The Temporary Detective

Chapter Forty-Three

Isobel squinted at the "X" and saw the smaller blue letters underneath spelling out Xavier's. So this was the place Nikki had told her about: the trendy, expensive new club with the chic celebrity, gay and transgender crowd.

The door was guarded by a man who looked like Mr. Clean. He had a headset wired around his bald pate, and he was clearly not to be messed with. Stan shouldered his way to the front of the crowd and approached Mr. Clean, who stared dispassionately at him, apparently unconcerned that his gender was open to interpretation. Mr. Clean pulled the microphone closer to his mouth and spoke for a moment. Then he nodded and let Stan pass by him into the club. As the door opened, the line of hopeful partiers surged forward, collective arms waving like a giant sea anemone. Mr. Clean set his legs in a wider stance and pushed against the people in front, sending the entire line staggering backwards. Nobody seemed to mind. This abuse appeared to be part of the game. The club door closed, swallowing Stan into the murky depths of Xavier's.

Undaunted, Isobel approached Mr. Clean.

"Hi, there. I'm with him. Um, her. The person you just let in."

Mr. Clean stared fixedly at her and pointed to the end of the line.

"No, really! That person—we're together. I'm meeting her here. Him. Her!"

Mr. Clean gave Isobel a slow once-over. "Name?" he said finally.

"Isobel Spice."

He tilted his mouthpiece again. "She-male, red hair, just came in. Ask if she's expecting someone named—"

Isobel's hand shot out and yanked the mouthpiece away from Mr. Clean's mouth. He was so startled that for a brief moment, he forgot to look menacing. "It's a surprise," she stammered. "I mean, she doesn't know—I don't want her to know..."

Mr. Clean glared at her. "Which is it?"

"Can't you just let me in?" Isobel asked, smiling her sweetest.

Mr. Clean pointed again to the end of the line. A girl who was trying not to look like she was freezing in her skimpy tank top and short skirt gave Isobel a shove.

"Come on, bitch! You can't just walk up!"

Isobel retreated to the corner. Great, she thought. I blew off my audition, and I can't even get in to spy on Stan. Now what? She paced up and down Greene Street and peered into the window of a romantic-looking Italian restaurant.

That was what she needed—reinforcements!

Delphi answered her call immediately.

"Where are you?" Isobel asked, without preamble.

"Just leaving work. I had to cover until Gina got in. Why?"

"I need you," Isobel said. Although brevity was not her forte, Isobel explained, as quickly as she could, the events of the afternoon.

"Please, please come down here," she begged. "I need a plan, and I need your help. I can't do this alone."

"Where are you again?"

Isobel gave her the address.

"Let me just run home and change, and I'll be right there."

"No! There isn't time. Just come straight here. Please?"

Isobel heard Delphi's exasperated sigh. "Okay, okay. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Isobel hung up and paced back to the corner. Mr. Clean was still doing his impression of a human fortress, and the line outside Xavier's seemed to have grown longer. There was nothing to do but take her place at the end of it.