The Conspiracy Club

14

Smells of fish, fuel, rust, and creosote told Jeremy the docks weren’t far. But no water in sight, just rows of stout windowless buildings, stripped of architectural fancy.

Arthur Chess had driven to an oppressively narrow street lined with what appeared to be warehouses. The rain turned the pavement to gelatin; the Lincoln’s headlights were pathetic amber smears that died before they hit the asphalt. No stars, no moon, nothing to use as a navigational tool; the force of the storm induced myopia.

The Lincoln turned onto another unlit strip and reduced its speed. Jeremy saw no blocks, no sidewalks, just one plain-faced building after another.

A sanguinary process.

Predatory bugs. What did he really know about the old man? What had he gotten himself into?

Arthur continued a while longer, glided to a gentle stop, and brought the Lincoln to a rest in front of an unmarked, two-story cube. All Jeremy could make out were slab walls and a narrow door topped by a roll-out awning. Under the awning a bulb in a frosted glass case cast a fan of light. The illumination was of a hue Jeremy had never seen before- pale blue, purple-tinged, clinical.

The moment Arthur switched off the engine, the door opened, and a small man stepped under the awning. The blue light reached his waistline; below that, he was dark, nearly invisible. The illusion was that of truncation.

The half man’s arm extended, an umbrella snapped open, and he hurried to the rear of the Lincoln. Arthur pushed a button, the trunk popped, and when the small man circled back to the driver’s door he held a pair of umbrellas.

He held the door open for Arthur, stood on tiptoes to shield the much taller pathologist, and got wet doing so. After handing Arthur an umbrella, he came around and opened Jeremy’s door.

Up close Jeremy saw that the man was closer to Arthur’s age than his own, and no taller than five-five. Thin dark hair, parted and slicked, topped a round, puckered capuchin face of a type seen on some types of dwarfs. Bright black eyes picked up light from somewhere and sparked back at Jeremy.

Under the eyes, a lipless smile.

The man wore a dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. Once again, he stepped out into the downpour so that Jeremy could benefit from his umbrella. Jeremy moved closer, wanting to share, but the little man stayed out of reach as they ran for the door.

When Jeremy stepped into the pale blue light, his eyes were assaulted by pupil-popping fluorescence.

A tall figure filled the doorway. Arthur was already inside.

The monkey-faced little man waited until he’d passed. Soaked, but still smiling. The three of them stood in a small, white anteroom backed by a white door. The ceiling was acoustical tile. The bright light spewed from an industrial fixture that resembled an elongated waffle. No furniture, no odors, no chill. But for specks, splotches, and pools of gritty water dispersed on the black linoleum floor, a thoroughly inorganic place.

“Laurent,” said Arthur. “Thank you for providing shelter.”

“Of course, Doctor.” The little man took both umbrellas and placed them in a corner. He took Arthur’s coat, then turned to Jeremy.

“This is Dr. Carrier, Laurent.”

“Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” Laurent extended his hand, and Jeremy shook what felt like a knob of knurled oak.

“The others are here,” Laurent told Arthur. His suit, like Arthur’s, was beautifully cut but of another era. Blue-black gabardine, over a white-on-white shirt. The shirt’s collar was fastened by a gold pin. His tie was true black satin. Tiny, narrow feet were encased in cap-tipped black bluchers so highly polished the rainwater beaded on the leather and rolled to the floor.

“Lovely,” said Arthur.

“Everything looks wonderful, sir.” Laurent turned back to Jeremy. His cheeks were flushed. “You’re a lucky young man.”

Arthur pushed open the white door and held it as Laurent scooted forward. The panel closed behind Jeremy with a swoosh, and his eyes adjusted, yet again. Dimmer light. Soft, amber, caressing light.

Before him was a long hallway paneled in a golden, bird’s-eyed wood. Linenfold paneling, hand-carved, was topped by notched edging. Beneath his feet was carpeting of a deeper gold, plush as the seats of Arthur’s Lincoln. The ceiling was high, domed plaster, veneered with pale gold leaf.

Jeremy thought: A bird in a gilded cage.

Laurent led them up the muffled corridor. The air was warm, sweet with rosewater. The passageway terminated at massive double doors. Carved into the capstone were three letters in flowery script.

CCC

The year three hundred?

Something bygone and Soviet- was Arthur an unregenerate communist?

The thought amused Jeremy, but before he could speculate further, Laurent had thrown both doors open. He and Arthur flanked the doorway. Arthur’s long arm swooped theatrically. “After you, my friend.”

Jeremy stared out at a beautiful space. Four faces stared back at him.

A quartet of smiles.

A different silence- the sudden, percussive hush of conversation brought to a sharp halt. His nose filled with the aroma of roasted meat. His eyes accommodated to yet another quality of light: scores of chandelier bulbs dimmed low. Monumental chandelier, a riot of crystal swags and pendants and orbs.

