Read Online The Living End by Craig Schaefer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Craig Schaefer
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and down the stroll. Said he was with some mission, wanted to get us off the streets, offered us shelter if we needed it. All that save-the-world stuff. I know he was talking to Half-Cap’s girls till he chased the guy off. He gave me his card, but I tossed that thing away. Sorry.”
“It’s something,” I said. “Maybe ask around, see if any of the other girls remember anything. Give me a call if they do.”
I left her on the street corner. In the rearview mirror I saw a battered old Nissan pull up to the curb in my wake, another eager customer. The wheels of commerce never stopped rolling.
• • •
You wouldn’t know Winter was a nightclub if it wasn’t for the line snaking down the block and the faint thudding of bass echoing behind the slate black doors. There was no advertising or big marquee, just a tiny brass plate and a small sloping arrow in blue neon fixed to the bricks outside.
Freshly scrubbed and shaved, wearing a navy blazer to cut the evening chill, I skipped the line and walked right up to the bouncers out front. One waved me over, lifted the blue velvet rope, and ushered me inside.
I was on The List. Given that Winter was owned and operated by agents of hell—specifically, Prince Sitri and his Court of Jade Tears—I wasn’t sure if that was an achievement to be proud of.
Fractal snowflakes whirled and exploded in showers of ivory and blue on LED wall screens, bouncing to the rhythm from the pulsing sound system. The packed dance floor writhed and shook in the shadow of a glass DJ booth dangling overhead from titanium cables. I stuck to the edge of the crowd and skirted around to a side passage lit in icy neon.
Past a few twists and turns, the music quickly fading to a muffled heartbeat, the hall ended in a solid metal door. A man in a black leather apron barred the way, his features shrouded in a gas mask with tinted lenses. A rusty machete hung from his belt. As I approached, he leaned over and tapped a code into a wall panel. The door clicked and swung open for me.
There were three levels to Winter, that I knew of. Anyone could get into the club up top—well, anyone who could pass muster with the doormen. The second floor, the honeycomb labyrinth with nested rooms done up in black leather and gold neon, was given to more intimate pursuits than wild dancing and fifteen-dollar cocktails. Pursuits largely involving things like handcuffs and the bite of a whip. Access to the “hive” was strictly by invitation only. Not everyone down here was working for Sitri’s court—most of them didn’t even know who really ran the place—but it was where you met the more interesting regulars.
The third level was where the Conduit lived. That was the creature who could open a pipeline straight to hell if you were unlucky enough to need one. I’d been down there twice, and twice was plenty.
Instead of getting myself lost, I stayed by the stairs and called Caitlin. She came out to greet me, and I squinted at her.
“How do I know it’s really you?” I said, only half joking.
She rolled her eyes and took my hand, leading me through the honeycomb maze.
“Probably,” she said, “because she knows if she ever pulls a stunt like that again, she’ll be going back to Denver without her teeth. And she might anyway. The night is still young.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised to find a conference room down there. Mahogany walls, low lights, and a long table of smoked glass. Cylinders of Voss water and crystal glasses sat out at each place setting. It was the sort of room where I could imagine some Fortune 500 types meeting for intense business negotiations. Then I noticed the manacles dangling from stainless-steel hooks in the walls, spaced out around the room.
Caitlin followed my eye and winked. “We won’t need those tonight. Try a chair instead. They’re ergonomic. Haworth Zody Executive models, in fact.”
She took the seat at the head of the table and gestured for me to sit at her
“It’s something,” I said. “Maybe ask around, see if any of the other girls remember anything. Give me a call if they do.”
I left her on the street corner. In the rearview mirror I saw a battered old Nissan pull up to the curb in my wake, another eager customer. The wheels of commerce never stopped rolling.
• • •
You wouldn’t know Winter was a nightclub if it wasn’t for the line snaking down the block and the faint thudding of bass echoing behind the slate black doors. There was no advertising or big marquee, just a tiny brass plate and a small sloping arrow in blue neon fixed to the bricks outside.
Freshly scrubbed and shaved, wearing a navy blazer to cut the evening chill, I skipped the line and walked right up to the bouncers out front. One waved me over, lifted the blue velvet rope, and ushered me inside.
I was on The List. Given that Winter was owned and operated by agents of hell—specifically, Prince Sitri and his Court of Jade Tears—I wasn’t sure if that was an achievement to be proud of.
Fractal snowflakes whirled and exploded in showers of ivory and blue on LED wall screens, bouncing to the rhythm from the pulsing sound system. The packed dance floor writhed and shook in the shadow of a glass DJ booth dangling overhead from titanium cables. I stuck to the edge of the crowd and skirted around to a side passage lit in icy neon.
Past a few twists and turns, the music quickly fading to a muffled heartbeat, the hall ended in a solid metal door. A man in a black leather apron barred the way, his features shrouded in a gas mask with tinted lenses. A rusty machete hung from his belt. As I approached, he leaned over and tapped a code into a wall panel. The door clicked and swung open for me.
There were three levels to Winter, that I knew of. Anyone could get into the club up top—well, anyone who could pass muster with the doormen. The second floor, the honeycomb labyrinth with nested rooms done up in black leather and gold neon, was given to more intimate pursuits than wild dancing and fifteen-dollar cocktails. Pursuits largely involving things like handcuffs and the bite of a whip. Access to the “hive” was strictly by invitation only. Not everyone down here was working for Sitri’s court—most of them didn’t even know who really ran the place—but it was where you met the more interesting regulars.
The third level was where the Conduit lived. That was the creature who could open a pipeline straight to hell if you were unlucky enough to need one. I’d been down there twice, and twice was plenty.
Instead of getting myself lost, I stayed by the stairs and called Caitlin. She came out to greet me, and I squinted at her.
“How do I know it’s really you?” I said, only half joking.
She rolled her eyes and took my hand, leading me through the honeycomb maze.
“Probably,” she said, “because she knows if she ever pulls a stunt like that again, she’ll be going back to Denver without her teeth. And she might anyway. The night is still young.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised to find a conference room down there. Mahogany walls, low lights, and a long table of smoked glass. Cylinders of Voss water and crystal glasses sat out at each place setting. It was the sort of room where I could imagine some Fortune 500 types meeting for intense business negotiations. Then I noticed the manacles dangling from stainless-steel hooks in the walls, spaced out around the room.
Caitlin followed my eye and winked. “We won’t need those tonight. Try a chair instead. They’re ergonomic. Haworth Zody Executive models, in fact.”
She took the seat at the head of the table and gestured for me to sit at her
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