Becoming Mermaids

Chapter 14: Should I Lie with Death my Bride

Emilio nodded aggressively and stumbled down the ladder. The trap door closed above his head and he was in almost total darkness. The boiler's fire provided the only light, rodent feet the only sound.

The cast iron boiler was hot— he singed his fingers groping for the space behind it. As soon as he found his way into a stone nook between the boiler and the wall, a mail slot opened, revealing a pair of angry eyes.

"Ch— charybdis," Emilio said. The slot closed. The heavy door swung open.

The guard, a big-mustached man in a black T-shirt, had nothing to say as Emilio slipped by. A metal stool and a tall stack of magazines waited behind him. Interrogation lights lit the rough concrete hallway. There was another door at the far end of the hall, the only way to go.

Emilio's footsteps made resounding clacks that were gradually muted by the din on the other side of the second door. Loud conversations, laughter, and music. He hesitated before opening it; the guard at the other end nodded, and Emilio went in.

It was a lavish room full of spinning roulette wheels, red carpeting, and dimly lit tables, where business was conducted with hard laughter and guarded intentions. There were two levels, lower in the middle— maybe a dance floor but nobody danced— and narrowly winding staircases to a rickety mezzanine. Emilio had expected to find a Latin underground, but the clientele— gangsters and thieves in all likelihood— was as internationally diverse as Monaco.

A small man with slicked back hair and big ears spotted Emilio by the door and curled his finger conspicuously. Emilio assumed this meant "come." The small man led him to a table not visible from the door, hidden by flowering palms, where a range of Dick Tracy villains sat expectantly. In the center of them all was a flapper— a true flapper, with a clinging green dress and beads that drizzled down her chest— smiling intently at him. It was Coquette.

"M— m— may I sit?"

She nodded, closing her eyes on the downturn. Her short hair was shockingly white and plastered into a curl on her forehead. A himalayan cat pounced onto the table and gingerly stepped past the thugs to rub its face on her arm.

"S— so—"

"You can leave your stutter at the door, Emilio," she said. "We're all friends here."

Emilio paused a moment before saying, smoothly, "What's this all about?"

"I need your help," she said, stroking the cat. "A friend of mine is in trouble. We're preparing an expedition to get her out."

"What do you want from me?"

She looked him squarely in the eyes and smiled, half-revealing her tongue. "Guns. Lots and lots of guns."

"It's going to cost you."

"I'm good for it. My dear grandmother left me some assets." For ninety years, Coquette had owned a stretch of Miami beachfront under the name of Susan Carter. She'd used her mermaid longevity to cool her jets in the oceans while interest and rents accrued.

"What kind of guns? Intimidation? Or efficiency?"

"For roleplay. We have to look the part of a Navy Seal team."

Emilio didn't hide his condescension. "Are you sure you want real guns?"

"Oh, I know you don't deal in playthings. Yes, they must be real. But we only plan to use them as part of the masquerade. Camouflage, if you will. As long as everything goes smoothly, we'll have access to much more firepower than you could ever sell me."

Emilio shook his head, then shrugged it off. As long as the lady paid in advance, she'd get all the guns she wanted.

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