Brooklyn, New York

It was just after nine p.m. on Saturday, and already Downtown Abbey nightclub  was on steroids.

“Grab a table and get us a drink, Pookie,” Bianca Fiorelli shouted over her shoulder. “I gotta go to the ladies’.”  The trip into New York from Jersey always killed her bladder.

As she made her way through the crowd, Bianca caught the bartender’s eye.  With his dark hair and eyes, Thomas was a real hottie.  But she’d heard he didn’t like girls.  She’d also heard he’d sell his own mother, given the right opportunity.  Whatever. He was still a good source of information.

“Anybody hot in here tonight, Thomas?” she called out on her way to the bathroom.

“Not as I’ve seen,” he replied.   “But then, my standards are higher than yours.”

She laughed and flipped him off.

Five minutes later, Bianca joined Pookie at their table and took a sip of her Mojito.  She flicked her shoulder-length blonde hair – highlighted monthly at the Cut ‘n Chase Salon – over her shoulder.  “See anyone worth a hello?” she asked as she surveyed the strobe-lit dance crowd.

Pookie shrugged.  “Nah, just the usual losers and IT nerds.”  Her bracelets jangled as she sipped her Cosmo.  “Don’t stare,” she warned as she set her glass down, “but check out the guy who just came in.”

Bianca followed Pookie’s gaze.  The newcomer was tall, with blond hair and an easy smile.  He wore a dark gray suit with a red tie and paused at the bar to order a drink.  “Ooh, he’s mine,” she breathed.

Pookie snorted.  “As if!  He’s way out of your league.  Besides, I saw him first.”

Just then O’Brien, their server, brought a fresh round of drinks, and Bianca leaned forward and caught the waitress’ arm.  “Who’s the blond guy in the suit?”

O’Brien glanced at him.  “That’s Matthew Crawford,” she replied as she set their drinks down.  “He’s a lawyer.”  She sniffed.  “You haven’t got a snowball’s chance in hell with a man like him.  Either of you.”

But Bianca pushed her chair back, determination gleaming in her eyes.  “We’ll see about that.”

Just then, a slim young woman clad in a black silk dress approached Matthew.  Her dark hair was twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck.  Her skin was pale and perfect.  They spoke for a moment; then he led her onto the dance floor.

“That’s Mary Van Landingham, the newspaper publisher’s daughter,” O’Brien said.  She smirked and added, “Sorry, ladies, but neither of you can compete with the likes of her.  I rest my case… as the lawyers would say.”  Still smirking, she left.

♦♦♦  ♦♦♦  ♦♦♦

“I must say, I never expected to see you here, Mary.”  Matthew was glad this was a slow dance; he welcomed the excuse to hold Miss Van Landingham in his arms.

“I could say the same.”  She looked up at him coolly.  “This isn’t your usual sort of place, surely?  Or did you need to let off steam after filing suit again my father?”

“We filed suit against his newspaper, Mary, not him.”  His face darkened.  “As if hacking Mr. Bates’ phone wasn’t bad enough, he refused to support the Widows and Orphans fundraiser drive.  Then he cornered Daisy and Anna in the linen closet and threatened to fire them both unless they had a three-way with him.  Evidently your mother doesn’t keep him satisfied in the bedroom. I did what I had to do.”

Mary pulled away abruptly.  “Yes, you’re always so disgustingly noble, aren’t you, Matthew?”

“One of us has to be.”

“Thank you for the dance.”  Mary left and made her way alone to the bar.

Matthew stared after her, torn between following her or returning home.  Damned, bloody-minded Van Landinghams-

“Mr. Crawford?  Wanna dance?”

He turned to see a girl with a hideous orange fake tan and glitter-studded fingernails smiling up at him.

“I – er…” he began, eyeing her doubtfully, “I really don’t think so-”

“Oh, c’mon!” she coaxed as she grabbed his hand. “My name’s Bianca. My dad’s in vermin management.” She giggled. “That means he’s-” she curved her fingers into quotation marks “-‘in the Business.’ So you’d better dance with me.”

Matthew frowned.  “He’s ‘in the business?’  I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You know – the Cosa Nostra!  The Sicilian Mafia!  The Mob!”  She lowered her voice.  “But don’t tell anyone.”

Suddenly perspiring profusely, Matthew followed her onto the dance floor.

“Look at those two,” Thomas muttered, and jerked his head scornfully towards Bianca and Matthew.  “She’s here every Saturday, with her fake and bake tan and those tacky acrylic nails.”  He pulled a pint and handed it over to a customer, then pocketed the five-dollar tip.  He turned back to O’Brien. “She’s looking for a lawyer or a stockbroker.”  He snorted.  “She’ll be lucky to land a mechanic.”

