11
New Olympia came alive at night. Dozens of bars and nightclubs lit up throughout the city, but the real action took place on Siren Strip. It stretched for nearly two miles through the center of downtown, a river of neon lights. Traffic was at a standstill.
Herc was waiting for me at the side of a coffee shop, where the lights were low. A black shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap covered most of his oversize frame. Dark shades concealed his eyes. This was his idea of a disguise. The fact that he was seven feet tall with biceps as big as watermelons kind of ruined the effect.
I crossed the street and joined him in the alleyway. “How’s it going?”
“Were you followed?”
“Of course not. Stealth is my middle name. Plato Stealth Jones.”
“Gotta good feeling about this new disguise, Jonesy.” Herc grinned nervously. “The hat and the sunglasses cost five credits apiece, but I plan on getting a refund first thing tomorrow.”
I took a closer look at the sunglasses and noticed the sticker was still on them. “I don’t think your adoring public will appreciate being deceived like this.”
“Screw the public!” Herc poked his head out of the alley for a split second—to see if anyone had heard him—then dipped back into the shadows. “This is crazy. I can’t take a piss in my own house without it ending up in the tabloid. ‘Hercules, taking a piss in his own house. Is he really taking a piss? Or is he secretly cheating on his wife? Does he stuff his pants? We’ve got the truth.’ Don’t they have anything better to do than pester me?”
The Gods and Demigods of Olympus are worldwide celebrities. Wherever they go, fans and paparazzi follow close behind.
I chuckled softly. You’d think that after years of being in the public eye, Herc would have gotten used to the attention by now. “Scandal of the century,” I said.
Herc opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. He sank deeper into the shadows and froze as a pair of college girls in bright makeup and glittery dresses passed the alley.
Once they had gone, he released a pent-up breath. “That was close,” he whispered. “By the way, Geno’s hanging out with us tonight.”
“The more the merrier. Where is he?”
“Probably waiting for us at the Night Owl.”
“Well, let’s not keep him waiting.”
Herc peeked around the corner. “We move on three. One . . . two . . .”
We slipped out of the alley and scurried down the sidewalk. Herc tugged his hat down and tried to look inconspicuous. A group of passersby stopped to look at him. It wasn’t a good sign.
We hadn’t been walking for very long when someone shouted, “It’s Hercules!”
Light flashed on the edge of my vision, and voices erupted as a gang of paparazzi appeared. I had no idea where they came from. It was like they had materialized out of thin air. Hera’s doing?
Herc covered his face and walked faster. I did the same. The paparazzi followed us, taking snapshots. Hanging out with a Demigod meant that my face occasionally graced the covers of tabloids, where I was known not as Plato Jones, crack detective, but as Hercules’s servant, that guy who hangs out with Hercules, or Hercules’s gay lover. I’d called the reporter for a retraction on that last one, but he never returned my calls.
I couldn’t figure out why the press had never bothered to find out who I was. Maybe it was because I wasn’t a celebrity. Or maybe I just didn’t look that interesting. I guess it didn’t really matter. The idea of fame never appealed to me. Now fortune, that’s a different story.
By the time Herc and I reached the end of the block, the group of photographers had evolved into a mob. Fortunately, the bar was around the corner.
It was little more than a hole in the wall, squeezed between an Italian bistro and a place that claimed to have the best Buffalo wings in town. White neon lights spelled out “Night Owl.”
Napoleon, the bouncer, stood with his arms crossed beside the door. Brown fur covered his body, topped with smoky-gray horns on his head. He was a minotaur. His black T-shirt had the word SECURITY written on it in bold white lettering. How he managed to fit those horns through the neck hole was a question only he could answer. I wasn’t about to ask him.
The photographers gathered around us and continued to snap pictures. But all maintained a distance from the eight-foot-tall minotaur.
“Napoleon,” I said. “How’s life treating you?”
