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Tartarus felt like a state of mind, an enchantment, a reverie.
It was enough to confound the Third Commandment:Master your surroundings.
Lodged in a corner of a loggia overlooking the backyard, Craig “Gordo” Gordon was impossible to miss, his girth substantial enough to crowd his cheeks and pooch his lips so that the bottom fringe of his push-broom mustache aimed directly outward.
Hoping to note the location of Devine’s surviving heavy hitters, Evan searched out Dapper Dan Martinez, Sandman Santos, and Rathsberger, to no avail. As Evan headed back for the central stairs, a girl who looked no older than eighteen peeled herself off a wall and danced before him. She wore a quicksilver slip, angel wings composed of real feathers, and jean shorts cut so high that the white bottoms of the pockets stuck out atop her thighs. Without so much as a glance at his face, she writhed and shimmied against him, high to low, and then bounced off to grind against the next passerby.
Tenpenny was where Evan had left him, holding an overwatch position by the stairs, gauging the flow of traffic to the second floor. But now he was distracted, stooping to wrap an arm around the waist of an attenuated young woman dressed as a slutty Catholic-school girl—plaid skirt, thigh-high stockings, unbuttoned blouse. Tall and coltish, she had slender, uniformly tanned legs and long black hair shiny enough to see your reflection in. She giggled, delicate head bobbing on a long stem of a neck. She looked like she’d shatter if someone sneezed near her.
When she wobbled atop high-heeled black patent shoes, Tenpenny used the opportunity to shore up his grip on her, bending further to sniff her hair. And Evan in turn used the opportunity to slide past him onto the stairs.
He came face-to-face with a state governor leading an entourageof she-devils down the stairs and munching sushi from an actual scallop shell serving as an appetizer plate. She drew back from Evan’s painted face in mock horror and exclaimed “Spooky!” showing off a half-masticated hand roll gummed in her molars.
Evan eased to the side and let the satin costumes prance by. Protruding from a ledge of what he guessed to be Japanese zelkova wood perched a carving of the three wise monkeys in the Inami Chokoku tradition, Mizaru, Iwazaru, Kikazaru hewn in kanji on the wide base.
Clusters of guests clogged the upper landing, enjoying the rarefied-air vantage down onto the lobby. Slicing through, Evan veered left down what appeared to be the master wing of the house. The crowd was thinner here, only the occasional staff scurrying about or guest stumbling from the restrooms retucking flaps of costumery.
A curious door upholstered in a vibrant shade of crimson had no handle or visible hinges. Standing sentry before it, Dapper Dan Martinez chewed gum vigorously, his shiny, clean-shaven cheeks rippling with muscle. He wore fluorescent lime sneakers that would have looked ridiculous on a high-schooler.
He alerted to Evan at once, so rather than avoid him, Evan approached.
“No one comes in here,” Dan said.“Ever.”
Evan waved him off. “You know the tall guy downstairs? Another security dude?” His disguise was sufficient; he felt the face paint crack on his lips.
“Yeah.” Dan shifted with annoyance, his suit fitted to show off gym-swollen pecs. “What about him?”
He gripped hand to wrist at his groin, his head tilted back haughtily. With guys like Dapper Dan, you were never worth their focus. Everything important was happening one foot over your left shoulder.
“He got roughed up,” Evan said. “Someone got in a jab, knocked him out cold.”
A slender door a few strides up the hall opened, a worker emerging from what looked to be a servants’ staircase. Holding a silver tray on which a green smoothie balanced, she proffered it toDan, who took it without so much as a glance in her direction. She faded away down the stairs.
Evan’s remark had drawn Dan’s partial attention. “No shit?”
“I’d get down there, man. He’s hurting pretty good.”
Dan and his smoothie jogged off.
Evan tested the scarlet door, fingertips dimpling the fabric. It didn’t budge.
It practically hummed with relevance, guarding something of importance.
He pressed on.
Double architectural doors at the end of the hall were pinned open, letting into a vast master suite. Dimly lit, it had its own foyer, coat closet, and an ensuite office the size of a small restaurant. Evan caught sight of himself in a brass-framed mirror, a decapitated skull drifting through the air. As he advanced, the room kept drawing into view, telescoping in scale.
Behind a massive wrought-iron screen, a fireplace roared ocher and true orange.
A man stood facing it, hands clasped at the small of his back. The dappled light shone off a thinning patch at the rear of his head.
He didn’t turn so much as rotate with a ballet dancer’s fluidity. Shoulders pinned back, erect spine, a dignified diminutive bearing like that of the Little Prince. The vast hearth rose at least ten feet, backdropping him so he seemed to wear the flames like a living robe.
“‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’” Luke Devine’s smile seemed as warm as the blaze surrounding him. “Welcome, Mr. Nowhere Man. I’ve been waiting for you.”
43
A Dark Kind of Lovely
