Greg Rucka - Critical Space

Lady Ainsley-Hunter was another matter entirely.

The party started at eight, but we didn't arrive until almost eleven, because Her Ladyship said she wanted to wait until the press was all present. It made me wonder why she'd canceled the Sarah Lawrence expedition, but I didn't ask her, and the only explanation I could come up with was that she had, indeed, been pissed, and consequently not thinking very clearly. But whatever that anger was, it had passed early in the day; there'd been no sign of it since I'd caught her on the phone that morning.

Dale dropped us off in front of the club where a gaggle of poseurs and poseurs-in-fraining stood waiting behind the velvet ropes. Because he was driving the Benz, which wasn't a limo, nobody paid us much attention, at least not when Moore got out of the car, taking the lead. When Lady Ainsley-Hunter emerged a buzz started, and it continued as I followed her and Moore to the front door. The bouncer – who was probably more of a male model than a security guard – didn't even bother to check his clipboard before ushering us inside, and I barely had time to tell him that there were four more in our party before we got swamped by the wave of music that sprayed from the open doors.

Moore led us through the crush to a bar area, decorated with seventies furniture and an enormous fireplace. People were writhing against one another on the dance floor, and the noise was tremendous, and I spotted security – both plainclothes and uniformed – scattered around the main room.

Lady Ainsley-Hunter got herself a flute of champagne from a passing fray and turned on a radiant smile, scanning the crowd. I glanced at Moore and he just shrugged; if he had a better idea why we were there than I, he'd been doing a fine job hiding it. Certainly, he didn't seem displeased at the chance to meet the members of Rorschach Test.

It took less than a minute for the first reporter to find us, a young black man with dreadlocks who wrote for Spin. Her Ladyship greeted him like an old friend, made introductions, and then the two of them bent their heads together and shared a shouted conversation at the bar. While they were talking, I saw Natalie enter with Chester, Corry, and Dale following.

"Where the hell are you?" she radioed.

I tabbed the button resting in my palm. "At the bar."

She and Chester were stopped twice before they reached us, each time by men wearing the latest styles, and though I couldn't hear a thing, it was clear they were being invited to dance. Nobody paid Corry and Dale any mind, except to sneer at their fashion sense as they went past.

Her Ladyship and the reporter from Spin talked for several minutes longer, and when they were finished she gave him a kiss on the cheek. He shot a couple grins back her way as he returned to his table closer to the fireplace.

"Lovely man." She was shouting in my ear, and it was still difficult to hear her. "James Rich, he did a piece on Together Now last year. The week after it came out, our membership in the U.S. bumped almost eight percent."

"Seems nice enough."

"What?"

"I said, he seems nice enough."

She nodded, waved at someone across the room who was standing under a Damien Hirsch painting of multicolored spots. The person waved back, began making his way over to us. With the crowd the way it was, I guessed he'd reach us sometime after we'd all gone home and gone to bed.

With Natalie, Corry, Dale, and Moore all present, I felt safe in putting my full attention on Lady Ainsley-Hunter for a moment, so I shouted, "I'm going to ask this again – why are we here?"

She sipped her champagne for the first time, gave the glass a look of mild surprise, then set it on the bar and leaned over to where Moore was standing.

"Robert, would you like to meet the band?"

He grinned, shook his head. "That's a bit unprofessional, my lady."

"Not at all." She smiled at him. "I need to speak with Orin anyway, Robert."

"If Your Ladyship insists."

"She does," she said, and with that, we went to meet the band.

Rorschach Test was really only three members, the two McLaughlin brothers – Orin and Judd – and a drummer who went by the name Digger. If it was a first name, a last name, or a nickname, I never found out. Orin and Judd clearly had come from the same tree, though Orin, the elder, was also taller and heavier than his brother. All hailed from Sheffield, England. All three were dressed unpretentiously, and I wondered if they'd had any trouble getting into the club that night.

We found them in one of the VIP rooms at the back of the warehouse, seated on more of that seventies furniture, lit by lamps designed by Jorge Pardo. The room was awash in a haze of smoke, both tobacco and pot. A sideboard was laden with caviar, smoked salmon, fruit, bottles of champagne, and, frighteningly, Coors. Groupies or roadies or other support staff clung to the corners of the room.

Moore and I accompanied Her Ladyship inside, leaving the others out on the dance floor, and no sooner had we entered than Orin sprang from where he'd been lounging on a sofa and gave Lady Ainsley-Hunter a hug. It seemed genuinely warm, and she returned it enthusiastically. Judd grinned. Digger ignored us and took a hit off the bong in his lap.

"Lady Antonia," Orin said. "Didn't know you'd be here."

"I could hardly miss the opportunity. This is Robert Moore, he handles my security. He's a fan."

Orin was perhaps a year or two older than Lady Ainsley-Hunter, and when he grinned, he looked even younger than she did. "Truth?"

"Truth," Moore said.

Orin stuck out a hand, shook Robert's warmly. "Always glad to meet a fan. You pick up the new album yet? We've got copies lying around here, hold on." He turned and shouted at a middle-aged woman who was pouring drinks at the sideboard. "Libby, we got a copy of the new one lying about? Could you bring it here?"

"It's not necessary," Moore said.

"It's no bother, mate. Here it is. Enjoy it, it's the best one yet. We really hit our stride on this one."

Behind him, on the sofa, Digger nodded, then let out the smoke he'd been holding. He didn't cough.

"My PA spoke with your manager this morning," Lady Ainsley-Hunter said. "He told her that Rorschach Test won't be on our album."

"Yeah, we're really sorry about that, Lady Antonia," Orin said. "Just that if you want to have the album out for Christmas, we've got to lay down the track in the next month or so, and we're on tour. We don't have time. You know how it is."

Lady Ainsley-Hunter nodded, sympathetic. "Yes, you're extremely busy. Headed straight for the top of the charts with this new one, I understand."

"That's the hope, eh?"

"You gave me your word, Orin. You said Rorschach Test would provide the lead track. You promised me an original song that would really – and I'm using your words now – make a difference."

Orin McLaughlin made a pained face, glanced back at where his brother was seated. Judd was watching the conversation. Digger looked like he was about to nod off.

"I did do that, yeah," Orin said. "Things change. We can't."

"You will."

It was how she said it; it frosted the air between them, and Orin snapped his head up as if she'd slapped him.

"This November, Together Now will release an album to raise funds for child rescue in Southeast Asia and Africa," Lady Ainsley-Hunter said. "Our fund-raising target is fifty million dollars, and I have every intention of not only reaching that mark, but surpassing it. To that end I have assembled, very carefully, bands that appeal to a certain buying demographic, a youth market. Rorschach Test is about to become enormously popular to those buyers. Despite my bodyguard's enjoyment of your music, you and I both know he's not the demographic I want.