He returned the minotaur equivalent of a smile. It looked more like a grimace. “I can’t complain.” His voice came out low and scratchy. “Why don’t you fellows go on in? I’ll keep the vultures at bay.”
“I owe you one, Napoleon,” Herc said.
“Anytime.”
As we stepped inside, the sounds of the city fell silent, replaced by laughter and the clink of beer bottles. In a cloud of cigarette smoke, thirty-somethings like me packed the tables and dance floor. A jazz band played on a stage at the back of the room, bathed in red light. Scores of memorabilia decorated the walls: clocks, paintings, beer signs, sports jerseys, and photos of various celebrities who had stopped by over the years. One of the photos was of Herc hiding his face from the camera. In the background, I was waving drunkenly at the photographer.
“Hey guys!” a voice called out from across the room.
The voice belonged to Geno Crowne, a lawyer and a satyr. He was another friend I had met while working for the Gods. He used to work in Zeus’s legal department, until he decided to quit and start his own firm. From the waist up, he was strictly professional. Expertly cut blond hair framed a smooth and unblemished face. His blazer and dress shirt looked expensive, tailored to his body.
From the waist down, he was a goat.
A bipedal goat with black hooves, a stubby tail . . . and no pants.
But pants or no pants, his fashion sense still put mine to shame. My clothes looked like they had been dipped in a bucket of wrinkles. I’d rolled up the sleeves of my white dress shirt nearly to my elbows. Not because I thought it was fashionable, but because earlier I spilled coffee on the left cuff. My pants were too long in the leg, causing the hems to drag on the ground, which had gradually frayed them over time. They were literally unraveling at the seams. That’s what I got for never trying on clothes before I bought them. My former job required me to wear a suit every day. Clean and pressed. Since the day I quit, I hadn’t so much as glanced at an iron.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Geno said, tipping a half-full martini glass toward us. His alert blue eyes shined brightly.
“How many of those have you had so far?” I asked.
“This is my third.”
“Impressive.”
As far as satyrs and drinking went, Geno was a heavyweight. Most satyrs were out cold after three or four rounds, but Geno could hang with the most seasoned of boozers and winos. It was an incredible talent.
Herc took a seat at the bar.
I sat between him and Geno. That way, if I passed out, it wouldn’t matter if I fell to the right or to the left. In either case, someone familiar would be there to catch me. Now if I happened to fall backward, that might be a problem.
“Hey, buddy,” I said to Geno. “It’s been a while. How’s the lawyer thing going?”
Geno shrugged nonchalantly. “Tedious, filled with paperwork and client conferences, the usual.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “My heart weeps for you, buddy.”
“You might want to get that checked out.” He smirked.
“Probably.”
Geno took a sip of his drink. “So what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing much. Following around a cheating husband. Getting harassed by the Gods. Oh, and my ex-wife is getting married.”
“Don’t you mean remarried?” Geno said.
Herc turned on his barstool to face me. He had removed his cap and shades. He looked like the stereotypical football hero. Everything about him screamed strength and power. His head was square-shaped, his features chiseled, and his curly brown hair was cut short. His electric-blue eyes, which he’d inherited from his father, were always intense and rarely wandered. Meeting his gaze without being intimidated by it required practice.
“Hold on, hold on,” Herc chimed in. “Alexis is getting married?”
“Yep,” I said.
“To you?” Herc asked, pointing at me.
I stared down at the bar. “No, Herc, not to me.”
Herc pursed his lips. “But I thought you two still had something going on.”
“Something going on? Herc, she’s been seeing that guy for the past year and a half. What’s his name? Capricorn?”
“Yeah, but she calls you almost every day.”
I shrugged. “And your point is?”
“When people divorce, they tend to, I don’t know, steer clear of each other. Unless the feelings are still there.”
“I promise they’re not.”
Herc grinned. “Then why haven’t you had a girlfriend since the divorce?”
“I’ve dated other women.”
“All one-night stands. I’m talking about something real.”
“He brings up an interesting point,” Geno cut in.
