Title: High Society

Chapter 18: Gold, Silver, or Bronze

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Charlie and Morrison joined the queue, and Charlie glanced around them curiously. The crowd didn't look like the types who spent much time in lines – perfect hair, toned physiques, manicures, expensive jewelry, and the certain indefinable air of privilege that surrounded them spoke to their wealth, to their station in life. It began to dawn on Charlie how coveted an invitation must be, for these people to suffer the wait in line and a ride in a semi to get to the party. They moved up, and a man waved a wand over them, similar to the type used in airports. It beeped, and he spoke to them briskly. "Cell phone and wallet, please."

Charlie watched J.T. hand over his phone and wallet, and added his own wallet to the pile, blushing and grinning a little nervously at his new friend. "I sort of shattered my phone yesterday. Bad conversation with my brother…I need to go to the dealer and get a replacement Monday." His blush deepened. "For the phone, I mean. Not sure there's a dealership that replaces brothers." J.T., thrilled beyond measure to hear that things were not well between the brothers, laughed loudly, and latched a proprietary hand onto Charlie's shoulder. "I'll have to remember not to get you angry, Professor!"

Charlie shrugged and turned his head, trying to keep an eye on his wallet. The man who had relieved him of it was just turning, giving Morrison's cell and their wallets to two others at a table behind him. The cell phone was put into a plastic bag that bore a label – Charlie assumed it was the passenger's name. The wallets and the women's handbags were inspected thoroughly – the drivers' licenses and credit cards examined for authenticity. Charlie tried to keep his in his line of sight; it was a little disconcerting to have some stranger go through one's wallet, but the man with the wand asked him to step aside and be scanned again, and so he didn't get to see the man finish the wallet inspection. This time the wand was applied without generating any beeps, and when Charlie turned back around, his wallet was handed to him. He was tempted to open it up and look inside to make sure nothing had been taken, but the other passengers weren't, so he just put his back in his pocket, with a mental note to check it later. Finally, they stepped up to the entrance to the truck, and handed over their passes to another man, who performed yet another scan – Charlie assumed that there must have been a microchip embedded in the plastic that was being picked up by the scanner. All of it was done quickly, quietly, and although the back lot was deserted, Charlie could see men posted at the driveway, near the corner of the Safeway®, making sure it stayed that way.

During the process, his mind was turning frantically; he realized that there was no way for him to know where they were going – the semi was enclosed; he wouldn't be able to see out. Even when they got to Fantasy, if he recognized where they were, he wouldn't be able to call in the location – they had just taken all the cell phones that weren't shattered on the floor of someone's office. As he pondered the situation, he heard Morrison speak, quietly, "Don't worry, it's really not any worse than being on an airplane."

He realized that he must look distressed, and that Morrison assumed it was because he was apprehensive of the enclosed space. He smiled, shakily. "Thanks – I'm sure I'll be fine."

Morrison patted him on the arm and turned back around, and Charlie contemplated him for a moment. It seemed inconceivable that Morrison would know about the back rooms at Fantasy; he seemed so kind, so genuinely concerned with Charlie's well-being, that Charlie couldn't imagine that he went to the party for anything other than the front-room entertainment. He knew that Don and Agents Cooke and Leach thought otherwise, but he refused to believe that his benefactor was involved in anything other than the legal entertainment. In fact, he was a bit skeptical that there was really anything illegal involved. Cooke and Leach's investigation was based on nothing but rumors, and it could very well be that the rumors had been spread on purpose, to make Fantasy seem more risqué, more fascinating. It wouldn't surprise him at if the talk of drugs, gambling and prostitution had all been hype.

They ascended a short flight of steps into the rear of the truck, passed through a short stack of cardboard boxes, and then through the doorway of a false wall, painted black on the outside. It wouldn't survive even a cursory inspection in the daytime – the black wall would be visible behind the boxes, but at night, it would probably pass a quick inspection. If the rear doors were opened, it would look like boxes were stacked all the way to the rear of the vehicle, and the black wall would simply appear to be the dimness inside the semi. Charlie stepped between the boxes and through the open doorway, and blinked.

