He broke off as an austerely dressed blond woman approached them. She nodded politely, spoke in a low voice to Larry. He glanced sideways at Jack. “Mr. Tatsumi needs to speak with me about a few things. I believe you’re at Table Seven. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
He bowed and walked with the woman across the room. Jack watched them go. With Larry gone, he felt Nellie’s warning lodged like a poison dart within his breast. He felt the way he had the last few times he’d flown, in the wake of the Jihad 9 bombings: anxious but not frightened enough to forgo the trip. He took another glass of champagne and walked around.
At one end of the room a dance floor had been set up. A technician sat behind an array of computers and other equipment. Six black-clad women crossed the dance floor, carrying musical instruments, sat beside him, and began tuning up. Two violins, two kotos, viola, and cello. They started to play, a heartbreakingly plangent melody. Jack stood, listening, turned away as they launched into a more familiar piece.
People were getting seated now. Waiters moved gracefully, pouring wine, setting out decanters of sake and cast-iron teapots. The wall of lights dimmed to a bluish glow as Jack found Table Seven.
The other guests’ names had been painted in gold leaf on porcelain tablets. Jack saw none that he recognized. His own was written in a swooping calligraphic hand—Mr. John Finnegan—on a square of thick handmade paper. He took his seat, leaned over to read the china place card at the setting to his right.
He was wondering who Peter Stillman Loomis was, when a hand tattooed with death’s-heads and flaming trees plucked the bit of porcelain from its holder and replaced it with another.
He whirled and saw Leonard step over to the neighboring table. There Leonard shuffled several more place cards, grabbed a bottle of champagne from a silver bucket, and ambled back.
“Hello, Jackie-boy.” He yanked out the chair beside Jack and slid into it, leathers creaking, chains and amulets tinkling. “May I join you?”
“I guess so. I guess you’re invited?”
“Long before you were.” Leonard raised a gold-bedecked eyebrow at Jack’s place card. “Paper and ink. How quaint.” He laughed, baring white sharp teeth like a fox’s, and clapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “So! You actually got here. Congratulations. I’m amazed. I didn’t think you’d really come.”
Jack shook his head. “Leonard, listen to me. Julie’s dead. He—he—”
Leonard’s grin tightened into a grimace. “I know.” He stared at his fingers, the network of scars and interlacing coils, reached out and covered Jack’s hand with his own. “Emma called me. To help her with some of the police stuff. They had him pegged as some kind of fucking terrorist or something. Julie. Can you imagine? I called a couple of people, to help her out. To figure out what the hell to do with the body, how to get him back to Westchester. She was going to go to your house, Jackie—we could only get an ambulance to take him that far.”
“To Lazyland?”
“Yeah. I have no idea what’ll happen from there. What a mess. What a goddamn mess.” Leonard sighed. “Christ, Jackie. Just thee and me, now, and I’m not so sure about thee.”
Jack sat in silence. In the background the sextet played, strings chased by the kotos’ plangent notes. The thought of Emma at Lazyland soothed him, despite his grief. Doctor Duck calming Keeley and Mrs. Iverson, tending to Marz even as she laid out her own dead husband…
“Oh God.” He covered his eyes.
“Poor Jackie.” Leonard put an arm around him. “It’s okay, Jackie, it’s okay—”
“Of course it’s not okay.” Jack looked at Leonard. “Nothing’s fucking okay. You know that.”
“Of course I know that. I’ve always known that.” Leonard’s eyes grew hard. He reached for Jack’s champagne and downed it at a gulp. “It’s poor idiots like you, just now catching on—you’re the ones having a bad time.” His placebit glittered as he poured another glassful. “End of the fucking end, Jackie-boy. Might as well whoop it up.”
At the table more people were seating themselves, glancing companionably at each other and making introductions. Leonard ignored them, and for once Jack sided with him. “So. Are you alone?”
Leonard made a rude sound. “Am I ever alone? No. But tonight—you’ll like this, Jackie—tonight I found this poor lost soul, this Xian kid who thinks he’s got a lawsuit or something against Agrippa Music for stealing his intellectual property. Broke my heart, let me tell you. I was going to bring him in, but then I decided, probably not such a great idea. So he’s waiting out in the limo. Otnay ootay ightbray, if you take my meaning.” He tilted back in his chair. “But he’s cute.”
Jack gave him a disgusted look. “Glad I asked.” He lowered his voice. “Something else happened. I met someone, a woman named Nellie Candry—”
“I know Nellie Candry.”
“She’s dead.”
Leonard’s green-flecked eyes closed, after a beat opened again. They would not meet Jack’s gaze. “She’s dead,” Leonard said at last.
Jack nodded. “Blue Antelope,” said Leonard.
“No. She killed herself. Before they could get to her, I guess. Some kind of—I don’t know, a poison capsule.”
Behind them the music soared, Shostakovich’s Fifteenth with kotos. A plate was set before Jack, curls of green and pearl pink, an octopus no bigger than his thumbnail.
“Yummy,” said Leonard. He picked up his chopsticks and pushed desultorily at his plate. “She knew they were going to kill her. They found out she defected.”
“Couldn’t you have helped her?” Jack pushed his plate away. The young Asian woman to his left glanced at him, her skin creamy orange from lichen supplements, teeth capped to look like blue-veined marble. “I mean, you could have—”
“Couldn’t do a fucking thing, Jackie-boy.” Leonard grinned cheerlessly. “God’s Mafia. And the young ones are the worst. All that energy they should put into drugs and fucking? Goes right into this other shit. Blowing up hospitals. Save the whales.”
To his side, a well-dressed man with a graying ponytail frowned. Leonard lifted his champagne glass to him and pronounced, “‘Curse God and die.’ I say, fuck Him.” The man turned away as Leonard continued. “Admit it, Jackie. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be bored out of your mind. You’d be—”
“Shut up, Leonard,” Jack said wearily. “Just shut up.”
Leonard focused his attention back on his food. Jack swiveled to look across the room. At the head table, a middle-aged Japanese man sat between two men in tuxedos and their wives. Several scary-looking bodyguards stood behind him, all flak jackets and plasmer eyes.
That would be Mr. Tatsumi, thought Jack. He wondered about Mrs. Tatsumi, recalling the news report he’d heard some time ago—that her death had been a suicide. He gazed across the head table until he spotted Larry Muso, seated between two young men conventionally dressed in tuxedos and luminous cummerbunds. The three of them smiled and nodded to one another, oblivious to his stare.
The sextet took a break. A bland old Europop hit oozed from the speakers. Jack toyed with his chopsticks. When a waiter started to remove his plate Leonard snagged the octopus and popped it into his mouth. The waiter slid a new plate in front of Jack, this one with salad greens.
“Eat,” ordered Leonard. He poked Jack with his fork. “Not even the Pope gets food like this. Eat your goddamn salad.”