Page 63 of Because I Killed Him
My Pinkies gather around me in a protective circle. Their presence should soothe me, but I know the robots will only intervene if my life is in immediate danger.
“Three of you, go with Charlotte!” I shout.
The Pinkies break off and follow Charlotte’s echoing cries upstairs, while the rest of the robots remain with me, monitoring the Coppers.
Although the gambling lounge is busier than before, no one looks up from their cards or seems to notice my struggle. Most are absorbed in betting on a cobra fighting a mongoose. The Coppers drag me past one of the corner bars into a cellar lined with wooden shelves of wine and spirits, where a lone Pinkie stands guard.
The robot scans the Coppers’ Blood Rings, then asks, “Where to?”
“The Trophy Club,” the Purple Copper replies.
The name sets my mind working. Trophy Club? The words mean nothing, yet I know they should. I frantically search my memory of the Speakeasy’s blueprints. Did Charlotte and I miss something?
The Pinkie rotates a bottle of glistening cognac on the shelf. There’s a soft click, and a hidden door in the shelf swings open, revealing a corridor bathed in lamplight. At the end, I spot a row of elevators—elevators that aren’t supposed to exist in the Speakeasy. That’s when I realize.
The Trophy Club isn’t on the blueprints.
When I finally stop struggling, it’s not because the Coppers are too strong or because it’s clear I’ve entered high-citizen territory. I stop because of my civil credit status. The chart on my Bond, a stark, real-time tally of my behavior, displays two new alerts.
7:32 P.M.: FAILURE TO OBEY A LAWFUL ORDER. MINUS 40 CIVIL CREDITS.
7:34 P.M.: BATTERY ON A LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICER. MINUS 100 CIVIL CREDITS.
Fuck.That leaves me with only 354 credits. I absolutely can’t afford another deduction. If I drop below 200, I risk expulsion.
My fists unclench, and anger gives way to frustration as I cling to the thought that restraint is a matter of survival rather than submission. Deep down, I wonder if there’s any difference.
The Coppers push me into a narrow elevator designed to travel through the Speakeasy’s hidden arteries. Only three people fit inside. The Purple Copper rides with me and one of my Pinkies, while the Green Copper and my remaining two Pinkies pile into the neighboring elevator.
The control panel displays unfamiliar titles: The Lucky Dice Loft, The Smoky Cabaret, The Midnight Terrace, and The Bronze Taproom. None of these places appears on the Speakeasy’s blueprints, meaning there’s a secret world inside the lodge, built for Blues alone.
The Purple Copper presses the Trophy Club button, and the elevator lifts off. He draws a hoarse breath, as if my throat punch caused damage, and then raises the visor of his helmet to reveal his face. He’s young, probably in his late twenties, with a neat straw-blonde comb-over and an aquiline nose that Vivian wouldn’t hesitate to compliment.
I press my back against the elevator wall, trying to pull myself together. The questions come faster than I can answer them. Where is the Purple Copper taking me? Who called this meeting? And why now?
My gown clings to my legs, soaked in a film of sweat. I shrug off my coat and hand it to my Pinkie. The Purple Copper brushes a finger across his bruised throat, his eyes fixed on the elevator buttons, but I know he’s aware of every move I make.
I text Charlotte on my Bond:“I’m all right. Are you?”
“The Coppers brought me to a private room on the second floor, then left,”she replies.“Your Pinkies are with me, but… Lore, I don’t feel so good.”
My thoughts flash to the bright green liquid Charlotte drank earlier. Could it have been more than just alcohol? If so, she’s going to get sick, or worse.
“Call Jack to pick you up,”I text.
“No, Lore. I’d rather choke on my own vomit than ask him for help again. I texted Dickie, but he didn’t answer.”
I know why he’s not answering. Dickie made it clear he’s done sticking his neck out for us. But this favor involves no risk. Charlotte just needs help getting back to the Green Dormitory.
I pull up Dickie’s contact and text, “Charlotte’s sick on the second floor. Please help her.”
Three dots appear, a sign Dickie is typing, but then they vanish.
He leaves me on read.
Shit.
I fire a text to Charlotte:“Dickie’s a no-go. Call the medics now.”
