xX... enjoy my all new story! ...xX

It's not much any more, really. The Supper Club. It's a relic of what it was. A large set of rooms, now defunct and run down- but in their day... hell, these rooms... they were where it was at! All art deco, columns, arches, a staircase that winds its way all around the room, going from level to level. A little alcove under the staircase for a small orchestra. All whitewashed walls. Shiny black dance floors, caviar and champagne flow... The Supper Club was the height of chic. The Supper Club invented New York swinging society. It was society.

But that was long ago now, and it sits in ruin on the 30th floor of some anonymous building somewhere between 60th and 70th near 5th avenue. No one can truly recount the address anymore... Why would you want to? The once glamorous white washed chic walls are stained with dust, cobwebs, decay, mold, hurt... The shiny black dance floor on which, once, anyone who was anyone would dance, and the shows there were finer than anything on Broadway.

Fred Astaire...

But that's all gone, now it's simply a tangled mess of cobwebs and disuse. Dark and damp, there's been no air-conditioning in the unit for years. The other three rooms, an entrance hall with a panoramic view of New York, a bar, and a massive kitchen. Not to mention the mass of dressing rooms, little gambling halls and secret doors and rooms that lines the back of the stage. Stuff happened here, oh yes, people say Frank Sinatra and Eva Gardner once were having sex in one of the rooms when they heard a knock, so, they simply slipped through a trap door into another room. That night, they slipped through 4 hidden doors... or so says once Maitre'd: Guy Channing. But he's not much more, but he was something. Once- you wanted to be on Guy's good side. He took reservations, gave away the best tables, hell- Guy Channing was more powerful than than the Mayor for a good number of years. But Guy doesn't go out much anymore. He lives just ten blocks from the old Club, in a tiny basement apartment below some rich art collector's brownstone. He can hardly make it up the stairs to the sidewalk these days. But he manages, somehow. He's asked the Art Collector for an elevator. But even he doesn't see that happening.

Guy can tell you the exact address of the old Supper Club; he even knows all the codes to the safe's, still left untouched- after decades of a quick desertion. But more on that later. In fact, yes, you could say that The Supper Club still sits in the exact state of which it was left. There are probably frying pans on the stove, rotted caviar, and aging champagne. All set to a backdrop of blood stained walls. Years ago, some one was displeased... but, really, more on that later.

Guy won't tell anyone the address, since The Supper Club was somewhat not on the straight and narrow, he doesn't want any looters rummaging around. It's well enough alone; he'll tell anyone who'll listen. Leave it how it is. A relic. Keep it. Please.

But people rarely listen, especially not me. Well, at first. I'm the real estate agent in charge of the building. My name is Zackary Mooneyham and I know the address to the old Supper Club, and I probably have the only other key. Not that we promoted it. We didn't list this, as one of our listings. Too much bad blood. Way too much.

And then...

One cold November night, I'm working late, trying to finalize the sale of a 25 million dollar apartment in SoHo. Everyone has left the office, in the Met Life building; the floor is dark, except for the glow of my computer screen. I like the darkness, the blue-ish light of the computer. I like it when the darkness and quiet seemingly envelope me. But it's late, almost midnight. And I'm tired. I want to go home, to Katie, my wife. To Noni and Eamon, my kids, even to Aristotle- our huskie puppy, who pees's like nobody's business. Not to mention, winter has come early. It's freezing, I can almost predict snow tomorrow...

The ringing of my phone knocks me out of my wanderings. The red- Line 1 light blinking madly.

"Hello?" I say sleepily into the receiver, resting it on my shoulder as I mindlessly type whilst I take off my tie. The voice on the other end is strange, deep, husky, quiet- or muffled. It sounds like he's calling from a pay phone near the Sea Port...

"Is this..." his voice pauses; it sounds as if he's fishing for something in a coat, a slip of paper, maybe... "Mister Zackary Mooneyham?" the voice asks.

I save the document and turn off the computer, I'm now in total darkness- sans the lights of the city- for many, which is just waking up. My tie is off, so is my jacket, so is my shirt, I lean back in my chair- dressed in my black suit pants and my white undershirt...

