Underworld Callers

"Hey, che diavolo! Turn off the overheads, Rory." Angelo said, rubbing his already bloodshot eyes. Rory noted that the oldest Boticello brother's Sicilian accent was getting thicker, and that meant bad times awaited. Angelo continued, "We gotta do this thing in candlelight or is no gonna work."

Standing tall behind Villa Palermo’s oak bar counter, big Rory Sears sighed and flipped the switch by the daily specials chalkboard. The dining room went dark, save for some light spilling in from Huntington’s Main Street, which glowed soft and pink through the restaurant’s dirty front window.

Angelo struck a match and began to light the red glass candles on the two-tops, which were positioned at the five points of the pentagram he’d drawn on the ground. His younger brother, Maximillian Boticello, sat on a booth tabletop in the corner of the dining room, his short legs dangling off the edge as he combed his hair

"Hey, you know those ain't real candles, Angie," Max said. "They's the refillable kind, I think. Whatcha call 'em?"

"Sterno," Rory answered in his low, flat voice.

Max nodded. "Yeah, that."

"Don’t matter," Angelo said, dipping the match into a red globe. "Bright overhead lights are no good, a capisce?" He blew out the match and lit another.

"I just don't wanna piss off whatever we got coming, alright?" Max said, running his comb through his hair once more before returning the cheap piece of plastic to his inside coat pocket. The ancient book, its leather binding cracked and dusty, laid on the tabletop beside him.

Rory poured himself a shot of warm grappa. Being associated with the Boticello family used to hold clout in Long Island circles, but the past year had been one bad beat after another. He had been at their side through it all, especially during the kicker of it all - Carlo "Knuckles" Boticello's grand larceny trial. Rory had done his best to help keep the head of the family out of the slammer, had even attempted to bribe two jurors who later went mysteriously missing (though they were replaced by assholes of equal morality). However, nothing seemed to stick, meaning that everything did. All done, Knuckles ended up with a 25-year sentence at Fishkill Correctional, leaving a power vacuum wide open for certain interested parties around the neighborhood.

However, Rory felt that the Angelo and Max’s new tactic was faced entirely in the wrong direction, somewhere south of desperation.

Angelo finished lighting the points around the pentagram. Rory shook his head for the hundredth time that day and slammed the grappa into his mouth. If the liquor was supposed to have a numbing effect, Rory didn’t feel it.

Angelo surveyed the space around the pentagram, craning his neck around the room to make sure no detail was botched. According to the old book, the lights had to allow shadows and the room had to be mostly quiet, which is why they were starting after midnight. Most importantly, the ancient text specified that the circle outlining the star of the pentagram must be unbroken. However, the piece of chalk he'd used to draw it on the floor was just a nub, left over from when Villa Palermo’s was still open for business and had daily specials to advertise.

"Hey, Maxie," Angelo said, squinting to see if he’d missed a section. "Get down. Wanna you make sure this outside line is no smudged and it’s got to be no gaps."

Max hopped down from the corner booth, grabbing the ancient book. When he got to the circle on the ground, he gingerly stepped over the outside line. The balletic maneuver caused Rory to roll his eyes. Max carefully laid the book down on the makeshift, three-sided altar at the center of the pentagram and inspected Angelo’s chalk lines.

"Okay, now Rory," Angelo said. "Need you to bring over some of that salt. And quit being such a stronzo, tu mi capisci?"

Rory understood the message, if not the exact translation. He grabbed the large cylindrical container with the umbrella girl logo and suppressed the urge to mock Max’s awkward grace as he walked inside the pentagram. Rory handed Angelo the salt.

"Lines look good, Angie," Max said. "Just like the book said. You want I should find the words now?"

"Yeah, do that." Angelo sprinkled some salt into his hands and tossed it on the floor inside and out the chalky circle of the pentagram.

