Eric Nylund by Paladin Blake;the Secret City

Author:Paladin Blake;the Secret City
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-06-08T14:17:17+00:00

Jacques led them left to the cloakroom. A girl in a French maid costume stood on the other side of a counter; beyond were racks of camel hair overcoats and sable furs and locked strongboxes. Jacques whispered to her in Creole then handed her a wad of francs. She curtsied, led them in back and pointed to a rack of suits.

Jacques looked Tennyson up and down. “A forty-eight regular will do for you, Monsieur Tennessee.” He sorted through the tuxedos on the rack then handed one to Tennyson.

Jacques then picked out a coat for Paladin. “Forty-four tall for you.”

Paladin looked at the proffered coat like it was a coiled cobra. “I don’t wear monkey suits.”

“Very well, Monsieur,” Jacques said, “then you will have to allow me to negotiate on your behalf. You cannot enter the casino in such attire-even if you had the moon to offer.”

Jacques’ eyebrow shot up. “There are standards, after all.”

Paladin grabbed the suit. He slipped into the tailed coat. It fit. Jacques handed him a bow-tie and Paladin awkwardly knotted it. It felt good to dress up, Paladin thought. He’d been living like a pirate for a week.

He glanced in the mirror and smoothed back his hair. From the waist up he almost looked respectable. That was the problem; Matthew Blake wasn’t supposed to look respectable. He didn’t dare clean up anymore.

As the Frenchman sorted through pants on the rack, Paladin growled, “This’ll do, Jacques.”

“Very well, Monsieur.” Jacques looked them over with a pained expression. “I had hoped you could be more…presentable. C’est-la vie.” He led them back through the crowds in the casino to double doors in the back. He whispered to the two guards there, and they let them pass.

The next room housed another casino, but for a different class of customer. There was no poker or craps here. There were padded stools and girls circulating with trays of drinks between the baccarat and blackjack tables. Gold coins and private notes of credit littered the green felt. The gamblers wore tuxedos and sported monocles. Their diamond cufflinks gleamed.

Jacques cut through the room to another door, guarded by a single man in colonial costume.

He frisked Jacques, and removed his small .38-caliber pistol. Paladin reluctantly handed over his .45s. Tennyson, to Paladin’s surprise, removed a sawed-off shotgun from his coat and surrendered the weapon. The guard then frisked them thoroughly, apologized, and unlocked the door.

Beyond was a parlor with gilt wallpaper and floors covered in thick oriental rugs. The far wall was all windows that overlooked the harbor. The air inside the room was thick with smoke.

Paladin smelled something sweet and rich in it-he couldn’t place the scent, but it tickled his nose, enticed and repelled him at the same time. It felt like he was drowning in honey.

Flora was here.

Paladin’s heart fluttered. She stood in the corner, by the windows, the glittering lights in the harbor and the moonlight on the Gulf of Mexico creating a halo around her. Men and women swarmed around Flora, fixed on her every word.

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