In the Age of Love and Chocolate (4 page)

I was walking up the steps that led to the club when a man emerged from the darkness and grabbed my hand. “Anya, where is Sophia?” He pulled me roughly behind one of the headless-lion statues that guarded the entrance.

It was Mickey Balanchine, my cousin and Sophia Bitter’s husband. He had lost weight and even in the dark, his skin seemed jaundiced. I hadn’t seen him since he and Sophia had abruptly left the city months ago. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I tried to wrest my hand from his, but he pulled me closer. I could smell his breath, which was sickly sweet and strangely repellent. It reminded me of wet leather.

“We were in Switzerland opening a new Bitter factory,” he said. “We were staying in a hotel, and one morning she went down to breakfast with her bodyguard, but she didn’t come back. I know you think she tried to kill you—”

I interrupted. “She did, didn’t she?”

“But she’s still my wife and I need to find her.”

“Listen, Mickey, you’re not making any sense. I haven’t seen you or her in months, and I have no idea where she is.”

“I think you kidnapped her in retaliation.”

“Kidnapped her? I wouldn’t kidnap her. I’m opening a business. I don’t have time to kidnap anyone. Believe it or not, I haven’t thought about her in months. I’m sure a woman like that has enemies other than me.”

Mickey pulled out a gun and poked it into my ribs near my heart. “You have every reason to wish Sophia ill, but the only way we can help each other is if you tell me where she is.”

“Mickey, please. I honestly have no idea. I honestly—” I started reaching for the machete that I kept in my backpack during the summer months. Without a coat, I couldn’t strap the weapon to my belt—too obvious. I had never gotten around to acquiring a sheath.

Another voice said, “Mickey Balanchine, welcome home. There’s a gun pointed at the back of your head so I suggest you drop your weapon.” Mr. Delacroix was pushing an object into Mickey’s skull, but even in the darkness, it didn’t look like a gun to me. It was a bottle of something. Wine? “Unless there’s somebody else with you, I suggest you drop the gun. You’re one against two, and I know Ms. Balanchine is probably itching to pull out that machete she thinks no one knows about.”

“I’m alone,” Mickey said as he slowly lowered his weapon.

“Good man,” Mr. Delacroix said.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” Mickey said. He coughed and the sound was deep and rattling. “I only want information.” Mickey set the gun on the ground, and I picked it up. Despite how this scene may appear, I was not particularly happy to have Mr. Delacroix’s intervention at that moment. I did not believe my cousin would shoot me nor did I want Mr. Delacroix involved with the Family in any way. Frankly, his hero act annoyed me. I saw through it. As I had known when I asked him to work for me, Mr. Delacroix was self-interested above all else, and it felt false for him to pretend otherwise. Besides, I did not require heroism—I had been the hero of my life for some time.

“If that’s true, come inside and discuss the matter like a civilized person,” Mr. Delacroix said to my cousin. “We’re all getting soaked, and you look as if you might get pneumonia if we stay out here much longer.”

“Okay,” he said.

Once the three of us were inside, I went to the guard’s station to tell Jones, who ran security for the club, that I needed him to stay with Mickey.

Our party now expanded by one, we went up the stairs and past the club space to my office. I unlocked the door and told Jones and Mickey to wait inside. I then went back out to the hallway to dismiss Mr. Delacroix for the evening. He handed me a thin towel that must have come from the club’s kitchen.

“You need personal security,” he said. “I’m not going to be around to rescue you—”

I interrupted him. “I’m glad you bring that up, Mr. Delacroix. I wanted to remind you that you were not hired for heroics.”

“Heroics?” he asked.
“Hired?”

“Hired,” I said. “You are my employee.”

“Your partner. I assume I understand the contracts
I
vetted.”

“My share in this business is far greater than yours and I don’t need your permission to do anything.”

He looked at me with an even expression. “Fine, Anya. What does madame require?”

“Legal counsel,” I said. “Nothing more.”

“So I understand my responsibilities … If I see you at night—let’s say it’s dark and stormy—and you are being attacked by a man I recognize as the
mafiya
cousin who may or may not have tried to murder you and your family, protocol dictates that I should”—he shrugged—“look the other way and let you die?”

“Yes, but—”

Now
he
interrupted me. “Good. I’m glad that’s cleared up.”

