CHAPTER 30: COURTESY & WARNING

  GARLAND HEIGHTS, GODFREY TOWER—NOVEMBER 20th, 1992 | MORNING

  ?

  The door man almost certainly wouldn’t have let them in if Leroy hadn’t shown them his arbiter’s license.

  Godfrey Tower put city hall to shame, and not even a man as prim and proper as Minister Rostavich could show up here without getting a few accosting glares, which graduated into something worse when Leroy entered with his underarbiter. Men in suits, slacks, and overpriced shoes looked at both of them like they were in the wrong place, and women in blazers and tight skirts tried and failed to hide their sneers.

  “Welcome to Godfrey Tower, Kessler. Seventy-seven floors of luxury, excess, and extramarital affairs,” Leroy said.

  Marble floors, romanesque columns, sleek modernist couches and ottomans. Strangely anachronistic light fixtures, silvers, rigid geometric patterns; the lobby was both a testament of a future that never was and a firm fixture of the 1920s, a bastard child of old-money design and Art Deco. Anyone worth anything who didn’t already have some sort of skyrise penthouse or historical building with their name on it had a suite here, and any company with private shares and a legacy behind it had long since staked a claim to entire floor plans.

  “Why are they still looking at us like that?” Cameron asked, returning an unpleasant expression to the handful of men and women who’d very plainly insinuated they didn’t belong there.

  “Think you can answer that just fine on your own, Kessler. Come on. We need to catch the elevator,” Leroy said, nudging Cameron along.

  “Which one? I see three,” Cameron said, nodding to the far side of the lobby.

  Leroy positioned himself in front of the elevator to the right. Most of the busybodies who lingered around opted for the middle elevator, and he much rather would’ve been trapped in an elevator with Cameron than six or seven financiers, company liaisons and project managers. “Doesn’t matter. They all go to the same place—up.”

  “Or we could take the stairs. Might do your knees some good,” Cameron said, pressing the up arrow three times over.

  “Pressing it over and over isn’t going to make it come down faster,” Leroy said, smacking his hand away from the elevator button.

  Cameron shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

  Within moments, the pronounced ding of the elevator focused Leory’s attention back to it. He had been surveying the lobby, curious as to if he might find any familiar faces. Unsurprisingly, there were none. The elevator doors opened, and by some stroke of luck, nobody was inside, nearly prompting a sigh of relief out of Leroy. Once inside, his fingers hovered over a panel of buttons with the floor numbers.

  “Kessler. What floor were we supposed to go to?” Leroy asked.

  “What? You don’t remember?”

  “Fifty-something,” Leroy muttered. “Was it fifty-seven or fifty-eight?”

  Cameron leaned back against the wall, his voice heavy with exasperation. “Are you serious right now? What the fuck, Leroy?”

  Leroy pressed both buttons. “One or the other. Guess we’ll find out.”

  The elevator doors were about to close, only for a calloused hand to slip between them. With a sudden jerk, a man pried it open and stepped inside. Wavy blonde hair ran down to his neck, and he had the mustache that would’ve been respectable to any member of the Brinehaven’s fire brigade. Five-o'clock shadow filled in the other gaps along his jaw, and he had a scar along his squared jaw, and another one that closed his left eye shut. His right eye was a ghostly gray, and hauntingly serious in spite of his neutral expression.

  He looked to be forty-something, had a filled-out build and must’ve stood at six-foot-two. If not for his choice of attire—an open black pinstriped blazer, a tucked cream-colored button up, and pinstriped slacks—Leroy wouldn’t have taken him for the kind of guy that lingered around Godfrey Tower.

  “What floor?” Leroy asked.

  “Forty,” the man answered with a nod. “Thanks.”

  Leroy stepped back from the panel and the doors closed. Then began the elevator music, a slow, melodic kind of instrumental that tried and failed to emulate classical music. It sounded more eerie than gleeful.

  Cameron shifted awkwardly towards the opposite end of the elevator and sized the guy up, and Leroy had to issue a cautionary stare at him. On the backdrop of the kid’s speech about Marcus Velvet, Leroy was disappointed to see him so jumpy. There was a look on his face, and by now, Leroy had grown familiar with it; it wasn’t anger, but a kind of discomfort that was liable to burn hot until it forced him into action.

