Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Im Falle eines Falles ❯ Chapter 3 ( Chapter 3 )

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The Case of the Missing Exchange Student

Part 3

Carlos eyed the tall, tawny-haired man who had just settled down at one of the tables in his section. It was still relatively early and the club was only about half full. The olive-skinned waiter had been working at the Risqué for long enough to know most of the regular patrons by name. And as far as he could tell, the man was a new customer. He was good looking, and expensively dressed, Carlos was sure he would remember if he had seen him before. He waited for a few minutes before the approached the table. “Good evening, Sir. My name is Carlos; can I get you something to drink?”

“Thank you,” the ginger-blond man answered. “I think I'll have a cognac; a glass of Vieille Réserve if you have it.”

“Of course, Sir,” the waiter nodded. “I'll be right back.” He went to the bar to retrieve the drink and returned only a few moments later. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I'm not sure…perhaps. You see, this is my fist time here. A friend recommended the club to me. He mentioned that you offer a little more than just drinks and dancing,” he customer replied. “I was looking for some, shall I say more personal, entertainment, if you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean, Sir. I assume that your friend is one of our members. Here at the Risqué, we offer host services exclusively for members.”

“Is that so?” Treize asked. He was rather satisfied with the way thing were going so far. “So, what does it take to become a member?”

“We do offer an annual or life time membership.” Carlos explained.

“And how much would the lifetime membership fee be?”

Treize raised one eyebrow as the waiter named an almost astronomical sum. “I wasn't planning on buying the whole club?”

Carlos smiled politely at his joke, even though he had probably heard it countless times before. “I assure you, Sir, you will receive the best services possible for your money. And you have nothing to loose. If you are for any reason not happy, the club is offering a full refund within 30 days. Our members' satisfaction is our greatest concern.”

“Very well,” Treize smirked as he whipped out a credit card. “You have made me quite curious.”

The waiter bowed slightly as he accepted the card. “I'll be right back, Sir. I'm sure you will not be disappointed, Sir. You won't be able to find any better hostesses anywhere.”

“You might be right, and I'm sure your hostesses are all very lovely and classy ladies, however I'm more interested in some male companionship if that's possible.”

“Of course, Sir. That not a problem at all.”

#####

The Risqué was located at the edge of what was called the `Entertainment District', in a large, recently renovated, two-story building. Only few outsiders knew that when Roberto Catorce remodeled the club he also added a 3rd level below the ground, from where he was conducting most of his business. The underground level held everything from his private office, over quarters for his men, to a high-tech surveillance room that allowed him to monitor his club closely.

Catorce was in his office reading through last month's business records when his cell phone rang. “Yes!?”

“This is Carlos, I'm sorry to disturb you, Boss, but I have a new customer who wants to become a member…”

“Hold on.” Phone in hand, the tall Italian rose from behind his desk and walked into the surveillance room. “Which one?” he asked, as he stepped closer to the main monitor.

“Table 17, section A,” Carlos replied.

“Section A, Table 17, give me a close up,” Catorce told the man handling the controls. A few moments later the camera zoomed in on a tall, man with reddish blond hair.

“I checked his credit card. He seems to be loaded. The card that he gave me has no limit on it, and when he opened his wallet I noticed a membership card to the south Bay Yacht Club.”

“Alex!” the boss gestured for the blond assassin, who was playing poker in the other room, to come over. “Does he look familiar?”

Alex shook his head. “Not to me.”

“Alright,” Catorce decided. “I'll have him checked out. For tonight give him the standard treatment.”

“As you wish, Boss.”

Catorce terminated the connection and slipped the phone back into his packet. He was just about to walk back into his office when Alex, who was still studying the screen, suddenly spoke. “Wait a second, go back…more to the right… further, further…the table by the window.”

“Something wrong?” the Italian asked as he turned his attention back to the monitor.

“The long-haired blond; the one flirting with the waitress…” Alex gestured at the screen.” “That's him.”

“Him?”

“The guy who was trailing Brook the other day.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Alex confirmed. “I wonder what he is doing here. This can't be a coincidence.”

“Hmm...” For a moment Catorce seemed lost in thought, then his eyes narrowed and a dark smirk crossed his face. “Let's find out, shall we. Frank, Hawley let the gentlemen know that I would like to speak to him in private. And I won't take no for an answer.”

###

The tawny-haired detective was sipping his cognac while watching the other people in the club. Milliardo was sitting at a table across the room, flirting shamelessly with the waitress. Treize tried to remind himself that it was just part of the job, but he couldn't help but fell that his partner was enjoying himself a little too much.

“Hello, I'm Marcello, Carlos said that you are looking for some company?!”

Treize turned his head and gazed at a young man in his early twenties, with black hair, olive skin, and large brown eyes. Marcello was a beauty, in every sense of the word. He was dressed stylishly in a pair of loose, black trousers and a white, half-buttoned silk shirt. A large pendant on a golden necklace drew attention to his perfectly sculpted chest. The young man flashed a flawless set of pearly white teeth as he handed Treize his credit card back.

“You should receive your membership card within a week,” he explained. “Would you like to say down here, or should we go upstairs where it is a little more quiet… and private.”

“Upstairs sounds good,” Treize decided. “Especially if that means we won't have to yell over the music to have a conversation.”

