Shade City (21 page)

"Funny you should ask! Look, I'm not really supposed to talk about it. Soren hasn't been speaking with anybody. He hasn't been home in two days. But he's working on a big deal right now."

"I know. He told me about Red Hat at the party."

"Oh good! Then I don't need to keep it a secret from you."

"Keep what a secret?"

"The deal," she said. "Red Hat Events. Initially they only wanted him as a DJ, but their music manager said they liked his ideas. They said he had a good feel for youth trends or something like that. Can you imagine?"

I didn't know what to say. I didn't expect to hear that he was in touch with Red Hat.

"Anyway," she continued, "we can't hang out because we're headed to dinner at eight. The music manager wants to celebrate the signing of the contract. His lawyer made reservations for all of us at Perch. Can you believe it?"

I couldn't. Soren sounded like a hot commodity, no matter who I talked to. "You're eating dinner with a lawyer?"

"I guess. You know how it is. Their executives have a whole entourage. They're even picking us up in a limo. Anyway, I have to go. I've never been to Perch before and I still need to finish my hair. But we'll definitely check in with you next weekend."

I didn't try to extend the conversation. My head was still fuzzy and I hadn't been able to digest most of it yet. I congratulated them and told her to have fun and hung up. Violet couldn't make sense of it. I called Eva to see if she knew any details but her phone went to voicemail. I didn't bother leaving a message. Chances are she knew less about Soren than I did.

"What are we missing?" I asked Violet after several minutes of silence. "Why is Red Hat looking for Soren when he is going to dinner with them tonight?"

It didn't feel right. "I don't know. Pam made it seem like Soren had been in contact with them for the last couple of days. If she's telling the truth—"

I nodded. "If that's the case, then the strongman wasn't here about Soren. He was just checking up on me."

I cursed and sank down further in the sofa cushions. "It just seemed like Marquis was telling the truth. I thought I got a good read on him."

"He's a bastard. I know. But something about him struck me as honorable. I thought he would keep his word." Violet didn't say anything. I knew she disagreed but she didn't want to press the point. Talking about it to death wouldn't help matters. "No. All of our troubles started with Soren. It's him they want. Could it be that even Marquis doesn't know what's going on?"

As we thought about the question, my eyes fell to a glossy black envelope on the coffee table. The side had been ripped open when I removed the invitation. "Ambrose. He has to be involved."

"It makes sense, given his history. There's some link we're not seeing." I put my feet on the floor and sat up. "Let's go over it, from the beginning."

"Soren was just another burnout. A loner without a family. He probably had too many dependencies, but who am I to judge? We know that, somehow, Soren was an accommodating host. Pam said he had been acting differently for three months. That's longer than most."

"Granted. There are some people—Ambrose, the Royals, maybe even Bedros and the strongmen—who are much more powerful. Until now, we'd made it our business to clean up the street level scum. You've told me that shades come in all shapes and sizes. Ambrose said many powers and abilities were unique. We're not working with hard rules here. There's just too much variability to make assumptions. But we do know that the vast majority of shades out there have weak holds on their hosts. But not the fiend inside Soren."

"That's the thing. Neros wasn't especially powerful. But we know about the iron ring now. He was able to stay in this world longer than most. Maybe that attracted attention. Maybe he was being watched."

I bit my lip. "So we're left with Soren. As a host. The difference is that he's susceptible. For whatever reason, shades have a strong bond with him. Easy entry. Usually, after someone smokes my cigarettes, their tie is cut for a long time, if not for good. The people I help can usually avoid repossession. Yet Soren is as popular as ever."

"Maybe they do. Maybe they don't. Isn't it curious that, as soon as I do, Sal is escorting him out of the club? Your father passed right by us, and you wanted to follow."

"But you suspected. And maybe, after four years on the lonely streets, we were bound to cross paths. That would be especially likely if Ambrose was looking for the same people we were."

"Recruiting for Red Hat is what he said. But he made me following him. He ducked into the bathroom at Mel's. Distracted me with an owl somehow. Neat trick. Obviously, we know he has friends. He shook me. You were so mad about it that you met me on the Dead Side for the first time. I could see you were shaken up. I pushed and you let Livia's name slip. Then I was on Alexander McAllister's trail. I knew it!"

I stood up quickly, gripping the pocket watch in my hand again and pacing in the living room. "I don't believe in coincidences. I was investigating Sal and I was looking into your past and Red Hat came up both times. What were the odds? But both of those seemingly independent inquiries were started by the same question: why was Sal talking to Soren?"

I nodded excitedly. "Yes, but that didn't happen. Unless I'm wrong, the Royals are still looking for Soren. Which means—"

"Exactly." I yelped the phone number and called Perch. When the hostess picked up the phone, I asked if she could confirm a reservation for me.

"What name?" she asked.

"McAllister."

She mumbled under her breath as she went down the list. "I don't see it, sir. Are you sure it's for tonight?"

"Yes." It was only a hunch, but it had to be right. This wasn't just about Marquis looking for Soren. Something more was going on. "Actually," I cut in, changing my mind, "I had my lawyer set the reservation. I think it's under his name. Try Glickman."

Another moment. "Yes. Glickman, party of four. You have a private balcony reserved for eight-thirty."

* * *

Pershing Square was my Red Line exit. The metro station was named for the block-long park nearby. The square used to be a Downtown hub, famous for hosting war rallies and political functions, but it never really found its stride and had to be reinvented several times. Originally, it was known as Central Park and would have appeared as a miniature version of the Manhattan icon we know today: a patch of trees in a valley of skyscrapers. It was then renamed for a famous general after the war, fitting its ensuing role as an area for social activism. Eventually, the entire park was demolished and an underground parking structure was built in its place; now most of the green is asphalt and many of the sculptures are modern geometric eyesores. What was once an oasis amid concrete was swallowed up by it.

