Spirits in the Park (16 page)

Alexa's stomach began to ache as Simon led her through the huge atrium, past the bustling spirits checking in and out of the grand hotel.

“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this!” she muttered.

“Don't worry,” Simon soothed her. “It will only get worse. We still have to walk Peacock Alley, remember.”

Alexa's stomach heaved; she hated being on display, so nothing topped Peacock Alley for pure torture. Originally the alley between the two hotels, Peacock Alley eventually became the precursor to the red carpet, where all the socialites would come to see and be seen. During her mortal days, Mrs. Astor would invite only the “Four Hundred,” which were the four hundred people she deemed worth knowing in New York, to her famous parties at the hotel. Now, in Mannahatta, the children of the gods walked the same alley, soaking in the attention as they pretended to matter. But Alexa knew differently. What the Rattle Watch was doing, that mattered. Eating cheese on a stick and making fun of some poor girl in an ugly dress behind her back did not matter. And it never would.

“I don't think so,” she said emphatically. “We're going in the back way.”

Simon looked surprisingly disappointed, but he still led Alexa past the long passage with its throng of reporters toward a small door that led directly into the ballroom. He went to push it open when an imperious voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Halt, intruders!” the voice cried.

Simon turned, and sighed heavily. Alexa followed, her blood turning cold as she laid eyes on the grande dame of the evening, the wicked witch herself, the Goddess of Society, Mrs. Astor.

Mrs. Astor was a short, doughy woman in regal dress; her face dripped disapproval.

“Hello Caroline,” Simon greeted her, nodding with exaggerated insolence. Mrs. Astor's eyes burned; even Alexa knew you never called Mrs. Astor by her first name.

“You are not welcome here, Simon,” Mrs. Astor said, staring him down. “Your outburst at the ball of 1915 forced me to permanently ban you, and that ban remains in force. And you, Ms. van der Donck, were never formally introduced to society, so you are not welcome until you are.”

“I was around for two hundred years before you were even born,” Alexa said, eyes flashing. “Who are you to tell me—”

“I am Mrs. Astor,” Mrs. Astor interrupted. “If I say you do not belong, then you do not belong.”

Alexa felt a wave of insignificance wash over her. This woman made her feel small and unfit to be seen in polite society. This was Mrs. Astor's divine gift: to bestow or deny belonging. Obviously Simon felt it, too, because he began to stammer.

“You do not tell me what to do!” Simon sputtered. “I am a member of the Rattle Watch!”

“Oh, do be quiet about your little club,” Mrs. Astor said, dismissing his words with a raised eyebrow. “No one wants to hear about your childish games. You are and always have been a disgrace to the Astor name.”

“I am not a disgrace,” Simon insisted. “I could be as powerful as any of you if I wanted.”

Alexa blinked, unsure what Simon meant by that. She noticed that the boy was furiously clutching something in his fist, something gold.

“I'm sorry, did you somehow become a god when I wasn't looking?” Mrs. Astor asked, witheringly. Simon didn't respond. “Good evening to you both.”

She turned and clapped her hands. Immediately, a dapper man in a smart suit appeared by her side.

“Oscar!” she said to him. “Please escort these interlopers off the premises. We are about to introduce this year's new members of society and I won't have them ruining it.”

She spun and marched off into the crowd. Oscar shrugged apologetically.

“I'm sorry to do this, young madam and sir,” he said. “But as the God of Maître D's I always have to make my host happy. Please come with me.”

He led them down a side hall, back toward the lobby. Simon kept playing with something in his hand while talking to himself. She'd never seen him so worked up.

“I'll show her,” he muttered. “She doesn't make the rules . . .”

“Simon, are you all right?” she asked. He didn't answer. Alexa turned to Oscar, ready to beg. “Oscar, please, we just need five minutes to talk to some people who will be at the ball tonight. Jane van Cortlandt or Robert de Vries. We don't want to ruin anything. This is so important, you wouldn't believe it!”

“I regret I cannot help you,” Oscar replied smoothly. “Mrs. Astor's instructions were quite explicit. But perhaps someone at the card game in Suite 217 might be of more assistance. Please, have a wonderful evening.” His eyes twinkled as he turned to head back swiftly to the ball.

