by Sawyer Black
Dodging the stripper poles got a little distracting, and he always left smelling like fish and beans, brushing glitter out of his hair for days.
The security staff had been a bunch of crushing gym bros. Friendly as could be, but always ready to jerk a knot in someone’s head, and Henry had only seen things get out of control twice in all the years he’d played there.
His favorite had been Carl Iglesias, a juice monkey at the door who blotted out the sun. With a neck wider than his head and a Gorgon scowl, most of the static stopped before even coming through the gate. If you could get past Carl, there was nothing inside that could stop you.
After all these years, Carl still stood at the front checking IDs. Like a jacked grandpa ready to chase the kids off his lawn with the fury of an Aztec horde.
Henry stood in line, fingering the crinkling package in his hoodie pocket. Carl used to have a crippling addiction to chocolate sandwich cookies. Not the national brand, but the cheap knock-offs sold in the big club stores. Henry had scored a few sleeves at a bodega on 43rd, but it had been a long time since he’d been here.
Fame and marriage made it difficult to find time for a titty bar next to the river.
Carl waved a couple of giggling chicks through the door and held his hand out to Henry with a bored sigh. Henry slapped a package of cookies into a hand as big as a frying pan, and froze in expectant fear when his old greeting from years ago spilled out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Que pasa, maricón?”
Carl straightened with a low growl, but his eyes flicked down to the cookies. He paused in confusion, then looked up, squinting into Henry’s face. “Do I know you?”
“Yeah, man,” Henry said, his mind racing. “I’m Mike. Mike Serafino.” Carl shrugged, shaking his head. “I used to work the mic waaaaay back in the day. Me and Henry Black and Paco Riggs. Grace Jennings and that chick who always came out in the apron.”
Carl’s face lit up. “That’s right! She used to hold the mic and smoke cigarettes with those oven mitts on. She was fucking hilarious. Whatever happened to her?”
“She’s living as a man now. Trying to be a cop in Seattle.”
“No shit?”
Henry tilted his head. “All true.”
“Well, right on. You working tonight? Coming through the front door?”
“Nah, just here to watch. Maybe some scouting. I wanted to bust your balls a bit and give you them cookies.”
Carl smirked and brought the package up to his nose, peeling the cookies open with his pinkies up for class. He took a deep sniff, rolling his eyes and grinning. “Just happens to be my cheat day, too.” He hitched a thumb at the door behind him. “Vamos. We’ll catch up later.”
“Good deal.” Henry slapped Carl on the shoulder on his way by. Carl waved with a cookie before popping it into his mouth and held his hand out for the next ID.
Heading to the bar that stretched the length of the club on the left side of the rooms hit Henry with nostalgia hard enough to buckle his knees. Topless dancers gyrating to pulsing salsa. Grease hanging in the air thick enough to taste with his mouth closed. Worn carpet and flaking paint. It was like no time had passed. Henry took a deep breath and hitched his leg over a stool. He caught the bartender’s eye with an upraised finger then spun around to face the stage.
Henry was three drinks in by the time the second comic took the stage. The first guy had been a hype man. Hackey punchline crap to get the crowd to quiet down after the girls were gone. Henry thought he had even heard a couple of his own jokes, but the next guy was all original. His stuff was rough, but Henry could see the glimmer, and the kid had a good delivery, despite the quaver in his voice. A little rushed, but Henry didn’t hate it. He tipped his glass in a quiet salute.
“You enjoying yourself, pal?”
Henry turned to eye Mandyel. Glossy black shoes under cuffs that fell right to the tops of his heel. Dark gray wool suit. Two buttons with the bottom one undone so the jacket broke over the hand resting in the front pocket of his pressed slacks. Crisp white shirt beneath a thin black tie. Red pocket square. A gold cuff-link sparkled as he poked a toothpick into his mouth, and his hair swept back from a sharp part at the side.
People were noticing. Henry shook his head. “Do you have any idea how much you stand out? What do you want?”