Marcello nodded. “Shall we go then?”

As he rose, the tawny-haired man exchanged a quick look with Milliardo across the room. He briefly touched his ear, signaling that they would stay in tough, and his partner nodded in acknowledgement. Treize followed the host to an elevator.

“Only members are allowed upstairs,” Marcello explained as he swiped his club card through an automatic lock. “You will need your membership card to use the elevator.”

The doors opened with a slight swoosh, and Treize entered first. It took only a few second to reach the club's upper floor. The atmosphere here was very different. The music was subtle and soft. The lights were dimmed; candles burning on every table, providing an intimate but also discret impression. It was very obvious that people didn't come up here to dance or party.

There was a bar to the left. Spread throughout the room were about a dozen tables, with comfortable looking, horseshoe shaped leather loveseats instead of chairs. Marcello stirred Treize to an empty table in the back of the room. “Should I get us something to drink?” he asked as the older man settled down, in one of the soft leather seats.

Treize nodded. “How about a good bottle of Champagne?”

“I'll be right back.”

The tawny haired man let his gaze wander; taking the opportunity to study his surroundings. He noticed a door near the bar which was watched over by a bouncer, and he couldn't help but wonder where it might lead, and why it was necessary to `guard' it, considering that this was a member only area. Perhaps beyond this door lay what he was looking for. In that case he would have to find a way to get past that doorman.

###

Only a few moments after Treize and his `callboy' had disappeared into the elevator Milliardo noticed two tall, heavy build men approaching his table.

“Sir,” the taller of the two, who looked like a gorilla dressed in a tailor-made suit, spoke. “Please follow us. Mr. Catorce would like to talk to you.”

“Is that so?” the blond detective asked. “Then why don't you go and tell this Mr. Catorce, whoever he might be, that I'm busy right now, enjoying myself. If he wants to talk to me, he is welcome to join me. I'll even buy him a drink.”

“I think you don't understand the situation. This wasn't simply a polite invitation.” The man opened his jacket a little, just far enough that Milliardo could see the gun he was carrying in his shoulder holster. “You will follow us.”

“You realize that that thing can do a lot of damage in a crowed place like this, don't you?” Milliardo gestured at the weapon.

“Probably,” the gorilla confirmed. “But you wouldn't be around anymore to worry about that.”

“Alright, you have got a point there,” the blond confirmed. “But I hope you don't mind if I finish my drink before we leave? I paid for it after all.”

When the detective didn't get an answer he picked up the glass and finished his whiskey, deliberately slow, before he rose to his feet.

The two musclemen let Milliardo into the back part of the club and into an elevator that took them down to an underground level. As soon as the elevator doors closed one of the goons pulled out his gun. “Don't even think about doing anything stupid,” he warned.

The doors reopened only a few second later, and the blond detective was prodded into a large room where at least half a dozen men were already waiting for them.

Milliardo let his gaze wander until his eyes fell upon a tall, dark-haired man who was sitting in one of the black leather chairs, smoking. One didn't have to be a genius to realize that he was the one in charge. Milliardo recognized the man instantly, after all he had checked up on the club and his owner before coming to the Risqué.

Roberto Catorce, an Italian born businessman who owned several clubs and casinos. Rumors had it that he was involved in everything from money laundry and drug trafficking to prostitution, but so far the police wasn't even able to give him a traffic ticket.

“Is this a way to treat a paying customer?” the blond asked, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Don't expect me to recommend this place to any of my friends.”

Catorce didn't answer, but his eyes darkened for a brief moment. He took another puff from his cigarette before crushing it slowly and meticulously in a large crystal astray. “Search him,” he ordered curtly.

Instantly Milliardo was seized from behind; his arms twisted roughly onto his back by two of the goons, while a third, bald-headed thug started to frisk him. He pulled out Milliardo's cell phone and wallet, and handed it off to his boss before he continued to pat down the blond.

“Hey, watch your paws,” Milliardo protested at one point. “I'm not that kind of a guy; I don't let just anybody touch me like that.”

“Shut up,” Baldy snapped at him.

Meanwhile Catorce was flipping casually through the wallet. A complacent smile crossed his face when he found Milliardo's ID and business license. “A Private Detective?!”

He threw the wallet onto the table and rose slowly. Baldy stepped aside as the boss walked over to his captive. “So tell me, Mr. Peacecraft,” he asked. “What's a private detective doing at my club?”

Milliardo shrugged, unimpressed by the threat in Catorce's eyes. “Believe it or not, but even private detective's have a social life. I came here for a few drinks, because I heard good things about this place. But to be honest, I think this club is highly overrated. The drinks are too expensive, the music is too loud and the customer service is plain and simple lousy. I think I'll take my money somewhere else from now on.”

A brief sparkle of anger in Catorce's eyes was all the warning Milliardo got before a fist slammed into his stomach. He doubled over in pain, coughing.

Grabbing a handful of silvery-blond hair the Italian jerked Milliardo's head up, forcing him to look up at him. “You might think you are smart, but don't get too smart with me.” Catorce glared at the detective. “It will be better for you to answer my questions, and answer them truthfully or I'll make you regret that you have ever been born.”

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T.B.C.

 

Author's Note: 

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