The person who had opened the door didn’t move either. They didn’t even speak.
Through the door I saw the overhang was some kind of black cloth. It had been constructed of tall stanchions, basically creating a tunnel from the opened limo door to the opened door of the Fillmore maybe twenty yards away.
Standing just inside the door was someone dressed in a black robe and cowl and gloves. They too wore a mask, only theirs was black.
I stepped out of the limo. Glanced at the person who had opened my door—someone else dressed in a black robe and cowl and gloves, the mask also black, no doubt an employee of Caesar’s—who merely nodded at me.
An ungloved hand suddenly appeared through the black cloth. It came in only arm’s length. The arm was not covered by a robe, but by a gray suit jacket.
The mask who had opened my door took a slip of paper from the disembodied hand. The mask looked at the paper and said, “This is your number. Your driver will return at a specific time in the morning to pick you up.”
The voice belonged to a woman. I didn’t know why, but this surprised me.
By instinct, I meant to say thank you, but caught myself at the last second and only nodded as I took the ticket. Then I turned and continued down the tunnel toward the other mask waiting for me.
• • •
I STEPPED INTO an elevator.
The black mask said, “Welcome to the Coliseum. This will only take moment.” The black mask pressed a button, and the doors closed, and then the elevator took us up to the first floor, where the doors opened once again. The black mask said, “Enjoy.”
Again, my instinct was to say thank you, but I only nodded. I stepped out and the elevator doors closed behind me. Waiting here were three more black masks, standing in a line. The one on the end closest to me stepped forward and said, “Welcome to the Coliseum. Please follow me to the banquet room.”
I had seen interior pictures of the Fillmore online, so I wasn’t surprised by the red plush carpet, or the ornate wainscoting, or the elegant lamps hanging from the ceiling every twenty feet or so. Normally they were turned on brightly, but tonight they had been dimmed a notch, creating just enough ambient light for guests to proceed down the hallway without any trouble.
We walked in silence. Another mask approached us and then passed us, presumably having escorted the member of the Inner Circle who had been dropped off before me.
The mask escorting me said, “Before I direct you into the banquet room, do you need to use the restroom?”
I shook my head.
“If you need to later,” she said, raising her hand and pointing vaguely, “they are down this hallway and to the left.”
After ten more paces she stopped before two large wooden doors with brass handles. She placed her hand on one of these handles but paused and turned back to me.
“Please help yourself to whatever you would like. If you would not like to partake, you can continue on to the other side of the banquet room, and another one of my colleagues will lead you to the auditorium.”
Back up the hallway another member of the Inner Circle wearing a black robe and cowl and gloves, the white mask gleaming in the faint light, had just gotten off the elevator and was being led this way by another black mask.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
Despite the fact I couldn’t see her face, I knew the woman behind the black mask was smiling.
“Certainly,” she said, and opened the door.
• • •
THE BANQUET ROOM was huge. I’d seen pictures of it, of course, but they had been staged, the kind of pictures taken for brochures and specialty magazines (the Fillmore was a very special case, in fact, as most theaters did not have banquet rooms). But pictures can never truly bring across the experience of seeing something for yourself. Not the overly elaborate chandelier hanging above the center of the room. Not the light sconces on the walls. Not the soft and melodic twang from a harp being played in the corner, or even the sweet and tempting aroma of all the food laid out on numerous tables.
A black mask carrying a tray of champagne flutes approached me. I waved it away. The mask nodded and stepped aside.
There were maybe two hundred members of the Inner Circle currently milling about. Not that many, but I had to assume the majority had already partaken in the drinks and food and were now waiting in the auditorium. That was where I wanted to be, too, not here where those remaining members murmured to each other about one thing or another, while they held thin flutes of champagne or small ceramic plates topped with hors d’oeuvres. The Bauta masks were doing their job perfectly, allowing the members of the Inner Circle to drink and eat while also maintaining their anonymity.
I moved deeper into the room. The fabric of my robe made a faint shushing sound as I walked.
The room was redolent of steak, lobster tail, veal, and sushi. The combined odors were intoxicating and made my empty stomach growl. I hadn’t eaten anything all day—I’d tried before coming but hadn’t had an appetite—and I found myself gravitating toward the tables. Black masks stood behind each table, waiting to serve.
My stomach kept growling. A part of me wanted to sample the wares, while another part of me said I would be a traitor for doing so. I had already entered the lions’ den. The last thing I needed to do now was to become one with the lions.
But then I remembered I was one with the lions, at least on the outside. And while in Rome, do as the Romans.
I picked up a plate off the table and continued down the line, nodding at or waving away the different proffered foods. Then, my plate set, I drifted toward a corner where I could stand in peace and watch the other lions as they played.
The steak was juicy, the lobster meat succulent, and while they were only bite-sized they were the best I had ever had in my thirty-four years of life. It was enough to make me want to return to the tables, but instead I motioned to one of the black masks carrying a tray. I traded my empty plate for a flute of champagne. I didn’t care much for champagne, but again, when in Rome.