Any resemblance to a semi was erased once inside; it more resembled the first class section of an airplane, although all of the seats were facing the rear of the vehicle. In the far back, behind the seats, Charlie could see two attendants and a small bar, stocked with top shelf liquor. He could smell food, too; something delectable was also on board, and the smell mingled with the scents of expensive perfumes and colognes, and an underlying citrus tone that served to mask any undesirable smells of the road. They were shown to their seats, and Morrison slipped in first, leaving Charlie the aisle.

"Perhaps the claustrophobia will be less bothersome if you sit on the outside," he murmured.

The seats were comfortable and roomy, and an attendant was immediately at their side, taking drink orders. Charlie hesitated; he had to keep a clear head, but he was already feeling a little closed-in, and they hadn't even shut the rear doors yet. He looked up at the woman, who was wearing what looked like a bad-girl version of a flight attendant's skirt and jacket – it was short, and clung to her curves like paint. "I recommend their 'dirty martini,'" said Morrison, and Charlie glanced at him, a bit disconcerted.

Morrison laughed. "It has a splash of olive juice," he explained, and as Charlie flushed at his obvious ignorance, J.T. looked up at the 'stewardess.' "Two dirty martinis," he said, and she sashayed off, only to return seconds later with their drinks.

It turned out to be a long ride, and after the first few turns, Charlie gave up trying to figure out which direction they were heading. Once the back door was closed, a screen descended and a custom-made video was played – scenes of breathtaking outdoor scenes were backed by music, making the guests feel as though they had a view to the outside. It also served the purpose of increasing the disorientation – often the camera angle in the video would change in the opposite direction that the semi was turning. Hors d'oeuvres were served – tapas that night – the food had a Latin flair, and the drinks kept coming. There wasn't much to his martini, Charlie realized, other than 80 proof alcohol and a splash of olive juice, and he sipped sparingly, trying to keep down his alcohol intake. As he did so, he glanced over the other passengers, and noticed their dinner companion from the week before, Mirah, sitting two rows up and to the right. He took another sip of his martini, wondering idly if she was wearing underwear tonight.

Morrison talked about scenes in the video as they rode; it was obvious that he was well traveled. By the time they reached their destination, over an hour and a half later, Charlie was relaxed, comfortable; actually enjoying himself.

They unloaded in what appeared to be the loading dock of a large warehouse. The semi had backed inside the dock doors, so Charlie had no view of the outside unless he moved to the side and looked along the truck to the dock door opening. He was able to do that unobtrusively by pretending to step aside to allow other guests to come off the truck, but it was dark and all he could see was the corner of another warehouse, illuminated by a security light. He could see no other lights beyond it, and the bit of ground he could see next to it looked like desert. They were at some kind of warehouse or industrial complex, out in the middle of nowhere. Charlie's felt a twinge of disappointment; he really had no idea where he was. Unless someone dropped a clue during the course of the evening, he wouldn't have a location to give Cooke and Leach. He wondered uncomfortably what would happen if he couldn't produce the information that they wanted. Would they back down on their promise to have the investigation on Don dropped?

Those thoughts were rolling through his head as they stepped through the doors into a makeshift lobby. Temporary walls had been put up to obscure the view beyond, and two gorgeous women in evening gowns were checking a passenger list, and providing plastic cards strung on neck chains for the party-goers. Charlie noticed that there were three different card colors – bronze, silver, and gold. As he got to the head of the line, one of the women asked his name and checked it against a manifest, and he was handed a bronze card. He looped the chain around his neck, glancing surreptitiously backward to see what color J.T. received. The woman was handing him a gold card, but J.T. held up a hand. "No," he said, "there must be some mistake. I should have bronze."

