#and the characters from BioShock 2 tend to be commentary on Objectivism rather than purely Objectivist

[vvatchword]

Hobnobbers

Sinclair’s apartment was in Athena’s Glory, only a 30-minute railcar ride from Naomi’s apartment, and “lavish” was an understatement. He had an entire floor to himself. More marble. More gilding. Servants in uniforms, flowers in their buttonholes. A foyer filled with paintings of plantation mansions, figures crushed in their shadows.

When Sinclair had said “small party,” John had imagined a group of a dozen people or fewer. Instead, there were nearer to a hundred, mostly men of middle-age or greater, and a record player crooning beside an open bar. The room was hazy with smoke. Everyone was in black, reflected against windows and polish like a throng of monoliths.

Breathless, Naomi clenched John’s arm, eyes flicking this way, then that, like a cat who had just spied a roomful of mice. He gave her a twisted grin.

“Jesus, kid, what are you so worried about?” he asked. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be out of my element here.”

“Nothing!” she said. “Only this is wonderful! I haven’t met so many of these people.”

“Go wild,” he said, loosing his grip.

But she clung with extra fervor.

“They want to see you, remember?” she whispered.

“Are you kidding?” John asked. “You’re adorable. Every hot-blooded man here would be ecstatic to meet you.”

Her face brightened, and when she turned to him, it was as though her soul embraced him. For a moment, they were both in a little world only they knew. Their noses nearly touched; he could feel her breath on his throat.

“No,” she said softly, her cheek brushing against his. “I’ll go with you.”

“All right.” He hugged her arm against him. “Point the way, then.”

“Sinclair, first,” she said softly. “Oh, he’s one of the biggest players in the whole city. I can’t believe…”

Sinclair was impossible to miss. He had misplaced both jacket and hat. He reclined at the bar on one of the stools, leaning on one elbow, legs flung out, fresh cigar in hand. Another man perched on the stool beside him with a drink, fedora pulled down over his ears. When Sinclair saw them coming, he slapped his neighbor on the arm.

“Well, if it ain’t Johnny Topside and friend,” he said. “Ms. Spunky-second-cousin-from-Boston.”

“Yes, thank you!” Naomi giggled, and took his hand. “Naomi Lucas. I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope you enjoyed the play.”

“Very much!” Sinclair slapped the bar. “Hey, Vince, get me a mint julep. You folks like bourbon?”

“Of course,” Naomi said. She flushed so prettily. A sweat-dampened curl glistened above her ear.

And she’s coming back with me, John thought, giving her a squeeze.

“And you, Mr. Topside?” Sinclair shook his hand emphatically.

“I never turn down a drink,” John said with a grin.

Sinclair threw his head back and laughed. “That’s what I like to hear! Vince! Two bourbons, neat. Thanks.”

“Who’s your friend?” John asked.

“Me?” The man on the stool squeaked around. The baby-face was unmistakable. “You don’t remember? I’m hurt.”

John’s smile wavered.

“Fontaine,” he said.

“That’s right,” he said. Smoke curled out of his nostrils. “You been making a splash ‘round here lately. I’m ‘preciative. You got that monkey off my back for a while. Hell, that thing you did last night? Fuckin’ glorious. I’ll be laughing for weeks.”

“What?” John asked. “What’d I do?” He started running through his memories. Fuck, they were all so fuzzy. Why’d he have to drink so much?

“He don’t know what he did!” Fontaine said, slapping Sinclair on the shoulder. The two of them started cackling.

“Come on,” John said. “I’m new here. I know jack-shit.”

“Ryan actually went to a party last night,” Fontaine said. “Ava Tate’s. Actress. You know that bird? Yeah? No?”

John scowled, eyes wandering the floor as though her identity might be listed there.

“Of course we know Ava Tate,” said Naomi, perhaps too eagerly.  “She’s a legend!”

“Yeah, well, Ryan almost never goes nowhere, but this time he did, and what do you know? Almost no one came,” Fontaine said. “Because everyone went to see you.”

John groaned. “Oh, shit!”

He’d said it too loudly. Some of the partygoers turned to look.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t wanna be you,” Fontaine said. “All I gotta say is, get some padding between you and that bastard. Something to remember around this joint: money solves everything. So I hope you got more fortunes tucked away in those pockets, Johnny-boy.”

Naomi squeezed his arm, hard.

“What can he do to me?” John asked softly.

“Fuck, what can’t he do?” Fontaine asked. “He disappears my boys all the time.”

“Where do they go?” John asked.

Fontaine glanced at Sinclair. Sinclair shook his head, shaking with silent laughter, and took another drag on his cigar.

“To the dirt,” said Fontaine. “Whaddaya think?”

“I thought there was no death penalty here,” John said.

“There is if no one’s looking,” Fontaine said. “So if I were you, I’d make sure everyone’s looking all the fucking time. Except for now, maybe.”

