Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge

by Paul Krueger

  Bailey fought every instinct to cry. Even as her vision blurred, she forced herself to keep watching.

  “I’ll see you in a few. Poppy!” Bailey’s heart skipped a beat as she heard the familiar clacking of paws on the floor, just out of sight. “Let’s go, girl,” he said, leaning down to scratch his dog’s ears. “We’re gonna have a rough night, I’m pretty sure.” He looked up, straight out of the screen. “Good luck, kiddo. You’re gonna get it together, I promise. Camera off.”

  The image froze. Numbly Bailey shut her laptop. Get it together. That was supposed to be the Holy Grail, wasn’t it? Zane had gotten it together. Jess had gotten it together. All her friends in Philly had gotten it together, if the filtered photo ops in their newsfeeds were to be believed.

  Bailey had tried to get it together. But all the things she’d thought she’d wanted from the world—a cool apartment in a trendy but cheap neighborhood, a sizable paycheck, the occasional rich-lady treat, like a caramel latte or a gel manicure—now seemed pointless. Maybe bartending had been a messy lifestyle—literally—but at least she’d had friends. For a while, anyway.

  She got up and faced her closet, and finally, on the zillionth time, she found what she was looking for. Well, not what she was looking for, but what she needed.

  The dress was a little tight, but it’d serve. Paired with matching orange heels, it made her look … awesome. Bailey allowed herself a quick once-over in the mirror before spinning around to her wall of has-been heartthrobs.

  “Oh, shut up,” she said to the posters. “When was the last time you guys were in a movie, anyway?”

  Getting it together could wait, Bailey thought. Right now she needed to get it right.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  In the big-budget movie adaptation of this adventure, Bailey thought, an oil-black town car would pull up outside the Sears Tower, where miraculously a free parking spot would be waiting. The driver would open the door and she, Bailey Chen, would step out, one high-heeled foot at a time. Her lips would be an alluring slash of red, her costume a bright dress with a matching domino mask, and her hair styled to weather both Chicago winds and possibly the end of the world.

  Also, odds were good she’d be played by a white girl, because movies.

  But this wasn’t a movie. So there she stood in a packed Brown Line car as it jerked along into the heart of Chicago. A little sourly she wondered if any movie hero ever had to take public transit to a crime scene. Well, you’re not a hero, she reminded herself. You’re just a girl with a bachelor’s degree, her dad’s train pass, and a possible death wish.

  As the El wound its way downtown, she peered out the window. Night had just fallen, but Chicago’s skyscrapers were already lit up. And the biggest candle on the cake was the Sears Tower.

  She’d read once that the architecture had been inspired by a pack of cigarettes: the way pulling out one caused others to tag along with it, forming little tiers. In deference to the holiday, the tower’s twin antennas stood awash in an eerie orange light. It might not have been literally in the middle of the skyline, but it was the city’s true centerpiece. And now, she thought, it was also a glittery gun pressed to the city’s temple.

  The CTA spat her out a block away, at the corner of Quincy and Wells. All around, costumed people streamed into bars and clubs to post up for the night and get good and drunk, the way a city holiday dictated they should. With a sinking feeling, Bailey noticed that the largest wave was headed to the same place she was. If the Long Island iced tea was completed that night, its magical pull would put a lot of people in the crosshairs of the tremens that came calling.

  Bailey lengthened her stride. It didn’t do much good since her legs were so short, but the gesture mattered, dammit.

  She boarded an elevator full of revelers who were either already drunk or deliriously giddy at the thought of the drunkenness about to ensue. A one-minute tourist video kept them entertained on the ride up. It was different from the one that had played when she was a girl; she’d seen that one enough times to be able to recite it verbatim, complete with fake trivia. Performing it had been a long-running joke between her and Zane.

  She frowned at her train of thought. Odds were good that before the night was over, she’d come face-to-face with Zane. She still couldn’t bring herself to hate him—quite the opposite, in fact. If she hated him, she wouldn’t be risking her ass to pull him out of a fire he couldn’t see. No matter what, the next time she saw him, she wouldn’t crumple.