The binding of the ancient book creaked as Max opened it to the section he and Angelo had bookmarked the previous week. They had grown up with the old tome, a winking gift by way of a great aunt from the old country, but never had it been more than a curious joke until the past year. Now it was the Boticello's secret weapon, maybe the only weapon left in their arsenal. Max carefully ran his finger down a partially-rotted page until he found the passage in question.

"Yeah, this is it. You ready?"

Angelo nodded. Max turned to Rory who signaled with a slight nod. They each took their place standing around the altar.

"Do we gotta hold hands or something?" Rory asked.

"Nah, nah. We only gotta stay inside the circle," Angelo said. He lifted his shoulders a couple of times and rolled his head in a circular motion, like a boxer who had just stepped into the ring. Closing his eyes and nodding feverishly, he said, "Okay. Hit it, Maxie."

Max removed a toothpick from the corner of his mouth and cleared his throat. The evening street noise had subsided for the night and every creak on the floor beneath them was audible in the echo of the dining room. Phonetically, Max began to read aloud the strange, foreign words from the ancient text.

"Flavus ama ferox...tracto aevum gusto..."

Max continued as Angelo impatiently bounced on the front balls of his feet, though his eyes were still closed tight. Rory saw that the dark circles had returned to their familiar home on his face. He couldn't say for sure that Angelo had started using again just yet, but he made a note to sweep the older Boticello's coat pockets later for dope. Angelo’s head tilted forward a bit as Max carried on, syllable by syllable.

"...suavis terni orior..."

Rory's thoughts wandered to the first time he had met the brothers, years earlier at a beach party in Montauk. They seemed like royalty to him then, holding court in a lush cabana, surrounded by beautiful women - not girls from the neighborhood, but real women. To Rory, the Boticellos lent the entire evening a feeling of importance, just by simply being present. Their confidence then, along with their solid leadership later, carried Rory through nearly a decade of loyal service.

However, those young princes were gone, replaced by two desperate primates that stood before Rory now. Of all the lines they had asked him to cross over the years, he never imagined the unsteady, chalky lines that outlined the pentagram at his feet. He looked at the rickety altar between himself and the brothers and imagined the discarded wooden crates from the alley behind the restaurant that they must have scavenged to build it. How could a royal family stoop so low so fast?

"...precor osculum linea tracto..."

Rory saw Angelo open one bloodshot eye to peer into the restaurant's shadowy dining room. His eyebrows furrowed in disappointment, as though he had expected the ceiling to be ripped off, or perhaps the floor to open up beneath them. Getting more agitated, Angelo opened both eyes and looked to his brother as Max finished reading the final words of the incantation.

"...ab perca gravis."

Max tensed as he stumbled to the end of the spell, like a marathon runner reaching an uncertain finish line. He tensed his shoulders, as though bracing for a cataclysmic event. But nothing changed and nothing arrived. After a moment, he relaxed and looked around. He popped the toothpick back into the corner of his mouth.

"Ah, well." he said, shrugging. "We had to give it a shot, ya know?"

"Yeah," Rory said. "Yeah, sure."

Angelo spun as he surveyed the room around them. He got on his hands and knees to inspect the pentagram's lines beneath them.

"No, no, no!" His voice cracked into a higher octave. "This ain't gonna do! We gotta get this right, guys." He stood up and Rory could see Angelo's eyes begging for a second attempt, perhaps a third and a fourth after that. But Max just yawned.

"I dunno, Angie," he said. "Maybe we've been looking at this thing from the wrong side of it, ya know? Maybe we need to reach out to the old country or something." Max took out his comb and ran it through his hair. He shrugged again and stepped away from the altar. "I could use a drink," he said and began walking toward the bar.

"Hey, Maxie," Rory said. "Hold on a second."

"Huh?" Max said, surprised to hear Rory call him Maxie. He was about to correct the misplaced familiarity as his foot crossed over the edge of the pentagram's outer circle. But before any of them could register the moment, Max was ripped from Villa Palermo’s, New York, and the dimension he had called home for thirty six years.