Today, the biggest reasons to visit are probably the concert stage and the seasonal ice rink, although both had failed to ever draw me. I'd never had more than a passing association with the park. Instead I was downtown for one of the lumbering stone giants across the way.

As I ascended the escalator to the street, I zipped up my gray leather jacket to fend off the breeze and took in the city. In my dreams, I'd often walked between these old behemoths. Every single time, I'd felt tiny and disconnected in the darkness of the world. Somehow, this evening was different. I had the confidence of purpose. Of justice.

In the night sky, amidst the lights of the traffic and buildings, stood a stately fossil. The Pershing Square Building is a masthead of the old Los Angeles style. The exterior stonework features ornate details and reliefs of griffins and cherubs. Bold framing and cornerstones command a presence that isn't imitated today. The impressiveness continues inside. Sculptured brass and Italian marble is a mainstay. As I walked within the high halls with curved ceilings and crisscrossed stone tiling, I thought it an apt place to catch Alexander Ambrose. He was a man of tradition, and he was a Downtown lifer all the way.

I stepped into the elevator and faced the bronze plate that framed the call buttons. The top button had a metalwork bird welded next to it. It was the thirteenth floor. Like many buildings in Downtown Los Angeles that were built before the nineteen-fifties, this was a limit-height building—only zoned to stretch one hundred and fifty feet into the air. Where I was headed was near the roof, but thirteen, unlucky as it was, wasn't the destination.

I was dropped off into a hallway. A quick walk brought me to an unassuming room with old frames on the wall. A man in a suit stood at attention and opened another elevator door. So much for height limiting.

"I'm going to the dining room," I told him. He nodded as I entered, pushed a button for me, and resumed his post outside.

Perch is an upscale French restaurant, a slice of Parisian wonder precariously resting on a Los Angeles rooftop. The door slid open to reveal a bustling crowd of drinkers and I was deposited immediately next to the hostess stand. I nodded as I slipped past into the large room of antique-styled chairs, tables, and sofas. The expensive tiles created an intricate pattern the color of cream and sky. Large, arched windows framed patio doors and allowed a night view of the Downtown skyline. There was a building with the words "ONE WILSHIRE" emblazoned across the top, lit the same color as the moon that floated quietly above it. Again I stepped into the chill air. Below me, a trail of lighting caught my eye and I saw the ice rink of Pershing Square.

It was 9:30 p.m. I was late because I'd stopped at an army-navy store on the way. It was no matter. There were only a couple of places Soren could be and they would just be finishing dinner. I walked along the balcony edge, sliding my fingers on the clear glass railing, until I reached a private corner area. It was offset from the other tables, with its own fireplace and a lovely view of the city. Not a long view, as you might see from a mountainside or on a postcard, but the real thing: a sight of the city from within its bustling confines, above the activity but somehow still a part of it, still drawn to it.

Soren, Pam, Mr. Glickman, and Alexander McAllister sat sharing a wine bottle. They did not notice my approach.

"Don't I count as a family friend?" I asked, interjecting myself in the middle of whatever they were talking about. Pam was startled. Mr. Glickman and Soren looked confused. Alexander, however, flushed red with anger. He was still in a wheelchair but seemed to be in much better health. He chose not to make an outburst. While they remained seated, I leaned against the glass balcony railing next to the heating lamp. "I notice Bedros isn't here either. Maybe you thought he'd scare off your marks."

I put my hand in my pocket and fingered Soren's ring. I figured I would return it to him. Tell him I had found it in the bathroom or something. Maybe it could stop Ambrose from taking him.

"Dante," said Pam, the first to break the stupor. "What are you doing here?"

"Sorry Pam, Soren. I hope you at least enjoyed your dinner. I don't think Alexander McAllister has been fully honest with you."

"Dante, dude," protested Soren, "this isn't cool."

"He's not who you think he is, Soren."

Alexander's complexion returned to normal. He finally spoke up. "And you, sir, have you come clean on your end?" His voice was strong and confident. A far cry from the feeble man in the loft.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Only that the night my promoter ran into this gentleman, he had just been assaulted in a nightclub."

Uh-oh.

"Dante knows about that," said Soren. "I've told him. Besides, I'm not so sure I didn't just fall."

Alexander scoffed. "Ridiculous. You were attacked. Have you considered that your stalker here may have played a part in that?"

Pam looked at me with cold eyes. "What?"

"That's not true," I said. "Soren, that doesn't even make sense, man. We were hanging out. I didn't even see when you left or where you went to."

Soren started to shake his head, then stopped. He was trying to recall what had happened. I knew he would remember hanging out with me, but the minutes surrounding the brawl and the banishment would be gone forever. "No—I was in the bathroom alone. Dante didn't come in with me."

I nodded reassuringly, but I had the feeling Soren wasn't the one I needed to convince. "Pam, he went without us. I was sitting with you. Don't you remember?"

Her face softened. She didn't say anything but I saw a slight nod. Alexander would need to overplay his hand to give them any certainty. It would look too suspicious on his end to know too much about the situation. But I realized with a sigh that I couldn't just hand over Soren's ring now. I had just told him that I didn't know he went to the bathroom.

I decided to blow the shade's cover before he dug deeper into mine. "Let's talk about you, Alexander. We both know you don't work for Red Hat. You were in a coma until a couple days ago."