  As the mayor popped onscreen to thank them all for visiting the pinnacle of Chicago achievement (clearly the video had been made before the Cubs’ four consecutive World Series victories), the elevator doors opened and its occupants surged out.

  Despite Sorensen’s bragging, Apex wasn’t really on the top floor; it was on the highest floor a firm was allowed to occupy, and from the looks of the bar, it was the kind of place where people didn’t so much burn money as napalm it. The floors were white marble, with veins of gold and black, and bright red lounge chairs were artfully arranged around a crystalline column in the center of the space. Wraparound dark wood shelves filled with liquor bottles were affixed to the column’s sides, and in front of that stood the bar.

  She could barely make out Bucket behind the counter, slinging drinks seemingly everywhere at once. He’d forgone his usual punk rawk look in favor of a tight black ninja costume. On the other end was Trina, who somehow managed to keep pace with the steady stream of orders while shoving up the green sleeves of her baggy Statue of Liberty costume.

  Bailey turned away to scan the floor for Zane or Mona. All she heard was booming music and all she saw was a forest of people, which for someone Bailey’s size meant a forest of shoulders and elbows. She bumped her way through with only a single image in her mind: Sorensen in his pharaoh getup. He was her only remaining inroad.

  As she circled the floor, she kept one eye on Bucket and Trina, worried they might spot her and get her thrown out. Above the thudding music and echoey floors and air that smelled like fried hors d’oeuvres, no one paid her a second look. As far as she could tell, no one even knew who she—

  “Bailey Chen!”

  Bowen Sorensen (the Third) came striding over, all smiles. But he wasn’t dressed like a pharaoh; he was in full Napoleonic regalia, complete with a hand tucked permanently inside his jacket. “I thought that was you!” he crowed. “Oh, I’m so glad you could make it. Can I hug you? I kind of want to hug you.”

  Evidently the question was rhetorical because he didn’t wait for an answer before smooshing her into his waistcoat.

  “It’s so good to see you, Mr. Sorensen—”

  “Please,” he said with a wave. “Mr. Sorensen was my moms’ sperm donor. Well, probably not, actually. Either way, you can call me Bowie.”

  “Okay, Bow—” She stopped, faced with the irresistible question: “Wait. Then how are you the third?”

  “Once I succeed in creating a working time machine, traveling back to make numbers one and two happen will be my top priority.”

  She wanted to laugh, but Sorensen looked honest and eager as a puppy.

  “Cool party, huh?” he said, beaming.

  Not if a delirium gate-crashes, Bailey thought. She flashed him what she hoped was a killer smile. “Best one I’ve been to tonight.”

  She’d meant it as a joke, considering her only other appearance had been a quick wave to her parents cozied up with a bowl of candy and Law Investigation: Homicide of the Streets, but Sorensen’s face lit up.

  “Oh, that’s such a relief. I was worried. Last year most of my guest list was poached by the queen of England. That bitch!” he added, suddenly shouting in what Bailey assumed was the direction of Buckingham Palace.

  She was wasting time. She needed to figure out where Garrett was. And without a gold rush to assist her, Bailey needed to pile on the charm. Not that she had a huge stockpile to draw on, but this really was a matter of life and death.

  “Um, Bowie?�
� Bailey threw out a hip. She was trying for seductive, but the effect was less bedroom-eyed femme fatale and more femme … well, whatever the French word was for dork. “Didn’t you say you had a—what’s it called?—a dis—dis—”

  “Distillery,” Sorensen said, clearly pleased to provide an answer that her sweet little female mind couldn’t chase down on its own.

  Bailey smiled wider and batted her eyelashes. “Yeah,” she breathed. “Don’t you want to show me where that is?”

  Sorensen brightened even more, which she hadn’t thought possible. “Oh, sure,” he said. “They’re just upstairs. They take up the second and third floors.”

  “Show me,” she said hastily, forgetting to be sexy. “I mean, um, can’t you show me? Please?”

  He doffed his bicorne hat grandly. “It’d be my honor, mademoiselle.” He looked her up and down as they headed for the elevator. “Hey, what’re you supposed to be anyway?”

