Ghost of a Chance

Each elevator had a shining steel door with a simpler relief of the tower on them, power rays and all. His guide pushed the elevator’s call button and another hair-raising burst of magical energy washed over Alex. The simple amount of power used just to make sure the right person pushed an elevator button made Alex jealous. If he had that kind of magical power, he reasoned there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do.

Before he had time to dwell on that, a chime sounded, and the doors slid open. The big man leaned in and pressed a button inside the car, then moved back so Alex could enter.

“Someone will meet you up top,” he said.

* * *

A long elevator ride later, Alex stepped out into an elegantly appointed waiting room. There were couches and tables laden with the latest fashion and engineering magazines scattered tastefully around. A bank of phones, in dark wood privacy booths, stood along one wall, and a bar of the same dark wood stood opposite. A dapper young man in a red-velvet waistcoat stood behind the bar, polishing a glass, while dozens of bottles of liqueur lined shelves behind him.

Hallways exited the area to the right and left and Alex could hear the staccato rhythm of typewriter keys being struck emanating from the right side.

At the far end of the waiting area was a single elevator door. Next to it was a wooden podium like a maître d’ might stand behind when greeting guests at a high end restaurant. A black telephone stood on the podium and a man in a black tuxedo stood behind it.

“Bickman?” Alex said as he approached.

Gary Bickman, formerly Ernest Atwood’s valet, stood with a wide smile on his face.

“I really owe you one, Alex,” he said, shaking Alex’s hand. “I never would have thought you had such friends in high places. The Ice Queen… uh, that is, Ms. Kincaid knew Mr. Barton was looking for a new steward so she got me on here. I can’t thank you enough.”

“That’s great,” Alex said.

Bickman’s face went a little sour and he didn’t release Alex’s hand.

“I, uh, I won’t get paid till the end of the week,” he said, his voice quiet. “Even then, the missus and I have got to get new lodgings, so it might be some time before I can pay you.”

Alex hadn’t expected Bickman to get a job this fast in the first place, so he just smiled and patted Bickman on the shoulder.

“I know you’re good for it,” he said.

“I did recommend you to Mr. Barton, though” he said. “He needed a detective and I thought the job would get you through till I can pay up.”

Alex had wondered why the Lightning Lord had wanted to see him. He’d seen the man once, or rather his image, when Sorsha warned him about the plot to kill four of the New York Six, but Barton hadn’t seen him. As far as Andrew Barton knew, Alex didn’t exist. He’d thought maybe the article in the Sun had something to do with it, but he seriously doubted a man like Barton read tabloids.

“Thanks, Bickman,” Alex said with a genuine smile. “I appreciate that.”

Gary smiled back at him and then straightened up, tugging his coat to make sure it was in place.

“Right,” he said. “Mr. Barton said to bring you up as soon as you got here, so right this way.”

He stepped to the elevator and pressed the call button. Once again a burst of magic radiated out and the doors slid open immediately.

This time, Bickman rode the elevator with Alex, and a few moments later they emerged directly into a magnificent office. Towering glass windows filled the north wall, rising up over two stories and looking out over the city and the park. Bookshelves, cabinets, and cases lined the left wall with a massive mural of the history of the industrial revolution leading up to the modern age on the right.

A desk that was longer than Alex’s office was wide stood beneath the massive windows and was covered in papers, rolled blueprints, mechanical models, and bits of equipment. Two long couches sat facing each other over a low table in the center of the room and a truly impressive rollaway bar stood beside them.

Behind the desk, an older man with silver hair and a handlebar mustache paced back and forth with the receiver to a telephone pressed to his ear. He wore a gold-colored waistcoat over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. In his free hand, he held a lit cigarette, waving it around as he punctuated his conversation.

“I don’t care about other thefts,” he was saying. “Things get stolen all the time, but not from me.”

He paused and kept pacing.

“No,” he almost yelled. “You go down there personally and tell whatever desk jockey they put on this to get his ass out there and find my motor.”

With that he slammed the receiver down into the phone’s cradle and took a long drag on his cigarette.

“Idiots.” He said the word like a curse. “What do they think I pay taxes for?”

Bickman cleared his throat forcefully and Barton looked up.

“It’s about time,” the sorcerer said. “Where were, you? Brooklyn?”

Alex wasn’t sure how to answer that, so he just put on his most genial smile and shrugged.