left after ten minutes. Emberstowne didn’t offer this sort of pulsating neon experience, but Troppo was Irena’s destination of choice, and I’d resolved to be a good guest.
As I stepped from the cool, quiet evening into the stuffy, dark bar, the bass beat hit me full in the chest before the music reached my ears. “Wow,” I said, but my voice was lost in the throbbing rhythm. Bodies gyrated—mostly in pairs—atop a blinking pink-and-purple dance floor. There was a rock band playing far across the room. They were pretty good, at least to my ear, and although I couldn’t make out their lyrics, I could tell they were singing in English. That surprised me. I strove for a better look. Four men, leather clad and dark wigged, wore heavy eyeliner and studded dog collars around straining necks. I felt as though I’d stepped through a time warp. The music seemed familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on where I’d heard it before.
We wound our way through the crowds of drink-sipping non-dancers with me realizing, belatedly, that everyone there was at least ten years younger than I was. Which meant twenty years younger than Irena. I didn’t bother trying to talk—she wouldn’t have heard a word I said.
So much for quiet conversation.
She led the way through throngs of young people, some of whom glared at our intrusion, some of whom were too glassy-eyed and bland-faced to notice. Angelo followed us, and I got the impression that both he and Irena had a clear destination in mind. I hoped so. At this rate, there was no chance we’d find a table.
Through musky clouds of perfume, hot body odor, and the unmistakable, cloying scent of booze, we made our way through Troppo’s immense gathering space. At a corner as far from the front doors as we could have gone, Irena pushed open a heavy, black glass door, taking us into a blissfully clear hallway that smelled of chlorinated water and sounded like someone had left a faucet running.
A stone waterfall along the right, bathed in spotlights, illuminated the dark passageway with dim patches of hot pink. The door shut behind Angelo, bringing welcome quiet. Only a hint of the vibrating backbeat made its way through the thick glass.