Chapter 12
Sebastian Clark was not pleased. Oswald Cobblepot, son of a drunkard, was resolute and cunning, a chess player not only determined to win, but unwavering in his plan to make his opponent bleed. He had stolen Oswald's queen, and Sebastian knew the man was indeed unhinged and out for vengeance. Sebastian had discovered he was the one behind the pestilence his hotels were experiencing.
So he decided to do what any person in his situation would do—he had invited the dangerous maggot to dinner at The Orchard, a once impressive hotel until Cobblepot had gotten his clammy palms on it and reduced it to a nest for rodents. The rats and mice had taken over the hotel and the owls could do nothing about it. Did not seem rational.
Well, the old man laughed, we will dispose of this critter tonight. Bargain with him. The young guttersnipe does not realize that we no longer hold his mate captive. That particular catch in the cog also did not please him. Sebastian had never intended to let their guest go free. Not like this. She had been trained, dammit! For a specific purpose, and now he did not know where she was!
John Wycliffe. A charismatic upstart that had usurped his power within The Court—whipping up the disgruntled parliament.
This little nobody, a pawn, who believes he can surpass the king? I will rip his neck out.
Sebastian had not gone into hiding all these years to come back and have his throne stolen out from under him. Once he found the mask, they would bend their knees to their true master. They all would have to bow down to him and accept him as their leader—the rightful heir. If not, he would turn on them and destroy them all. Eagerly.
He strolled through the halls of the hotel, down to the lobby, and through the handful of restaurants and gift shops they had onsite. Everything was ruined. Even the spa and gym. Nothing had been left untouched by the vengeful flipper of that flightless bird. Sebastian had a special new aversion to penguins and the tints of black and white. The non-colors. Too many hues in one pigment, cancelling them all out, and none at all in the other.
He made sure he had the wine sent up and ordered fresh meat to be prepared in his suite by the most sought-after chef. Vegetables and fruit had been bought from the local market, clean and edible—not covered with mouse droppings or cockroach drool. He requested the most popular dessert and the best wait staff money could buy. Dinner would be formal and it would be in his apartment. Health officials had wanted him to leave, even demanded it. He silenced their "request" quickly. It always helped to either have money or information. If one could not pay for one wanted, then bring out the big guns of questionable sexual practices or off-shore money, hidden from the IRS.
He gave the doorman final instructions and then returned to his apartment.
When will the dregs realize we know everything? Then he thought of Cassandra and knocked a vase from its table. The delicate golden raku shattered. Varmint. Where the hell is she?
Even several of his board had the nerve to try to convince him to vacate. But he was having none of it. If all that was left was decay and the promise of impending death, he would make sure Cobblepot's corpse kept them all company—the rats, maggots, and cockroaches. They were the little bird's invention after all, were they not? Only then would Sebastian leave.
Renovate. Rebuild. Resurrect. But until then . . .
Striding through his dining room, which as big as or even bigger than the most lavish guest room on the property, he surveyed the workers as they scurried busily around the mahogany table and chairs.
Set the table with gold and silver utensils, he had told his hired staff, and the best china. And silk napkins. He would show that measly little nobody. Let him experience some real extravagance, some class—done properly, with old money. Sebastian curled his lip. "Not with nouveau money," he spat. Tasteless rats—the newly rich. All of them.
And Sebastian could not wait to exterminate this one in particular.
Oswald showed up precisely at 6 p.m. dressed in a dark tuxedo and bow tie. He had his umbrella with him for balance and, on the off chance he needed it, to incapacitate his hosts. Not that they were going anywhere anyway.
The hotel loomed before him, a monster of a building, gilded and silvery, twinkling with little flecks that reflected in the street lights. Like a thousand eyes winking at me, Oswald snickered. Still so pretty on the outside, no one would have suspected its ugly bowels had it not been for my cleverness. You are welcome, Gotham. The outside continued to sparkle. The foul beast is teasing me, Oswald thought.
"Come out, come out, nasty golden owl," he sang under his breath as he adjusted his gloves. You took something from me. Not your best move. If only you had left us alone, you would not have to die tonight. I control the board, and you shall topple to me. "Let the game begin," he breathed, then he stopped himself and laughed because he had already started it.
A doorman greeted him and Oswald was welcomed by the overpowering odor of bleach and rot tinged with something sweet before he even stepped inside. The man led the way through the damp lobby, holding a perfumed handkerchief over his face and offering another one to Oswald. He declined. He did not trust that it was only perfume that the cloth had been doused with, choosing instead to hold his breath for as long as he could before breathing into his elbow, which he kept tucked around his nose. He caught a glimpse of himself in the gilt mirrors that lined the walls to the elevator and grinned. Count Dracula, I presume. How fitting. He could feel his fangs growing with each step he took.