The fleshy smell was delicious.

Jeremy stepped inside.

The room was over twenty feet high, wide as a chateau ballroom, long as a yacht. Like the corridor, the walls were wood- burled walnut the color of hot cocoa, incandesced by layers of polish, sectioned into octagonal panels and embroidered with boisserie. Where the massive chandelier wasn’t crystal it was sterling silver. The ceiling plaster was vaulted and embellished by swirls and medallions. A dozen paintings- pastoral scenes- were suspended from wires hooked over stout crown moldings.

Twin swinging doors backed the room, and Laurent disappeared through one of them. Between the doors, a baronial sideboard fitted with brass mounts hosted a centerpiece teeming with white orchids.

Under the chandelier was a mirror-polished, Chippendale mahogany dining table trimmed in vanilla satinwood. Long enough to accommodate twenty, but set for six.

Half a dozen mirrored place settings. One chair on each side of the table was empty.

Arthur motioned Jeremy to the left and took the facing chair on the right. “My friends, our guest, Dr. Carrier.”

A quartet of polite mumblings.

Three men, one woman. One of the men was black. He, like the other males, was dressed in a good suit and an eloquent necktie. The woman wore a white knit dress and a string of spectacular, purplish black pearls the size of concord grapes.

All four were elderly. By his very presence, Jeremy was lowering the median age significantly.

Where’s the children’s table?

He tried to take in as many details as possible without seeming rude. The paintings appeared French. All were housed in intricately carved frames and biased toward the saccharine: lush forests, honeyed sunlight, gamboling fauns, tender-breasted, vacant-eyed women captured in stunned repose.

Extra chairs, upholstered in raspberry silk, were positioned along the walls, as were a quartet of smaller sideboards. White marble columns supported exquisitely painted Chinese vases. Decorative tables expertly situated were festooned with marquetry; a glass étagère held jade carvings. Jeremy knew something about antiques; his long-suffering paternal grandmother spent much of her pension on a few quality Georgian pieces. These looked better than anything Gram had collected. What had happened to Gram’s pieces…?

No one spoke. The old people kept smiling at him. He half expected a pat on the head. Smiling back, he continued to take in details. A bower of three dozen red roses adorned the table. The mirrored place settings were glass hectagons, bordered in platinum. Each hosted pure white bone china of a simple, graceful design, an assortment of heavy, sterling utensils, ruby-colored linen napkins slipped into gilded rings, cut-crystal glasses for water, red and white wines, and much taller, long-stemmed repoussé silver goblets with glass insets.

Six settings, five goblets.

To the right of Jeremy’s plate was a simple champagne flute- clunky, cheap, it could have come from a discount chain.

Membership had its privileges…

Arthur had begun to speak, was gesticulating for emphasis. “… indeed nice to infuse some new blood into our grayed gathering.”

Appreciative chuckles.

“Jeremy, let me introduce this band of miscreants.” Arthur indicated the farthest of the two people sitting on Jeremy’s side of the table. A white-bearded man with eyes so blue that even at a distance they sparked like gas jets. “Professor Norbert Levy.” Arthur named a prominent Eastern university.

Levy was ruddy, heavy in the jowls, with a full head of unruly, wavy hair. He wore a wide-lapeled, charcoal tweed suit, a tattersall button-down shirt, a butterscotch cravat tied in a beefy Windsor knot.

“Professor,” said Jeremy.

Levy saluted and grinned. “Professor emeritus. In plain talk, I’ve been put out to pasture.”

Arthur said, “Norbert built their engineering department from scratch.”

“More like I scratched a few backs,” said Levy.

The woman sitting between the engineer and Jeremy placed a hand on her breast. The black pearls clinked. “A sudden paradigm shift to modesty, Norbert? I don’t know if my heart can take the shock.”

“Anything to keep you awake, Tina,” said Norbert Levy.

Arthur said, “Her eminence, Judge Tina Balleron, formerly of the superior court.”

“And now of the golf course,” said the woman in a smoky voice. She had the paper-bag complexion and dangerously freckled hands to back up the assertion of eighteen holes a day, was lean and strong-boned, with short wavy hair dyed champagne blond. She wore no jewelry other than the pearls, but they were enough. She’d probably been a stunner a few decades ago. Even now, sagging, wattled skin failed to obscure the determined line of her jaw. She murmured rather than spoke, and Jeremy found that surprisingly seductive. Her eyes were clear, dark, amused.

“Superior court,” said Professor Emeritus Norbert Levy. “The question is, superior to what? Is there an inferior court, dear?”

Judge Tina Balleron made a low, throaty sound. “Given the quality of attorneys nowadays, I’d say there are plenty.”

Arthur shifted his glance to his side of the table, eyed the man farthest down. “Edgar Marquis.”

No professional designation; as if the name said it all.

