Blood Price

lots and lots of money." The wad of twenties he pulled out of the pocket of his windbreaker-five thousand dollars in small unmarked bills had been the third thing he'd asked for-caused a simultaneous dropping of jaws around the table.

    "Jesus Christ, Norman, what did you do, rob a bank?"

    "I didn't have to," Norman said airily. "And there's plenty more where that came from."

    He insisted on buying the third and fourth rounds and on switching to imported beer.
    "Imported beer is classier," he confided to the shoulder of Roger's leather jacket, Roger having moved his ear out of range. "It really gets the chicks."

    "Chicks?" The echo had a dangerous edge to it.

    "Consider the source, Helen." Bill deftly removed the glass from her hand-both hand and glass having been threateningly raised-and drained it. "You'd just be wasting the beer."

    The five burst out laughing again and again, not understanding, Norman joined in. No one would think he wasn't with it.

    When they started getting up, he rose with them. The room swayed. He'd never had four beers in quick succession before. In fact, he wasn't entirely certain he'd ever had four beers before. "Where we going?"

    " We are going to a private party," Bill told him, a beefy hand pushing him back into his seat.

    "You just stay here, Norman," Roger patted him on the other shoulder.

    Confused, Norman looked from one to the other. They were leaving without him?

    "Jesus, it's like kicking a puppy," Bill muttered.

    Roger nodded in agreement. "Uh, look, Norman, it's invitation only. We'd bring you if we could. . . ."

    They were leaving without him. He pointed across the table, his voice an accusatory whine,
    "But she's supposed to be for me."

    Expressions of guilty sympathy changed to disgust and Norman quickly found himself alone, Helen's voice drifting back from the door, somehow audible in spite of the noise level in the pub.
    "I'd give him back his beer if I didn't hate vomiting so much."

    Trying unsuccessfully to flag the waitress, Norman scowled into the beer rings on the table.
    She was supposed to be for him. He knew she was. They were cheating him. With the tip of a shaking finger, he drew a five pointed star in the spilled liquid on the tabletop, his vows of the day before forgotten. He'd show them.

    His stomach protested suddenly and he lurched toward the bathrooms, hand clutched over his mouth.

    I'll show them, he thought, his head dangling over the toilet. But maybe . . . not tonight.

    * * *
    Henry handed the young man seated just inside the door a twenty. "What's on for tonight?"
    He didn't quite have to yell to make himself heard over the music but, then, the night was young.

    "The usual." Three rolls of tickets were pulled from the cavernous left pocket of the oversized suit jacket while the money slid into the right. A number of after-hours clubs had been switching to tickets so that if, or more likely when, they were busted they could argue that they hadn't been selling drinks. Just tickets.

    "Guess it'll have to be a usual, then."

    "Right. Two trendy waters." The pair of tickets changed hands. "You know, Henry, you're paying a hell of a lot for piss and bubbles."

    Henry grinned down at him and swept an arm around the loft. "I'm paying for the ambience, Thomas."

    "Ambience my ass," Thomas snorted genially. "Hey, I just remembered, Alex got a case of halfway decent burgundy. . . ."

    It wouldn't have taken a stronger man than Henry Fitzroy to resist. "No thanks, Thomas, I don't drink . . . wine." He turned to face the room and, just for a moment, saw another gathering.

    The clothes, peacock bright velvets, satins, and laces turned the length of the room into a glittering kaleidoscope of color. He hated coming to Court and would appear only when his father demanded it. The false flattery, the constant jockeying for position and power, the soul destroying balancing act that must be performed to keep both the block and the pyre at bay; all this set the young Duke of Richmond's teeth on edge.

    As he made his way across the salon, each face that turned to greet him wore an identical expression-a mask of brittle gaiety over ennui, suspicion, and fear in about an equal mix.

    Then the heavy metal beat of Anthrax drove "Green-sleeves" back into the past. The velvet and jewels spun away into black leather, paste, and plastic. The brittle gaiety now covered ennui alone. Henry supposed it was an improvement.

    I should be on the street, he thought,