Surrounding him were hundreds of mousetraps. They were not empty. Cockroaches littered the floor, unmoving and sprinkled with white powder. Decay and the vanilla that tried to cover it had merged to form a sickly bouquet.
Oswald's stomach flip-flopped. It was obvious they had not heard of Febreze. Whatever brand of air freshener they had used had not done the trick. Thankfully, the odor was not as strong in the elevator, but Oswald knew on the other side of those glitzy doors, the rotted things remained—their aroma having seeped into the carpet and furnishings, and now clinging to the curtains and wallpaper. He had noticed trash bags nestled in the corners. Full of rodent carcasses and dead bugs, he presumed.
He had done well and was mighty proud of himself. It was all he could do to not giggle like a madman wearing the latest in Arkham fashion.
"Glad to see you could make it." Sebastian feigned being cordial as he held out his hand for Oswald to shake. The elevator doors had opened right into Sebastian's suite and Oswald was pleased to see that other owls were present, unmasked, of course.
"Delighted to be invited," returned Oswald with honest enthusiasm. His adrenaline always went turbo before a kill and he could feel his body hyped on it right now—tickling like the fizz of soda pop through his veins.
"I do not suppose I need to tell you why you are here?"
"Because I accepted your invitation," remarked Oswald and everyone laughed politely. A woman walked into the room and announced that dinner was served. Another woman gestured for Oswald's coat and hanged it with the others in the foyer. He held on to his umbrella.
They settled around the table and Oswald took count at how many were present—eight, including himself. Sebastian sat at the head of the table and insisted that Oswald take the seat across from him. The table's leaves had obviously been removed to accommodate for such a small gathering. So, ruminated Oswald, each player at his place, as it should be. Each one acknowledged Oswald's presence and introduced themselves by first name only. The wait staff started bringing the dishes to the table.
"Smells scrumptious!" Oswald declared. "How did you manage to keep the meat fresh?" he asked with a smirk. Sebastian wanted to slap that cheesy grin off his face, but opened his napkin instead and laid it in his lap.
"Ah, so we come right to the point. Oh, yes, I know it was you behind the . . . this . . ." he waved his hand in the air.
"Plague?" Oswald happily offered.
Sebastian regarded his dinner guest for a moment and then asked, "I suppose you think that makes you God."
Oswald raised his brows and was about to retort when the first course was placed in front of him. "I know you enjoy seafood, Mr. Cobblepot, so here we have our first course appetizer crostini shrimp and mushrooms over a light tomato sauce, followed by an amuse bouche of asparagus mousse."
"Enchanting, but I propose that we address the reason as to why I really am here." He pushed his plate to one side and shrugged. "How else shall we all be able to fully and readily enjoy this lovingly and thoughtfully prepared meal?" The rest of those present crunched down on their crostini and wiped the spoons clean of the mousse while Sebastian and Oswald stared each other down as if it twas high noon and one of them there varmints weren't making it out alive.
Sebastian placed his hands together, as if in prayer, and rested his lips on the top fingers and nodded. He thought he would flatter the man. "I see that I am up against someone who does not beat around the bush. I like that in a person. Makes someone my equal."
Oswald scoffed. Wait, thought Sebastian, does this man think that it is actually I who is below HIM?
"Your flattery bores me," Oswald said and added a yawn just to piss him off. He wanted to needle him, but not too much. When Sebastian's face turned red, he knew he had hit a nerve.
"It may behoove you to remember, Mr. Cobblepot, that I have something you want."
Oswald allowed his face to go stone, but softened his eyes. At last, he inwardly sighed, you have come out to play.
"This is true, and I do not like anyone playing with my things."
Sebastian chuckled. "The next course is a lobster bisque with a touch of brandy." The server took away Oswald's untouched plate and laid the soup bowl down in front of him. "Why, you have not touched your meal, Mr. Cobblepot."
"You will forgive my rudeness, Mr. Clark. As I am sure you can well understand when something you cherish has been taken from you, it affects one's appetite. I am afraid my nerves are a little on edge. I would just like to negotiate the return of . . ."
"Tut, tut, tut . . . finish your soup." The slurps of the others crescendoed around him.
"I am remiss in that my stomach will not allow it." He did not like the gleam in Sebastian's eyes.
"I am a reasonable man, Mr. Cobblepot, and have seen and done things you could not imagine."