  Even though she’d anticipated the question, Bailey had a hard time making herself spit out the dumb answer she’d concocted.

  “A mandarin orange?” she said with a sweep at her citrus-colored sequins.

  Sorensen stared. But then he threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, I like you.”

  She couldn’t help laughing, too, though less from amusement and more from mounting hysteria. Still, she thought, as the crowd parted for them, she hardly could’ve picked more interesting company for the apocalypse than Bowen Sorensen (the Third). He was certainly fun, if not always on purpose, and heads turned as he swept through the crowd.

  “It’s just up h—”

  Sorensen stopped at the edge of the crowd, where to Bailey’s horror, he’d scuffed the shoes of the one person she didn’t want to see.

  Zane had swapped his usual suit for a black tuxedo. He’d paired it with a long red-lined cape, a black top hat, and a white domino mask. He twirled a rose in his fingers like a wand.

  “Ooh, I love it,” Sorensen said. “What are you supposed to be? A magician?”

  “I’m not a magician,” Zane said with a flare of annoyance. “I’m Tuxedo—never mind. What’re you doing here?”

  “Uh, I’m kinda busy owning this place, Houdini.” Sorensen gave Bailey a conspiratorial “get a load of this idiot” wink, but she was too flustered to respond.

  “Sorry, Mr. S—Bowie,” said Zane. “But I was talking to Bailey.”

  She couldn’t be seductive. She couldn’t be honest. So she’d have to go nuclear—an enthusiastic, eager combination of Bowie and Jess.

  “Zane Whelan?” Bailey squealed with every ounce of ebullience she could fake. “What are you doing here? It’s been so long!”

  Now Zane was the one to shoot Sorensen a look. “You—you know exactly why I’m here, Bailey.”

  “Uh, why would I know that?” she bubbled. “I haven’t seen you in four years! You don’t even read my blog anymore,” she added, sounding hurt.

  “Bailey,” Zane said, “you’re totally lying. And you don’t have a blog.”

  “Bowie,” Bailey said, making sure to punch up his name, “does Zane work for you now?” Her eyes widened theatrically. “Oh, right. Of course he does. His uncle Garrett is your business partner.” She smiled up at Zane. “Bowie here is going to show me the on-site distillery. Have you seen it? You should come along! If that’s okay,” she added with a quick glance at Sorensen.

  Sorensen didn’t appear to know what to make of Zane, but he nodded anyway. “Oh, uh, sure. The more the merrier?”

  Zane seemed to realize this wasn’t an argument he could win, and he smiled tightly. “Lead the way, Bowie.”

  Sorensen did just that, and as he walked over to the elevator button, Zane darted to Bailey’s side. “What the hell are you doing here?” he hissed.

  “Going to a party,” she said airily. “Should I not be here? Because I can’t remember any reason why I shouldn’t be.”

  Zane’s smile slipped. “If anyone from the Court sees you, you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

  Secretly glad for the chance to act brave, Bailey scoffed. “I can take them.”

  Zane goggled. “You made a cocktail.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you drank something before you came here.”

  Bailey shrugged.

  “Jesus, Bailey.” Zane shook his head so hard his mask slid down his nose. She saw he’d taped it to his glasses. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for you to be here?”

  “Nope,” she said, “and neither do you. Wait.” She paused. “I mean, you don’t know how dangerous it is for you to be here. Or me, I guess. But either way we’re going to see.”

  “See what? A bunch of distilling equipment? Because that’s all that’s up there. I guarantee it.”

  “Sure.” Bailey shrugged. “If you’re right and nothing’s going on, then I’ll just get a nice tour. And if I’m right—”

  “Elevator!”

  Sorensen pointed at the sliding doors with all the enthusiasm of a toddler who’d just learned a new word, and Bailey marched right to him.

  The ride was short, but long on awkwardness. Sorensen was blissfully unaware.

  “So you two know each other? Went to high school together, right?” he said.

  “Yup,” she and Zane chorused.

  Sorensen grinned and tapped his temple. “I’ve always had a keen detective mind. Given your relative ages, it was the only explanation that made sense.” His eyes lit up with a secondary realization, and he snapped his fingers. “And you two have totally done it, haven’t you?”

