Dethfest Confessions: The Devil's Playlist by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-12-24T00:00:00+00:00

Faceless

by

Renee S. DeCamillis

The new-moon night hangs heavy and dark over the city. No stars twinkle in the cloud-choked sky. I hope the threat of rain makes me look less suspicious with my hood pulled over my head and all my hair tucked inside. Must mask my identity.

With a quickened trot and a small leap, I make it across the not-so-busy cobblestone street and up onto the brick sidewalk. I glance over my shoulder again before stepping into the recessed doorway.

Capone’s, a hidden speakeasy. Not the trendy, eye-catching tourist trap like the many bars of the same name across the country. No. This place moves when too many people find out about its location. Perfect for my needs. I pull open the red, windowless steel door and enter the dimly lit stairwell leading down to the basement, hoping the journalist who asked to interview me is able to find this place, that he’s not expecting—considering my band’s fame—to meet me at a five-star lounge. More like a dive bar, which would normally make me feel right at home. But not tonight.

At the bottom of the stairs, I face the black metal door with the small, square, slide-open window. After I give the rhythmic three-knock code, the little window scrapes open.

A baritone voice croaks out through the opening, “ID.” When I hold my license up to the window, he says, “Buddy, I need to see your face or you ain’t getting’ in.”

Slowly, I glance over my shoulder to confirm the stairwell and entryway still remain empty before turning to the window and pulling my hood back a bit.

Though I can’t see his face, I hear the smile in his voice when he says with a laugh, “Well, I wasn’t expecting to see that pretty face under the hood.”

The window slams shut, the knob turns, and the hinges of the thick door creak as it slowly eases open.

The shadowy velvet-and-mahogany-smothered lounge floods my sight, and the scent of cigars assaults my nostrils—no-smoking laws don’t make it through the door of this private club. I step inside. The door slams shut behind me, and a strong sausage-fingered hand grips my shoulder.

“Hold up,” thunders a gravelly voice.

I turn, look up. The guy stands about six three to my five three and at least twice as wide as kid-sized me. The bouncer, or “doorman,” “doorkeeper.” But to me, he’s just Pasquale.

“Hey, Maya. It’s been a while. Good to see you. I didn’t recognize you under that huge hoodie.”

With a finger to my pursed black lips, I wink, pull my hood forward.

“Yeah, let’s keep my presence on the down-low, if ya dig.”

He cocks his head and looks me in the eye, brow furrowed.

“I was never here.” I nod, eyebrows raised, making sure my message comes across clearly.

Pasquale agrees. We fist bump.

“Oh, yes.” He flashes me a crooked smile, clears his throat. “Hello and welcome to Capone’s.” Pasquale waves his arm toward the shimmering mahogany bar and steps aside for me to go get a drink. Reaching out behind him, he grabs his hat off the stool beside the door, then performs his signature move.

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