I
was learning a lot about the inner secrets of the Nightside’s most mysterious family, but I wasn’t getting any closer to finding Melissa, or what had happened to her. No-one wanted to talk about her; they just wanted to talk about themselves. I hadn’t realised how much I’d come to depend on my gift for finding things to help get me through cases. It had been a long time since I’d had to investigate the hard and honest way, by asking questions and following up on the answers. But I could tell I was narrowing in on something, even if I wasn’t sure what. All I could do was keep digging and hope that if I asked enough awkward questions, someone would tell me something I wasn’t supposed to know. I asked William where I could find his sister Eleanor, and he shrugged and said
Try Hecate’s Tea Room
. I should have known. Hecate’s Tea Room was the premiere watering hole for all the Nightside’s Ladies Who Lunch.
I walked back out of the long, green dream of the Arcadian Project and back into the more comfortable nightmare of neonlit streets and hospitable shadows. Not all of us thrive in sunlight. Hecate’s Tea Room is one of the most expensive, exclusive, and extravagant bistros in the Nightside, set right in the heart of Uptown. A refined and resplendent setting where the better halves of rich and famous men could come together to chat and gossip and practice character assassination on those of their kind unfortunate enough not to have made the scene that day. There was a long waiting list to get in, and you could be barred for the slightest lapse in etiquette. But no-one ever complained because it was so very much the In place, to see and be seen. And there never was a faux pas so bad that a big enough cheque couldn’t put right.
I studied the place from a safe distance, watching from the shadows of an alley mouth as a steady stream of chauffeur-driven limousines glided down the street to pull up outside the heavily guarded front door and drop off famous faces from the society pages and the gossip rags. The sweet and elite of the Nightside, in stunning gowns and understated makeup, weighed down with enough jewellery to make even the smallest gesture an effort.
The neon sign above the door spelt out
Hecate’s Tea Room
in stylings so rococo it was almost impossible to read, and the whole place reeked of art deco redux. There’s nothing more fashionable than an old style come round again. I used my Sight to check out the security, and sure enough the whole building was surrounded by layer upon layer of defensive magics, everything from shaped curses to Go Straight to Hell spells. There were all kinds of guards, tactfully hidden behind camouflage magics, and the two large gentlemen standing by the front door might be dressed in elegant tuxedos, but they both had tattoos on their foreheads that marked them as combat magicians. Ex-SAS, from the look of them. Even the paparazzi maintained a very discreet distance.
So, fighting or intimidating my way in wasn’t going to work here. That just left bluff and fast talking, which fortunately I’ve always been very good at. My reputation’s always been more impressive than me, and that’s because I put a lot of work into it. I left the alley-way and sauntered up to the front door. The two gentlemen in tuxedos saw me coming, recognised me immediately, and moved to stand in front of the door, blocking my way. A bouncer is a bouncer, no matter how smartly you dress him. I stopped before them and smiled easily, like I didn’t have a care in the world.
“Hi guys. I’m here representing the Griffin, to speak with his daughter Eleanor.”
They weren’t expecting that. They looked at each other, communicating in that silent way of bouncers everywhere, then they looked back at me.
“Do you have any proof of that, sir?”
“Would even I claim the Griffin’s support if I didn’t have it?” I countered.
They considered that, nodded, and stepped aside. My reputation might be unsettling, but the Griffin’s was downright scary. I strolled through the door and into the Tea Room as though I was slumming just by being there. When it comes to looking down the nose at someone, it pays to get your retaliation in first. The cloakroom girl was a friendly looking zombie dressed in a black bustier and fishnet stockings to set off her dead white skin. The dead make the best servants—so much less back-talk. She asked very nicely if she could take my trench coat, and I said I thought not.
I got her phone number, though. For Dead Boy.
