This time, he was easy to find along Forty-Sixth Street. He was now disguised as a parking attendant and sat on a folding chair in front of a lot that was located a few doors away on the opposite side of the street from Emily's. She mustn't risk blowing his cover.
"Has The Eagle flown the nest?" she asked instead, out of the side of her mouth as she walked briskly past.
"Not yet," came the brief reply.
T.S. was startled to see that Lance Worthington had also brought along company. And cheap company at that, not exactly the type of window dressing that T.S. would recommend if he were trying to impress wealthy folk. The producer was ensconced at a table, firmly wedged between a pair of blonde bookends. They perched on each side of him, both staring into their drinks and dragging on cigarettes. The women were thin to the point of emaciation, at least in T.S.'s opinion, and the lack of flesh gave their faces a hard, unpleasant look. The tallest blonde had hair that tumbled wildly down her back in a style far too young for her face and wore a red sequined dress that fit her like a sausage skin. The other blonde, whose hair was cropped short in Louise Brooks-style fashion, wore an equally tight green sheath that shimmered in the restaurant's discreet lighting. Both the red and the green dress were held up by thin straps that threatened to break at any moment.
If Worthington had been dressed in a Santa Claus suit, the scene would have looked a lot like the opening of a poorly plotted porno movie.
"That's him with the oversexed elves," T.S. murmured as he helped Lilah through the entrance.
"I seem to be a bit overdressed," Lilah worried as she and T.S. feigned confused looks and pretended not to know who Lance Worthington was. It was a good effort, but probably not necessary. There were only two other tables with patrons in the entire joint.
"Perhaps you should take off your dress along with your coat and act like you intended to wear your slip all along," T.S. suggested. He was rewarded with a stifled giggle. They stood beside the bar, giving Worthington time to spot them and evaluate his prey. Meanwhile, T.S. was quietly returning the scrutiny.
Up close, he decided, the producer was even more repellent than he had suspected. It wasn't so much the way he looked, it was more the way he moved. His tongue unconsciously licked at his thin lips in greedy, lizardlike darts. His eyes were narrow and glittered unnaturally as they automatically zeroed in on Lilah's large diamond ring, then shifted to her expensive coat and on to her heavy gold necklace. T.S. could practically hear the producer calculating Lilah's net worth. Finished with Lilah, Worthington moved on to evaluate T.S. and it was all he could do to ignore the blatant scrutiny. The whole time he thought he was being subtle, Worthington was tugging unconsciously on his tiny right ear, sometimes stroking it as if for good luck.
T.S. had no desire to get close to the man, but duty called. He might know something about Emily's death. Or why every trace of her had disappeared from one of his apartments. He led Lilah to the edge of the producer's table and the blondes looked up in bored obedience.
"Worthington?" T.S. asked. "I'm T.S. Hubbert. You know Lilah Cheswick, I believe?"
The producer's mouth cracked in a smile that oozed sincerity and he leapt to his feet in fevered gallantry. "I've never actually had the pleasure of meeting Miss Cheswick," he admitted smoothly. "I've heard so much about you, however. What a great pleasure."
He extended a hand to Lilah and she bravely took it, pasting on a smile that was as phony as it was fitting for the bored society matron she had decided to be for the night. It was the first inkling that Lilah was actually going to enjoy their charade and it inspired T.S. himself to new heights. He extended a hand to Worthington and was rewarded with an appropriately manly handshake.
"And who are these charming young ladies?" T.S. asked, injecting an appropriately lascivious tone into his voice. More of that man-to-man stuff.
"This is my good friend, Miss Sally St. Claire," Worthington said enthusiastically. "You may recognize her from the movies." The tall blonde with too much hair nodded primly, then noisily slurped from her drink. T.S. didn't recognize her, but then she did have her clothes on—and