In Plain Sight

Iggy wished him good luck and hung up. Alex replaced the phone’s receiver, but lingered in the booth. He pulled out Iggy’s disguise runes and spread them out on the little shelf beneath the phone. Licking the one labeled Clothes, he stuck it to his jacket, then lit the paper with a match from his pocket. A tingling sensation ran up his spine and when he looked down, his worn gray suit had been transformed to a lustrous black tuxedo. The ebon pips in his shirt gleamed in the diffused light of the booth and the lapels of the jacket were glossy.

The rune labeled Face came next and Alex stuck it to his forehead before setting it alight. He worried that the flame might burn his eyebrows, but the flash paper was consumed so rapidly, he didn’t even feel its heat.

Wondering if the rune had done its work, he opened the folding door of the booth and caught his reflection in the glass. Instead of his ordinary, serviceable face he saw an elegant one with high cheekbones, a pencil mustache, and slicked-back hair. He looked like a thinner Clark Gable. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended. One thing was for sure, no one would recognize him.

The last rune for this part of the plan was labeled Money. Alex took a stack of six dollar-sized papers out of his wallet. Three of them had the number one-hundred written on them, two were labeled twenty, and the last had the number five scrawled on it. Alex licked each bill and stuck it to the rune paper, then lit it. When the flash dissipated, the paper looked for all the world like real bills. It wouldn’t last, of course, but it would be enough to get him through the evening. He had promised Iggy he wouldn’t spend any of it unless absolutely necessary.

He had a feeling that would be a difficult promise to keep.

Transformation complete, Alex checked the rest of his gear. He had two emergency runes in his right jacket pocket along with his rune-covered brass knuckles. The left pocket held the pack of smokes, a book of matches, and a card with the name Harold Troubridge, Antiquities printed on it.

He lit a cigarette to calm his nerves, then opened the phone booth and strode back out into the street. This was it. With any luck he was about to learn the name of the man who beat Jerry Pemberton to death. All he had to do was convince a vicious and well-connected criminal to tell him what he wanted to know.

Easy.

Outside the front door of The Emerald Room stood a man who had to be six-foot-four. He towered over people in the street and his thick neck seemed to strain the limits of the bow tie he had on. He wore the red jacket of a doorman, but Alex knew him for the bouncer he was. The man’s presence made a definite statement — unless you belong here, go away.

Alex took a long drag on his cigarette as he approached. The man mountain gave him an appraising look, up and down, but saw nothing amiss. He turned his attention back to the street as Alex walked right past him. Alex waited until he was inside before exhaling a cloud of white smoke.

The interior of The Emerald Room didn’t fail to impress. The floors were cherry wood, stained and polished to a red sheen. The walls were papered with a striped pattern, alternating green and white, and the lampshades were Tiffany, all made of green glass. A dance floor occupied the center of the club, with small and medium sized tables arranged around it in a semi-circular pattern. Every row of tables was mounted on a riser, each higher than the last in a stair-step pattern, so they looked down on the dance floor. The far side of the floor was occupied by a long bar made of some dark wood where three bartenders served patrons and the waitresses who took drinks to the semi-circle of tables. An orchestra played a swing tune and the whole club seemed full of the energy of the music. Running around the top of the ceiling were balconies that led to private rooms.

That was where Alex would find Jeremy Brewer, the infamous Broker.

Moving slowly but purposefully, Alex picked his way across the floor to the bar and ordered a drink. He felt the need to hurry but stifled it. Before he could go looking for the Broker, he’d need to do some reconnaissance.

The nearest bartender was a short, pudgy man with an elaborate mustache. He had the kind of face that encouraged men to tell him their troubles. An ideal bartender.

“Can I help you, sir?” the bartender asked with a smile. He had a slightly Midwestern accent along with the kind of physique people got from growing up on a farm.

Alex decided to splurge. He told himself it was to better establish his character, but he knew that the Broker wasn’t likely to ask the bartender for a reference.

“Your best single malt, please.”

“That would a Macallan 30-year-old,” the bartender said. “Will that do?”

“That sounds acceptable.”

“Very good, sir.”