I stepped through a hanging bead curtain into the main Tea Room, and the loud babble of conversation didn’t even dip for a moment. The Ladies Who Lunch saw scarier and more important people than me every day. I wandered slowly between the crowded tables, taking my time. A few people got up and left, heading discreetly but speedily for the rear exit. I was used to that. The Tea Room was all steel and glass and art deco stylings, with one entire wall dominated by a long row of high-tech coffee machines, the kind that labour mightily for ages that little bit longer than you can actually stand, in order to finally provide you with a cup full of flavoured froth. I’ve always preferred tea to coffee myself, and preferably in a brew so strong that when you’ve finished stirring it, the spoon has stress marks on it.
The staff darted gracefully back and forth among the tables, pretty young boys and girls dressed in nothing but collars and cuffs, which presumably made them very careful not to spill anything. The rich and therefore very important women sat huddled around their tables, ignoring everything except their own conversation, laughing and shrieking loudly and throwing their hands about to make it clear they were having a much better time than everyone else. There were a few private booths at the back, for assignations of a more personal nature, but not many used them. The whole point of being at Hecate’s Tea Room was to prove that you were rich and important enough to be allowed into such a prestigious gathering.
(But just try and get in after you’d been divorced or dumped or disinherited, and see how fast they slam the door in your face.)
All the women were dressed to the nines, chattering raucously like so many gorgeous creatures of the urban jungle as they drank their tea and coffee with their little fingers carefully extended. They all felt free to stroke and caress the staff’s bare flesh as they came and went with fresh cups of tea and coffee, and the pretty young things smiled mechanically and never lingered. They all knew a caress could turn into a slap or a blow for any reason or none, and that the customer was always right. Every table was full, the ladies crowded together under conditions they would never have tolerated anywhere else. These were the fabled Ladies Who Lunch, though there didn’t seem to be any actual lunching going on anywhere. You didn’t get to look that good and that svelte by eating when you felt like it. There was civilised music playing in the background, but I could barely make it out through the din of the raised voices.
I soon spotted Eleanor Griffin, seated at a table right in the middle of the room, (of course), where everyone could get a good look at her. She wore a long, elegant gown of emerald green, set off with flawless diamonds, and a black silk choker with a single polished emerald at her throat. Even in this gathering of professionally beautiful women, there was something about her that stood out. Not just style and grace, because they all had that, or something like it. Perhaps it was that Eleanor seemed to have made less of an effort than everyone else, because she didn’t have to. Eleanor Griffin was the real thing; and there’s nothing more threatening than that to women who had to work hard to be what they were. She was beautiful, poised, and effortlessly aristocratic. Three good reasons to hate anyone in this circle. But her table was larger than most and surrounded by women who had clearly made a considerable effort to appear half as impressive as Eleanor. A circle of “friends” who got together regularly to chat and gossip and practice one-upwomanship on each other. Ladies who had nothing in common except the circles they moved in, who clung together only because it was expected of them.
It’s hard to be friends with anyone when they can disappear at a moment’s notice through divorce or disapproval, and never be seen or spoken of again. And when they vanish from your circle, all you feel is the relief that the bullet missed you, this time…
I knew some of the faces at Eleanor’s table. There was Jezebel Rackham, wife of Big Jake Rackham. Jezebel was tall and blonde and magnificently bosomed, with a face like a somewhat vacant child. Big Jake took his cut from every sex business that operated in the Nightside, big or small. Word is Jezebel used to be one of his main money earners before he married her, but of course noone says that out loud anymore. Not if they like having knee-caps. Jezebel sat at the table like a child among grown-ups, following the conversation without ever joining in, and watching the others carefully so she’d know when to laugh.
Then there was Lucy Lewis, sweet and petite and exotically oriental, splendidly outfitted in a midnight dark gown to match her hair and eyes. Wife to Uptown Taffy Lewis, so called because he owned most of the land that Uptown stood on. Which meant all the famous clubs and bars and restaurants relied on his good will to stay in business. Taffy never leased anywhere for more than twelve months at a time, and he’d never even heard of rent control. Lucy was famous for always having the best gossip, and never caring who it hurt. Even if they were sitting right next to her.