I glanced back and forth between them. “Guys, guys! This is a boy’s night out, not a therapy session. Now can we please get back to the matter at hand? I’d like to get hammered before midnight.”
Herc and Geno shrugged.
“Thank you,” I said.
I flagged down Harold, the bartender, a tall man with a hook nose and a receding hairline. In all my years of coming to the Night Owl, he and I must have spoken a total of five times on subjects other than drinks. The conversations we had were brief, and far too general to provide any insight into his personality. He always seemed more concerned with doing his job than chatting with customers, which I could respect.
I ordered three shots of ouzo, one for each of us. As I reached for my wallet, Herc raised his hand.
“Save your money,” he said. “First round’s on me.”
Geno and I did a double take.
“What’s with the sudden generosity?” I asked.
“Caring is sharing,” Herc said. There was a hint of nervousness in his voice. He took a credit card from his wallet and handed it to the bartender.
My investigator senses tingled. Being the son of Zeus, Herc was one of the richest people I knew. He was also one of the stingiest. Clearance items made up his entire wardrobe, and he kept a money clip full of coupons with him at all times. No way was he sponsoring us out of the kindness of his heart. He was definitely up to something. But I didn’t press the matter. Far be it from me to pass up free alcohol.
I raised my glass. “In that case, I propose a toast to you, Herc, whose generosity is an inspiration to us all.”
12
An hour and six rounds later, Geno and I were considerably toasted. Herc wasn’t there yet. Gods and Demigods tended to have extraordinarily high tolerances for alcohol. Some could drink all day and not even get a buzz. At one point during the night, Herc tried to explain the science behind the whole phenomenon. It had something to do with a hyperaccelerated metabolism, and about a dozen other biological factors. I might have retained more of the information if I hadn’t been drunk off my ass.
At nine the band stopped playing. The crowd went silent as Abas, the owner of the Night Owl, waddled onto the stage holding a microphone. A squat redhead, he had a face like a cherub. The blue-and-white flannel shirt he wore fit his chest perfectly, but not his belly. The shirt stretched around his stomach, and the lower buttons looked like they were about to pop off. He did a mic check. The speakers squealed. Everyone winced.
“One two, one two,” he said. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks for coming out tonight. I have something special planned. But before we get to that, I have a question.” Dramatic pause. “Who likes karaoke?”
Everyone cheered, even me. Blame it on the alcohol.
“I guess that answers my question.” Abas laughed.
He stepped aside as two bouncers carried loads of karaoke equipment onstage.
“My boys need a minute or two to set up,” Abas said. “After that, the real fun begins. Who wants to go first?”
I gulped down the last of my drink and raised my hand. “That would be us.”
Herc choked on his beer. He looked at me, coughing. “W-what?”
“Come on, big guy.” I motioned for him to rise. “Let’s go up there and knock ’em dead.”
“Are you insane?” Herc shook his head. “No! Absolutely not!”
Geno turned toward him, and nearly fell off his barstool in the process. His eyes were narrow slits, and his cheeks were flushed. He had loosened his tie and undone the first few buttons of his shirt, revealing a nest of thick, curly chest hair.
“Don’t be shy,” Geno said, his voice slurred. “Your voice can’t be any worse than mine.”
“See?” I said. “Geno’s on board.”
Herc shook his head again. “I don’t care.”
Everyone in the bar stared at us.
“What’s it going to be, fellahs?” Abas asked. “You coming up here or not?”
“No, we’re not!” Herc said.
“Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about!” I swiveled my head in Herc’s direction. “Listen, man. If you don’t get on that stage right now, I guarantee you’ll regret it.”
“How’s that?”
I gestured for him to lean in closer. “Think about it. A century from now you’re going to look back on all this and wonder ‘what if.’ What if you had listened to Jonesy and gotten on that stage? And I’ll say, ‘I guess we’ll never know.’ Is that what you want?”
Herc smirked. “You won’t even be alive a century from now.”