  It wasn’t until he followed Cameron’s gaze that he saw where he’d been looking.

  “Nice piece,” Leroy said, nodding to the gun on his belt. It was tucked into a holster, and it was clear that the man never had any intention of hiding it to begin with.

  “Old reliable,” the man said with a smile.

  “Smith and Wesson?” Leroy asked.

  “Not quite,” the man said, moving his blazer to the side a bit. “It’s a—”

  “Reign 18,” Cameron said.

  The man turned, and with his good eye, raised a brow. “A Reign 18.”

  Not acquired illegally, as far as Leroy could tell. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t like the other suits they’d seen in the lobby. He was here in a different capacity, either working as private security or something else entirely. Leroy wasn’t necessarily a betting man, but if he had to choose between the two, this guy was more likely the latter. He carried himself with an air of experience, with a ruggedness that wasn’t well suited for standing sentry. Between him and Cameron was a man of action and urgency.

  Overhead, a chime echoed through the elevator. In no time at all, they had already reached the fortieth floor. The doors opened to a waiting room with a wide desk and signage that read ALISTAIR COMPANY LIMITED. A few men and women sat at the reception area, all reading newspapers over their laps, all holding a cup of coffee in one hand. Half a dozen eyes shifted towards the elevator all at once. Uniformed stares reached Leroy and Cameron, and Leroy couldn’t place what it meant. They were either inviting them inside or warning them not to enter.

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  “Be seeing you,” the man said, offering a nod to Leroy and Cameron.

  Leroy hoped that wouldn’t be the case. Whoever this man was, outside of the odd elevator encounter, Leroy imagined he likely only saw people for very specific reasons. When the elevator doors closed and they went back up, Leroy allowed himself a moment of reprieve, slowly inhaling and exhaling.

  “Who was that?” Cameron asked.

  Leroy watched the floor numbers go up. They were getting closer. “Your guess is as good as mine, Kessler.”

  “Looks like he had you spooked,” Cameron said.

  “Vigilant, not spooked,” Leroy clarified.

  “Then why the hell were you making small talk with the guy?”

  “Dunno’. Better that than to sit in an elevator with Mr. Scarface than to idle,” Leroy said with a shrug. “Anyways, once I make it to the right floor, let me be clear about something. I do the talking. You understand? Not a peep from you Kessler.”

  “Yeah, fine, you got it,” Cameron said.

  The elevator display shifted to the number fifty-seven, when the doors opened, all they were presented with was a long corridor and a few doors with numbers on them. Must’ve been a residential floor. Leroy peered out to double check, stepped back inside the elevator, and waited for its ding to repeat once they hit floor fifty-eight. The doors opened and revealed a similar floor plan as the fortieth floor: a reception area decorated with couches, wall lights, and a wide desk.

  The only difference was in the signage, and, on second glance, the less-impressive decorations and fixtures. He urged Cameron to follow him as he stepped into the reception area, which, on today of all days, was absent of any customers or clientele. That put a smile on Leroy’s face. Waiting times in places like these could be a nightmare, he imagined, and were probably only rivaled by the waiting times in doctor’s offices.

  A young man in glasses looked up from the stack of papers he was working on, and smiled. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah,” Leroy said. “Need to speak to whoever’s in charge here.”

  ?

  A woman in a pair of designer glasses looked at the license in her hands with vague interest. The metal plaque on her desk read as:

  MAUDE DUPRE

  CHIEF OPERATING OFFICER

  BLUESTEIN PHILTERWORKS

  Maude seemed to be in the tail-end of her thirties, where her youth was starting to fade in favor of a more matured set of features. Her hair was set into a bun, and she had a flat mole to the right side of her lips. She wore a tapered black vest over a white blouse, and had a set of pearls around her neck.

  “Leroy Waters, arbiter. And this is?” she asked, turning towards Cameron.

  “My underarbiter,” Leroy stated.

  “Cameron,” he clarified. “Cameron Kessler.”

  She nodded. “I see. And how may I help you today?”

  Leroy cleared his throat. “I’ll be brief, Mrs. Dupre.”

  “Ms. Dupre,” she corrected. “But go on.”

