Garrett assumed that a guy like Romero would be protected by layers of muscle, so he launches into his prepared story. “I owe him money.”

“Who doesn’t?” says the voice. “Members only.”

The door slams shut.

Garrett rings the bell again.

A few seconds later, the door reopens, this time a little wider. “How much money?” Now Garrett can see the doorman more clearly. He’s a hulk, muscles bulging underneath a polo shirt.

“That’s between me and Tony. C’mon, man. I can’t handle another week’s vig. I just need two minutes with him.”

“Tony’s busy. Come back later.”

The door starts to close again. Garrett jams his foot in the gap and presses his face into the open space. He decides to roll the dice. “I lied just now. I don’t owe Tony any money. Just tell him it’s about Suzanne Bonanno.”

The hulk hesitates. “Move your foot or I’ll break it,” he mutters.

Garrett slides his shoe out. The door closes. Longer wait this time. But when the door opens again, it opens all the way.

Garrett steps into a dark vestibule with a pedestal stand holding a reservation book.

“Follow me,” says the hulk.

He pushes aside a curtain and leads the way to a polished bar in front of a mirror and rows of up-lit bottles. Club members circulate to the jazz coming from the speaker system. At one table, two men are talking with a young woman in satin shorts and a halter top; in the corner, a man plays a vintage arcade game. Cue sticks lie neatly crossed on two green-felted pool tables.

Garrett follows his escort down a narrow cinder-block corridor stacked high with liquor cases to a simple wooden door marked PRIVATE. The hulk gives two sharp raps on it with his knuckles, then pushes the door open and motions Garrett into a wood-paneled office.

Behind the desk, a well-dressed middle-aged man is sitting in a high-backed leather chair. The face is a match to the photo Garrett saw online. It’s Tony Romero.

“Thanks, Donnie,” Romero says.

The hulk backs out and shuts the door. Romero looks closely at Garrett as if trying to place him.

Garrett senses movement behind him. He turns and sees that each of the room’s back corners is occupied by a man in a suit. One is smoking a cigarette. The other has his arms folded across his thick chest.

“Who the hell are you?” Romero asks, eyes narrowed.

“My name is Garrett Wilson. I’m an investigative reporter. An author. I write books.”

“Bullshit. You’re a cop. You look like a cop.”

Garrett feels his stomach drop. But he stands his ground. “No. Like I said, I’m a writer. Garrett Wilson. You can look me up online. I have a website.”