"With whom am I speaking?" I ask wearily, my mind only half on the odd circumstances of the call.

"I'm inquiring about one of your properties... It's a building... on 65th street. I believe the property is a large complex of three or four rooms, it was once called: The Supper Club." his voice stops.

I rub my eyes... The Supper Club, 65th Street...

"Uh... yeah, I represent that property," I saw, rubbing my eyes no, struggling to stay awake. I need some cake, "Can I call you about this in the morning?" I ask, "Lemme get your number." I say, fumbling around for a slip of paper, "Your name sir? your number?" It is then that I realize that there is no one on the line anymore. The line has gone dead. So has my phone. There's no dial tone.

A little spooked, I put my shirt back on and sling my overcoat on, grabbing my briefcase. My mind already off the subject of the weird phone call and onto the great piece of cake I'll soon be getting at Skyline Diner. My favorite 24 hour joint.

Alone in the elevator, I begin thinking...

My phone's dead. Hmm...

But my mind cannot think anything too serious at such an hour. I'm used to the boring life, home at 7, in bed by 10. Rarely up past 11. But still- my phone line went dead, that's a little weird, that's...that's...

I'm happy to get out of the dark and deserted building and out into the cold sidewalk, the urban life. It's good to see people, real live breathing people again. New York. A homeless guy accosts me, I past all sorts who stay up late. The hip club goers, the junkies, the works. Why would my phone line go dead? Why would anyone want to buy The Supper Club, Why...? Why... Why...

SKYLINE!

The brilliant red neon sign greets me, wearily, I push open the door and into the fake lighting and thick coffee shop environment. The entire staff is Greek- one family, my friends.

"'A-ay! Look 'oo it is! Mister!" The Counter Man greets me. He's a short, squat man with grotesquely hairy arms, a bald head, a Greek love/hate scowl and a thick accent that no one is really sure that it's actually Greek.

"Mister! We weren't sure you coming today! We get worried!" He says, rubbing his hands on the once-white dish towel he keeps in his apron.

"OY! ISSIT MISTAH?" A Brooklyn woman's voice rings from the inside the kitchen, it's his daughter. A lost-in-the-Nineties woman with flowing black curls. "MISTAH!" She scuttles out from the kitchen, dressed in some outlandish outfit that pair's stiletto black heels with a miniskirt-dress that's covered in colorful geometric shapes. She has to be older than 40, but she looks no older than 25. Little bit of Nip Tuck, eh? I smile wearily, my home away from home. "Mistah we were so worried! You want the usual, honey? Mistah- I'll fix it up, don't say it: coffee, black, oooh, I know!" she talks a mile a minutes, hurrying about- the clickity clack of her heels bouncing off the stained tile floor. I look up; the fan spins lazily, when I bring my head down- I'm staring at a large piece of German Chocolate cake and a steaming mug of black coffee.

This is how life should be. Good talk. Good people. Good cake.

No.

Shit, how can I forget?

Katie would be there too. Because I love her very much, right?

RIGHT?

Settling up the bill, half an hour later,

"Mister, it's free! We were so worried, you no come!"

"I insist"

I hit the sidewalk now, it's easily one thirty...

But suddenly, I'm no longer tired. I'm wide awake. And my brain is clicking. The circumstances working their way through my head. The Supper Club, god the shit that happened there, I think. The glory days of living. What would it've been like to live then?

I stop; my feet have been carrying me somewhere, where, I'm not sure. Some brownstone. I'm standing in front of it, staring up. I can see through the windows- art lines every possible wall space. A man, middle aged and wearing black rimmed spectacles paces about in a bathrobe. Below him, in the basement apartment, I see a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Below, is an old man with a walker, cursing at his TV, some old movie. I stand there for a moment as I wonder why my feet have brought me here. 863 59th Street. I stand there until some crazy man approaches me, "chaaange, chaaange please sir... anything... what's a man like you doin' all alone on a chiiiily night like this? You want to...eh...warm me up?" he snarls. He must be 65, 70.