"Holy hell!" Rory screamed as he lost his footing and knocked over the altar. He quickly steadied himself and, in his mind, the boundaries of the pentagram became as concrete as prison walls.

"Maxie?" Angelo said. He walked to the edge of the circle where Max had last been Max. "Where'd you go, paisano?"

"Careful," Rory warned, his stomach fighting a violent wave of nausea "It got him. It got Max."

"Whatta you mean 'it'?" Angelo's eyes narrowed.

"Something took Max. We gotta stay in the circle now."

Angelo digested this information slowly. He walked along the borders of their symbolic cage. Finally, the corners of his mouth bent upwards into a nasty grin. He looked up to the restaurant's ceiling.

"You think you got Maxie, eh pally?" he asked the thing in the restaurant. "Well, listen up! You can give him back now, or give him back later, eh? But we got some things to discuss, you and me."

The world outside the circle did not respond.

"I said, capisce?" Angelo spun around to face all sides of the threat, letting it know that he wasn’t used to backing down. Rory, as frightened as he was, was almost inspired by Angelo’s defiant attitude. He’d seen a thousand tiny retreats over the past year, including the closure of the very building in which they were standing. It was almost nice to see the Boticello fire burning again. Almost.

Despite the token return of his general, Rory lowered himself onto the ground, fearful that Angelo might try to shove him outside the circle, Sumo-style, to prove some kind of point to their demon visitor. As Angelo shouted, the room outside the pentagram began to look less like itself and more like a suggestion of an Italian restaurant, and Rory shifted as close to the center of the circle as he could.

"First, we gotta get some rules going. I ain't gonna live inside this, what you call it, this thing on the floor, so first thing is that you no gonna grab me if I walk outside it."

Rory saw that Villa Palermo’s had completely faded away, and that they were surrounded by pitch black emptiness now. The cylinder of salt rolled back and forth on the ground, as if they were adrift on a dark ocean. As if to underline the sensation, Rory saw that the little umbrella girl on the logo had disposed of her umbrella and was now aiming a jagged harpoon at a severed foot. She smiled at Rory with shark’s teeth. He looked to Angelo, who seemed to not notice any of this as he ticked off more demands.

"Now, we get down to business. The Boticellos run Huntington, we run the northside of the island. Che diavolo? We run the whole damn thing from now on. Capos grande, that be us!" Angelo was now pacing, though he seemed very aware of his path. "Them other families are gonna stop harassing me and Maxie. And they gonna pay for not keeping papa out the joint – that’s the place from where you gonna bust him out."

Rory watched as Angelo continued to threaten the thing they had summoned, his accent becoming even thicker as his voice went shrill. Rory figured that Angelo might have lost his mind, but he couldn’t be sure that he hadn't gone off the deep end himself.

If I am, he thought, at least I'm aware of it.

In this clarity, Rory stood up, grabbing the altar as he steadied his feet.

"Hey, Angie," he said. Angelo turned to face him. Rory shook his head. "This was a terrible plan."

He threw the wooden structure hard at Angelo, completed the move with a hard, clumsy kick to the chest, which caused Angelo to crash through the invisible wall of the circle.

In the inky ether around the pentagram's boarders, Rory saw Angelo land on what appeared to be solid ground. He tried to crawl back in, but his body blurred and distorted when he pressed himself against the invisible edge. He began to scream.

Behind Angelo, Max emerged from the dark. The skin on his face sagged unevenly around his eyes, which were now a putrid cream color. The old toothpick was back in his mouth, but his teeth were much sharper. Angelo turned to see his new baby brother. After that, his screams turned into short shrieking bursts.

Rory closed his eyes and covered his ears as he again lowered himself onto the safety of the pentagram. He kept his eyes closed for a very long time, even after a dull white noise had replaced Angelo’s screaming inside his skull.

He opened them much later, after he realized that he might miss an opportunity for escape if he kept them shut any longer.