“I wouldn’t have died. I haven’t died yet. I even survived being poisoned, if you can believe that.”

“Be that as it may, as your legal adviser and
only in that capacity
—I wouldn’t want to overstep here—I think it would be useful for you to have security.”

“You’re taking this the wrong way. I’m saying we need boundaries. Our roles need to be defined. I appreciate your need to know everything, but didn’t we both agree that it was better for the club and for you if there were some matters, and particularly ones involving the Family, that I kept from you?”

He considered my question for a moment. “As you wish. What happened to that giant woman who used to follow you around?”

“I let Daisy go.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Since I’m trying to do everything legally, I didn’t think it made the best impression to have a bodyguard with me. And I still believe this. I won’t walk around the city with a bodyguard like a two-bit gangster. You know perfectly well that appearances matter.”

“You seem to have made up your mind,” he said. “I don’t agree, but I understand the rationale.”

“Good night, Mr. Delacroix.”

I went into my office. Mickey and Jones were crammed together on my love seat. I dried my hair with the towel Mr. Delacroix had given me, and then I handed the towel to Mickey so that he could use it, too.

“Is he your boyfriend?” Mickey nodded toward the hallway.

“Boyfriend? Are you kidding me? That’s Charles Delacroix. You must remember him from when he ran for district attorney back in ’83.”

“Right, him.”

“He lost and now he’s legal counsel for my club.”

“Fancy,” Mickey said.

“Boyfriend!” I was unnerved by the notion that anyone could think Charles Delacroix was my boyfriend. “That’s disgusting, Mickey. He’s probably twice my age, maybe more. He’s old enough to be my father. He’s Win’s father. Remember my ex-boyfriend Win?”

“Hey, I don’t judge how people live their lives.” His eyes were glazed and unfocused. I felt like he was on the verge of passing out, and I needed to get information before he did.

“Did you know about the plot to kill Natty, Leo, and me?” I asked.

“No, I was in the dark as much as you. By the time I found out Sophia was involved, it had already happened. She convinced me that we had to run or the Family would kill me. She said that you were the most famous and the most beloved Balanchine and that the Family would surely take your side and happily tie up the loose end that I represented. She insisted that everyone would think
I
had orchestrated the plot because I had the most to gain from getting rid of Leonyd Balanchine’s children. So I went with her. Maybe it was dumb, but I didn’t have time to think and she is still my wife. But less than a month later, an old friend told me that you had let Fats Medovukha take over the Family, and then I knew that Sophia must have lied.”

“Who else was involved?”

“Yuji Ono, obviously.” Mickey coughed so hard I worried he might choke. I thought I saw drops of blood on the towel I had given him. “They were in love, you know.”

There had been rumors, but all I knew for certain was that Yuji and Sophia had been schoolmates. “Anyone else?”

“No. Not that I know of. No one important.”

“Simon Green?”

“The lawyer?”

My father’s bastard,
I wanted to say.

“So many lawyers,” Mickey said. “Simon’s not the worst.” He coughed yet again and it sounded like his lungs were filled with marbles.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

“I think I caught something when I was overseas.”

“Something contagious?” Jones asked. My head of security rarely felt the need to add commentary.

“I don’t know,” Mickey said.

Jones scooted as far away from Mickey as the love seat would allow.

“Why are you looking for Sophia? If someone kidnapped her, you should leave well enough alone. Let her be gone,” I said.

“I have unfinished business with her. I need to see her.”

“Care to say what that business is?”

“If she hasn’t been kidnapped, I think she set me up. She got me out of New York City so that Fats could take over. Maybe she thought you would take over, I don’t know. I don’t understand any of it.” Despite the fact that rain had cooled the late-summer night, Mickey was covered in sweat. “She—” He coughed again, but this time he expectorated an enormous clot of bloody sputum that bounced across my desk like a rubber ball.

“Mickey, you’re not well,” I said, though that was more than evident. “Would you like a drink of water?”

Mickey did not, or I should say
could not
, reply. His eyes rolled toward the back of his head, and his body convulsed.

Jones looked at me without emotion. “Take him to the hospital, Ms. Balanchine?”

“I don’t see what choice we have.” I had no particular love for my cousin, but I did not want him to die in my office either.

