Chapter 18 #2
Among other things, Symbolist paintings line the walls, some Moreau and von Stuck with their eerie, nightmare-like imagery, others equally macabre that I’ve never seen before.
Then there’s a vibrant, three-mural spread to my right of dancing chickens and palmetto trees.
A dark, ominous, giant grandfather clock with an annoyingly loud as fuck tick stands in one corner, a golden pole and small stage resides in the other.
A wooden desk big enough for Lucy to sleep on takes up most of the back, and a poker table in the center of the room is surrounded by three men with one of the mimes I saw yesterday as a dealer, the one that’s twins with the girl I met in the hallway when I was looking for Lucy today.
Two of the men are strangers to me, and the third makes me laugh.
“Dorman, my man, what’re you doing away from your post? How can people get bored to death without your sad rhymes?” I nod to X. “No wonder you hired me.”
X whips around to glare at me and I shrug. He’s gonna learn mighty quick that “speak when spoken to,” isn’t a rule I’ll ever naturally comply with.
At the table, Dorman stops with his beer still in his hand and turns all the way around instead of just merely looking over his shoulder. He glares at me with lazy, unfocused eyes.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he slurs.
“I see you don’t always need cash to make you stop sounding like Dr. Seuss,” I say wryly, and X snorts.
Dorman glares at me then turns all the way around again to face the men sitting opposite him. “Didn’t you see what happened to Froggy?”
One of the men, a huge bald guy in a black suit, strong jaw and head the size of a NFL linebacker with his damn helmet on, just stares at him. His blond brows are so light they look translucent and his expressionless face is almost more unnerving than anything else in this room.
He hasn’t moved since I walked in. Not a shift in his chair, not a glance at his cards. Just that flat, unblinking stare aimed at nothing and everything at once. Dee deals around him like she’s reaching past something that’ll snap her arm off, never quite taking hers eye off him.
But what’s most unnerving is the man beside him.
He’s polished in a dark gray suit and red silk tie that together probably cost thousands of dollars.
His salt and paprika hair is cut high and tight, and his slight wrinkles put him at someone around my father’s age.
He wears two watches on his wrist. One digital, the other mostly hidden under his sleeve, analog and looks like the one my mom gave King when I was a kid, out of date but still very nice, though I’d say more sentimental than fitting the rest of his vibe.
“Now, Dorman. That’s no way to greet our guest and your newest coworker.” He’s the only one that stands and holds out this hand, smoothing his tie down needlessly. “It’s… Hatter, I take it? You can call me Castle.”
He pauses, just slightly, as if waiting for me to correct him with a different name, even though he knows I won’t.
I gave X my fake ID before signing the minimum paperwork the establishment required, and everyone in here should be smart enough to know I’m not Jonathon Jacob Doe.
Well, everyone except for maybe Dorman. That guy’s already on something if the way he’s glaring at the empty space next to me—who I imagine is a mirage of my nonexistent triplet—is any indication.
I look at Castle’s hand a long beat before taking it, likely to X’s chagrin as he stiffens beside me.
Castle’s palm is callused, and his grip is strong but not overbearing or making a show of it like tons of other power-playing-pricks try to do.
His firm hold just is. Honestly, with all the posturing and warnings I’ve gotten so far, I’m a little surprised.
I would’ve expected a dick-swinging asshole more like Frog than whoever this is.
“Yeah, Hatter’s fine,” I answer simply, then try him before releasing his hand. “It’s what little Floorman called me anyway. Guess name’s like that stick here.”
X stares at me like I’ve got three heads, but he’s gonna find out mighty quick this fucker doesn’t scare me.
I am the son of King Fury, the most terrifying man in all of Appalachia.
If anyone in here thinks I’ll kowtow to a middle-aged strip club owner wearing Brioni—or whatever his suit is—and not a weapon in sight, they can think again.
Castle simply chuckles. “Ah, yes, well. We’re very big on anonymity.”
Remembering the cameras everywhere you can blink, I give him a bland smile.
Sure you are.
Instead I clear my throat and point to the art behind me, the only vibrancy in the room.
“Nice Chicken Man pieces.”
Castle’s brow raises. “You know Ernest Lee’s work?”
In any other circumstance, I’d almost smile. “He was one of my mom’s favorite artists.”
“He was my daughter’s too,” he murmurs, and the past tense hits something raw in me. “She saw him painting at a fair when she was five and had to have one. She loved the joy and color he depicts.”
“Same with my mom.” I don’t point out how that’s the exact opposite of everything I’ve seen on Wander Isle.
He nods once and points around a full rocks glass at the murals. “I gave her those, one for her birthday every year after that.”
Every year. Is he… is he saying those were her paintings? There are only three.
I don’t dare point it out, especially not something that feels so vulnerable, and Dorman steals the show anyway, shouting belatedly.
“My name is Dorman,” His eyes whirl on Castle. “See Uncle Castle? This guy has no business being here. He beat the tar outta Frog.”
Uncle? Well I guess that answers why someone like Castle has someone like Dorman working for him.
“So he did.” Castle sighs. “After speaking to staff members, however, I’ve come to the conclusion he deserved it.” He raises a brow at me. “Did he not?”
Interesting. I’m curious to know which staff members. Lucy? Did she defend me? She stopped me on the floor, did she stick up for me later too?
Shit, I sure as fuck hope I didn’t get her in trouble.
Pushing that thought down, I nod and answer in the same affected tone. “Ol’ Froggy boy did indeed deserve it.”
And as soon as I see him again, I’m getting answers—like who the fuck gave him that feed—or giving him worse hell than before.
Castle smiles like we’re in on a joke, but I don’t miss the slight twitch if muscle beside his right eye.
“Yes, well, he was meant to join us tonight, but turns out, he had an appointment to make on the mainland.” My own bravado falters, trying to figure out how he feels exactly, and what he knows about his man no doubt having to be hospitalized in some capacity.
His own smile doesn’t go away, though, as he gestures to the poker table.
“Come. Sit. I’d invite you to have a drink, but I don’t allow my staff to drink on the job. Would tea do? It’s from the Sweet Tea Bakery next door. Iris has the best blends.”
“Oh, um, sure.”
“Wonderful. Dee? Will you pour for the boys, then deal them both in.” He grins at me. “It’s Blackjack tonight. I can’t wait to get to know you more. X spoke very highly of you, Hatter. Said he likes the cut of your jib.”
My pulse races, but I pretend to have all the care of someone higher than Dorman. When Castle turns around, I eye X and mutter under my breath.
“You like the ‘cut of my jib,’ huh?”
The guy rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch and his shoulders relax. “Just shut the fuck up and play the game, Hatter.”
Play the game.
That’s precisely what I’m afraid I’ll have to do.