O’Brien eyed Bianca with unconcealed contempt.  “Those Jersey girls wouldn’t know a man of quality if they tripped over one.  Care to join me outside for a smoke?  William said he’d cover the bar for you.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”  So saying, Thomas flung off his apron and followed O’Brien out back.

 ♦♦♦  ♦♦♦  ♦♦♦

Mary sat at one end of the bar and sipped her second white wine.  She wasn’t sure why she’d come here; it wasn’t her usual thing, going to a nightclub.  But it was pleasant to be a face in the crowd, instead of the closely-observed daughter of wealthy philanthropist and newspaperman, Arthur Van Landingham.

She just hadn’t expected to see Matthew here.

She watched him dancing with a blonde girl, and she felt a twinge – just a tiny one – of jealousy.  It was a pity his firm had filed suit against her father’s newspaper.  She liked Matthew.  He was smart and attractive and, under other circumstances, she’d be more than willing to consider him as a suitor.  But family loyalty – and loyalty to her father and his tabloid empire – came first.

Her attention was caught by a dark, olive-skinned man at the other end of the bar.  His eyes met hers.  He looked foreign, exotic; nothing like the other men here.  And he was staring at her quite boldly.

He smiled; she smiled back.  Why not? she thought recklessly.  Why shouldn’t she have a bit of fun?  She was tired of being the perfect daughter of a decidedly imperfect man.  Tonight was the night to let her hair down, so to speak.

When he appeared next to her and held out his hand, she took it.  She followed him, aware as she did that she was slightly drunk, but she was beyond caring.  He led her past the bar and outside, to an alley behind the nightclub.  He pulled her hard against him and kissed her, and she kissed him back.

Desire flared in her, and she was barely aware of the rough brick against her back, or the sound of traffic from the street beyond; the only sensation was that of his lips and tongue against hers, his body pressing hers into the wall, and the need, the fierce, demanding need…

Suddenly he seized up, and his eyes rolled back in his head.  A guttural noise escaped from his throat.

Mary let out a gasp of fright.  “Are you all right?  What is it?  What can I do?  My God-”

But he collapsed to the ground, and even before she knelt down, she was certain he was dead.

She stood up, her legs shaking.  He needed medical attention.  But if she fetched someone, the entire world – including her father – would know she’d come to this alley with a complete stranger, like one of those dreadful orange-skinned Jersey girls.  She’d be all over the papers… the scandal would be ugly… she’d be kicked out of the Princeton Club and the Down Town Association, not to mention the local chapter of the Junior League.  Her father would never forgive her.

Mary hesitated only a moment.  She slipped out the back gate to the street and hailed the first taxi she saw.

 ♦♦♦  ♦♦♦  ♦♦♦

“Now if that doesn’t take the cake,” Thomas said as he emerged from the shadows with O’Brien a moment later, his cigarette in hand.  He stared down at the dead man.  “Looks like Miss Mary’s landed herself in a spot of trouble.”

“Well, don’t just stand there,” O’Brien hissed.  “We have to report this!”

“Wait.”  He reached out and gripped her by the arm.  “We’ll say we came out here to smoke and we found him like that.  No need to mention Mary Van Landingham.”

It was O’Brien’s turn to stare.  “And why not?  You can’t mean to let her get away with what she did – leaving this poor man to die alone in an alley-?”

“Oh, don’t worry.  She won’t get away with it,” Thomas said thoughtfully.  “Not unless she pays me a fat lot of money to keep it quiet, that is.”

Just then, the man on the ground stirred, and with a groan, he sat up.  His eyes focused on Thomas, and narrowed.  “A fat lot of money, is it?  That’s what you charged me for those dodgy drugs you sold me earlier.  I knew I shouldn’t have bought those Quaaludes from you, you weasel-faced little bastard-”

Thomas went pale.  He saw his dreams of endless sums of money from Miss Mary going up in smoke.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a wad of bills, then flung them at the man.  “Here’s your money back, and be damned to you.  Now get out of here before I call the police.”

The foreigner scowled, but gathered up his money, and left.

“There’s another one of your schemes blown to hell,” O’Brien observed, and crushed out her cigarette.

“I wouldn’t say that.”  Thomas took a last drag of his smoke and tossed it aside.  “We know he’s alive and well.  But Miss Mary doesn’t.”  He smiled.  “And what she doesn’t know won’t hurt us. But it’ll cost her plenty.”