When Rory did open his eyes, the restaurant was back. Everything seemed normal, albeit wrecked from weeks of disuse and the Boticellos last ditch attempt to reach out for help. The altar Rory had thrown at Angelo had knocked over one of the two-tops, but was very much still there. He even saw Max's plastic comb on the floor by the bar. He knew Angelo and Max were gone for good though, changed forever by the thing they’d called.

Rory stood up, walked to the edge of the circle, and stopped. Sunshine pressed firm against the dirt on Villa Palermo’s front window. It was daytime on Main Street, though the caked filth on the outside glass obscured all but shadows of street lamps and a pair of city-planned sidewalk trees.

That can’t be right, Rory thought. Max read those words from the book maybe five or six minutes ago, and…

"Where's the book?" Rory asked the empty restaurant.

And then something else occurred to him, there in the silence of the morning.

Rory remembered the first time he every walked inside Villa Palermo’s. It was ten in the morning and Carlo "Knuckles" Boticello was sitting in the corner booth. Angelo and Max were behind the bar arguing about the restaurant's location. Max said it was great for foot traffic, but Angelo countered that there was never any peace from dawn till dusk on Main Street, that if it wasn't the big trucks roaring by, it was all the assholes shouting at each other. And Angelo was right. Both brothers had to yell at each other to fight the street noise.

So, why is it that don't I hear one person, one car, some trace of anything on Main Street now?

"You won’t hear until after you see," a dissonant group of voices said behind Rory, easing their way into the circle.

Your Server Will Be Right With You

It's only fair that I tell you this story concludes with me spilling several glasses of red wine on a woman dressed in all white. It would be absurd for me to describe her immaculate summer dress or the bright, silken scarf she wore, all the while expecting you to forget that I was a clumsy waiter that did way too many squat presses at the gym the previous day. I mean, as soon as I were to tell you the part where I take the table's drink order - six different types of red wine - you'd see disaster coming a mile away. So, it's here that I start, but now I can take it back a little.

"Five more squats, dude!" either Brad or George yelled at me.

That's too far. The next day, I showed up to work at Cobb Lane. I had been waiting tables there all summer, saving up money to move to L.A. in October. According to the schedule that assigned sections to the waitstaff, I would be serving on the courtyard terrace that evening.

The restaurant was under new ownership in those days, which had warranted renovations. One such upgrade was a multi-level terrace off to the side of the large, shaded courtyard. It was a very pretty section, with each level serving only one table and surrounded by flowering plants. There were five levels, leading to the big circular table for six on the uppermost tier.

I'm not sure why I didn't see this assigned section as a death sentence and immediately try to switch sections with another server. My legs, specifically my quadriceps, were so sore from the gym the previous day that I could barely walk, much less endure the constant stair-mastering required to work the terrace. It's possible I thought it would be a slow night, or that maybe it would rain and I would be cut early.

Early dismissal didn't arrive, though a lot of people did. Cobb Lane's regulars loved the romantic seclusion of the terrace and I had to do my best to not fill it with loud groans as I navigated the stony stairs.

I should mention at this point that there's an expression that servers use that I haven't heard used in any job I've had since. It's called being "in the weeds" and it means that a waiter has too many places to be at once. I would think this experience applies to a lot of jobs, but I guess the restaurant biz is the only place that likens it to lawn maintenance.

Anyway, I was neck-high in the weeds for most of that night on the terrace. Since my legs felt like wet noodles, it took me four times longer than normal to ascend the stairs and ten times longer to descend them. With only five tables to serve, I should have been fine, but it was a constant struggle and my leg muscles refused to stop screaming out for me to sit down.

Side note: waiters should never be sitting down. If you see one sitting down, something is wrong and you should quietly move toward the nearest exit. While we're on the subject, if a server sits down with you at your table, they are trying to show dominance. You should roll your menu into a cylinder and strike them across the nose with it.

