SIXTEEN HOURS LATER, I still have Margo Lane on my brain. Obviously, she was beautiful. And from what Lamont says, she was a really brainy investigator. I also know that she was way more than just a “friend and companion.” That’s just a line from a radio script. I can tell Lamont really, really loved her. I mean, loves her. Present tense. Because he swears she’s still alive.
That’s why we’re on our way to some secret club, where he thinks he might find her. Margo loves nightlife, he says. But there’s another reason for going there too.
“Trust me,” says Lamont. “You need this.”
We’re in a part of town where everybody carries a knife or a bat for protection. Sometimes both. Especially at two in the morning.
“It’s right over there,” says Lamont.
The next thing I know, we’re going down a dark staircase.
“Welcome back!” A voice from the bottom of the stairwell. I see a woman who looks tough enough to break me in half. She gives Lamont a nod.
“You’ve been here before?” I ask him.
“Just briefly,” says Lamont. He pushes the door open and BAM! It all hits me at once. The heat. The music. The smell. The cellar is tiny. I don’t think two more people can even fit. But Lamont steers me in. As soon as we clear the door, the crowd closes around us. No turning back.
The noise level is insane. The only light in the whole place is pointed at a dinky little stage. I have no idea what’s going on.
“I hope this isn’t another healthcare debate!” I shout into Lamont’s ear.
“Just watch!” he shouts back. I can see him scanning over my head, searching the crowd.
The music dips a few decibels and a man’s voice blasts out.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Please put your hands together for the most dangerous man in New York City—Danny Bartoni!”
A sturdy young man hops up on stage with a handheld microphone. The crowd claps and howls like crazy. He gives a little bow, which shows off the bald spot on the top of his head. He doesn’t wait for the noise to die down. He just beams a big smile and plunges right in, pacing back and forth on his little stage.
“Thank you!” he shouts. “And welcome to the end of civilization as we know it!” Loud cheers. “My name is Danny Bartoni and I’m here to make you all forget your arrest records for the evening!” Big laughs. He stops in midstride and stares at a patron sitting near the edge of the stage. He leans down.
“Sir, it’s okay—you don’t need to wear your mask in here!” He pauses. “Oh. Sorry. You’re not wearing a mask! Must be the lights!” His victim is either a good sport or too drunk to care. He laughs along with everybody else.
“So let’s get started!” Bartoni says. “Anybody do anything illegal today?”
The crowd goes wild. He lowers his voice. “I mean, other than being here.” More laughs and whistles. Whoever this guy is, the audience loves him.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing and hearing. For one thing, everybody is drinking, which means the booze must be stolen, since the government controls the supply. I’ve never seen or smelled or stepped in this much beer in my life.
For another thing, this guy Bartoni is making fun of the government—one joke after another about stupid police, filthy streets, and crooked officials. Is he crazy?
Now he’s holding up a poster with two photographs. My God! One photo is of Gismonde. The other is of Sonor Breece, the chief of staff. “And how about these two guys?” Bartoni says. “Beauty and the Beak, right?” The crowd noise dies down. People look at each other. There’s an uncomfortable shift—like maybe he’s going too far. You don’t mock the two most powerful people in the world. You just don’t. But he’s not stopping.
“World President Gismonde!” Bartoni says, patting his own wiry head. “Can I please have your hair-care secret?” Murmurs and mumbles. “And Sonor Breece!” he shouts. “When this guy loses his can opener, no problem! He just uses his nose!”
BANG!
A bright flash and loud explosion from the back of the room. Then screams. I see lights and helmets and guns pouring through the back door.
Oh, shit.
Bartoni drops the mic and tosses the poster aside. Fans reach up to pull him off the stage. But a squad of TinGrins are already on him.
Somebody cuts the power. The place goes totally dark. The screams get louder. Gunshots blast into the ceiling. Lamont grabs my arm and pulls me forward. I feel strong hands around my waist. I try to wrestle away. A woman’s voice says, “Don’t fight me. Just move!” It’s the lady bouncer, pushing me toward the entrance. Then another blast blows the front door off its hinges. More TinGrins pour in.
In a split second, we change course. I’m in a human sandwich between Lamont and the bouncer lady. We push through the crowd and end up behind the bar. There’s a hatch in the floor with a big metal ring. The bouncer pulls it up. I see stairs leading down.
“Go!” she says. A rifle pokes over the bar, pointed straight at me. The bouncer grabs the barrel and shoves it away. A spray of bullets hits a mirror. I can feel Lamont right behind me. The hatch closes with a thud over our heads.
The passage below is narrow and pitch black. We work our way through for about twenty yards—heads down, breathing hard—and then, we’re out, somewhere behind the club. We can see police vehicles left and right. But we slip straight through.
“Keep moving,” says Lamont. “Do not look back.”
A half block down, we back into a doorway.
“You okay?” asks Lamont.
“No holes. You?”
“Fine.”
We peek around the corner. All clear. We head back uptown, walking fast.
I can still feel the adrenaline pumping.
“I’m sorry,” says Lamont. “It was stupid to put you in that kind of danger.”
That’s true, of course. On the other hand, it was pretty exciting! It made me feel alive.
“No, you were totally right to bring me,” I say. “I needed that.”