CHAPTER 22: MR. VELVET
CYPRUS ALLEY, SPECTRE NIGHTCLUB—NOVEMBER 19th, 1992 | EVENING
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There it was. The chance he’d been looking for.
Cameron’s intervention gave Leroy just what he needed right when he needed it. At the rate his fight with Rachel was going, he’d bleed out before he could kill her. The thought of it made him want to exhale with the kind of discontent that earned the heaviness of such a breath. In the three times they’d fought before, Leroy had won.
In 84’, when they’d first crossed paths, he was the clear victor. It was quick and easy; like taking candy from a damn baby.
In 86’, when Rachel started working for Marcus Velvet? Well—that one was more of a toss up.
In 90’, Leroy was lucky to get out of there alive.
Either he was getting old, or she was getting better. Probably both, not that they were that far apart in age. If he ever had the chance to see Rachel again, he’d have to ask her if curators got stronger as their connection deepened with whatever they were soul-bonded to. That had to be the case. Leroy’s pride wouldn’t accept anything other than that.
Moreover, it wouldn’t accept that his saving grace was Cameron Kessler.
That stung more than the numerous cuts and lacerations that plagued his body, and he tried to make himself feel better by creating all kinds of excuses for himself. First, he thought of how if they were outside and in the fog, or closer to a place with more water, this fourth bout of theirs would be a repeat of 84’.
But they weren’t.
They were in Spectre, and Leroy was working with a limited supply, chaperoning his underarbiter, and dealing with more of Marcus Velvet’s security than he would’ve liked. He hoped that when all was said and done, Rachel would have another vial of p-blood on her person. Leroy sure as hell would need it.
He zipped closer towards her on his platform of ice, but before she could pivot to face him again, it was too late. With whatever strength his legs had left to offer, Leroy leapt from his platform just as it was about to crash into Rachel. Mid-fall, Leroy clenched his fist and twisted.
The ice opened up and swallowed Rachel whole, cocooning her in a prism not unlike a small prison. Just before Leroy crashed onto the ground closer to the bar, he whisked his fingers forward and sliced them through the air.
A dim-blue glow erupted along Rachel’s frigid prison, and the ice encasing her shrunk, pinning her uncomfortably against the fractal walls of the cold prism.
“Well played, Rachel. Well played,” Leroy said snidely, only after crashing into the floor with a pained grunt.
He realized the flaw of entrapping her as that pain lingered. If she did have more of that pasteurized demon blood on her, he sure as hell wasn’t getting to it now. And to make matters worse, those two bouncers from before—the Hispanic woman with the semi-automatic rifle, and the tall, lanky, gray-skinned accursed—had finally arrived at the empty doorway leading to the VIP lounge.
Leroy glanced to his side and saw Cameron looking worse for wear, the incapacitated Aria Remeau, and whatever the hell remained of Hughes. He seemed to still be breathing, but barely, and Leroy was almost surprised Cameron didn’t just off him. Better that than letting the poor guy suffer like that. Leroy’s eyes shifted back towards the approaching bouncers. He was fresh out of waterskins, and he couldn’t afford to recycle the water that was holding Rachel in that prism.
“Fuck,” Leroy muttered, still not even on his feet yet.
“Yeah, fuck,” Cameron retorted, breathing heavily. “We’re fucked.”
“Not yet we’re not,” said Leroy, standing up. “With all the commotion, that door over there, the one I pointed to when we walked in, it’ll open, and we'll have an audience.”
“You’re saying that like it’s a good thing. How the hell does that help us?”
“Because. Marcus Velvet only deals in favors, and as it stands, it's looking like we’ll owe him one.”
The door opened.
The timing of it made Leroy flash Cameron a grin, but that grin faded as Marcus Velvet walked out, holding up an appeasing hand in the direction of the two bouncers who fully intended on finishing the job where Marcus’s personal security had failed.
He was already pacing towards them, poised and heavy, like the lion who knew it can’t ever truly be challenged in the territory it's carved for itself. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his cream-colored slacks, which just barely covered his snakeskin Cuban heels. A hot pink shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest exposed several sets of gold chains. His skin was a light brown, as was his hair of a similar color, styled into dreadlocks. Sunglasses hung on his nose, rectangular with golden rims. Even Leroy could acknowledge that he was devilishly handsome, enough to make him look ten years younger than however old he really was.
“Leroy Waters,” Marcus said, his voice a honeyed-timbre.
Leroy tipped his flat cap. “Marcus.”
“You know, I could’ve sworn that the last time I saw you, I said I never wanted to see your face in my club,” Marcus said, pacing around Leroy and Cameron. He saw that the bartender—who’d somehow survived the whole thing—was still hiding behind the section of the counters that wasn’t destroyed and helped her to her feet. “Gloria, was it?”
Gloria nodded.
“Gloria, here’s what I need you to do for me. Check and see what’s left of this mess. If there’s whisky, I’ll need two glasses. If there’s none, wine. Two glasses. Red, not white,” Marcus said, turning away from her as soon as he’d helped her up.