“Try to be a little grateful, Henry. I gave you your life back … sort of.”
“Yeah. What do you want?”
The bartender leaned across the bar to slide a glass full of rocks and amber into Mandyel’s hand. “Here you go, Mandy.”
Mandyel slid a bill into the bartender’s hand and lifted his drink, pausing at Henry’s expression. “What?”
“That kind of smooth is just mind-boggling. You come here often?”
“No, this is my first time.” He tipped the glass, knocking half the drink back in a swallow.
“Then how the fuck did he know your name?”
“That’s what I chose.”
He looked at Henry as if explaining something to a child, and Henry threw his hands up. “Fine. Just tell me why you’re here already.”
“For the same reason you are, Dear Henry. To stop Order From Chaos. They’re bad news.”
The memory of the gun pointing at his face. The beady eyes. Amélie’s screams. He slumped forward and stared at the floor between Mandyel’s feet. “Why me? Why my family?” He scrubbed at his welling tears. “Who the fuck am I to anyone?”
“Order From Chaos are on a mission. Like the name of the cult would imply, they weaken the world’s resolve so demons can have it all to themselves. They destroy faith.”
“Why? Just to party?”
“No, Henry. If the will of humanity dies, they can align themselves with Hell. Create an army beyond count. And whoever is controlling the order will try to use this army to storm Heaven and kill God.”
“Wait a second.” Henry drained his glass and turned to give Mandyel his full attention. “God can be killed?”
“I don’t intend to find out.”
Henry recoiled from the heat in his gaze, and the intensity in Mandyel’s squared shoulders. “What are you gonna do?”
“The important thing here is that humanity is at risk. Not just your family, Henry. Angels … we don’t have the strength here on Earth that we once did. Demons have the upper hand, and they gain strength every time they create chaos. Even a tiny little bit.” He leaned on the bar and swirled his glass. “Every time they destroy good lives or stage horrible acts of violence that shake a community or a nation, their power grows. Every person they kill. The rich. The young. The famous. You kill those kinds of people, and you also kill something in the people that follow them. Demons love when they can kill someone famous, especially if they can drive them to suicide. Whispering to them in their dreams. From the shadows. If a star dies, someone who had it all, if somebody like that doesn’t think life is worth living, then how can a fan possibly make it?”
“Wait, are you saying all my favorite rock stars and shit were tricked into killing themselves by demons?”
“Only the really good ones. Like you.”
“Fuck you!” Henry looked around with flinching embarrassment, continuing in a lower tone. “You’re saying it’s my fault my daughter died because I was good at my job?”
“No, Henry. I’m saying your daughter died because you were one of the greatest of all time. Legendary. Nearly without peer. Have you happened to read a paper since you died? The outpouring of grief was incredible. Very touching.”
Henry sat back as shame reddened his face and crushed his shoulders. He hadn’t paid attention at all. “I’ve been busy. What do you want me to do?”
“There is an event being held at the Viazo Grand. It’s called the Draconis Arcanum, and it is an auction of relics and objects, dark and forbidden items, that could help us stop this war before it starts.”
“What? Am I supposed to buy something? I’m fucking broke, Mandy.”
Mandyel smi
led. “We give you the money and the list of items to buy. Win the auctions for these items, and you will gain the attention of the Purveyor, the man we believe to have the item we are ultimately seeking.”
“Whatever. I don’t even care anymore. If I do this, you get my daughter back. Right?”
“Of course, Henry. But it’s only the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?”
Mandyel dropped his toothpick into his empty glass. “Pal, this is the start of a mutually beneficial relationship.”
Henry leaned back and closed his eyes, his imagination already running wild with images of Amélie in Hell. Fire coming at her in waves. Her eyes wide with terror, mouth opening to scream for help.
The audience erupted in applause, snapping Henry out of his morbid reverie. He clutched at the edge of his stool to keep from falling to the floor. He looked up into Mandyel’s eyes. “And what if I say no?”
The angel vanished.