Charlie glanced back at the woman, so he missed J.T.'s meaningful jerk of the head. The woman looked at the manifest again, appearing just a bit flustered; then recovered. "Of course, Mr. Morrison," she said, handing him a bronze card. "My apologies."

"None needed, my dear," he said, and Charlie turned back as a man behind J.T. him gave him a soft slap on the arm. "You shouldn't have told her," he said, loudly, grinning.

Morrison just smiled amiably. "I'm sure you're right. Although it's not the worth the risk of not being invited back."

The cardholders moved forward and down a short dark hallway, and as they approached the end, two double doors swung open in front of them. The effect was intended to dazzle, and it did. The group moved into a large, cavernous room, which looked like a large club. It was dark, except for a large floor level stage at the far end, and some low lighting at two bars that flanked the back wall. The walls of the room and portions of the stage were festooned with glimmering swaths of sheer material, which caught the pastel colors of the lights that played off the stage, and made the walls themselves appear to be moving, undulating. Comfortable chairs were scattered gathered around low tables, and Morrison led the way to a grouping near the stage. As Charlie sank into a chair, he could see other doorways leading off the main room. Some appeared open, and bore titles like the Deco Lounge, and Futurista. Another one, entitled Dreamscape, was manned with security, and Charlie saw a couple bearing gold passes make a beeline for the entry. A woman ran their cards through a scanner, and the security stepped back to allow them to pass. Dreamscape was obviously the entry point to the back rooms.

There were quite a few people there already, Charlie noticed, and he figured that there must be at least five semi-loads of guests. Some of the gold card members were ascending stairs at the back of the room, and as Charlie looked up, he could see that some second level warehouse offices had been converted into a loge of sorts, which looked out onto the stage.

Morrison signaled for a waitress, and leaned forward, his knee lightly touching Charlie's. "The entertainment in Deco and Futurista is first-rate," he said, "but nothing compares to the show here in the main room. It's called 'Dreamland,' and it's like nothing you've ever seen before." He drank in the young man's face as Charlie's gaze wandered, the dark eyes slightly widened; taking in the spectacle. With an effort, J.T. forced himself to pull back in his chair. Damn Markus for withholding Charlie's back room pass. It really would have been very little risk to take him back, with the aid of a bit of Rohypnol. More than likely, the young man wouldn't even remember what happened to him. The thought was so arousing, for a fleeting moment Morrison wished that he hadn't relinquished his gold pass – he could have slipped away to satisfy his urges, then returned to the main room. It was better, however, he decided with a sigh, that Charlie think they were on the same level, until he gauged his reaction to Fantasy.

A waitress brought their drinks. She was clad, like all of the help, in a black, formfitting jacket and pants – the black broken only by a pair of white French cuffs. Conservative, except for the low cut of the blazer, and the proximity of her cleavage made Charlie glance modestly away, as the sudden lone, haunting notes of a solo flute floated through the air. There was a slight murmur and rustling as the crowd found positions – some of them in chairs, but many of them standing in the open space near the bars, behind the chairs. A hush fell; then a sylph-like figure floated onto the stage. It was a girl – it was difficult to tell from the make-up but she looked very young. Charlie would have guessed around thirteen if it had been another setting, but he reasoned she had to be older. He couldn't imagine that children were allowed to perform in nightclubs.

She was pale, her skin nearly translucent, her hair a silver blonde, and she was strikingly beautiful. Her face was calm, composed; she wore an almost dreamy expression, and she was dressed in a form-fitting unitard that matched her skin color. In fact, she would have looked nude, except for the fact that the unitard was covered with dustings of sequins and rhinestones, which shimmered and twinkled in the lights.

The flute tones became a bit louder, and the girl began to dance, with graceful floating movements interspersed by controlled poses that looked nearly impossible, both in terms of strength and flexibility. Others began to appear on the stage – not all of them on foot. Some floated in on wires, or began to swoop in on ropes and swings suspended from the ceiling. All of them were dressed in sequin-studded unitards to match their skin tones, and all of them were thin, toned; perfect bodies covered in shimmering light. They were also all young – many of them were young adults, but none looked older than their twenties, and there were some younger than the girl who had originally appeared. Charlie's brow knit slightly, as he watched them – certainly it couldn't be legal for such young people to perform there – could it? Perhaps they had special dispensation. Or possibly, this was one of the rumored infractions.

