Dean waved away the thought. “I did this for my dear friend, not for a tax break.”
“Clare, I want you to meet the man who saved my life. Clare Cosi. This is Constantine Tassos—Dean for short.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “So you run a club?”
“Oh, yes.” Dean nodded, handing over a business card in a smooth, practiced gesture. “The Blue Mirage in Bensonhurst. Actually I own several catering halls in Brooklyn and Queens, and I have two other Mirage clubs. The Purple Mirage in North Jersey—”
“And the Red Mirage in Astoria?” (It was right there on his card.)
Dean nodded. “That’s correct.”
He was a compact man, a little shorter than Val, with not an ounce of spare weight on his slight form. His eyes were dark and intense under unruly ebony curls. I guessed the man’s age around forty, but it was only a guess. His smile looked whiter than bleached sheets, contrasting strikingly with his tanned face. Florida golf courses or a day spa’s tanning booth? My guess was the latter, given the manicured state of his fingernails when he’d handed over his card.
“Are you a patron of my Queens establishment, Ms. Cosi?”
“I’ve seen the place,” I replied, recalling the garish neon reflected in the wet black pavement the night Caffè Lucia went up in flames. “I met one of your managers.” (The jerk who called my car a junk heap.) “And he was kind of . . . pushy.”
“Ah, well, the business can do that to you. There’s rough trade around every nightclub and tavern. I’m compelled to operate with managers who know how to handle many situations, some of them ugly.” His Clorox smile returned. “I hope the experience wasn’t too unpleasant.”
“Not at all.”
“Listen, Dean,” Val said, squeezing his arm. “I need to know how soon we’ll have sound.”
“It’s probably ready,” he replied. “Let’s go check.”
Val turned to me. “Sorry, Clare, I’ve got to get back to work—”
“I understand. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tassos.”
“The pleasure was mine,” he replied, politely shaking my hand.
I watched Val and Dean walk toward the podium. They paused for a moment, while Dean lit a cigarette for Val with a silver Ronson lighter. Then he lit one for himself. Smoking together, they strolled in the direction of the stage. I noticed Dean’s hand rest familiarly on Val’s waist. She did nothing to shrug him off.
After Val’s tirade, I assumed James was having the affair. Now I wondered if my assumptions were misguided. Or maybe it was both partners finding sympathetic ears and arms outside of their unhappy marriage.
How sad it all seemed . . .
On my way back to the Blend’s kiosk, prerecorded music blared, signaling the sound system was working again. A moment later the master of ceremonies took to the podium. Corey Parker, action-hero star of Six Alarm! a show about the trials and travails of the hunky men on the FDNY, was greeted by applause and whistles from the women—and a few gay men.
Finally I moved on and spied Matt standing at the door of a dingy white rental van that had seen better days.
Dante was just walking away from the truck’s open side doors with an arm full of paper products. Matt doubled-checked the interior to make sure it was empty.
My ex had changed out of his morning sweats, into blue jeans, retro sneakers, and a black crew-neck sweater. He’d shaved and worked on his hair, too, and as I approached, I detected the musky citrus scent of the latest French cologne—compliments of his new wife, no doubt.
“Thanks for the delivery. I’m sure Esther was frantic,” I said.
I think my eyes bugged just then, because Matt stared at me with alarm.
“Clare? What’s the matter?”
My attention was fixed on a sleek gold car across the street, and the two people chatting beside it. One was Oat Crowley, still puffing up a storm. The other was a woman with short, slicked-back, salon-blond hair. I felt chilly just looking at her thin capri pants and four-inch metallic gladiator sandals—such was the woman’s chosen attire for this blustery March day, along with a silk scarf over a tight blouse with the kind of plunging neckline more appropriate for a night of clubbing than a day in the park. She was laughing, too, which is why it took me a moment to recognize her. The last time I saw this piece of work, she looked like she’d been sucking sour pickles.