I started to make my way through the room toward the doors leading into the auditorium. Congresswoman Houser said the Coliseum would begin at midnight. Oddly, there was no clock in the banquet room, but I knew that time was fast approaching. Maybe the lights would dim at some point, notifying everyone the show was about to begin. I didn’t want to wait for that to happen, so I continued on, passing groups of white masks huddled together, murmuring in English or French or Russian or Chinese—this last making me wonder if Bae and his team had made it into the Coliseum yet, and if so, where were they currently. Many nodded to me, and I nodded back. After all, there was no way of knowing just how powerful and important the person next to you was. It was best to be respectful of everyone.
I had made it past the midway point, sipping the champagne just for show, when a white mask tore itself from a group of four and stood in my way.
“Hello.” The voice was a throaty female’s with a slight British accent. “English?”
It took me a beat, but then I nodded.
“Brother or sister?”
Another beat, and I said, “Brother.”
“Excellent!” She took my arm and brought me into the group. “We have another brother here.”
The other three murmured hellos.
She said, “Brother, we were just discussing our favorite games. What is yours?”
I shifted my gaze from her to the other three. They were all watching me. I could see their eyes through the holes in the Bauta masks. Two of them had blue eyes. One of them had brown. The woman—or sister, if that was what we were calling each other—who still grasped my arm had green.
This was not where I wanted to be right now. I wanted to be in the auditorium, waiting for the show to start. I did not want to be here, in this banquet room, a flute of champagne in one hand, interacting with these disgusting people. Still, when in Rome.
I said, “I would have to say the Man of Wax.”
&
nbsp; The sister’s eyes lit up. “That is a good one. Very exciting. We were just discussing it, as a matter of fact.”
One of the blue-eyed masks nodded. “Yes. It featured the Man of Honor.”
The brown-eyed mask asked me, “Have you heard about the special surprise?”
“If I did then it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”
They all found this extremely amusing. Their laughter was the kind of quiet, forced laughter that is actually quite genuine to the stuffy elite.
“The Man of Honor,” the sister whispered excitedly, still grasping my arm. “They’ve captured him!”
“They have?”
The other blue-eyed mask said, “Clearly you missed the Racist’s game. That was just last week. They captured the Man of Honor then.”
“Excellent,” I said.
They all nodded in agreement.
As I had expected, the lights around the room began to dim. They rose again, dimmed, then rose once more.
Everyone stopped his or her murmured conversations. They may have been among the most important and powerful people in the world, but they knew their place. They stopped what they were doing, and set their plates and flutes of champagne aside, and continued toward the doors leading into the auditorium. They moved at a slow, measured pace. Nobody tried jostling for a better position. They knew they would be seated in time, and that the show would not begin until everyone was ready.
The woman had finally released her grasp on my arm. She disappeared into the crowd. Everyone was wearing black robes and cowls and gloves and white masks. It was impossible to differentiate anybody except for height.
We waited in line and slowly moved toward the auditorium, one after one, completely obedient.
Like lambs being led to a slaughter.
63
It didn’t take long. In less than a half hour they had everyone seated. More black masks acted as ushers, taking one member of the Inner Circle after another to an open seat. They were orderly. They were deliberate. They performed their jobs with great expertise.
I ended up being seated just underneath the balcony, which was also full of those in the Inner Circle. Even the few boxes along the sides of the auditorium were full.
The seats were upholstered in velvet, just as plush as the carpet. The chandelier hanging above the main seats was even more ornate than the one in the banquet room. On stage the red curtain was drawn.
The white mask sitting to my right wore heavy perfume. The white mask to my left was heavyset and breathed forcefully. He had a small device in his hand. It looked like an iPhone, but it wasn’t an iPhone. Earphones were attached to it. A translating device. I noticed some other white masks spread out around the auditorium also had these devices.
The auditorium was completely silent. The hushed murmur from the banquet room was over. Everyone was quietly waiting for the show to begin.
It began in less than five minutes.
The lights dimmed.
A spotlight came on, illuminating the curtain at center stage.
The quiet enveloping the auditorium somehow deepened.
Heavyset turned on the device in his hand, put in his earphones. Others nearby turned on their devices and put in their earphones as well. The small screens illuminated portions of the auditorium. I was almost half-tempted to remind him to turn off all cellular devices before the movie started, but then thought it might not be the best idea.
On stage, the red velvet curtain began to lift. It was a slow process. Like they were trying to draw out the suspense. Knowing what little I knew of Caesar, they probably were.
In the middle of the stage, all you could see at first were a pair of feet. Then legs. Then torso. And still the curtain slowly lifted, revealing the rest of the body that was draped in a robe and cowl and mask.
Only this mask wasn’t white or black.
This mask was gold.
I don’t know where it started in the auditorium, but someone began to clap. And clapping, just like yawning, is contagious. Within a minute, the entire place was clapping, me included, because again, when in Rome.
