Night Film

51

“You think right,” I answered.

“Let’s remedy that.”

“I’m a guest of Fadil’s.”

He hesitated, taken aback. He had to be the manager of the place. He wore an expensive suit, an earpiece, and had the overinflated posture of all short, insecure men in positions of power. I sensed he was about to leave me alone, but then, looking me over, frowned at the saltwater ring on my pants.

“How are you acquainted with Mr. Bourdage?” he asked.

“Ask him.”

“Come with me, please.”

“I’d like to finish my drink.”

“Come with me or we’re going to have a serious problem.”

I studied him with bored indignation. “You sure?”

“Do I look like it?”

I shrugged, taking time to down the rest of my scotch, and stood up.

“It’s your funeral,” I said.

If this unnerved him even a little, the man gave no indication. He stepped stiffly to the steps leading down into the main lounge, waiting for me to follow.

This isn’t going to end well. I headed after him and as we moved down into the crowd I felt another unnerving surge of vertigo. It was like sinking into another dimension, hitting a snag in reality. The trompe l’oeil murals must have been painted to be viewed from this central vantage point, because every one came into greater focus. Coastal towns bustled. Sunflower fields rippled in the wind, a flock of crows exploding over them — yet unable to fly away. Jungle bromeliads shook, a dark animal stalking through them. A snake writhed over a wall. Even the pulsing music seemed to converge onto me. I could actually feel the sun beating down on my neck. As we jostled our way through the crowd, the suits and ties, the girls, boys in those dresses, which down here looked to be made not of fabric but fish scales, I caught snippets of conversations over the music: be here, sometimes, I agree, water ski.

I had to stay calm and make an exit — pronto. We appeared to be heading toward one of those dark passageways and I’d be damned if I was going to follow him down there and get my legs broken, maybe worse.

My eyes scanned the atrium’s periphery for the door back into the storage room, but it was lost in the glinting scenes around me.

The manager was a few feet ahead, glaring as he waited for me to catch up. But suddenly a tall, blond man tapped him on the shoulder, greeting him, shaking his hand.

I held back a few seconds. This was probably my chance.

The man introduced a friend beside him. The manager turned and I hastily did a 180, barging away from him through a large group, accidentally ramming the back of a waiter. A cocktail slid out of his hands, exploding onto the floor.

I picked up my pace, my eyes averted. The women were wearing stilettos, and their toenails were painted black, filed into points, like bizarre thorns. Abruptly, I spotted something out of place: dirty white Converse sneakers. A waiter was wearing them.

Hopper.

He’d actually put on one of the uniforms from the storage room. He was wielding a silver tray, wandering among the guests like he owned the place. I slipped beside him.

“I need to get the fuck out of here. I’ve been caught.”

He nodded. “Follow me.”

We cut sharply left, elbowing through the crowd, skipping up the marble steps, Hopper striding deliberately toward the crumbling stone wall that ringed the entire plaza.

There was no visible door. But he extended his hand, pressing the face of a reclining stone statue of a woman covered in moss.

Nothing happened. Frowning, he ran his hands over it, pressing the weathered statue’s arms, legs, bare feet, trying to find whatever the hell opened the door.

I glanced over my shoulder.

Two guests sitting in the lounge were watching us, alarmed. One of them turned around, signaling to a waiter.

And then I saw the manager. He was pushing aggressively through the crowd, whispering into his earpiece, scanning the atrium’s perimeter.

He was seconds from spotting me.

“Any chance we can speed this up?” I muttered.

“I swear I just walked out of here.”

I stepped beside him, sliding my hands over the wall, and Hopper moved left toward another reclining statue. He pressed her hands, face, breasts, eyes, and thank Christ, she unexpectedly gave way into a regular rectangular door, which led into a long corridor with white walls and orange linoleum.

We sprinted down it, two stainless-steel doors visible at the end.

“And you thought I was getting our asses kicked,” Hopper said over his shoulder.

“Fallout from obtaining vital information.”

“Oh, yeah, what’s that?”

“Ashley crashed this party a few weeks ago. She went after a member known as the Spider. That’s what you call skills.”

“The Spider? What’s his real name?”

“Didn’t get it.”

We charged through the swinging doors into an industrial kitchen. It was lively, with cooks in uniform, bubbling pots, smells of roasted meat and garlic. A few glanced up curiously as Hopper and I raced around the counters, the stoves with sizzling pans, wheeled carts, dessert trays.

We flew out of a second swinging door into another empty corridor.

Hopper stopped, panting, pointing.

“Take it all the way to the end, make a right, the door leads outside.”

I took off, turning around when he didn’t follow.

“You’re staying?”

He was heading back into the kitchen. “Just getting started.”

“Be careful. And thanks for saving my ass.”

He smiled. “It’s not saved yet.”