Henry slid from the stool in shock, slapping his hands on the bar for support. Mandyel’s words echoed to him as if coming from a long tunnel, and Henry felt a freezing wind ruffle his shirt.
You won’t.
CHAPTER 7
The Viazo Grand was a moss-covered edifice in the middle of a vineyard in Fairmont Hills. A Scottish church until 1924, when Lord Ludlow Thompson floated the whole thing to American shores north of Burg City. Stone by stone, including three miles of cobbles, he even had a steamer dedicated to nothing but the ornate ironworks.
A hotel for the super-wealthy, it boasted award-winning sparkling wines produced on the grounds and a stable of world-renowned thoroughbreds. Of course, the Illuminati conspiracies had grown over the years, and Henry had even included some of it in his act when he’d taken a poorly-received political detour in the late nineties.
He looked at the beautiful people passing by his window as the limo slowed to a stop under the covered entry, and even in his Mike Serafino disguise, he felt plain and poor.
His driver was a thick Italian man with impenetrable eyes and a permanent scowl named Francesco. As Henry ducked into the limo, the driver leaned in. “Yo, I don’t get paid to talk, so keep it down back here.”
“Whatever, Oddjob.”
The slamming door was his rebuttal.
Henry sat with his anxious hands stroking his tuxedo slacks. He wasn’t exactly a stranger to money, but these people’s wealth made him light-headed. Nervous with bile rising in his mouth, he cleared his throat for the hundredth time, cursing Mandyel, Boothe, and even the guy who had taken their toll at the head of the Fairmont Bridge.
“The fuck am I doing here?” he whispered.
The same feeling of unreality had washed over him when he won an Emmy for the writing on his first sitcom, Bye Henry. A show that had turned the shlub husband/hot wife trope on its head by putting the wife in a wheelchair for two seasons after a car accident in the premiere episode left her paralyzed from the neck down. Unable to support her, physically and emotionally, she divorced him. Writing himself as the bad guy had been gold.
Unable to hide from the industry any longer, he went to a tailor recommended by his agent, Herb Miller. Two grand on a suit that still hadn’t hidden his gut. He’d stood in front of a mirror while Samantha and Herb fussed with the details.
“Why am I here?” he had asked.
“I’ve been trying to tell you how good you are for fifteen years, ever since you walked into my office with a notebook full of jokes.” Herb was a small man. Sixty with the body and skin of a thirty-year-old, he always managed to sound offended.
“Yeah, but I just don’t know what to say. It’s like I’m gonna get there, and security’s gonna throw me into the street. A bus’ll come by and splatter me with a convenient puddle. A dog will probably pee on my head.”
Samantha snickered, but Herb stepped in front of him, adjusting his black tie, smoothing it flat and shaking his head. “Just tell the joke about the Brazilian doughnut shop. The one with the missionaries.”
“That’s not my bit.”
“Really?” Herb shrugged. “Too bad. That’s a helluva bit.”
Under the pre-presentation lights, Henry had realized that everyone in the room had been playing a part. His role was the uncomfortable upstart whose overnight success took nearly twenty years. He sat back in relief. Imagined himself as an affectation. Made all his character traits the traits of a character. By the time he hit the stage, he’d been comfortable showing the world how little he belonged there, and it cemented his reputation as one of the industry’s most genuinely nice guys.
Henry knew better.
“What am I going to see there?” he had asked Mandyel.
The angel looked at the floor, poking another toothpick between his teeth. “The worst.”
“Fuck.”
He closed his eyes and thought about Mike Serafino. His history. How he felt about his family. The disdain for his own social circle. That same discomfort with the phony bullshit of people trying to impress each other with self-defined standards. “I can do this.”
Francesco opened the door and stepped back with a bored smirk. “You coming out or what?”
Henry slid out and stayed to block the door. He buttoned his jacket and flicked imaginary dust from his thigh. Picked microscopic lint from his sleeve. Shot his cuffs and straightened his tie.