“Card game?” Alexa said, the light dawning. “That's so typical. Come on, Simon!”

She pulled at his arm, causing him to cry out as he dropped what he'd been holding in his hand. He bent down quickly to pick it up, but not before Alexa got a good look at a familiar gold locket. She swiftly yanked him into the corner to whisper furiously in his ear.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“It's just a locket,” Simon replied, though he wouldn't look her in the eye.

“Whose locket?”

“I don't know—” Simon began. Alexa cut him off by grabbing his ear. He cried out. “Hey! You promised you'd stop doing that!”

“That's one of the murdered gods' lockets, isn't it?” she said quietly. “You palmed it before Peter could destroy it. Don't bother to deny it, I can read you like a book—the kind of book with lots of pictures and one syllable words.”

“I'm not going to wear it,” Simon protested. “I just wanted to hold on to it.”

“Whose is it?”

“I don't know. Ow!” Simon yelped as Alexa bent his ear almost totally around. “Fine, the God of the Good China. I'm just holding it.”

“We're not meant to be gods, Simon,” Alexa said sternly. “Give me that locket right now!”

“Why?” Simon whined, twisting under her grasp. “You're not the boss of me. Anyway, I'm not going to wear it. What do I care about good china?”

Alexa stared at him, weighing the time it would take to beat Simon into giving her the locket and the urgency of their mission. Fortunately for Simon, urgency won out. She pulled him closer, hissing in his face. “You're to give that locket to Peter the minute we get back, and he'll destroy it. Got me?”

“I will next time I see him,” Simon promised.

“If you don't, I will twist this ear right off.” Alexa gave it a yank for good measure.

“I will! See, I'm putting it in my pocket. I won't even touch it anymore.”

“You better,” Alexa warned him, releasing his ear. “Come on, we have to crash a card game.”

Moments later, they walked down one of the hallways upstairs, past rows of numbered doors. Finally, they stopped at 217, and after a deep breath, Alexa knocked.

“What's the password?” a slurred voice called out from behind the door.

“Wine?” Alexa guessed. She wasn't surprised a bit when the door immediately opened to reveal Robert de Vries, drunk as a skunk.

“Alexa! My word! I never expected this surprise! Look, everyone! Our baby has finally come to her senses and come to join the family!” He turned and fell to the ground face-first, giggling helplessly. Sighing sadly at the state of her old friend, Alexa stepped into the room, Simon immediately behind. The elegant hotel room was filled with familiar faces: Teddy Twiller, Randolph Morris, the infamous Martha Jay, and the other person besides Robert she'd been hoping to see, Jane van Cortlandt. They all sat around a table, cards in hand, cigars in mouth, and legions of empty bottles scattered everywhere around. It was quite literally the saddest thing Alexa had ever seen. That could have been me, she thought. If not for my father. The thought of her father made her choke up, and she pushed it away to deal with the situation before her.

“Can I play a hand!” Simon exclaimed excitedly. Alexa put a restraining hand on his arm.

“We're not here to play. We just have a question or two.”

“Good ol' Alexa, always all business,” Martha said, smirking. “I see that bug up your butt is still thriving.”

Simon snorted, attracting a sharp look from Alexa. He smiled weakly.

“It was funny,” he muttered, shrugging. Alexa berated him with her eyes, then returned her attention to the poker table.

“I'm not here to fight,” she said. “I need your help.”

“Then pull up a chair,” Randolph offered, smiling hugely as he gestured with his big cigar. “Play a hand, have a drink or ten, enjoy immortality a little!”

Alexa ignored him, focusing on Jane, who stared meekly back at her.

“Jane, please,” Alexa said. “We were friends once. I need your help. I just want to know if you recognize this man.” She pulled out the picture of Rory's father, but Teddy snatched it away.

“Hey, look, it's ol' Harry Meester! Long time no see! He used to be a barrel of laughs, ol' Harry.”

“So you remember him?” Alexa asked, a thrill running through her.

“Sure,” Randolph chimed in, puffing smoke in Alexa's direction. She tried desperately not to cough. “He knew how to have a good time. He started hanging out with us . . . wow . . . it's a blur.”