  Better to be direct with a woman like this. Leroy didn’t have a proper read on her, but imagined that she wasn’t unlike Marcus Velvet in many ways; speaking in half-truths with an underlying end goal to obscure, rather than to clarify.

  “I have it on good authority that Bluestein Philterworks has been using Spectre as a distribution network for a new type of formula. Street name for it is ether, but you already know that,” Leroy stated.

  “Mr. Waters, what you are accusing Bluestein Philterworks of is very serious. I hope you understand—”

  “Ms. Dupre, if I can be frank, let’s cut the bullshit. You and your company are using Cyprus Alley as a testing grounds. Bluestein is cutting corners. The less red tape, the quicker you get results, data, or whatever it is you people need to get your next product to hit your shelves en masse. I’m not here to negotiate with you, or to get answers out of you. I got my answers."

  “Your grievances are noted, Mr. Waters, but if it is your official position that Bluestein Philterworks is somehow involved in the distribution of illicit and untested alchemical concoctions, you would be gravely mistaken. You stand before me and have levied nothing more than a long-winded accusation,” Ms. Dupre said.

  “I have an arbitration contract to shut down the manufacturing. Manufacturing, distribution, the whole operation,” Leroy said curtly.

  “Is that professional courtesy, Mr. Waters, or a warning?” Ms. Dupre asked, her tone leveled.

  “Both.”

  Ms. Dupre clasped both hands in front of her, and a pretty smile stretched across her face. “I would be more than willing to arrange a tour of our manufacturing facility, Mr. Waters, to clear up any confusion.”

  “I’ll find my own way there. Tell Mr. Bluestein—or whoever you answer to—to expect me tomorrow.”

  Ms. Dupre’s smile remained cast-iron, like a set of armor that couldn’t be pierced. “Very well. Is there anything else Bluestein Philterworks can do for you today?”

  Leroy tipped his hat and turned towards the door, and Cameron followed after him. “Nope.”

  After exiting her office, Leroy made straight towards the elevator, relieved that he didn’t have to deal with Ms. Dupre for any longer than he needed to. Something about her smile was unsettling. Her unnaturally white teeth, the complete and utter lack of imperfections. That, paired with her corporate-speak made for an encounter that Leroy detested.

  Leroy pushed the down button and waited for the elevator to return.

  “Why would—”

  Leroy held a finger up to his own lips. “Save it. We’ll talk about it in the elevator.”

  “Have it your way,” Cameron said.

  The doors opened. They stepped inside, and when the doors closed, Leroy hit the button for the ground floor.

  As soon as they closed, Cameron let loose. “Why the hell would you tell them to expect us? You completely botched whatever element of surprise we might’ve had, and, what’s worse, by the sounds of it, you knew where their manufacturing plant was as soon as Marcus told you Bluestein Philterworks was behind this. Why even go to the office to begin with?”

  “So they expect us to take the front door,” Leroy said plainly.

  Cameron looked dumbfounded. “The front door—... what are you talking about?”

  “They are expecting a meeting. A sit-down. Mr. Bluestein or whoever-the-hell is going to try to bribe me, or threaten me, or find some other angle. It’s what they are used to, what they’ve known, and I’m sure it’s worked on arbiters, same as it’s worked on anyone else. We’re setting a precedent and going against it. Subverting expectations, exploiting their trust. So—”

  “So, get to the part where we actually do the job we were paid to do,” Cameron said with an expectant look plastered on his face.

  Leroy exhaled. “So we get there, go in through the back, figure out where they are making ether, and blow it up. Happy?”

  Cameron set his jaw. “How will we know which one is ether—”

  "It's a glowing blue powder. Won’t be hard to find. We’ll know it when we see it. Any other questions, concerns, or goddamn critiques?”

  Cameron opened up his brown denim jacket. On the inside of the coat pocket was his Reign 18, and he gestured towards it. “You didn’t give me any bullets when we left this morning. Minister’s order, remember?”

  Ding. The elevator doors swung open to reveal the lobby of Godfrey Tower.

  “We’ll have to buy some on the way. I know a guy. And before you ask—yes. We’ll get some pasteurized demon blood too,” Leroy said. “We’re going to need it for where we’re going.”

  LEROY WATERS

  CAMERON KESSLER

  MAUDE DUPRE

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