Страница 24 из 49
Dead men and women, and dogs. And children in cages.
“John Taylor,” the Walking Man said finally, in a happy, cheerful voice. “Thought you’d be taller.”
“I get that a lot,” I said.
“Who’s your friend?”
“I am Chandra Singh, monster hunter!” Chandra said proudly.
“Good for you,” said the Walking Man.
Chandra bristled just a bit, as he realised his name and cherished reputation meant nothing to the Walking Man. He drew himself up to his full height, the better to show off his magnificent Raj silks and the diamond flashing in his turban.
“I, too, am a holy warrior,” he said hotly. “I also do God’s work, striking down those who would threaten the i
“How nice,” said the Walking Man. “Try not to get in the way.”
Chandra suddenly realised he was being teased and gave a great bark of laughter.
I was concentrating on the Walking Man’s face. There was something of the impish, the almost devilish, about his mocking gaze and easy smile. He wasn’t at all what I’d expected. He was far more complicated, and therefore far more dangerous.
“I can’t just let you walk in there and kill everyone,” I said bluntly. “This isn’t like Precious Memories, where everyone was guilty. There are bad people in the Boys Club, but not everyone is bad enough to be worth killing.”
“That’s my decision to make, not yours,” said the Walking Man. “This is what I do. You’re just along for the ride.”
“I know the Nightside better than you ever will,” I said.
“You’re too close,” the Walking Man said kindly. “You can’t see it clearly any more. You need me, to do what you’ve never been able to do.”
“I’ll stop you if I have to,” I said.
He flashed me a bright smile and shot me a merry look, one professional to another. “You’re welcome to try. Now, let the fun begin!”
We just walked in. The Doorman was currently making low, sad moaning sounds in the gutter, clearly in no shape to ask to see our Membership cards. The door swung open by itself. (At least the Walking Man hadn’t killed the Doorman outright. I told myself there was hope in that.) There were, however, a number of large and very competent-looking security guards waiting for us in the lobby, their muscular forms all but spilling out of their expensive suits. The Walking Man sauntered in like he owned the place, nodding briskly to the security guards. They nodded back, responding instinctively to his arrogant authority, before catching themselves and moving quickly forward to block our way. The Walking Man stopped, and looked them over, his smile openly mocking.
I looked around the lobby. They’d redecorated the place since I was last there, but it was still big and flashy and overstated, like most of the Club Members. Chandra and I moved in on either side of the Walking Man, and several of the security men got a bit twitchy when they recognised me. It was because of my last visit that they’d had to redecorate the lobby. But still, they were just thugs with guns, for all their nice suits, and I’d spent my whole life ru
The most senior thug took a step forward, fixing me with his best intimidating stare. “You know you’re not allowed in here, Mr. Taylor. You upset the nice gentlemen and their ladies. You are ba
“I am Chandra Singh, holy warrior and mighty monster hunter!” said Chandra, getting a little peeved at his lack of fame in the Nightside. “I have got to get myself a better agent . . .”
“And I am the Walking Man,” said the Walking Man cheerfully. “Come to judge your souls.”
The security men went very pale. Several started perspiring, several more began shaking, and one actually whimpered. All their attention was on the Walking Man. Chandra and I might as well have not been there. It would seem what had happened at Precious Memories had already reached the Boys Club. Nothing travels faster than bad news, especially in the Nightside. The thug in charge swallowed audibly.
“I think we’d all like to run away now, sir, if that’s all right with you.”
“Go,” said the Walking Man, gesturing grandly. “I can always find you later if I need you.”
The body-guards departed, but they didn’t just leave—they ran as if Death herself was on their trail, actually fighting each other to get through the door first. I’d never had that effect on people, on the best night I ever had. I felt distinctly jealous.
“Doesn’t the lobby seem so much bigger, without them in it?” said the Walking Man. “Shall we go in?”
“Why not?” I said. “I think you’ve done all the damage you can here.”
He laughed.
I opened the doors into the main Club area, and the Walking Man swaggered through with his hands still stuffed deep in his coat pockets. He couldn’t have looked more at ease if he’d been walking into his own front room. Chandra and I took up our positions on each side of him again. Though whether to support or restrain him, I hadn’t actually decided.
Entering the Club’s huge recreation area was like walking into the world’s sleaziest circus, all bright lights and glaring primary colours, with all kinds of beasts on display. People sat at tables, or milled around in the open central area, or propped up the massive bar. Music blasted out of concealed speakers, almost drowned out by the sheer din of so many people shouting and laughing at once, doing their best to convince themselves and everyone around them that they were having a great time. There was a lot of looking around, to see what everyone else was doing, in case it looked like more fun, and a constant checking of who was with whom.
There were gambling tables—cards, craps, roulette—as well as display boards giving the odds for every kind of bet, on anyone and anything. And there were other games, not so nice. Like the great pit in one corner, for bare-knuckle fights, knife fights, or drunks who thought they could take on creatures of varying size and nastiness. The betting action was really hot around the pit, whose sides were dark with layers of dried blood. Expensively dressed women clutched at men’s arms, and oohed and aahed and squealed delightedly at the sight of blood. Men struck poses in expensive suits, and women stalked back and forth in the very latest fashions, all of it for show. To say Look at me. I’ve arrived. I belong here. Except they wouldn’t have needed to try so hard if they’d really believed it.
Sitting at their tables, the Boys watched the circus go by with the blank, expressionless faces of those who’d seen it all before. The Boys: Big Man, Mr. Big, the Big Guy . . . the men who ran everything, owned everything, and cared for nothing but themselves. You could all but smell the testosterone in the air. They were all big, fat, ugly men, crammed sloppily into exquisitely cut suits. Men who didn’t care about their appearance any more because they didn’t have to. Women were drawn to them by money, power, status, and even the harsh glamour of what they were. There have always been such women, sometimes coming completely cold-bloodedly, sometimes drawn like moths to a flame.
The women came and went, but the Boys remained. Accompanied by women in wine-stained blouses and smeared makeup, laughing at everything they thought might be fu
And, of course, every Boy had his own little court, his circle of sycophants and admirers, business partners and advisors, and whole armies of stone-faced body-guards. Men to carry out commands, or run errands, to listen while their lord and master spoke, and never ever do or say anything other than what was expected of them. And if no-one in that circle was ever entirely comfortable or at ease, because they knew they could be replaced at any minute, or dragged off and shot on a moment’s whim. Well, that was the price they paid for being so close to the Boys. For believing, hoping, that power might trickle down, just like money.