Free A City Dreaming by Daniel Polansky Page B

man, apart from having good taste in enemies?”
    â€œAlatar of the Upper West Side.”
    The doors opened. Waves of merriment rolled off the waiting party.
    â€œFuck me,” M said.
    â€œQuite possibly. The women at these things tend to drink heavily.”
    They entered a spherical chamber slightly smaller than St. Peter’s, composed of white marble and lovingly accented indigo. In the back of the room was a large stage that no one was looking at. In the center of the room was a vast ebony bar, and this was getting far more attention.
    â€œYou know that guy hates me,” M said.
    â€œDoes he?”
    â€œFor, like, decades.”
    â€œExcellent!” Andre said, walking them toward the bar. “Then there should be no need to play soft with him.”
    Curved tables running against the exterior wall held the merchandise that had been prepared for the silent auction, mint editions of Action Comics No. 1 and the last remaining copy of Nick Drake’s undiscovered LP and the gun used to kill Franz Ferdinand and also the bullets used to kill him and also (though where would you put it?) the body of Franz Ferdinand. M caught a glimpse of something that might have been the head of John the Baptist, but he was not in a position to make sure, because before he could take a longer look, Andre grabbed him by the arm and hustled him off to the bar. As a rule, M disliked being manhandled, particularly as it was becoming clear that the reason he had been asked to this little soiree was to act as muscle in case things got rough. But he realized he could use a gimlet, and so he didn’t protest.
    The bartender was a handsome, silent Latino man who looked at M but didn’t say anything. M ordered his drink and watched Andre watch the crowd nervously.
    â€œYou ever notice that you only call me when you need something?” M asked.
    â€œYou don’t call me at all!” Andre said cheerily, handing M a glass.
    â€œThat’s because you’re the sort of person who only calls people when they need things.”
    â€œBottoms up!”
    They soon were.
    â€œWhat did you do to piss him off?” M asked.
    â€œNothing. It is—how you say—a misunderstanding.”
    â€œThat’s how you say it. What does he think you did?”
    â€œHe thinks I slept with his girlfriend.”
    The crowd was the usual mix of people at this sort of thing—rich men and beautiful women. Onstage was a short, dark, sad-looking fellow. His microphone didn’t seem to be working, and most of what he said was lost to the static. “ Kinshassa . . . blood diamonds . . . ”
    â€œWhy would Alatar think that?” M asked.
    â€œWho can say why anyone thinks anything?” Andre said, saddened, even wounded by the errancy of mankind.
    â€œBut he might not be here?”
    â€œ Hundreds of thousands of children a year . . . ”
    â€œWho can be certain of anything in an uncertain world? Though on the other hand, he is throwing the thing, so his absence would be a rather severe breach of etiquette.”
    â€œWhat would possibly possess you to go to the party of a man trying to kill you?”
    â€œImage is everything, M,” Andre said, scowling and stretching his hand out toward his friends and acquaintances. “These people are hyenas, quick to spot weakness and take advantage of it. Can’t have them thinking I’m afraid of a man like Alatar.”
    â€œBut you are afraid of him—that’s why you brought me along.”
    â€œOf course, but they don’t know that.”
    The chubby African man finished his speech and walked offstage. At least he walked offstage.
    â€œWhat is it with you superwealthy? You can’t just rent out a ballroom and get drunk like everyone else, have to pretend there’s some sort of moral purpose behind it, slap a few pictures of starving children on the walls? A party isn’t a party