"Yes, those CSS guys got it made. Everybody tokes them. He's had one too many free burgers and beers at the Steak and Bun. Speaking of which, I'm starved. After I drop my stuff off at my sister's, you wanna eat?"
"Thanks, but I have to find someone. You know where I can find a bunch of bars in a row called the Clubs Flush? On Rush Street, I think."
Norby whistled appreciatively. "You must have some good barter in that sack. Those are some nice places. Never been in 'em myself. They take up a whole block. Rush is easy to find; it runs at an angle to the rest of the streets. Watch yourself around the vacant lots. I'll get you to Division Street and point you in the right direction."
"Thanks," Valentine said, and meant it. He handed Oshima two more cheroots.
"Don't worry, David. You'll do fine. As long as those cigars hold out, anyway."
Valentine walked down the street, consulting his tourist map. Even in the afternoon, there were more people on the street than Valentine was used to seeing in the most populated parts of the FreeTerritory. Despite the people, he felt strangely alone. The city smelled noxious; a mixture of tar and garbage assaulted his nostrils. Sewage odors wafted up from the storm drains, and trash overflowed from Dumpsters in the alleys. Public sanitation was not a priority with the Kur.
"Hey, blue boy, want a ride?" a man in a straw hat called from the front of a carriage. A horse stood patiently in harness. "Take you to the Zoo. I got a friend at one of the entrances, let you in half-price. Your buddies in Wisconsin won't believe their ears when you get back."
"Maybe later," Valentine said.
Cats seemed to be everywhere, especially in the rubble of the empty blocks. Hungry-looking stray dogs prowled the alleys, sniffing the gutters.
Valentine spotted the Clubs Flush. Had it been night, he would have seen it from farther off; electric lights on the building illuminated a ten-foot mural of a hand holding four kings and a joker. In sight of his goal, Valentine realized how tired he was. His last night in bed had been interrupted by Molly's visit, and he had been active ever since. He unbuttoned his shirt and smelled his chest. Molly's rosebud-soap scent still clung to his skin. The memories gave him new strength, even as he considered the hopeless task ahead of him. How could he have imagined a city this size?
He reached the bars, but there seemed to be no way to get inside. Nor could he see through the dark-tinted glass windows to get a hint of what waited within. He passed a woman wearing a dirty smock, standing out of the wind and smoking a cigarette.
"Entrance is around the side," she informed him, pointing her thumb over her shoulder. She took a long pull on a cigarette. "I work there, three-to-eleven shift. Good luck getting past Wideload. You looking for a job?"
"No, just a little fun. Thanks."
"Hey," she said conspiratorially, removing a brown-paper-wrapped package from under her smock. "Check it out. Sixteen-ounce porterhouse, right out of the Diamonds' cooler. Twelve bucks, what do you say?"
"No, I'm fine for food. "
"Eight bucks. Can't do better. You can sell it for at least twenty on Michigan Avenue."
Valentine turned the corner and found the entrance. It was a decorated alley, with a brick arch above, wide enough to allow a wagon inside. Red and black painted wooden double doors with the Clubs' hours stenciled on showed that it must still be before six, as they were closed and locked. A smaller door was fitted into right side of the gate, and Valentine knocked.
A face that would not encourage casual conversation scowled out from a crack in the door. "What?" it said in a deep, monotone bass.
"You Wideload? I want to see the Duke, if he's in."
"Not for you, hick. Beat it."
"I'm forgetting my manners," Valentine said, reaching inside his pack. Looking at the fleshy face, he opted to hand over the brick of cheese he had snacked on earlier.
"That's more like it," the heavy-framed man said, opening the door and engulfing the three-pound brick in a paw that resembled a gorilla-hand ashtray. Valentine watched Wideload as he sampled the Wisconsin dairy gold. Both of the Wolf's legs would have fitted in the man's shirtsleeve, and he and Gonzalez could have slept out of the rain in his trousers. "Mmmm, not bad, blue boy. Go up the spiral staircase. There're two doors at the top. One's marked 'office." Go in the other one."
Valentine nodded and entered the courtyard. Plants sprouting through a mulch of cigarette butts decorated the brick-paved enclosure. Beautiful brass and glass doors, one facing in each direction, indicated the locations of the four bars. Each was named for a suit of cards.
Curious, Valentine looked in each door. The one marked spades seemed to be devoted to gambling; the kidney-shaped green baize tables could mean little else, and brightly lit slot machines filled the walls. The Diamonds bar looked like a dining room. Valentine had heard about, but never before seen, white tablecloths, polished silver, and flowered centerpieces. All were in opulent abundance inside the restaurant. The Clubs room was the only one open for business. Comfortable leather chairs lay scattered around next to small tables, and the bar appeared as devoted to cigars and pipe tobacco as to alcohol. A few men, some even wearing suits and ties, lounged around, reading newspapers or playing cards. Most were smoking. The Hearts bar looked like a glitzy brothel. It was the largest, taking up two stories, and had an open space in the center that featured the traditional stripper's pole mounted on a circular stage. Valentine counted three bars within the mirror-decorated main room.
"Hey, Tori," Valentine heard Wideload say from his door.
"Hey," a bored female voice answered, and a woman who seemed mostly made of blond hair and legs strode into the courtyard, carrying an angular purse over her shoulder big enough to sit in and paddle down a river. She glanced at Valentine with an appraising eye and disappeared down a narrow hallway branching off from the central area.
Valentine shrugged to the cheese-eating doorman and climbed the metal spiral staircase. He went to the unmarked door and knocked.
"It's open," a familiar female voice sang out.
He entered, and recognized the Duke's escort sitting behind a desk larger than the one in Flanagan's office but somehow more delicate and feminine in its rich glossy sheen. Debby? No, Dixie. Valentine's mind cast about for her name. Denise, of the revealing decolletage dress, he remembered. Today she was wearing a simple gray sleeveless outfit.
"Hi, Denise. Can I see the Duke?"