“Now?” John asked. “What’s different about now?”

“It’s just not a good look, us talking here.”

“You mean there are spies?” John asked.

“Not conventionally,” Sinclair said lazily. “I don’t invite the press. But you know how word gets out. And folks do like to talk.”

“Shit,” John said, and grabbed his bourbon.

“Don’t take Frank too seriously,” said Sinclair, snipping a cigar and extending it to John. “He likes seeing folks squirm. And as long as you aren’t buying and selling contraband, well. I can’t imagine how Andy is going to justify a disappearance. Even his security team has standards.” He turned to Naomi. “Sorry about this conversation, miss. Not my usual fare, I must admit. Would you be amenable to a cigarette?”

“Yes, please,” she said. She was no longer bouncing on her feet. A veil had passed over her eyes.

“So you’re the dame who gave up a million dollars,” said Fontaine.

“I am.” She smiled up at him as she lit her cigarette. The lighter lit twin stars in her pupils.

“Is he worth it?” Fontaine asked. “I woulda turned him in, myself.”

“Of course he’s worth it,” said Naomi. “I wouldn’t have done it if he weren’t.” She gave his arm a little squeeze.

John stared glumly over his empty glass, turning it in a little circle.

“Worth it how?” Fontaine asked. “You got yourself a redneck in a tux. I could buy six hundred of those for a year each with that kinda money.”

“You’re talking to me now, aren’t you?” she asked. “I am in a party hosted by the Augustus Sinclair today, am I not?”

“Oh boy,” Fontaine said. “It’s one of these.”

“Frank, Frank. You’re going to give Johnny an ay-poh-plectic fit,” said Sinclair. “Would you folks believe he’s actually in a good mood?” He motioned at the bartender, jerked his thumb at John’s glass.

“I do,” Naomi said. “I’ve met many like him.” Her voice was freezing.

“And yet,” Fontaine said, hitting the last t like a cue on a pool ball, “you’re not my date, thank Christ.” He took a sip of his drink. “Gotta say, you two have been lookin’ cozy.” He made the adjective feel filthy.

“And you opened yet another charity,” said Naomi softly.

“Yeah, I can’t help myself.” He laughed. “You one of those die-hard believers, then? How does it feel, making Ryan squirm?”

“I’m not Ryan,” she said. “Why should I care?”

She could have delivered the question any number of ways. It came out sounding earnest. When she fixed her eyes on Fontaine, it was with a flat expression, like a blank piece of paper.

“It puts a target on your back,” Fontaine said, sticking his cigar in the corner of his mouth. “You care about that? Because you’re a nobody, lady, and being a nobody is dangerous business.”

Although Naomi laughed, she did not blink.

“You’re right,” she said. “Although not in the way you think. Ryan thinks nothing of women, and he will never begin. Nor, I believe, will you. No, of all of us, I am the safest. And that is if Ryan turns against every honest value he has ever cultivated, which I am certain he will not.”

“All of us?” Sinclair said, pressing his hand to his breast. “Damn, darling, what’ve I done?”

“You’re sitting here with Frank Fontaine, darling.” She smiled down at him.

Sinclair slapped his forehead. “Guilty as charged!” he said. “They’ll throw me in the trench at this rate.”

John had turned his shoulder to the trio and focused on his bourbon, calculating exits. But Sinclair grabbed at his elbow.

“Johnny, did you have any idea this woman is using you to get into parties?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, fellas,” John said, knocking back the rest of his drink. “I don’t think this conversation is for me.”

“No, no, Johnny, don’t head out.” Sinclair rocked up to his feet in one fluid motion, cigar champed down. “This is Frank’s real crime: chasing away my guests.”

“Now I’m confused,” said Fontaine. He drew a circle with his cigar. “I thought we was having a good time.”

“You always have a good time,” said Sinclair. “Don’t get too rowdy while I’m gone, you hear?” He slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, Johnny. You, me, let’s go work the room, eh?”

Naomi took a sip of bourbon, her eyes hooded. Her overcoat gapped a little, and all that John could see underneath was skin. Fontaine stared without reserve.

“Naomi,” John said pointedly, throwing out a hand, “you said you wanted to meet some folks?”

“Of course,” she said, rising languidly. “I think I just saw my old ad manager. I’d love to say hello.”

“Good! Good!” Sinclair threw his arms over their shoulders. “This way.”

John staggered a little as he dropped off the stool.

“Good luck there, buddy,” said Fontaine. “Enjoy the time you got left.”

“Don’t worry about Frank,” Sinclair said as he pushed them into the crowd. “He loves drawing blood.”

“And you?” Naomi asked.

“Oh, I do imbibe,” Sinclair said. “But I’d hate for that to be your only impression of me. Frank brings out the worst in everyone. Alas! I am no exception. Now, what say we meet some more cheerful sorts?”

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