Chapter Sixteen
It was approaching midnight before I got over to Xanadu in the East Sixties: so far east that you were literally pissing under the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge into Queens. The block in front of the club was lined with limousines, Cadillacs, expensive sports cars, BMWs, and even some yellow cabs with their drivers waiting.
My hair was now jet black, with deep blue highlights in it. That alone gave me a funny feeling, like I was no longer myself. Every time I passed a window or a mirror, this other face looked back at me. Sometimes it surprised even me: who was this guy looking back at me—but I knew. We had to get to the bottom of this, but who knew where the bottom was, or even, who the bottom was? Was Alan Hubris at the bottom . . . of Chuck Knoedel’s death, and at what was
