Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge (28 page)

She clicked
PLAY
. “Hey there, kiddo,” Vincent said. The sound of his greeting instantly comforted her, and her eyes immediately teared up. “If you got this, then everything went down like it was supposed to. I’m out of the game, but you’ve still got your seat. I’ve got a lot riding on that skinny-ass mod wannabe’s not blacking you out, so here’s hoping that when the time came, he wasn’t too much of a Whelan for his own good.”

She watched, mesmerized.

“So, working on the idea that your brain’s still in factory condition, here’s the deal: you’re on your way down here so we can head to Greektown together and stand before the Court. We’re gonna make some accusations, and we’re probably gonna lose. But odds are good that no matter what happens, I’m gonna end up blacked out.

“If we manage to take Garrett down before that happens, then the rest of this video doesn’t matter. But if we fail, then Garrett’s gonna get himself immortal. And while that’s not the worst thing in the world, a lot of people will end up very mortal along the way. And I know you don’t want that.

“So, listen up. First things first: there’s a reason our job
description is bartending first, demon slaying second. It’s service, Bailey. Whether it’s an old fashioned or an ass-kicking, you’re serving it up. That’s why I put you behind the counter for a few days before I took you out on the street. I wanted you to see who you were protecting. I wanted you to appreciate what the job means. What
your
job means.”

Once again Bailey caught herself nodding to a Vincent who couldn’t see her. Outside her window, the sun winked into an orange streak over the horizon.

“Now that guy Sorensen, the one whose mind you read. He’s never been in my joint. From what you tell me, he’d probably never set foot in it, let alone within ten blocks. But as long as you work for me, your job is to watch his back, even if he’s evil, or worse—stupid. But you didn’t watch his back. You stabbed it.”

Ashamed, Bailey looked down at her knees.

“So when you go out to make this right,” he said, “hurt the people that need hurting, but no collateral. Don’t become a murderer. And if you’re gonna color outside the lines again, make sure you pick the lines that’re really fucking asking for it.”

He stabbed a finger at the screen and, by extension, her. “Second, and this is the important one, I need you to not come looking for me. Don’t tell me what I’m leaving behind. None of that. I’ve been fighting this fight for decades, and even if I’m in great shape for a relic, I’m still tired. I’ve been shelved, and I think I’m gonna like it that way. Don’t dust me off. I’ll have good people to watch me.

“Now,” he said, “if I know you like I think I do, you’re probably already halfway to Garrett’s new joint and scared shitless.”

She realized she was nodding again. Vincent seemed to see her because he said: “You’re probably thinking this is over your head. And honestly, you’re probably right. You haven’t been trained as much as I wanted to train you. You haven’t been in the field that long. But you know what, kiddo? The grown-up who says they
know what they’re doing is a grown-up who’s lying.

“Which brings me to my third and final point,” he said with a familiar grin. “With me out of the picture, you’re gonna need people of your own. I’ve been where you are, kiddo, and in a lot of ways I never really got out of that place. So that’s the last bit of wisdom shrapnel I wanna lodge in your brain: don’t go it alone. That was my mistake, and even though I’m a kick-ass teacher, I’m a terrible fucking role model. You’re young. You’ve got friends, and you’ve got time to make more. Don’t take them for granted, and don’t write people off, either. Everyone you meet on your way up in life, you’re gonna meet again on your way back down. I sure as hell did, and most of them weren’t happy to see me.”

The video was nearing its end. Bailey had barely fifteen minutes to get out the door.

“I could talk your ear off forever, but you’ve got shit to do, kiddo. Get on it. Camera o—” But then he stopped. “Look. Whether you do this or not: thank you for being my student and my last friend. Unless a tremens catches you with your pants down, you’re gonna have yourself a good life. And thanks for—thanks for letting me be your boss.”

Bailey fought every instinct to cry. Even as her vision blurred, she forced herself to keep watching.

“I’ll see you in a few. Poppy!” Bailey’s heart skipped a beat as she heard the familiar clacking of paws on the floor, just out of sight. “Let’s go, girl,” he said, leaning down to scratch his dog’s ears. “We’re gonna have a rough night, I’m pretty sure.” He looked up, straight out of the screen. “Good luck, kiddo. You’re gonna get it together, I promise. Camera off.”

