The Lost Angel by Adam C. Mitchell

Author:Adam C. Mitchell [Mitchell, Adam C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Hard-Boiled, Teen & Young Adult, 90 Minutes (44-64 Pages), Literature & Fiction
Amazon: B01CRD23BQ
Published: 2016-03-21T16:00:00+00:00

PART Three

The taxi pulled up at the Lost Angel Club. Jack paid the driver and then looked up. He had to admit the place was hitting all the right notes. He headed up the black and white marble steps to the stained-glass doors. A vulgar Venus was etched in the glass, and a white stone naked angel stood on either side. They were a little gaudy but at the same time seemed to fit the look of the place.

Jack crossed a checkerboard tiled lobby. He passed a coat checkroom where a clueless dame served patrons with little more than a smile and just a hint of cleavage, through some pine doors and into the club itself. Small round tables dotted the room with a corner stage at the far end. The room was dark and smelt of hooch and wine, red velvet drapes hung on the walls, making the room seem smaller. Everything was lit by cheap vase-like table lamps and wall uplighters. The small bar was full of barflies and even had a call girl propping up a soon-to-be sloshed Texan.

Jack made his way through the maze of tables to the bar. He sat on a high stool and scanned out the scene. Music filled the room. It came from a three-piece house jazz band of sax, double bass, and piano. Behind the long wooden bar was a thin young man with cropped black hair and a bum chin. He wore a crisp white shirt, black pants, and a black bow tie. He was in a world of his own as he polished a wine glass, staring into space. Jack shouted at him, jolting the barman back to the real world. The young man’s black greased hair shone in the bar mirrors as he placed a glass in front of Jack. “What will it be, sir?”

“Whiskey. Two of them. No ice,” Jack said. “I’m looking for Victor. You seen him?”

With his back to him, the barman pointed to a corner table then placed two whiskeys in front of him. Jack dropped the money on the bar as he stepped off the stool and made his way through the crowded club, drinks in hand.

Victor studied the private investigator as he closed in on him. He looked totally out of place in the club. Their eyes locked and Victor made a simple hand movement of welcome and pulled a fake, pained smile. “Jack, Jack. Welcome, welcome. Long time no see, my friend.”

Jack placed the drinks on the crisp white tablecloth next to a garish centrepiece. Some kind of bird, he thought. Their eyes never left each other’s. Neither trusted the other, but Jack knew how to play the game; small talk then down to business.

“Well then, Jack. What brings you to my club?”

“Your club?” The question hung in the air like a bad smell. He never got a reply. Jack removed his hat and placed it on the table. “Your note. The job? I need details. Anything you’ve got.”

Renetti smiled. “So you’re interested then?”

“If I’m the only one looking and the money’s right.

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