Raymond Long: author of fiction and non-fiction

"The Black Cat Speakeasy"
This was sub-level two, the realm of warehouse space, machinery and sewage pipes. Somewhere she'd never been before.

The security cameras were openly on display here, like in the precinct, not artfully hidden as they were in most public places in the PZ. There were clumps of dust on the floor, and odd bits of discarded packaging. That was a disturbing sight – she was so used to the protected zone being immaculate inside. This mess was nothing compared to the filth of tweentown's riotous disorder, of course, but this was inside the walls. She gave a little shudder.

She called up a very local map on her portaconsole, and followed its directions. She walked along empty, echoing corridor with smooth blank walls. Here and there she passed doors, utilitarian things without identifying marks, or in some cases marked with numbers and letters that meant nothing to an outsider.

After some distance she came to a door that a door as nondescript as the others, except that it was better maintained – no scuff marks or signs of rough handling – and at face level was a small square plaque of silvery metal. On this was the black silhouette of a cat sitting bolt upright and looking rather pleased with itself.

As Jeri approached the door it opened to reveal a man in a strange uniform: a maroon jacket with wide lapels edged in orange piping, beneath that a white shirt with black tie, and on his head a peaked cap that matched his jacket.

'Can I help you?'

'I, uh, I'm here to meet Officer Patniak.'

'Ah. Lieutenant Stone? Please, madame, step this way.' He stepped back from the door and made a sweeping gesture with his arm toward the room behind him. Jeri stepped in, with a tremor in her spine. What strange world had she entered?

The uniformed man gestured again, this time to a side door which bore the legend Ladies cloak. 'If madame would care to use the cloakroom?'

'Cloakroom? What...'

'Oh... madame does not need to change? Very good.' His tone suggested that he thought it very far from good. Disapproval was written across his face and his demeanor. 'I am afraid that madame is required to switch off and remove her portable console before entering the club.'

'My portaconsole? Why?'

'It is a rule of the house, madame.'

'But – this is a police portaconsole.'

'I assure madame, the... apparatus will be quite safe.'

This was weird and the idea of being without her portaconsole was the next thing to running around naked, but at the same time she was intrigued. What the hell kind of place was this? Without arguing further she switched off her portaconsole – something she normally only did just before going to sleep – took it off and handed it over.

'Thank you, madame. And, does madame carry a telephone?'

'A phone? No, I – don't need one. Always have my console with me.'

'Very good, madame. This way, if you please.' He stepped quickly to the door opposite the one by which Jeri had entered and opened it. Music emerged, old music. What did they call it – jazz?

Heart in her mouth, Jeri walked through the door. Inside was brightly lit, a huge space for a place inside the walls, big enough for a warehouse. The walls were gleaming white, punctuated by framed pictures. Half of the floor was covered in circular tables at which people sat. The other half was a dance floor where a few others moved languidly to the easygoing rhythm of the unhurried music. But their clothes were bizarre. The men wore suits including coats with split tails at the back. A few had top hats on. The women wore a variety of strange dresses. They all had long skirts, some trailing on the floor and other just allowing a glimpse of feet. Many had puffed-up shoulders. On their heads the women wore an indescribable variety of veils, tiaras and hats. One even had fruit on her hat.

And nobody in the room was wearing a portaconsole.

A man in a jacket the same color as the doorman's, but with less breadth of lapel and no cap, approached and gave a small bow. 'Lieutenant Stone?'

'Yuh, uh, that's me.'

'This way, please, madame.' He led her to a table, from which a man in a crisply pressed cream jacket arose as she approached. His gleaming black hair was slicked back on his head with some glossy oil. A circle of glass with a metal rim sat in front of one eye. His face was perfectly cleanshaven.

'Patniak?'

He bowed. 'Chase Patniak, Gentleman Investigator, at your service, madame lieutenant.' He waved to a chair. 'Please, madame, do sit down. Are you duty-bound to abstain, or can you join me in the demon drink?'

'Uh, well, I'm not on duty, no.'

'May I order you something appropriate?'

'Sure... whatever you...'

'Two High Rollers please, Henry.'

'Very good, monsieur.' The waiter withdrew and they sat. Patniak waved a hand toward the room around them. 'What do you think, lieutenant?'

'I... it's... not what I expected. And you look... different.'

Patniak grinned. 'The Chase Patniak you saw at work was merely my cover. I blend in as one of the conformist herd. Here you see me without my mask.'

She looked around. 'This place is... I didn't know anything like this even existed.'

He nodded. 'We don't advertise. We're a select band and we spread only by word of mouth. By invitation.'