He smiles. “Thanks. I’m happy to be with you as well.”
The valet pulls up in Harrison’s car. It’s a very nice vintage Cadillac with a long, boxy body.
“Where did you get this car?” I ask. “It’s gorgeous.”
He opens the passenger-side door for me. “Got it in an auction for a couple hundred bucks. Restored it in my garage every weekend for a year.”
“Wow. That’s impressive.” I get in the car.
“Not nearly as impressive as you.” He closes the passenger door, enters the driver’s side, and places the key in the ignition.
Our first stop of the night is the Noir Parlor, a moody, cinematic club themed around black-and-white film and television of the middle twentieth century. We pay the cover and walk in. The entire place is outfitted in grayscale walls, fixtures, and fifties-style furnishings so that it feels like you’ve walked into an episode of Leave it to Beaver. Even the waitstaff are wearing silvery makeup, grayed-out wigs, and black-and-white clothing to match the theme—the men in sleek black suits and the women in poodle skirts. A jazz trio plays in the corner, and even their instruments have been layered with dark gray skins to fit the vibe.
On the walls, old black-and-white sitcoms and Hitchcock films are projected, and spotlights sweep across the place as though they’re searchlights in a noir detective film.
“Wow,” Harrison says. “Your sister really doesn’t half-ass anything, does she?”
“Correct,” I murmur, taking in the monochromatic décor. The only indication that we haven’t gone completely colorblind is the patrons, some of whom are outfitted in colorful outfits. I’m glad I’m wearing this black-and-white gown, as I’ll blend in a bit more. Harrison’s more vibrant outfit will stand out like a sore thumb, but as long as my sister isn’t at the club tonight, no one should recognize us.
“Who’s in charge here when your sister is out?” Harrison asks.
I check my phone. “A woman named Lucille Vivienne.”
“Perfect. Do you know what she looks like?”
“No idea.”
Harrison nods and then gestures to the bar. “Let’s ask.”
We walk over to a long obsidian bar where a middle-aged gentleman is crafting black martinis and white Russians. He’s framed by shelves in concentric circles behind him holding top-shelf booze.
“Excuse me, sir,” I say as I take a seat. “We’re looking for Ms. Vivienne. Is she in tonight?”
The bartender—Griffith, according to his nametag—nods and points. “Yes. She’s over by the dance floor.”
Indeed, a tall, slender woman in a gray polka-dotted dress and light-gray hair tied in a bun—same silver makeup as the rest of the workers—is standing in front of the jazz trio.
“Thank you,” Harrison says. “Let’s go over.”
We cross to the dance floor, and I extend a hand to Lucille Vivienne. “Excuse me, Ms. Vivienne, my name is?—”
Her long-lashed eyes widen. “Bianca Montrose. Rouge’s sister!”
I blink. “You know me?”
She nods. “Everyone in this club is familiar with every member of the Montrose family, up to your grandfather Ruskin Montrose.”
I suppress an eye roll. “We’re just normal people, I promise.”
Lucille laughs. “I’m sure. There’s no denying that your sister casts a long shadow, though. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Ms. Montrose?”
“Please, call me Bianca.”
“Of course. And you must call me Lucille.”
“Thank you.” I look over my shoulder. “Is there somewhere where my friend and I can speak with you in private?”
Lucille blinks. “I assure you, Bianca. Everything is up to Rouge’s code here.”