The image froze. Numbly Bailey shut her laptop.
Get it together
. That was supposed to be the Holy Grail, wasn’t it? Zane had gotten it together. Jess had gotten it together. All her friends in Philly had gotten it together, if the filtered photo ops in their newsfeeds were
to be believed.

Bailey had tried to get it together. But all the things she’d thought she’d wanted from the world—a cool apartment in a trendy but cheap neighborhood, a sizable paycheck, the occasional rich-lady treat, like a caramel latte or a gel manicure—now seemed pointless. Maybe bartending had been a messy lifestyle—literally—but at least she’d had friends. For a while, anyway.

She got up and faced her closet, and finally, on the zillionth time, she found what she was looking for. Well, not what she was looking for, but what she needed.

The dress was a little tight, but it’d serve. Paired with matching orange heels, it made her look … awesome. Bailey allowed herself a quick once-over in the mirror before spinning around to her wall of has-been heartthrobs.

“Oh, shut up,” she said to the posters. “When was the last time you guys were in a movie, anyway?”

Getting it together could wait, Bailey thought. Right now she needed to get it right.

In the big-budget movie adaptation of this adventure, Bailey thought, an oil-black town car would pull up outside the Sears Tower, where miraculously a free parking spot would be waiting. The driver would open the door and she, Bailey Chen, would step out, one high-heeled foot at a time. Her lips would be an alluring slash of red, her costume a bright dress with a matching domino mask, and her hair styled to weather both Chicago winds and possibly the end of the world.

Also, odds were good she’d be played by a white girl, because movies.

But this wasn’t a movie. So there she stood in a packed Brown Line car as it jerked along into the heart of Chicago. A little sourly she wondered if any movie hero ever had to take public transit to a crime scene.
Well, you’re not a hero
, she reminded herself.
You’re just a girl with a bachelor’s degree, her dad’s train pass, and a possible death wish
.

As the El wound its way downtown, she peered out the window. Night had just fallen, but Chicago’s skyscrapers were already lit up. And the biggest candle on the cake was the Sears Tower.

She’d read once that the architecture had been inspired by a pack of cigarettes: the way pulling out one caused others to tag along with it, forming little tiers. In deference to the holiday, the tower’s twin antennas stood awash in an eerie orange light. It might not have been literally in the middle of the skyline, but it was the
city’s true centerpiece. And now, she thought, it was also a glittery gun pressed to the city’s temple.

The CTA spat her out a block away, at the corner of Quincy and Wells. All around, costumed people streamed into bars and clubs to post up for the night and get good and drunk, the way a city holiday dictated they should. With a sinking feeling, Bailey noticed that the largest wave was headed to the same place she was. If the Long Island iced tea was completed that night, its magical pull would put a lot of people in the crosshairs of the tremens that came calling.

Bailey lengthened her stride. It didn’t do much good since her legs were so short, but the gesture mattered, dammit.

She boarded an elevator full of revelers who were either already drunk or deliriously giddy at the thought of the drunkenness about to ensue. A one-minute tourist video kept them entertained on the ride up. It was different from the one that had played when she was a girl; she’d seen that one enough times to be able to recite it verbatim, complete with fake trivia. Performing it had been a long-running joke between her and Zane.

She frowned at her train of thought. Odds were good that before the night was over, she’d come face-to-face with Zane. She still couldn’t bring herself to hate him—quite the opposite, in fact. If she hated him, she wouldn’t be risking her ass to pull him out of a fire he couldn’t see. No matter what, the next time she saw him, she wouldn’t crumple.

As the mayor popped onscreen to thank them all for visiting the pinnacle of Chicago achievement (clearly the video had been made before the Cubs’ four consecutive World Series victories), the elevator doors opened and its occupants surged out.

Despite Sorensen’s bragging, Apex wasn’t really on the top floor; it was on the highest floor a firm was allowed to occupy, and from the looks of the bar, it was the kind of place where people didn’t so much burn money as napalm it. The floors were white
marble, with veins of gold and black, and bright red lounge chairs were artfully arranged around a crystalline column in the center of the space. Wraparound dark wood shelves filled with liquor bottles were affixed to the column’s sides, and in front of that stood the bar.