“After Nicky left us!” Robert called from the floor, where he still hadn't moved.

“He'd get us booze, smokes, all of it,” Teddy said. “He was a really cool guy. He used to hang around that one girl all the time. What was her name? The one who disappeared.”

“She didn't disappear, she went to go live in the Bronx on a farm,” Robert said.

“I heard she ran off to Queens and lived in a shack in the wilderness,” Randolph Morris announced.

“There's no wilderness in Queens, stupid,” Robert said from the floor.

“It sure seems like the wilderness to me,” Randolph maintained.

“What was her name?” Alexa asked.

“I remember, it was—” Jane quietly started to say, but Martha suddenly cut her off.

“I think you should either grab a drink and play a hand or ride your high horse right on outta here,” she declared, her eyes decidedly unfriendly.

“Please, just give me her name,” Alexa repeated, staring at Jane.

“You know what?” Martha said, pushing Alexa and Simon toward the door. “I think it's time you left. Bye bye!”

“Please, Jane,” Alexa asked Jane intently. “We were close once. You can tell me.” Jane glanced away.

“Come on, kid,” Simon cried. “Just give us a name.”

“Out!” Martha said as she and Randolph pushed them from the room. “You're not wanted here. Good luck on your wild-goose chase.”

“Jane!” Alexa called through the crack in the closing door. “We used to be best friends, remember? We were going to make a difference. Well, this will make a difference. This is important. Please!”

She could see Jane through the rapidly closing slit. Jane looked torn under Alexa's impassioned stare. The rest of them were already going back to their game. Alexa had just about given up when Jane opened her mouth to utter one word before the door closed.

“Abby,” she said. Alexa's jaw dropped as the door slammed shut. She'd never expected that name, not in a million years.

“Abby?” Simon asked, not in on Alexa's shock and awe. “Who was she?”

“It all makes sense now,” Alexa marveled. “No wonder the Mayor went overboard.”

“What are you talking about?” Simon asked peevishly. “Maybe I'll twist your ear this time until you tell me what's going on.”

“Abby,” Alexa explained. “Short for Abigail.”

“So?”

“Abigail Hamilton, daughter of the Mayor himself. Simon, I think this just got a lot more interesting . . .”

BETHESDA FOUNTAIN

I
n Washington Heights, right below the George Washington Bridge, stood the Park and Sons Pharmacy, the original of the four Park and Sons Pharmacies that dotted Manhattan. Situated right on the corner, this neighborhood institution had an interesting claim to fame: the present owner and CEO, Ken Park, swore (with his neighbors to back him up) that no one had ever stolen anything from the flagship store, ever, during its entire sixty-year existence. Through three generations of Parks, no one had grabbed, heisted, or run off with a single piece of merchandise. Not even a morning paper. Zilch.

This morning, Ken's teenage son Freddie stood manning the counter, engrossed in a comic book. The power was still out, so Freddie cooled himself with a small fan his dad had brought back from his last trip to Korea. He was so beaten down by the heat that he didn't even bother to look up as the bell above the door tinkled, heralding the entrance of one Corey Deem, twelve-year-old would-be master thief, on a mission to finally be the one to pillage the candy aisle and get away with it. Corey whistled as he browsed, nonchalant, all the while glancing out the door at his friends, who were whispering and watching with breathless anticipation. Corey sneaked peeks at Freddie over and over again, noting how he never looked up, not once. At last, Corey decided to go for it, quickly snatching a pack of Chuckles, stuffing it in his pocket, and making for the door.

If Rory had been in Corey's shoes, he would have known better, for he would have noticed the old man standing next to Freddie at the counter, staring right at him. The old man had been born Park Mok-Wol, though his customers just called him Mack Park. Mok-Wol had built his pharmacy business up from nothing, and in the process he became a legend. No one could steal from him; he had eyes in the back of his head, people said. Even on the day he died, the tale went, he held off the stroke just long enough to stop a kid from walking off with a paper. Stories about his prowess grew after his death, until finally he ascended to the title of God of Put That Back. And while he attended to all his worshippers, no one could blame him if he spent a little more time in the stores that bore his name.