The waiter finally stopped before an empty table by the far wall, and gestured impatiently for us to sit down. He pulled a chair out for Molly, but didn’t bother with me. This boy gets no tip, I thought. I considered the possibility of a reverse tip, where I picked his pocket and stole his wallet. But I didn’t want to push my luck with the Casino establishment. Not this early, anyway. The waiter dropped two oversized menus onto the table, and then shot off before we could actually order anything.
“Wait a minute!” said Molly. “The little bastard . . . he’s sat us right next to the toilets!”
“Good,” I said. “I hate a long walk to the loo. I always feel like everyone’s watching me.”
I gave my full attention to the menu. Which was ugly and laminated, with all the entries handwritten in half a dozen languages. With thoughtful descriptions and tactful warnings for the inexperienced. No prices anywhere, of course, but in a restaurant like this you wouldn’t expect any. As the old saying goes: if you have to ask, you can’t afford it. But the hotel manager had said all our food and drink was on the house, so . . . I decided to order big portions of everything, just on general principles. And the very best wines. And ask for a doggie bag.
“Oh, look!” said Molly. “They’ve got Moebius mice; they stuff themselves. I love those! Dragonburgers, flame-grilled, with a twist of lemming . . . Mock Gryphon soup. Baked baby chupacabra . . .”
“Oh, that’s not nice,” I said. “It’s things like that make me feel like becoming a vegetarian.”
“Try that here and they’d probably serve you a triffid,” said Molly.
In the end we both settled for an old favourite: thunderbird paella. Lots of meat and lots of rice, and a whole bunch of other things absolutely guaranteed to be bad for you. (The thunderbird is a huge winged creature from the deep South of America. Supposedly extinct, but there’s always someone who can get you a carcass, for an extortionate price. I think they clone them. . . .) I looked around for our waiter and eventually spotted him leaning against a wall, in desultory conversation with another, equally bored, waiter. They looked like they were trying to out-sulk each other. I raised a hand to catch our waiter’s attention and he deliberately turned his head away, so he could pretend he hadn’t seen us.
“He is going to regret that,” I said.
“It’s another test, like in the lobby,” said Molly. “If you can’t master a lowly waiter . . .”
I picked up the knife set out for me, hefted it a couple of times to get the balance, and then threw it with practised skill and uncommon force, so that it sank half its length into the wall right beside our waiter’s head. He jumped back with a startled shriek, and looked wildly around. I waved and smiled at him.
“Just think what I could do with the fork,” I said, loudly.
The waiter hurried over to take our order, almost dropping his little notebook trying to get it out. He crashed to a halt before our table, and smiled at Molly and me in a wobbly sort of way.
“Ready to order, sir, madam?”
“What do you think?” I said.
“I think they’ll let anyone in these days,” said the waiter, defiantly. “I’m only doing this job to raise enough money to put myself through college. What do you want?”
“Molly,” I said. “I don’t think this young man is sufficiently impressed. Take out his appendix, the hard way.”
“I could do with a starter,” said Molly. “I’m told it goes very well with some garlic butter and black pepper.”
“All right, all right!” said the waiter. “Look, this is me, being impressed! Just give me your order. No respect for the working man . . .”
We told him what we’d settled on, and he wrote it down in nice neat handwriting.
“Five minutes, tops,” he said. “They don’t sweat the simple stuff here. And by the way, my appendix is in a jar at a Paris hospital.”
He grinned at me, and I couldn’t help grinning back.
“What wine would you recommend?” I said.
“Avoid the clarets, they’re an abomination in the sight of God. And the Médocs are all malignant. Everything else is overpriced and an abuse of your taste buds. I’d stick to the house red, if I were you. That’s what we drink, in the kitchen. It’ll get you there.”
“Bring us half a dozen bottles,” I said. “And, I need a new knife.”
“Right away, sir,” said the waiter.
And just like that he was gone, off and running before his fellow staff could accuse him of fraternising with the enemy.
While we waited for our food to arrive, Molly and I stared openly around us. Everywhere I looked there were familiar faces with bad reputations. Big Names and Major Players from every scene, in every city. It soon became clear to me that I knew pretty much everyone in the restaurant by face or reputation. And not in a good way.
“I didn’t realise how much I knew about this place,” said Molly. “I mean . . . I never wanted to come to Casino Infernale before. Not my thing. But the stories and legends that surround the Casino are just so big, so pervasive, they sort of force their way into everyone’s conversations. Casino Infernale, where you can test whatever nerve and skills you think you have, against the biggest and most dangerous gamblers in the world. I do see the attraction. . . .”
“Oh, dear God,” I said. “Look over there! Is that who I think it is? Is that Jacqueline Hyde?”
“Yes . . . poor thing,” said Molly. “What the hell is she doing here?”
I knew Jacqueline Hyde’s story. Everyone in our line of work does. It’s one of the great cautionary tales from the Nightside. Jacqueline started out as a Society girl, happy spending Daddy’s money, leading the most comfortable of lives, partying till she dropped . . . until she couldn’t resist trying this marvellous drug: Hyde. It had been around for ages, in one variation or another. Harvested from the body of Edward Hyde (because that was the body Dr. Jekyll died in), the drug had been doing the rounds in various strengths and mixes ever since. Bouncers and thugs for hire used a much diluted strain as a kind of super-steroid. Others mixed and matched the drug with other chimerical compounds, so they could turn into other people. For commercial or recreational purposes. Hyde was a vicious and unforgiving drug, and hardly anyone was stupid enough to take the original formula. Jacqueline knew better, but she never could resist a dare. And so she became Jacqueline Hyde, a Society girl and a monstrous man, bound together, forever.
Her family disowned her. Daddy cut her off without a penny. She went from party girl to homeless in a matter of weeks. She had no idea how to look after herself. Spent some time living on the street, in Rats Alley, along with all the other unwanted monsters of the Nightside. But that isn’t the real tragedy.
Jacqueline and Hyde are in love with each other, but they can only meet and experience each other in that extended moment when one turns into the other. The long love letters they write and leave for each other have turned up in most of the major auction houses of the Nightside. They’re collectible.
Jacqueline Hyde—a lot of people have found a use for her, and him, and their fortunes have fallen and risen many times. But neither of them were ever rich enough to attend Casino Infernale.
“Someone’s funding her,” said Molly. “But why?”
“Another distraction?” I said. “A wild card thrown into the mix . . . or, just possibly, she knows something we don’t.”