I could see that logic wasn’t going to work, so I resorted to the second most effective form of influence. Begging. “Come on, Herc. Do it for an old pal!”
Herc sighed after a long moment. “Fine, I’ll do it. But this had better not end up on the Internet.”
I gave him a hearty pat on the back. “That’s the spirit!”
Geno and I shambled toward the stage. Herc followed us at a distance. When seated, I didn’t realize how drunk I had gotten. But the moment I stood up, the truth became staggeringly apparent. Jumbled colors and muffled sounds filled the world I moved through. People and objects were reduced to hazy representations of what they once were, and each step I took gave me the sense that I was about to walk off the edge of a cliff.
Geno wasn’t doing much better. His head rocked from side to side as he walked, and his legs wobbled. His hooves clacked against the tile floor. Somehow, we made it onstage without falling down. The audience cheered.
We picked the song “Fantasy” by Earth, Wind, and Fire. Herc sang lead. Geno and I did backup. We sounded like a trio of drowning cats. We threw bad notes around like confetti. At one point my voice abandoned me, as if it wanted no part in the musical homicide taking place. When the performance ended, I expected a hail of boos from the audience. Instead they all rose to their feet, clapping and hooting.
We bowed—Geno and I nearly toppling over—and left the stage.
On the way back to my seat, I made a beeline for the restroom. My bladder was seconds away from bursting, like a water balloon in my lower abdomen. Every movement caused the liquid within to slosh around. I shouldered the restroom door open and stumbled through.
I clamped my hand over my nose and mouth and hurried to the nearest urinal. The smell clawed at my nostrils. Whoever had been here before me was either on a high-protein diet or in need of serious medical attention. I relieved myself, washed my hands, and then glanced in the mirror to see exactly how bad off I was. As I expected, I looked like crap warmed over. Come to think of it, I didn’t look much different than normal. My black hair was a mess, my dark-brown eyes were sleepy and bloodshot, and my five o’clock shadow made me look older than I really was.
I splashed some water on my face and reached blindly for the paper towel dispenser.
“Here you are.” Someone handed me a paper towel.
The voice sounded familiar—annoyingly so. I dried my face and took another look in the mirror. Hermes stood beside me. His long white hair hung around his shoulders. It clashed against his jet-black suit.
“Nice performance, Mr. Jones.”
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I came to talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about.” I turned to leave.
Hermes stood on the other side of the bathroom, in front of the door. I never saw him move. “On the contrary. We have much to discuss.”
I knew that muscling past him was not an option. Neither was shooting him, though I favored the idea.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“There’s been another murder.”
My heart jumped. “Who is it this time?”
“Hephaestus.”
The Smith God. I had seen him a handful of times, but we never spoke. He used to work for the military, as the director of weapons development, and had fathered countless innovations, like a rifle whose shots could pass through solid matter, and a ray gun that caused enemies to burst into flames. But he felt Zeus wasn’t giving him the recognition he deserved, so he decided to quit. He became a recluse, spending most of his time holed up in his estate.
My guess was he was playing mad scientist, creating things just for the sake of creating them but not bothering anyone in the process. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him—much less how they managed to do it. Not only was Hephaestus immortal—or so I’d thought—but his house was a fortress, filled with all sorts of booby traps.
“He was found dead in his home earlier today,” Hermes continued. “We want you to investigate the crime scene.”
I shook my head. The movement roused a spell of dizziness. “No way.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t work for the Gods anymore. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important matters to attend to.”
Hermes crossed his arms. “How about this? You come with me and look at the scene. Give your opinion of what happened. Afterward, I’ll bring you back here, so you can finish getting drunk, wasted, or whatever it is you mortals call it. I’ll even pick up the tab. No additional strings attached.”
I crossed my arms. “If I do this, will you get lost and let me enjoy the rest of my night?”
Hermes held up his hands as if to show he was unarmed. “You’ve got my word.”
I closed my eyes. “Let’s make this quick.”