She could barely make out Bucket behind the counter, slinging drinks seemingly everywhere at once. He’d forgone his usual
punk rawk
look in favor of a tight black ninja costume. On the other end was Trina, who somehow managed to keep pace with the steady stream of orders while shoving up the green sleeves of her baggy Statue of Liberty costume.

Bailey turned away to scan the floor for Zane or Mona. All she heard was booming music and all she saw was a forest of people, which for someone Bailey’s size meant a forest of shoulders and elbows. She bumped her way through with only a single image in her mind: Sorensen in his pharaoh getup. He was her only remaining inroad.

As she circled the floor, she kept one eye on Bucket and Trina, worried they might spot her and get her thrown out. Above the thudding music and echoey floors and air that smelled like fried hors d’oeuvres, no one paid her a second look. As far as she could tell, no one even knew who she—

“Bailey Chen!”

Bowen Sorensen (the Third) came striding over, all smiles. But he wasn’t dressed like a pharaoh; he was in full Napoleonic regalia, complete with a hand tucked permanently inside his jacket. “I thought that was you!” he crowed. “Oh, I’m so glad you could make it. Can I hug you? I kind of want to hug you.”

Evidently the question was rhetorical because he didn’t wait for an answer before smooshing her into his waistcoat.

“It’s so good to see you, Mr. Sorensen—”

“Please,” he said with a wave. “Mr. Sorensen was my moms’ sperm donor. Well, probably not, actually. Either way, you can call
me Bowie.”

“Okay, Bow—” She stopped, faced with the irresistible question: “Wait. Then how are you the third?”

“Once I succeed in creating a working time machine, traveling back to make numbers one and two happen will be my top priority.”

She wanted to laugh, but Sorensen looked honest and eager as a puppy.

“Cool party, huh?” he said, beaming.

Not if a delirium gate-crashes
, Bailey thought. She flashed him what she hoped was a killer smile. “Best one I’ve been to tonight.”

She’d meant it as a joke, considering her only other appearance had been a quick wave to her parents cozied up with a bowl of candy and
Law Investigation: Homicide of the Streets
, but Sorensen’s face lit up.

“Oh, that’s such a relief. I was worried. Last year most of my guest list was poached by the queen of England.
That bitch
!” he added, suddenly shouting in what Bailey assumed was the direction of Buckingham Palace.

She was wasting time. She needed to figure out where Garrett was. And without a gold rush to assist her, Bailey needed to pile on the charm. Not that she had a huge stockpile to draw on, but this really was a matter of life and death.

“Um, Bowie?” Bailey threw out a hip. She was trying for seductive, but the effect was less bedroom-eyed femme fatale and more femme … well, whatever the French word was for
dork
. “Didn’t you say you had a—what’s it called?—a dis—dis—”

“Distillery,” Sorensen said, clearly pleased to provide an answer that her sweet little female mind couldn’t chase down on its own.

Bailey smiled wider and batted her eyelashes. “Yeah,” she breathed. “Don’t you want to show me where that is?”

Sorensen brightened even more, which she hadn’t thought
possible. “Oh, sure,” he said. “They’re just upstairs. They take up the second and third floors.”

“Show me,” she said hastily, forgetting to be sexy. “I mean, um, can’t you show me? Please?”

He doffed his bicorne hat grandly. “It’d be my honor, mademoiselle.” He looked her up and down as they headed for the elevator. “Hey, what’re you supposed to be anyway?”

Even though she’d anticipated the question, Bailey had a hard time making herself spit out the dumb answer she’d concocted.

“A mandarin orange?” she said with a sweep at her citrus-colored sequins.

Sorensen stared. But then he threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, I
like
you.”

She couldn’t help laughing, too, though less from amusement and more from mounting hysteria. Still, she thought, as the crowd parted for them, she hardly could’ve picked more interesting company for the apocalypse than Bowen Sorensen (the Third). He was certainly fun, if not always on purpose, and heads turned as he swept through the crowd.

“It’s just up h—”

Sorensen stopped at the edge of the crowd, where to Bailey’s horror, he’d scuffed the shoes of the one person she didn’t want to see.

Zane had swapped his usual suit for a black tuxedo. He’d paired it with a long red-lined cape, a black top hat, and a white domino mask. He twirled a rose in his fingers like a wand.