Cameron was about to say something, but Leroy glared at him.
“My office, Leroy. Your friend here will have to wait outside,” Marcus said, and nodded towards the two bouncers.
“He’s going to die,” Cameron said, looking towards Hughes.
Leroy’s glare intensified, but Cameron ignored him, and nodded towards Hughes. The cadence of his breathing had slowed, and so too had his wheezing. Marcus briefly glanced over his shoulder, then back towards one of the two bouncers. “One of you see to getting him some pasteurized demon blood. Quickly.”
“On it, Mr. Velvet,” said the accursed man with the gray skin, who quickly departed from the VIP lounge.
“And a few more while you’re at it. One for Leroy and, well,” Marcus eyed Cameron. “Whoever that is.”
The Hispanic woman with the AR-15, remained still and kept the barrel of her gun pointed at Cameron.
Marcus made it for his office. He held the door open and kept it in place with one of his snakeskinned Cuban heels, and nodded Leroy inside with an assuredness that didn’t require a smile.
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A wide windowpane directly overlooked the DJ and the dance floor. Even with all of the commotion that had occured in the VIP lounge, the club-goers hadn't stopped. Hell, they hadn't even noticed. The music was too loud, and the night was too young. Better that than to have them all crowd up and stampede over each-other on the way out.
Marcus Velvet’s office was exactly how Leroy remembered it: larger than it should have been, with sleek black floors, velvet couches, velvet rugs, velvet lights. A homage and a sanctuary designed by and occupied by the man who, rather than sitting, leaned against his desk. Gloria handed him a wine glass and did the same for Leroy, who stood awkwardly and stared down at the red liquid.
“That’ll be all, Gloria. Thank you,” said Marcus, who dismissed her with a slight nod of the head.
She left promptly and closed the door behind her.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“I lied earlier. I am happy to see you, Leroy. Do you want to know why?” Marcus asked, taking a sip.
“No. But I imagine you’ll tell me anyway.”
Marcus smirked at that. “That I will, Leroy. That I will. See, you came in here exactly as you did in 86’. Guns blazing, chest puffed. My guess is you’re here on some sort of arbitration gig. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Leroy said.
“The Leroy Waters I knew would’ve made it out. He would’ve left a trail of bodies behind him. Hell, Leroy! What’s got to happen for a man like you to be pulling his punches?” Marcus said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“An underarbiter. That and early on-set arthritis, Marcus," Leroy retorted.
Marcus smiled at that. “The one outside the door. What’s his name?”
Leroy’s lips creased into a frown. “Not important. Tell me why I’m not dead, Marcus.”
“Because, Leroy,” Marucs stepped forward and shook a knowing finger in Leroy’s face. “You’re more useful to me alive than dead. You know it, I know it, and I’ll be damned if I have to repeat myself for stating the obvious. Favors, yes?”
This was Leroy’s third time at Spectre, and only the first time that Marcus had caught him. It was his own fault. Marcus was right; he’d walked through the doors guns blazing with his chest puffed and nearly died because of it.
If he made it out of here in one piece, he’d need to remind himself to visit both an alchemist and an artificer to make sure he had the proper tools to get the job done. And usually, his handgun and his waterskins did the trick. Hell, he’d killed a demon just a few weeks ago with nothing more than that—and as much as he liked to think chaperoning Cameron was the cause of all of this, he stood there in front of Marcus having to come to terms with two very real possibilities. One, that he was underprepared. And two, he was getting old, and if there was once an edge to his rugged exterior, it had since started to dull.
“Let’s hear it, Marcus,” Leroy said.
Marcus crossed back to his desk and sat on top of it, criss-crossing his legs with a wide smile. He raised his glass. “Good things come to those who wait. First, you tell me why you’re here.”
“Arbitration contract.”
“So, not a note. A contract. I'm going to need more than that, Leroy.”
Leroy stared at him. If he lied, Marcus would know. Men like him always knew. “Donovan Mayfield killed three girls over at Ruby Shakur’s brothel, hiked up on something called ether. Told me to come here.”
“And you..?”
“Killed him. Part of the contract,” Leroy stated plainly. “He one of yours?”
“In a sense, I suppose. I’d call him a valued customer first and an associate second. Hired muscle on retainer might be the best way to put it; though he’d often claim he was one of mine. Of course, when I started dipping my feet in the ether trade, he provided a unique way of making money. He’d do jobs for me, and the money I’d pay him would go right back into my pockets when he wanted a re-up. Frankly, I think he knew, but didn’t care.”
Leroy raised a brow. “You’re dealing ether out of here.”
Marcus took a few more sips from his wine glass and waved a dismissive hand. “Relax. Anything worth anything sells through here. Blud, ether, and the stuff the mundies like too; coke, ket, weed. Don’t act surprised. You knew that. You’ve known that, and might’ve saved yourself all this trouble if you simply walked in and asked. But now a man is dead!”