Back to my night of panic: my brain had stopped accepting major distress signals from my body and it was helping. I hit a groove and decided to endure the remainder of my shift. It was possible that I had gone into shock, but the sensation brought such wonderful courage that I decided to roll with it.

It was during this state of newfound confidence that she appeared, my woman in white, standing at the entrance to the courtyard in a group of three couples. I've already mentioned her immaculate summer dress and the bright, silken scarf she wore that night. It was as if she could see the future and wanted to ensure the worst possible outcome. I've never been the type to notice shoes, but I'm sure hers were made from the finest white suede that money could buy. Why wouldn't they be?

My section was full when they arrived, but the woman in white's group elected to wait for the large table at the top of the terrace. My legs began to shake again. I tried to focus on the idea that maybe these new guests would be fantastic tippers. It seemed more productive than falling to the ground and crawling to my car.

Second side note: most of a server's income comes from tips, which we all know is what waiters require in order to judge the current state of American morality. The opening scene of Reservoir Dogs contains a masterful conversation on the topic and, if you haven't already, I highly recommend that you check it out. It's funny, insightful, and to it I can only add the simple rule that, if you don't like tipping, don't go to restaurants. No, it's not because a server's work is demanding and deserves a monetary reward - lots of jobs are and do. It's because tipping is customary, like keeping your eyes above the equator at a nude beach. Also, if you're traveling to or from another country, try to figure out what type of tip is expected and don't be shy about asking the next table. It doubles as a great icebreaker, if you see somebody cute.

"Six glasses of red wine, please," the six people, now seated at the apex of the terrace, said to me in unison. Okay, not really. It was probably four kinds of red wine and a couple of cocktails, but you and I both know where this story is heading.

The rest of my section was mostly empty by this point in the evening, but it was becoming more of a struggle to run back and forth from the kitchen. If I needed something as minuscule as a ramekin of ranch dressing, I had to limp down the terrace steps, trudge across the courtyard, tip-toe through the dining room, and march all the way to the back of the restaurant. This is why people stop going to the gym.

We didn't have a bartender at Cobb Lane, so the manager poured my table's drinks and I carefully carried the tray with both hands as I made the trek back to the woman in white's group. They seemed a little perturbed they'd had to wait for the table, but I knew everything would change once they got a little wine in them.

Or on them. Whatever.

Final side note: the best thing about working in the service industry is learning how to properly apologize to others. I did this several times per shift at every restaurant I've worked for: to the guests, to the kitchen, to my fellow servers, and then to more guests. I don't know if frequent mistakes are a given for everybody that waits tables, but they sure were for me. I mixed up most orders that I didn't flat-out forget and dropped more dishware than I will ever own in my life.

And yes, one time I toppled a tray full of red wine straight onto a woman who was wearing all white. However, I didn't have to apologize to her for that mistake. How could I? I wasn't allowed to go anywhere near her for the rest of the night.

Tempered Ice

"I know it, Davy. Negotiation sucks. It's settling a divorce on the morning of the wedding. You tell them just how much - and specifically in what way - you want to ruin their life, then you kiss them on the mouth and cut the cake. It sucks. But it can be fun."

To drive home the metaphor, Laina removed the flowers from the vase in the center of the table and tossed them over her head. They landed in the walkway of the restaurant patio she was seated at with Davis, her client of many years. Satisfied, Laina downed the remainder of her scotch and soda.

Davis was, as always, embarrassed by Laina's loud voice and big gestures, but her negotiation skills made her too valuable a manager to beg discretion. Besides, Davis knew it was her boisterous personality that made her a great negotiator in the first place. He never had much of a taste for it, preferring to save his energy for his work. But Laina's thirst for blood and tears were, if perhaps unsavory, renowned throughout the industry.

A waiter approached and asked Laina if she'd like another scotch and soda.

"No, I'm just here trying to get a rash from these cushions you let the street people piss all over. Yes, I'd like another scotch and soda."

The waiter nodded, picked up Laina's glass, and looked to Davis, who politely waved him away. Davis asked Laina what kind of concessions they could expect in the next round, points on the back end, etc.