  She and Zane exchanged sidelong glances.

  “I was gone—” said Bailey.

  “—have a girlfriend,” muttered Zane.

  “Oh,” said Sorensen. “That’s too bad. You should try it sometime. Or maybe you shouldn’t. I don’t really know. I haven’t banged either of you.” The elevator lurched to a stop. “Here we are!”

  As the doors opened wide, so did Bailey’s eyes.

  The space was huge. The mezzanine between the top two levels had been gutted, leaving a two-story loft with shining dark window walls. Catwalks hung from a distant ceiling, illuminated by powerful industrial lights. The steel stills in Sorensen’s daydreams had been giant, but they were tiny compared to these. The machinery was industrial grade, and it was loud. The air sagged from sheer noise, a tinny churning of stills at work.

  Zane looked just as thunderstruck. “Holy shit,” he whispered as they stepped off the elevator. “I knew they were up here, but I—I didn’t know know, you know?”

  Bailey ran the numbers but quickly gave up. The setup was impossible. There was no way the city would’ve signed off on radically refurbishing two floors of the most prominent building in the Chicago skyline. No way that even Sorensen’s formidable fortune could’ve covered the entire pricetag. And there was definitely no way any of this was sustainable. Even if Apex did brisk business every hour of every day, profits would never exceed operating costs.

  But, she supposed, this place was never supposed to run forever. It was all created to make just one drink.

  She struggled to keep up her forced innocence. “Bowie,” she said, “how did you and Garrett make this happen? It’s just so, ah, breathtaking,” she added quickly.

  Sorensen swiveled and struck a proud pose. “Bailey, other guy—I’m going to let you in on my greatest secret because it’s the answer to your question: I don’t know.” His expertly bleached teeth gleamed under the factory lights. “The truth is, I’m always guided by my instincts. Even if decisions don’t make sense, I make them anyway. They’ve never steered me wrong. And the more impossibly I dream, the more possible things become.”

  Once again Bailey and Zane looked at each other, as if to make sure they had heard the same thing. They had. And both agreed that Sorensen was nuts.

  “Did Garrett help you … dream this?” Bailey said slowly.

  “Yes,” said a voice that was decidedly not Bowen S
orensen the Third’s. “At the risk of self-aggrandizement, I would determine that my contributions were instrumental.”

  Garrett Whelan hadn’t bothered to dress up for Halloween, but still he looked different. Triumphant. And as far as Bailey could see, it was because he was holding a tall glass with a lemon wheel perched on its edge, a glass containing a soft amber liquid, almost the color of black tea.

  Zane swayed. “Uncle Garrett?”

  “Zane. I assume Ms. Chen’s presence stands testament to the failure of your fortitude. But no matter.” He smiled. “I hope you find the following scrap of arcane trivia educational. What is the sole part of the distilling process that can’t be hastened?”

  “Aging,” Zane said faintly.

  “Excellent.” Garrett politely clapped against the glass. “Much as with raising children, a useful result can be achieved only with patience. Fortunately, unlike you, I have experience in that domain.”

  “But none of the liquors in the Long Island are aged,” Zane said. “Even the rum—”

  “That is where you err, nephew. I was meticulous in my methods. We all know the unpleasant effects that slapdash stilling can have.” Bailey’s chest tightened as she thought of Vincent.

  Garrett’s lips twisted and he paused. “I tried white rum, and Brazilian cachaça, and overproof rum—everything. I’m no fool. I know what the recipe calls for. But in this case, as in most of life, older is better.

  “Dark rum, not light. The conventional recipe, like you, Zane, was errant. I was forced to bide my time as a fresh, pure batch came through the pipeline, as it were. I had to wait longer still as the rum aged in charred barrels. But by my calculations, the time has come, and in approximately”—he shook a watch from his sleeve—“twenty minutes—”

  Bailey had no time to think either. She shot out her hand and her old fashioned—powered telekinesis followed suit. Garrett’s glass wavered, toppled, and tumbled to the floor, shattering.

  “Party foul!” Sorensen said, throwing his arms in the air, delighted.