Caesar stood perfectly still the entire time. He kept his hands behind his back, soaking in the attention. When it finally died out, he lifted his hands—gloved just like everyone else’s—and spoke. His voice filled the auditorium.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!”
Again, everyone applauded.
In my ear, I could just make out the Kid saying, “Christ, did he really just open with Shakespeare?”
When the applause died down, Caesar lowered his arms.
“Welcome to the Coliseum. I thank you for your countless contributions and your years of patience. I am quite happy to tell you that the wait is almost over. The plan I had envisioned over three decades ago will finally become complete. Our world, as you know, is in chaos. There is war, famine, genocide. The law means nothing anymore. It is time for a change!”
Judging by his voice, the man sounded like he was in his fifties. Well spoken. No doubt well educated.
“This change is our own Pax Romana. It will help save our world and return it to a better, simpler time. A time where none of us will have to worry about the future. A time where each and every one of us will live like kings and queens!”
The voice, I hated to admit, almost came across as warm and kind. Definitely American. What sounded more like mid-Atlantic. No southern twang. No New England vernacular.
“I will explain more about the Pax Romana when we convene again later tonight. Before that, the Coliseum is a place where you can come together in your own different ways. Many of you already conversed in the banquet room, which I understand was a great success. Soon, you will be able to roam about this building. We have countless tablets available to you, all programmed with every past game we have ever shown. We have also established several live games. Whether it’s torture, murder, rape, incest, bestiality—we have it here for you to view live. But seating is limited. It will be first come, first serve. Finally, if you have not yet heard, we have a surprise guest. Someone I am sure will please each and every one of you.”
Behind Caesar a large white screen was slowly being lowered from the ceiling.
“They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so I have decided to show you who you can expect tonight.”
Caesar walked fourteen paces to the left. They were slow, deliberate paces, taken by someone who knew fully well what he was doing.
On the screen a picture appeared, about twelve feet tall. It was being projected from a digital projector somewhere above the balcony.
It was a familiar picture, for those accustomed to watching the games. The camera was positioned in the upper corner of a motel room. It was aimed at the bed and the person lying on top of it.
Carver.
The phone beside the bed started ringing. It rang nine times before Carver, coming out of unconsciousness, lifted his head and noticed his surroundings. He sat up suddenly, looking around the room in search of the camera, then down at the phone beside him.
He answered it, listened for a few seconds, and then said, “Fuck you.”
Silence. None of us could hear Simon’s side of the conversation, but I remembered it from Carver’s retelling. Simon telling Carver that wasn’t very nice, that either he was going to play nice or he wasn’t going to play at all. Then Simon asking him if he was ready for the first part of the game. It was simple. Go take a piss.
Carver sat there for another moment, frozen by indecision. The angle wasn’t the best—he was turned away from the camera—but I could see a younger version of Carver there. I had never seen any earlier pictures of him, but it was clear that in the past four years he had aged nearly a decade.
And it struck me that while I had heard this story before—I had even written about it—I had never actually seen it. The scene had always been in my mind, and I found myself focusing not on Carver so much as the room around him.
The thre
adbare chair in the corner. The dirty curtains decorated with autumn leaves. The shape of the lamp on the bedside table next to the phone. They had all been different from the images my imagination had fed me all this time, and there was something in the sudden reality that my mind refused to accept, like a child being told for the very first time that Santa Claus isn’t real.
On the screen—and about four years ago—Carver stood up from the bed. He ignored the thick glasses on the bedside table. It didn’t matter, though; there was another camera in the bathroom.
It was positioned just right so that when Carver took a step forward and peered down into the toilet, saw what he believed to be his four-month-old son lying facedown in the water, the camera captured every detail of his features—the sudden intake of breath, the widening of the eyes, and then the slow shaking of the head.
The image paused there. Carver’s face, frozen on the big screen, his eyes filled with horror and revulsion.
Beside me, Heavyset chuckled in such a way that I wanted to reach over and grab his translating device and shove it down his throat. Either that, or bring out the Glock 27 and shoot him in his fat ugly face.
Caesar said, “Yes, friends, that is right. The Man of Honor himself will grace us with his presence this evening. And the look you see there on his face? Be prepared to see a look just like it later tonight.”
The image disappeared, and the white screen began rising back up into the ceiling.
Caesar walked back to center stage. He raised his gloved hands again. The spotlight’s heavy glare radiated off his golden mask.
“This Coliseum is for you. Relax and enjoy yourselves. Again, I welcome you, and I thank you.”
He took a very small bow, stepped back, and waited as the red curtain began to descend and close.
And while it hadn’t been much of a show in my opinion, the crowd ate it up. They must have loved every goddamn second of it. First one person rose to their feet, clapping, then another, then another, until the entire auditorium was giving a standing ovation. Even me. As much as I hated to do it, I had no choice.
The Inner Circle (Man of Wax Trilogy) Page 32