*   *   *

Three days later, Mickey Balanchine was dead. He had outlived his father by less than a year. The official cause of death was an incredibly rare strain of malaria, but official causes of death are wrong all the time.

(NB: For many reasons, I suspect poison.)

III

I ENLIST THE HELP OF AN OLD FRIEND; INDULGE IN A MOMENT OF DOUBT; GRAPPLE WITH THE CONCEPT OF DANCING; KISS A HANDSOME STRANGER

“
T
HE DOCTORS’ CREDO IS DO NO HARM,”
Dr. Param said. “Well, a bit of chocolate never hurt a soul, and I’ll sign my name to that on as many prescriptions as you want.” He was sixty-two years old and losing his eyesight, which left him unable to perform surgery and thus willing to accept a position at the Dark Room. The seven other doctors I had hired had their reasons for working at my club, too—the most important reason and the one that they collectively shared was that they needed the money. Cacao could be used to treat everything from fatigue to headaches, from anxiety to dull skin. However, the unofficial policy of our club was to give prescriptions to everyone who was over eighteen and wanted one. For this service, we paid our doctors well and expected them not to scruple very much. I told Dr. Param he was hired. “This is a baffling world we live in, Miss Balanchine.” He shook his head. “I remember when chocolate became illegal—”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Param. I’d be superinterested in discussing this with you some other time.” The club was opening tomorrow and I had so much to do before then. I stood and shook his hand. “Please give your uniform size to Noriko.”

I went down to the newly constructed bar and then passed through it to the immaculate kitchen. I had never seen such a resplendent kitchen anywhere in Manhattan. It was like a place out of an early twenty-first-century advertisement. Lucy, the mixologist, and Brita, the Parisian chocolatier I had hired, were frowning over a bubbling pot. “Anya, taste this,” Lucy said.

I licked her spoon. “Still too bitter,” I said.

Lucy swore and emptied the contents of the pot into the double sink. They were working on our signature drink. We had mostly finished the menu, but I felt we should have a house beverage. I hoped it would be as distinctive as the drinks I’d had in Mexico. “Keep trying. You’re getting closer, I think.”

Behind them, I could see into the pantry where the shelves were stocked with weeks’ worth of supply from Granja Mañana, the cacao farm where I had spent the previous winter. In retrospect, I probably should have had the
abuelas
or at least Theo come out to teach my chefs how this was done.

I went back to the bar, where Mr. Delacroix waited for me. “Would you like to read the interview in the
Daily Interrogator
?” he asked.

“Not particularly.” Mr. Delacroix had insisted that we hire a publicist and a media strategist. I had given endless interviews over the past two weeks, and in that time I’d learned that Argon the Unaffected was not suited to talking about herself. “Is it bad?”

“Listen, it takes a while to be good at giving interviews.”

“You should have done all of them,” I said. He had given his share, but he had insisted that I be the face of the business. “I feel dumb talking about myself.”

“You can’t think of it that way. You aren’t talking about yourself. You’re letting people know that you’re involved with this great project.”

“But they dredge up parts of my life that I’m not comfortable discussing.” The difficulty was this: they felt that nothing was off limits while I, who was reserved by nature, felt that everything was. I did not wish to speak of my past—this included my mother’s murder, my father’s murder, my relatives in general, the time I’d spent at Liberty, the reason I’d been thrown out of school, the fact that my brother was in prison, the fact that my ex-boyfriend had been poisoned, and the fact that my other ex-boyfriend had been shot. “Mr. Delacroix, they want to unearth ancient history that has nothing to do with the club.”

“Ignore the questions. Discuss what you
do
want to discuss. That’s the secret, Anya.”

“Do you think the club’s going to flop because I’m awful at interviews?”

“No. It’s too good to flop. People are going to come. I believe in this enterprise. I do.”

I wanted to run my fingers through my hair but then remembered that I had no hair. The media strategist had thought it would be a good idea if I got a new look before the launch of the club. Gone were my curls, which I was told made me look like an unkempt preteen and not like the owner of—her words—“the hottest new nightclub in New York City!” Instead, I had a sleek, choppy bob, chemically relaxed and flat-ironed within an inch of its life. I did not mean to sigh, but I did.