Francesco’s laugh was sandpaper on stubble. “I see why he likes you so much, but get the fuck outta my car.”
“You’re not gonna get a tip with that mouth.”
“Story of my life. I’ll be around.”
Henry walked with a calm certainty, as though he were getting settled on-stage. Reaching for the mic as applause washed over him. They owed it to him. Even if he didn’t deserve it.
A woman on the granite steps leading into the grand entrance reached her hand toward Henry as he neared. He almost reached out to shake it, but realized she was waiting for his invitation before he could embarrass himself. His eyes fell to her skintight red dress as he slipped his invitation into her hand. Heavy parchment paper with a gold dragon spreading its wings across the header.
She took it with a wide, welcoming smile, and Henry shifted his eyes to the giants posted on either side of the door at the top of the steps.
Rooted like trees, their heads swiveled in security camera arcs. Matching black suits, sunglasses and haircuts. A coiled wire climbing from slab neck to ear. Black canvas slings holding weapons at their backs, barrels angled at the ground peeking out from behind their bulging thighs.
“Welcome to the Viazo Grand, Mr. Serafino.” She handed him an auction card with the same dragon atop a list of items for sale. He took it, sighing as if he were put out by her speaking to him. Her smile widened, unfazed. “Drinks and food are provided the entire time, and if you need anything, just look for my sisters in red. They’ll do their best to accommodate your needs.”
She dismissed him by looking over his shoulder at the next guest in line. He ascended the steps, trying not to look like a yokel in the city.
The front doors opened onto a lobby of marble and gold with giant stairs carpeted in red leading to the second floor. A moment of Mad Hatter vertigo enveloped him. How could the inside seem so much bigger than the outside? The ceiling appeared to arch into clouds. Gilded frescoes and plaster molding. Henry closed his mouth and looked for the nearest drink. A woman in a red dress swirled by. She looked like the girl outside, to the smallest detail. He grabbed a glass of champagne from the passing tray at her hip, and she flashed the same smile he ignored on the front steps.
Henry mingled through the milling crowd with noncommittal nods until he landed in a quiet spot next to a nude statue of some muscular god. Henry looked over to find the leaf-covered dick right at eye level.
Perfect.
The staff behind the front desk stayed busy the entire time Henry hid himself in the corner. After his third glass of bubbly, they disappeared, and a hush carpeted the lobby.
Th
e double doors at the top of the stairs swept open, and every eye rose to behold a beautiful woman in a silver dress slink to the marble railing. Red hair was piled intricately high upon her head. Silver bracelets trailed tinkling chains from wrists to tiny waist. Her neckline plunged, and her breasts, pressed in and up by shimmering fabric, sparkled with silver glitter.
She looked like a captured mermaid.
“Ladies and Gentlemen.” Her sultry voice carried across the throng, echoing from the arches and pillars as if she spoke from a hundred mouths. “I am pleased to preside over this year’s Draconis Arcanum.”
She swept her arm to the side as she turned, indicating the doors leading into the heart of the hotel. “Shall we begin?”
The crowd compressed toward the stairs in a swelling bustle of fabric and hushed conversation. Henry stepped into the people passing by and found himself pulled into the current then carried into a room with quartz floors and mahogany walls. Light washed out of the coves in the coffered ceiling, and a raised stage holding a granite pedestal and lectern stood in the contrast of a soft spotlight.
Most of the people wanted to be in the front, but Henry resisted the push, hanging back at the last row. An empty seat on the end next to a small lady in a sequined gown. Gray hair and wrinkles, she clutched her black purse to her chest and looked around with wide eyes, bright with the spectacle. Nobody sat on either side of her, and she fluttered like a lonely pigeon looking for food at the feet of passing tourists.
Most of all, she looked safe, so Henry took his chair with a smile, picking up the numbered placard from the cushioned seat before settling in beside her.
“Oh, good,” she said with a wheezy voice soaked with wine. She patted his knee and smiled. “Now I have an auction buddy. I’m Thelma Wencsis from Oregon.”