“Didn’t exactly leave on the best of terms last time I was here, and I’m sure if I walked without a bang, you’d be sitting here telling me I owe you something, same as you are now,” Leroy admitted.
“That’s exactly right, Leroy. But seeing as you are now in my debt for letting you and your little friend live, I am willing to let the past stay firmly rooted in the past. This arbitration contract. Tell me what else it entails, and this may yet work out for you, Leroy,” Marcus said, taking another sip. His wine glass was close to empty.
“You won’t like it,” Leroy stated.
“Maybe not. But what makes me the Uncrowned King of Cyprus Alley? It is, Leroy, among other things, my God-given ability to turn even the worst of scenarios into quid-pro-quos. You stand before me as the arbiter who has, if memory serves me right, littered my club with bodies over the better part of the last six years or so. Driscoll and Mitch, bless them, quit after your second arrival at my doors. I can’t say I blame them. You came here again today for the same reason—”
“I came here to see you, Marcus,” Leroy interjected, eyes harsh and cold. “And I was five years younger, I’d be standing over you getting the answers my way. No favors. Just answers.”
“Would you? Anyways, that wine. Are you going to finish that?”
Leroy stared at the glass. “No.”
“Gloria!” Marcus yelled, stepping towards Leroy to snatch the glass from him. The door opened and closed, and the bartender hurried to his side. “Bring this to Aria. The smell of it might wake her up."
With a nod, Gloria departed, glass-in-hand.
“You came here to see me knowing that my security would attack you on sight. User error, I’d say, Leroy! Or, perhaps, an utter failure insofar as your planning was concerned. You never were much of a planner,” Marcus said, almost disappointedly.
“Sure I am. If you were an arbiter, you might understand. Things in my line of work rarely go as planned,” Leroy said.
“Yes, well. Boo-hoo. The contract. Continue, Leroy.”
Leroy couldn’t help but linger on the title Marcus had given himself: the Uncrowned King of Cyprus Alley.
Not far off. He was the closest thing to a kingpin in Cyrpus Alley, but more this was the lesser source of his pride. Of paramount importance to a man like Marcus Velvet his reputation as the most well-connected informant in the whole of Brinehaven. He knew everything about everything.
Leroy’s intention had been to beat his little entourage and then beat the answers out of Marcus himself, but given how everything had gone, he’d have to go with the second option—making a deal with a devil of a man that put even the likes of Yaerzul to shame. Marcus forced his hand, and now Leroy had to shake it.
“I’ve been tasked with finding the manufacturer of the drug, and shutting down the distribution networks,” Leroy explained. “And seeing as it’s being distributed here, that includes Spectre, Marcus.”
Marcus sucked in his lips and inhaled. He stood up and walked up to Leroy, pulling on the insides of his leather brown jacket as if adjusting it. “Correct. But I’d rather not find myself in the midst of an arbitration contract. Even if I were to kill you, whoever hired you would find another arbiter to send. How’s this: I’ll give you exactly what you probably came here for—information on where I am getting it from. Yes. The name of the manufacturer.”
“That’ll hit you right in the profit margin,” Leroy said, surprised. “How much are you taking off the top? Twenty percent on every sale made here at Spectre?”
Marcus stepped back towards his desk. “Thirty. But money is money, Leroy, but the best currency to ever exist is the currency of promises. The exchange of deals and debts. You stand before me already owing me a hefty debt, and when I reveal to you the name of the manufacturer, you will stand before me owing me yet another hefty debt.”
Leroy cusped the lower half of his face with one hand, weaving his fingers through his beard in a broad display of exasperation that he didn’t care to hide. “Two favors.”
“That’s right, two favors,” said Marcus with a smile. “You’ll do one for me now, and one for me later after you’ve finished up this contract of yours.”
Two jobs under the table. No arbitration note, no arbitration contract. A snake like Marcus knew exactly what he was asking for, and knew that doing something like this was one of the few things that could get Leroy’s functional immunity challenged. Worse, it was one of the only offenses that could strip an arbiter of their license.
Leroy thought to placate him. To nod, tell him he’d do the jobs, and not do them at all. But that wasn’t the right choice, or, frankly, the smart one. In all likelihood, Marcus Velvet had been building something on Leroy since he first made an enemy out of him in 1986. Six years was a long time, and Leroy didn’t even want to know what Marcus had managed to find out. And there were things about his past that were better left buried.
“Get on with it, then,” Leroy said.
“There is an up-and-comer here in Cyprus Alley, one that has been aggressively gaining turf. Everything north of Huang’s Laundromat used to belong to me, but as of the last four weeks, that’s changed. Rapidly. And there’s something else.”
“And what’s that?” Leroy asked.
“He is like you. A demonic contractor.”
Leroy exhaled. “You got a name?”
“Draves. Gideon Draves.”
LEROY WATERS
CAMERON KESSLER
RACHEL CHEN
ARIA REMEAU
HUGHES
MARCUS VELVET
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