Feast of Shadows, #1

by Rick Wayne

  USCIS hadn’t quite figured out that I’d quit. I might have encouraged that misunderstanding.

  Lykke nodded to bouncer-man, who was standing silently off to one side, and the man slapped a stack of cash on the coffee table hard enough to shake the glass. It was brand new, by the looks of it. Even the little paper band around the middle was crisp. The label had a bank logo and said $10,000.

  I sat up. I’d never seen that much money. I took it and flipped through the bills. They were stiff and had the pleasant feel of fine stationery. The smell of fresh cash hit my nostrils.

  “Damn,” I said with a snort. “Now I know why rappers are always making it rain.” I sniffed again. And again. “Fuck. Someone should bottle this.”

  “I believe they’ve tried.” He sat back, smirking. “You know, I was never cool like you and Kelly Ann. But then, that’s probably very clear.”

  I set the cash back on the table.

  “I didn’t go to a party until I was in college. By then, it seemed everyone else already knew what to do. How to behave. I felt so awkward and left as soon as I could.”

  “Is that your excuse for kidnapping? You’re too much of a dweeb to know better?”

  “I just want what’s best for Kelly Ann. Did she tell you what happened?”

  I shrugged noncommittally. “Haven’t seen her.”

  He smiled again in that casually amused way and leaned back. “You don’t have to lie, Cerise. We’re on the same side. I promise.”

  “I’m not lying,” I said as earnestly as I could. “Until your goons showed up, I thought she was still crashing on the princess bed downstairs. So what happened? You hit her or something?”

  He stiffened a little then. “Ah,” he said, as if everything was suddenly clear. He thought for a moment. “The only reason I sent William”—he motioned to bouncer-man—“to fetch you was because this meeting is urgent. I’m going out of town again this afternoon and I was sure you and I would want the same thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “To help Kelly Ann.”

  I reached for the cash and flipped through it again. It was so much denser than I expected. Like it could stop a bullet.

  “That what this is for? To buy my ‘help?’”

  “No,” he said with a half-annoyed grin. “The money is for your trouble. And any expenses you might incur.”

  “Expenses?”

  “You’re unemployed, aren’t you? Call that a gift. From a friend of a friend.”

  I tossed the money to the couch. “No thanks.”

  “Kelly Ann trusts you,” he said. “You might be the only one, actually.”

  “I doubt it.”

  He looked at me seriously, as people do when sarcasm stops being funny. “William, will you give her the book, please?”

  Bouncer-man retrieved a scrapbook from the desk. It had a padded, brightly patterned cover, like something you’d buy at a university bookstore.

  I took it. “What’s this?”

  I opened to the middle. Both pages were full of overlapping magazine clippings of models and couture fashion. I hadn’t seen the book before, but the implication was clear. It was Kell’s, which irked me—that I didn’t know it—and I slammed it shut.

  “I’m keeping this,” I said.

  I stood and lifted her purse.

  “What about her ex-boyfriend?” he asked sternly. “The one with all the rings.”

  “What about him?”

  “Surely you don’t have any loyalty to him. After what he did.”

  I shrugged. “Not really. Why?”

  “Any idea where we can find him?”

  He thought Bastien would be Kell’s second stop. He was probably right.

  “You got your way, rich boy. I came. I listened. Next time, I’m pressing charges.” I started for the stairs.

  He stood from the wheelchair. I couldn’t see it but I heard it. I got the sense it was a struggle.

  “How much?” he called.

  I just shook my head and kept walking. Bouncer-man stepped forward like he was going to block me, but Lykke stopped him.

  “No, William. Cerise!” he yelled. “Please, you’re not being creative.”

  I stopped. It was a helluva thing for a monied douche like him to say that to an artist. I tried to come up with an absolutely devastating reply, but it took half a second too long.

  “There must be something you want,” he said. “Use your imagination. If not for yourself, then a large donation to charity perhaps? Save the environment or something. Or perhaps an endowment for young artists. Once word gets around, people all over the city will take note of your art. You’ll be making it on your own steam in no time, with no debt to me.”

  “Dude.” I laughed. “Maybe this is news to people like you, but you can’t buy a friendship. Okay? It’s not even a question of money.” My mouth hung open as I searched for a better explanation. Not having one, I just shook my head like my brain had short-circuited from the nonsense. Bzzzt.

  “I’m not asking you to betray your friendship,” he said.

  “Whatever’s going on between you and Kell is her business.” I started to leave again.

  “Jesus, Cerise, just tell me what you want.”

  It was the way he said it—so quick and so loud, like he was just throwing words at me, like he hadn’t actually listened to a single thing I’d said, like he was convinced everything truly was for sale and I was simply being a petty little thing, too much of a coward to own up to whatever it was I really wanted, that I was nobody and how dare I stand in his way.

  “A million dollars,” I joked without breaking stride. “In non-consecutive, unmarked bills.”

  Isn’t that what they say on TV?

  He paused. “Okay. Deal.”

  I went to flip him off from the door, if only for making a joke of it. But then I saw his face. He wasn’t joking. At least, he didn’t seem to be. He was back in his chair, looking down at the carpet with a scowl as if contemplating how to pull it off.

  “It would take a few days,” he said. “An instrument other than cash would make it considerably easier.” He leaned with a grunt and lifted the ten grand from the cushion. “The United States government is very particular about large withdrawals. But then, something tells me bonds aren’t an option.” He snorted at his own joke.

  Ass.

  “I’ll need assurances from you,” he said flatly. “Guarantees. For that much money, I need to know you can deliver.”

  “Wait.” I stepped back into the room. “You’re gonna give me a million dollars to tell you where Kell is.”

  “No,” he corrected. “I’m giving you a million dollars to find the child she’s carrying in her womb. As I understand it, it’s a package deal.”

  “So get a private detective. As I understand it,” I said, mocking him, “a good one won’t cost you anywhere near a mil.”

  “You’re funny,” he said looking down, like he was talking to himself. “You think I came to you first.” For a moment, it seemed like he was fighting back a cough. “I’m not proud of my behavior, Cerise, but let’s not pretend we don’t know what she’s like. Time is critical. Kelly Ann is distraught. Understandably. And my doctor tells me the first few weeks are vital. We need to find her before she does irrevocable harm. Crack. Or meth. Or whatever the cool kids are doing these days. She trusts you. Implicitly.” He nodded to the scrapbook I my hand. “You know her hangouts, her friends, where she buys her drugs. You think any of those people are going to open up to some burly PI? Would you?”

  No.

  “I’ll find her, of course,” he said. “It’s just a matter of how soon. I’d rather one of her friends profit from it than a stranger.” He paused for emphasis. “I’m not the bad guy here, Cerise. I’m just trying to save my child.”

  I was scowling in disbelief. “A million dollars,” I repeated, incredulous.

  He nodded. “In nonconsecutive unmarked bills. That was the order, correct?”

 
I nodded absentmindedly.

  He shuffled over and held out a hand. “So. Does that mean we have a deal?”