The group performed for over two hours, performing feats that combined dance and amazing acrobatics to different types of music. It was mesmerizing, and Charlie realized that part way into the first hour he was on his fourth drink of the evening. He made a mental note to slow down, and took a sip as he watched, trying to put a finger on something that disturbed him. It was their eyes, he finally decided; the eyes of the performers. All of them wore a dreamy expression, a vacant, far-away look that he thought at first was rehearsed, but as he looked closer, he could see that their pupils looked odd, dilated. Were they drugged? He shook his head slightly; it just didn't jive with Morrison's explanation that the acrobats were professional gymnasts, from Europe.

A voice murmured in his ear. "Aren't you enjoying the show?" He turned to find himself almost nose to nose with J.T. and he sat back slightly.

"Of course," he replied automatically. He realized that he must have been frowning slightly, and he tried to cover. "Some of the things they're doing – well they just don't seem to be physically possible. I was trying to figure out how they're doing it."

J.T.'s eyes roved over his face, just a second too long, and Charlie shifted uncomfortably. J.T. sat back immediately, and nodded. "I thought the same thing myself, when I first saw it," he said. He seemed satisfied by Charlie's response, but Charlie took care to applaud and look appreciative for the remainder of the show.

It didn't, in fact, end – not entirely. The main show was two hours long, packed with performers and choreography, but even when it drew to a close and the crowd began to drift around, a few performers still cavorted about the stage, swinging on the trapeze and doing stunts, to lend atmosphere to the room. Dance music started and lights began to flash; and the room took on a more conventional club atmosphere. Morrison invited Charlie to tour the other rooms, and for two more hours they drifted about, socializing with some of J.T.'s acquaintances – and there were many. The other rooms were also striking – the Deco Lounge was decorated, true to its name, with an art deco motif, and had a sultry, smoky, film noir atmosphere. It featured gorgeous vocalists crooning jazz, and made one feel they'd instantly stepped back into 1940. Futurista was a slick, ultramodern bar with a light show comprised of lasers and fiber optics, but the main show was provided by two robotic bartenders, that whirled bottles and mixed drinks with a flurry of mechanical arms. Charlie lost himself for a while there; he was fascinated, and at length he turned around, only to find that J.T. had gone back to the main room.

Now that he was unobserved, he took a closer look around Futurista at the card carriers. It was easy to determine what the bronze card holders could do – they were allowed access to the main showroom, Futurista and the Deco Lounge, with drinks and food provided as part of the entertainment. The gold cardholders could access the loge upstairs and more importantly, Dreamscape, the back part of the building. The question was – what did the silver cards do? He saw woman wearing one, and as she headed out to the main room, he decided to follow her. As he passed through the entrance, he saw that J.T. was talking to a tall man on the far side of the cavernous room; the stranger was all in black; black suit, black dress shirt, and black tie, and he stood in a corner, his face obscured by shadow. Charlie glanced at them; then looked again at the woman, covering his scrutiny by taking a sip of his drink. She was weaving a little, and appeared to be inebriated. He kept his eye on her while pretending to watch the acrobats, and after a few moments, she disappeared down a side hallway through a doorway to the left of the stage.

Charlie hesitated. There was a sign that said 'Restrooms;' at the entrance – she could simply be going to the ladies' room. Then another couple, both with silver passes, and yet another person with a gold pass went through the entrance. It wouldn't hurt to follow them, Charlie decided, and see what was down that hallway – and now was the perfect opportunity, while J.T. was occupied. It was time he did what he came here to do – find out what Fantasy really was. With one last glance behind him, he slipped through the doorway, and into the hall.

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End, Chapter 18