"Look, kid. I can speculate on what they're returning with, but it doesn't matter, because I'm just getting started. Plus, I'm hoping that they take their time. I'd like to see them stall until after the holidays."

Davis began to object.

"I know, I know - you don't want to be left twisting during the break. I get it. But see it from their point of view. They're with their families for the first time all year. And believe me, they all hate it. They get bored and I want them bored. Panicked that they won't have any meetings to come back to in the new year. It's a tactic that always works. 'Yes, yes,' they'll say. 'Anything to get the project going,' they'll say."

Laina grabbed a tube of lipstick from her purse and threw it full speed at the back of another patron's head. It missed and rolled into the street. No one except Davis seemed to notice the offense and Laina immediately returned to the conversation.

"However, if they want to wrap this up before bitter winter ennui sets in, so be it. I've got lots of other shit happening in December."

The waiter returned with Laina's fourth scotch and soda. She lifted the glass and studied its contents.

"You did it again, you drippy prick. How many times have I got to tell you: no new ice. I need the cubes that were soaking in the scotch from the last one."

The waiter apologized and grabbed for the glass, but Laina stabbed at his reaching hand with her fork. The waiter retracted his hand, narrowly avoiding a serious injury.

"Forget it. It's already here, so it's here already."

She drank deep as the waiter smiled nervously and backed away, kept backing away and never returned. Laina set the glass down and smiled at Davis. She winked and kicked his shin hard under the table.

It was getting late. The stranger that didn't get hit with Laina's lipstick stood up from his table and left with his friends. The patio was beginning to thin out, the night growing too cold for outside dining. Davis rubbed his throbbing leg and thought about the upcoming winter, another without a solid deal in place.

Laina didn't seem to mind the cold at all. Far from it. She cooled herself with the condensation from her scotch and soda glass, drawing it lightly across her neck.

"Yeah, Davy. Negotiation sucks. It's capsizing the boat before you board it and set sail. You threaten deployment of every weapon in your arsenal, make them think you'd rather see the whole shebang at the bottom of the ocean. But if you stick to your cannons, they'll recognize that you're the real captain. And if you're very patient, maybe they'll even let you steer the ship."

Ché Boulevard

Trevor had no interest in getting to know, spending time with, or having a meal in the vicinity of Lillian Schnell, not even after she told him secrets about Solitinuum and praised his girlfriend in some truly flattering ways.

Trevor had only agreed to Lillian's company in the first place at Elena's insistence. He'd been seeing Elena for a little over a month and liked her quite a bit, but enduring any level of scrutiny from her circle of friends felt beyond tedious. Furthermore, this Lillian woman suggested they meet at the overpriced Ché Boulevard for dinner. He would have preferred midday coffee or a quick pretzel outside his office or, best option, a permanent rain check.

When he arrived at the restaurant, Lillian was sitting at a table in the center of the dining section and facing the entrance. She was a tall and still woman a few years older than Elena, attractive in a stern high school principal kind of way. She looked up from her smartphone as Trevor approached her.

"Thanks for meeting me. I hope you're not the type of man that minds sitting with his back to the entrance."

He was that type, but he shook his head no.

"This is fine," he lied. "Good to see you again, Lillian," he lied again.

They had briefly met after a concert for a rock band that Elena's company represented. Trevor had been busy the night of the show, but picked up Elena afterward to spend the night at his place. Lillian had been her date in his absence, though she hardly seemed to fit into the band's demographic. Trevor would be the first to admit that he didn't either, though he might have made an effort to blend in.

"Do we have a waiter?" he asked.

"I ordered two Manhattans. I'll drink both if you'd prefer something else."

"No need. It's the best thing on the menu."

She smiled and glanced down at her smartphone again. The pre-ordering his drink thing annoyed Trevor, but bad phone manners would cause him to become outwardly irate. He began to say as much, but Lillian cut him off.