Where is this going? thought Oswald. "Oh, I have no doubt."
"Do you know what you have cost me in these past three days? I don't mean just monetarily." He banged his fist hard upon the table and all the china and utensils bounced. The others stopped eating for just a beat before returning to their soups, satisfied that the situation would not escalate. Sebastian was stern as he chastised Oswald, as if he were a student that had got caught cheating.
"There is a name to uphold and it has been tarnished. There is power to keep and it has been jeopardized. Do you know how many people I have ruined? Have killed? Have had killed? And you dare to fuck with me?" The men and women around the table tittered and laughed lowly. They sounded like lunatics. "We are everywhere and we are the ones to build and destroy . . . to decide who lives and who dies . . ."
"I suppose you think that makes you gods."
Sebastian curled his lip. "I do not think it, my dear boy, it is the truth of the matter. We hold the power to grant you back your precious cargo . . . But now, here is the next course. I hope you like it." Sebastian was glowing and Oswald did not like it. He was staring the man down when a server removed his soup dish and with the help of another waiter, placed the next meal in front of him. Peking Duck. Oswald narrowed his eyes, and Sebastian raised his hands in the air in mock distress.
"Ah! Such a horrid mistake! I told them specifically—no birds!"
"Looks like you are not such a god after all."
Sebastian bared his teeth and ordered the bird be passed down the table to him. As the cooked fowl made its journey, each member of The Court took hold of some unfortunate limb or clump of meat and ripped it from its body, the crack of its skeleton as the bones broke sending shivers up and down Oswald's spine. They clutched the vegetables that rested around the bird and stuffed them into their mouths, the juices from the meat and garnishes rolling down their chins. Oswald grimaced. A gore-fest scene from George Romero's Night of the Living Dead briefly flashed across his mind.
"Don't despair, Cobblepot—here comes your special meal!" Oswald froze, halfway expecting them to serve him Cassandra or Boo, terrified in the thought that they had been discovered. A plate was placed in front of him, some sort of fish, but cut and arranged in the shape of a swan. Sebastian laughed. "Again with the bird theme. I do apologize."
"Not to worry. I do eat owl on occasion," Oswald snarled. Sebastian enjoyed the joke and laughed again.
"Not today," he said. "Today you will eat pufferfish, in all its purity, with a fresh seaweed salad on the side. You know pufferfish, don't you?"
Oswald nodded his head. "Indeed—if not prepared correctly, it can poison the person eating it. Deadlier than cyanide and without an antidote. But, of course, I trust you have a chef with the experience needed to create a dish like this."
"Yes, yes, Mr. Cobblepot, this is not a hole-in-the-wall establishment," said Sebastian. "Until a few days ago, we were even a five-star restaurant. Tonight's chef has taken special consideration in preparing this delicacy for you, our dear guest." Oswald popped up from his chair and threw his napkin upon the table.
"That is splendid news, my friends, as I am in the sharing mood today!" he exclaimed. "I do thank you! Far be it from me, however, to withhold such a captivating dish from any of you, and . . . seeing as how you lot are starving—apparently—I am going to graciously and self-sacrificially share my portion with the rest of you fine people! Birds do love fish, I am told! I mean—who doesn't—am I right?"
As Oswald said this, he carried his plate around the table, removing portions of the fish and plopping it gleefully upon their plates, before plopping gleefully back down into his chair.
"Eat up!" he encouraged, gesturing towards them and then leaning back and crossing his arms. He nearly laughed aloud when he saw the owls look to Sebastian for guidance and he shook his head no, none too subtly. The clatter of utensils upon china made Oswald snort.
An apple sorbet with an almond cookie for garnish was brought into the room and Sebastian stood. "I think before we eat our dessert, we shall have a toast." He motioned to the staff for the wine. "I think you will like this wine, Mr. Cobblepot."
"Oh?"
"Yes, it is a favorite of mine—a lovely Cabernet Sauvignon. I have it shipped from France—it is not sold in America. I do hope you will give it a try, seeing that you have not touched anything—hardly even your glass of water."
"Well, it is true," he nodded. "I do appreciate a fine red wine. The smoother, the better. But we have yet to discuss . . ."
"Shush, shush, we will get to that. A drink first . . ." Everyone rose. "To our illustrious guest, Mr. Cobblepot. May he never outlive those he loves the most."
"Hear! Hear!" shouted the people around him. Oswald smiled as they drank down the content in their glasses, all except for Sebastian who had been distracted by the vibration of his cellphone, and Oswald, who had vowed before entering the building not to eat or drink anything offered him.