Sally DeVore was married to Marty DeVore, mostly called Devour, though never to his face. No-one has ever been able to prove what it is that Marty does for a living, but if anyone ever does there’ll be a general rush to hang him from the nearest lamp-post. Sally was big and brassy, with a loud voice and a louder laugh. People always talk louder when they’re afraid. Sally was the fourth Mrs. DeVore, and no-one was betting she’d be the last.
And these were the kind of women Eleanor lunched with. Personally, I’d rather go swimming with sharks with a dead cow tied round my neck.
None of these women had come here alone, of course. Their other halves would never let them out on their own; something might happen to them. They must be protected from everything, including having too much of the wrong kind of fun. Ownership must be shown at all times. So all the ladies’ bodyguards and chaperones sat together on their own at a row of tables set carefully to one side. They didn’t drink or eat anything, but sat there blank-faced and empty-eyed, waiting for something to happen to give them an excuse to hurt somebody. They talked to each other now and then, in a quiet, desultory way, to pass the time. Interestingly enough, it seemed Eleanor had come here accompanied by her latest toy boy, a gorgeous young man called Ramon. Ramon was always in the tabloids, photographed on the arm of some rich woman or other. None of the bodyguards or chaperones were talking to him. They were professionals. But then, in his own way, so was Ramon. He sat perfectly casually, staring off into the distance, perhaps already considering where in the Tea Room his next meal ticket was coming from. I felt obscurely disappointed. Eleanor could have done better than Ramon.
I headed straight for Eleanor’s table, and at every table I passed the conversation quieted and stopped, as the women looked to see where I was going and who I was going to talk to. By the time I got to Eleanor the whole Tea Room had gone quiet, with heads everywhere turning and craning to see what would happen. All the bodyguards had gone tense. For the first time I could clearly hear the classical music playing in the background. A string quartet was committing Mozart with malice aforethought. I stopped behind Eleanor, said her name, and she took her time turning round to look at me.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s you, Taylor.” The careless boredom in her voice was a work of art. The infamous John Taylor. Again. How very dull…
“We need to talk,” I said, playing it brusque and mysterious, not to be outdone.
“I don’t think so,” said Eleanor, calmly and dismissively. “I’m busy. Some other time, perhaps.”
The Tea Room loved that. The other women at Eleanor’s table were all but wetting themselves, silent and goggle-eyed, wriggling with excitement to see her so casually brushing off the disreputable and deliciously dangerous John Taylor. She couldn’t have impressed them more if she’d shat rubies.
“There are things you know that I need to know,” I said, playing my role to the hilt.
“What a shame,” said Eleanor. And she turned her back on me.
“Your father had some very interesting things to say about you,” I said to her turned back, and smiled slightly as I saw it stiffen. “Talk to me, Eleanor. Or I’ll tell everyone here.”
She turned around again and considered me coldly. I was bluffing, and she had to be pretty sure I was, but she couldn’t take the risk. The Ladies Who Lunch thrive on weaknesses exposed, like piranha thrown raw meat. And besides, I had to be more interesting than her present company. So she’d talk to me and try to find out exactly what I knew, while telling me as little as possible in return. I could see all of that in her face…because she let me.
“If I must, I must,” she said, an aristocrat being gracious to an underling. She smiled sweetly at the women sitting all agog around her table. “Forgive me, darlings. Family business. You know how it is.”
The women smiled and nodded and said all the right things in return, but it was clear they couldn’t wait for us to leave so they could start gossiping about us. All across the room, every eye watched as I led Eleanor to a private booth at the back and settled her in. Conversations rose slowly in the Tea Room again. The bodyguards relaxed at their tables, no doubt relieved they weren’t going to have to take me on after all. Ramon watched me with his cold, dark eyes, and his face showed nothing at all. I sat down in the booth opposite Eleanor.
“Well,” I said, “fancy meeting you here.”
“We do need to talk,” she said, leaning forward earnestly. “But you understand I couldn’t make it easy for you.”
“Oh, of course,” I said, and wondered where this was going.
“I wouldn’t want you to think I talk freely to just anyone.”