“She was dating some porn producer as I recall,” Gus said. “Smarmy son of a bitch.”
“Glide,” I said, “Brett Glide.” Gus and the others nodded.
“Yeah, sounds right,” Gus said. “I remember them because of the big dust-up. It kind of dimmed the otherwise festive mood.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“She came out of a room with a party guest,” Stan said, picking up the story, “and she was crying. I saw her try to get to the head, but there was a line, and she got sick, really badly, all over the carpet.”
“I helped her outside,” Red said. “She got sick again. She was really upset and scared. She said she thought she was pregnant again.”
“Again?” Vigil interjected.
Red nodded. “That’s what she said. Then she got hysterical. Asked to use my phone, so I let her, and she apparently called a ride. She really didn’t want company, especially after I told her shooting up with a bun in the oven was awful.”
“Shooting up heroin?” Vigil said. I gave him a dirty look; he gave me one back.
“She said it didn’t matter,” Red said, “then she told me to fuck off and I did.”
“Anybody see who picked her up?” I asked. Gus drained his absinthe before he replied.
“For like two seconds,” he said. “There was drama out on the porch. Her boyfriend, Glide, was grabbing at her, and he seemed pissed, but still really chill. It was weird. This kid pulled up in his car and tried to get her away from the boyfriend. He ended up pushing Glide back and pointing a gun at him. Crystal looked like she was nodding pretty hard by this point. She went with the kid and they peeled out. End of amusing anecdote.”
“Gus, you remember what the kid looked like, his car? A tag?” The Weathermen laughed as a collective.
“Ballard, this was just before our GHB period,” Clive Owen said, speaking for Chet. “You’re lucky they made enough of an impression to still be clinging in our cerebral cortexes.”
The waitress brought another round. Stan had ordered me his favorite, a Dark and Stormy, and I wanted it so fucking bad. I held the cold glass, licked my dry lips, and set it down. I wanted to scream and punch a fucking wall. “Thanks guys, but I’m working. Like I said, tick-tock. Anything you can give me would be a huge help.”
“I could do some divination,” Gus said. “See what I can pull up. I got some fresh Gouda bubbling in a cooler in my basement. I’ll need time, some dark, and quiet.” I gave Gus my number. I also asked Red if he’d mind if Grinner tried to track that number Crystal had called from his phone records.
“Sure,” Red said, scribbling down his old cell number on a napkin, “but that was like three phones and two phone companies ago, but go for it, man.”
“Incoming,” Vigil said. I glanced over my shoulder. Two of Blue’s pit bosses and four of his muscle, all dressed fashionably in Vigil’s hand-me-downs, were moving through the ring of Weathermen groupies.
“Thanks, guys. I owe you,” I said and stood.
“Fight the power, Ballard,” Stan said. Chet raised Clive Owen’s tiny fist in solidarity. Red tipped his scotch in salute, and Gus gave me his trademark thumbs-up. Vigil and I turned to face our welcome wagon.
“Mr. Blue’s been expecting you, Ballard,” said one of Blue’s old crew chiefs, a greasy guy with bad skin who I vaguely recalled was a were-rat named Joyce. “This way.”
TWENTY
The music in the club was In This Moment’s “Blood” as we made our way toward an old cage-style elevator hidden in the smoke and shadow at the edge of the main floor. Vigil and I were surrounded by our escorts in the cage. The elevator jerked and rose as we headed past the antique tin ceiling tiles of the main floor. Where we were headed was by invitation only. I gave Vigil a quick look, trying to convey “Be cool.” As usual, he was sphinxlike.
The second floor was less elegant, more functional. There were rising bleachers upholstered in leather, ringing a round stage encircled by an ornate wrought-iron cage. Directly at eye level for the stage were large Gothic Baroque high-backed chairs, for the clients who didn’t want to miss a single nuance of the performance and could pay for that. The bleachers held about a hundred people and were pretty full; the chairs in the front were sold out. The crowd looked rich and bored; that’s why they came to Roland Blue, for the things money couldn’t buy. There was no music up here. The stage was miked so every sound, every utterance was audible to the crowd. Staircases led to the rafters, where our “guides” were taking us, and I counted at least four men on the catwalk above us with AK-47’s slung. I was pretty sure there were more, and I knew Vigil had scoped out every single one.
“C’mon,” Joyce muttered as he led us to the stairs. The lights dimmed, and the crowd grew still. “The twelve-fifteen show is starting. Keep quiet.”
There was a creaking of the stage floor as a man in a leather zippered “gimp” mask led an animal onto the stage. At first I thought it was a horse; then I heard the gasp slip from Vigil’s pursed lips, and I knew, and even my stomach turned a little. The unicorn’s hide was dingy. Once pearlescent, it was now mottled with gray patches, scratches, stripes from whips, brand marks, and dirt. The iron collar covered with runes of binding and negation had rubbed a raw spot on its neck. The creature’s alicorn was almost three feet long and still shimmered like it wasn’t entirely real, not trapped in this world like its owner.
The unicorn looked over to the stairway and seemed to look straight at me. They could sense power, and besides it, I was