Sebastian's eyes flickered to Oswald and he nodded, before hanging up and placing the phone in his breast pocket. Oswald sighed.
"Sebastian, enough of this . . ." he began.
His host raised his glass, a wicked grin on his face. "And here is to the widow who found her coin . . ." Sebastian said and took a sip of his wine. The group rapped on the table with their forks and spoons, some of them had already partaken of the sorbet, but still finished off the crimson red liquid in their glasses.
Oswald knew right away that The Court had located Cassandra. Sebastian had found his treasure. "May I offer up a toast?"
"Of course," said Sebastian, who felt very much like celebrating, as he bit into an almond cookie. It was not the dessert he had specifically asked for, but it was refreshing and tasty nonetheless. Oswald held the glass out in front of him, toward Sebastian.
"First, I want to thank our host, my host, for this wonderful meal . . ."
Sebastian took another bite of cookie. ". . . that you did not partake of . . ." he muttered, crumbs flying from his mouth. Oswald continued.
"I also want to thank the wait staff. I know it must have been difficult arriving at the last minute and getting everything set up. So here is to them." For the third time, the party raised their glasses and swallowed it all down, except for Sebastian, who frowned, and Oswald who glowed like a woman who just had won a beauty pageant.
Sebastian popped the rest of the cookie in his mouth and washed it down with the wine. "They were indeed wonderful, but they had since yesterday, so . . ."
"Nooooooo . . . your wait staff had since yesterday. My wait staff had only had a few hours. But you would never know it, would you? So professional." Sebastian looked like someone had torn his favorite baseball mitten apart. Oswald tilted his head and heaved, "Oh, all right . . . the chef, however, was yours," Oswald conceded. "I mean, you specifically requested him, so how could my minions knock him out and tie him up and leave him in a van with the others? No, I could not take that chance—he had a pufferfish to prepare, while my employees allowed the wine to breathe." One of the owls fell to her chair and placed her head on the table. "Not feeling well? Gee. I hope it was not anything you ate." He looked to Sebastian. "Or drank." Another owl fell to the floor.
"Huh," said Oswald, rocking up on his good leg, using his umbrella for balance. "Appears they are dropping like . . . flies . . . around here." He held up a finger as if he had just remembered something. "Oh, I do beg forgiveness for changing the dessert at the last minute, but I needed the almond to cover the aftertaste of the poison, and the apple, well, that was just for my own amusement. You know—apple seeds—cyanide . . . kind of my own little joke between myself and, well," he paused "Myself!"
The other owls slumped to either their chairs or the floor. Sebastian tried to call out for the staff, but he doubled over in pain instead. "Do not bother calling for them. I dismissed them all. Gave them firm instructions to leave after dessert was served. You see, I guess you have figured it out, they were working for me. I even informed the chef to leave right after he was finished. Of course, he thinks the orders came from you. How do you feel? You do not look well." Sebastian slid into a chair and pointed at him.
"Oh, stop that," Oswald said, fluffing away his silent threat with a wave of his hand. "And drop the masquerade, I know you do not have Cassandra anymore. That is why this was so much fun for me, especially since no one will even know I was here. What was left of your security surveillance was destroyed by itty, bitty mice. And by mice, I mean my loyal subjects. It is going to look like you murdered your cohorts and took your own life in the process, business destroyed, no hope for recovery." Sebastian cleared his throat and tried to say something. "What is that? I cannot hear you."
Sebastian gurgled, then choked out, "We watch. I still see you."
Oswald's face contorted. "Be grateful you still have your vision, even if the last thing you see is me walking out that door and, oh by the way, what was that thing you asked earlier? Oh, yes, I believe it was—and I quote—you dare to fuck with me?" He got in Sebastian's face. "Well, Seb, you do not mind if I call you that, do you? Here is my answer, Seb. YES. Yes, I do. I do dare to fuck with you. In fact, you are the very first person I want to fuck with, to be blunt . . . and not in the fun way. At least not for you. For me?" Oswald shrugged his shoulders and titled his head. "For me, it was fun. But do not expect me to respect you in the morning." He stood. "Hell, I do not respect you now." Oswald limped away from him, but turned with one final thought before he left him to die. "For the record, I have had a lot better fucks than you." Then he turned and walked out of the room whistling "The Itsy Bitsy Spider".
Sebastian felt around for the phone in his pocket and managed to get it before he fell to the floor. He touched a speed-dial number to the last number that had called him and managed to whisper three words into the phone before he passed out.
"Cobblepot. Cyanide. Help."