"I don't mean to be rude," she said. "It looks like the military have a Solitinuum sect cornered in San Diego. In the Gaslamp District, if you can believe that."

"I would have thought they'd be more at home in the zoo," Trevor said, though Lillian didn't acknowledge the attempted joke.

"Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?" she asked.

Trevor gave her a brief rundown covering the basics: his education and job, favorite animal, a desire to travel more often. He was relieved that Lillian didn't stop him at the mention of his marriage and divorce to his ex-wife, Corina, thinking that would be the likely trap. However, he did realize during his discourse that it might be impolite if he didn't return the volley of interest, though he had none for Lillian Schnell.

And then she did it again. Trevor was in the middle of a story about a fire at a Japanese fish market he'd been in last fall and Lillian's eyes drifted down to her phone.

"Listen, Lillian," he said. "I don't want to be here."

She looked up to him and he continued.

"I only agreed to meet you because Elena was close to tears about how important you and her other friends are to her. But, you know, I already have friends and I'm not really looking to make more. No offense."

Lillian looked at Trevor with a sad seriousness as the server arrived with their cocktails.

"Sorry for the wait," he said, placing the drinks in front of them. "Are you ready to order?"

"Give us a minute," Lillian said.

The waiter nodded and left. Lillian lifted her glass.

"To old friends and to not making new ones," she said.

Trevor rolled his eyes and half-heartedly lifted his glass. They drank, the bitter sweetness a mild relief to Trevor. He looked around and was doubly relieved to see that he didn't know anybody sitting near them.

"Not bad," Lillian said, referring to the drink.

"Best thing on the menu," he replied stoically.

"Elena wanted to be here tonight," Lillian said. "I told her it would be a short evening, and it will be. I have no interest in dining here."

"That's a good move," Trevor said. "The food here sucks and they charge you out the ass for the privilege."

The sentence came out both louder and crasser than Trevor had intended, though he felt Ché Boulevard deserved every insult it got.

"Nevertheless," Lillian continued, "I needed this time with you. Elena speaks highly of you, but you don't seem like a team player."

"Mm, not looking to join a team."

He noticed that his right foot was tapping. He hadn't noticed music playing when he sat down, but it was suddenly very prominent. Lillian was still talking, but Trevor had to concentrate to place the band. Was it the same band whose concert he had missed that night? Didn't seem like the right atmosphere for it, but he would look it up later if he could remember any of the lyrics.

"Stay with me, Trevor," Lillian said.

"Huh?" Trevor realized that his vision had blurred a bit. "What's this song called?"

"We want the world to see us for what we truly are, Trevor. Solitinuum isn't what you and your worthless friends have heard about in the news. We are so much more than a sometimes dangerous public nuisance with tax exempt status. We are the future of this country's religion, health, and government."

The light in Trevor's peripheral vision began to dim. It took him a moment to realize the cause of the sensation, that the other people in the restaurant were gathering around his table. He reached for his drink, but someone had taken it.

"San Diego was a mistake. We've chosen this city to regroup because of Elena. She is special beyond any measure that you and your worthless friends will ever know. She will be our new haven's representative and its queen. And we can't have you standing next to her, no matter how much she wants that. You aren't for us."

Trevor steadied his hands, which were shaking now. He knew that something was wrong. People were chanting around him and he couldn't feel his legs. Somebody stood him up, or maybe it was two people. He wanted another drink, but the server was gone. Lillian Schnell was gone too, replaced by someone in a scary mask who was much too tall. Trevor's new dinner companion held a strange-looking steak knife in their hand, but nobody had ordered a steak.

In that moment, Trevor decided that he was going to break things off with Elena the next time he saw her. Her friends were too weird. The song began playing again and he tearfully admitted to himself that it wasn't any band or style of music he'd ever heard before. He glanced around the dining room through half-closed eyes at the grey twisted faces around him and decided something else.

He decided he was never coming back to Ché fucking Boulevard again.