In a terrified I empty my pockets and through a coin or two at him, hurrying down the street. Why do I feel so much unrest? I wonder this all the way as I walk back to my home, 815 Park Avenue. A tall, pre ware apartment building. I open the door quietly. No one is awake. It's a Friday. People have long days on Friday. Temple, Friday night dinner, etc. Thanking god, I head into the kitchen and put up some water for tea. Not that I'm thirsty, at all. I take off my coat and sit about.

I hate the lighting in the kitchen. It's so harsh. Suddenly, I hear the door open, quietly, slowly, Katie? Has she been unfaithful? What is she doing coming home so late? Cautiously, just in case, I take a kitchen knife and creep quietly into the entrance hall.

"stop right there you sonuvabitch!" I snarl at the figure who is slowly opening the door. The figure, I can't see him begins to stifle a laugh,

"Dad" he whispers, "It's me..."

Relief spreads over me. I don't think I have the nerve to kill anyone. At least, not at this hour.

"Eamon!" I saw, as I watch him unwrap his scarf and put his coat on the rack, I realize I have to be more of a father, "What are you doing home so late? Have you no mind for curfew?" Eamon appears unwavered, he looks like he's really been out. He's got on some dark brown corduroy's and a stripped green and white polo shirt. His dark hair flopping all over.

"Relax, Dad," he says calmly, "The concert ran a little late."

"Am I supposed to believe that?" I ask, "Son I hope you used a condom...I really am disappointed, I thought you'd have enough sense-" he cuts me off,

"Stop it. I wasn't having sex. Go away." he says, trudging off to his room, "Not a word to mom."

I put my finger of my lips. Smiling. He flips me the bird and disappears into the dark hallway.

Minutes later I'm in a hot bath, all my clothes besides the tub. The aroma of the bath- lavender, smelling salts, have taken over the bath and I'm just about to fall asleep, right there in the tub (I've done it too) when my cell phone rings. I have a mind just to let it keep ringing, but than I think, what if the ring wakes up Katie. Drying my hands on a towel, I grudgingly pick up the phone.

"Mr. Mooneyham." a voice says, it's the same one I talked to at my office.

"Yes, " I say, sitting up, more interested now, "Who are you. How did you get my cell phone number?"

"Never mind that, I would like to buy the property known as The Supper Club. In half an hour, bring yourself- and the key to the Duane Reade on 80th and 1st, I'll bring as much as you want. You name a price."

"Are you kidding me?" I ask, bewildered, "Do you know what time it is?" I glance at my watch, I'm starting to stutter with disbelief, "It's, like, three thirty, or something, whoever you are, this isn't how we do things. We need to draw up a contract and stuff, we need a third party, I don't even know how much the property costs, I-"

"I can arrange for all of that." He says calmly. I'm beginning to get frightened.

"Do you know that your soon was very late coming home tonight?" he asks. This is just scary, how the hell does he know? He doesn't wait for an answer though- he goes right on, "Well, you can ask him- but he went to The Hammerstein Ballroom, than to Burger Heaven on 68th, than to the movies- he saw a foreign film, I have the title if you'd like, than, he went back to his friend Corey's house where he and Corey played level 3 of Crash Bandicoot. After that, he went and got a milkshake with Corey and they met up with Corey's sex buddy Melissa. Do you want to know the gory details of what happened next?"

I'm out of the bath now, unbelievably afraid.

"Needless to say, I had ample time to shoot him, stab him, poison him, I can think of twenty or thirty different ways I could've killed him and no one would've known it was me."

"Duane Reade? 80th and 1st?" I ask.

"Yes. One hour from now. Don't forget the key. How much do you want for the place?" he asks.

I pause, thinking about this for a moment, "Um... 30 million." I say, doing a brief estimate in my head.

"Oh yeah, don't call the cops, I now what position your wife is sleeping in right now. She's on her left side."

I hang up and, five minutes later, I'm back on the street. On my way to my office. Shaking with fear.

xX… whaddya think?"