Marquis appeared to be the oldest of the group- well into his eighties. Shrunken and hairless with blue-veined, papery skin, he seemed nearly devoured by his clothing. His face sat low on his shoulders, pitched forward, as if deprived of the support provided by a neck. His upper lip protruded like that of a turtle’s beak. The suit was a black silk shadow stripe. Satin-covered buttons trimmed the sleeves. Jeremy had only seen those on tuxedos. Marquis’s shirt was pearl gray, his skinny tie the cheerful red of oxygenated blood. An old dandy, Edgar Marquis.

He also appeared to be asleep, and Jeremy began to glance away. Then Marquis crooked a crescent of skin where his eyebrows should’ve been and winked.

“Edgar,” said Tina Balleron, “was a rare example of coherence and judgment at the aptly named Foggy Bottom.”

“The State Department,” said Arthur, as if explaining to a schoolchild.

Everyone smiled again, including Marquis. Not amusement-let’s-get-comfortable smiles. All of them working at amiable.

They’re treating me, thought Jeremy, with the edgy reverence reserved for a bright but unpredictable offspring.

As if I’m some kind of prize.

Edgar Marquis shifted in his chair. “Dr. Carrier,” he said in a shockingly resonant voice, “I’m no longer bound to be diplomatic, so forgive me if I occasionally lapse into reality.”

“As long as it’s occasional,” said Jeremy, aiming for banter. Wanting Marquis- wanting all of them- to feel at ease.

Marquis said, “Definitely, sir. Anything more than occasional reality would be oppressive.”

“Words to live by,” said Tina Balleron, tapping her silver goblet with long, curving nails.

The man next to her- the black man- said, “The occasional brush with reality would be a step upward for Mr. Average Citizen.” He faced Jeremy: “Harry Maynard. Obviously, I’m slated for last. Back of the table, too. Hmmph. Apparently, some things never change.”

“Tsk, tsk,” said Norbert Levy, beard splitting in a grin.

Edgar Marquis said, “A matter of social import has intruded upon our little conclave. Shall we establish a committee of inquiry?”

“What else?” said Harry Maynard. “I appoint myself de facto chairman. You’re all guilty as charged. Feel thoroughly chastened.”

“Guilty of what?” said Levy.

“Take your pick.”

Edgar Marquis said, “All in favor, say aye.”

Laughter, all around.

“There you go,” said Judge Balleron. “Participatory democracy at its finest. Now, behave yourself, Harry, and we’ll get to you in good time.”

Maynard wagged a finger. “Life’s too short for good behavior.” He turned back to Jeremy, “Your training will do you well, here. Pleased to meet you, kid.”

Large and bulky in a navy suit, baby blue shirt and teal blue tie, he was probably the youngest- midsixties or so. His complexion was a couple of shades lighter than the walnut paneling. Iron-filing hair was cropped short, and his toothbrush mustache was precisely as wide as his mouth.

Arthur said, “Last and never least is the inestimable Harrison Maynard. He lives in a world of his own.”

Tina Balleron said, “Harry writes books.”

“Used to,” said Maynard. To Jeremy: “Trashy stuff. Pseudononymous trashy stuff. Great fun. I’ve mined the mother lode of estrogen.”

Tina Balleron said, “Harrison is a past practitioner of what used to be termed The Romance Novel. Countless women know him as Amanda Fontaine or Chatelaine DuMont or Barbara Kingsman or some other such vanillish alias. He’s a master of the crushed bodice. God only knows how you did your research, Harry.”

“Looking and listening,” said Maynard.

“So you say,” said the judge. “I think you’ve been a fly on too many walls.”

Harrison Maynard smiled. “One does what one needs to do.” His eyes shifted to the rear of the dining room. The right door had swung open, and Laurent emerged pushing a cart on wheels. The monkey-faced man had changed to a starched white serving jacket. On the cart were six silver domes. Behind him marched a woman his size and age, wearing a black shirtwaist dress and toting a magnum of wine. Her dark hair was drawn back in a bun. Her skin was the color of clotted cream, and her eyes were toasted almonds- tilted by the faintest trace of epicanthus.

Eurasian, Jeremy decided. As she drew near, their eyes met across the table. She smiled shyly and stopped at Edgar Marquis’s seat.

“At last, food,” said the ancient diplomat. “I’m wasting away.”

Jeremy looked at Marquis’s shriveled frame and wondered how much of that was jest. Laurent let the cart come to rest at Tina Balleron’s right.

“Smells delish,” said Marquis. “Alas, ladies first.”

“Ladies deserve to be first,” said the judge.

Marquis groaned. “It’s times like these, dear, that one understands those poor wretches who opt for sex-change surgery.”

“Wine, sir?” said the Eurasian servingwoman.

Marquis looked up at her. “Genevieve, fill my cup to the brim.”