Chum

The Crescent is a sensory nightmare, a pulsing, living thing that threatens to swallow me whole. The music is a physical force, thrumming through my body and making my teeth vibrate. Strobe lights slice through the darkness, painting everything in stark flashes of color. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and something vaguely chemical that makes my nose itch.

I take it all in, trying to sort through the chaos for anything useful. It's like trying to find a specific drop of water in the ocean. Everyone looks suspicious when you're looking for suspicious people. Is that guy by the DJ booth a drug dealer or just someone waiting for his song request? Is the woman in the sparkly dress dancing a little too close to that businessman a prostitute or just an enthusiastic clubber? Is there even a problem with prostitutes? I can't think of one off the top of my head.

I chew my gum a little harder, feeling the tension in my jaw. Focus, Sam. You've got a job to do.

I scan the crowd, looking for anyone who might be Kingdom. But how can I tell? It's not like they wear name tags or secret decoder rings. For all I know, half the people in here could be on their payroll. Or maybe it's just the management and a few key players. Surely they don't let every bartender and busboy in on their criminal secrets, right? That would be a logistical nightmare.

A group of girls stumbles past me, giggling and clutching each other for balance. I catch snippets of their conversation as they go by.

"…and then he was like, 'I don't even like you,' and I was like…"

"…so fucking wasted last night, I swear I'm never drinking again…"

"…heard they've got some new stuff, supposed to be even better than…"

My ears perk up at that last bit, but they're gone before I can hear more. I make a mental note to keep an eye on them. If there's new product moving through the club, that could be valuable information.

I reach up to scratch my ear, using the motion to activate the concealed earpiece Jordan rigged up for me. It looks like a hearing aid, just innocuous enough to avoid suspicion.

"You getting all this?" I mutter, trying to look like I'm just talking to myself. Which, let's be honest, isn't that weird in a place like this.

Jordan's voice crackles in my ear, barely audible over the thumping bass. "Loud and clear, Smalls. Too loud, not really clear enough, with all that noise, but we win and we lose some. You see anything interesting yet?"

I shake my head slightly, remembering too late that they can't see me. "Nothing concrete. Lots of potential leads, but nothing solid. I'm heading to the bar now to see what I can dig up."

"Roger that. Remember, play it cool. You're just another face in the crowd."

I snort. "Yeah, because I'm so good at blending in."

"Hey, you've made it this far without getting thrown out. I'd call that a win."

I can't argue with that logic. I make my way to the bar, trying to move with the confidence of someone who belongs here. The crowd parts easily enough, though I do have to dodge a few errant elbows and spilled drinks along the way.

The bar itself is a long, sleek affair, all polished wood and gleaming chrome. It's packed, of course, with people jostling for position and waving money at the harried-looking bartenders. I manage to squeeze into a small gap between a couple who look like they're about five seconds away from either making out or having a screaming match.

I catch the eye of one of the bartenders, a guy who looks to be in his late twenties with a carefully trimmed beard and more tattoos than exposed skin. He nods at me, holding up a finger in the universal "one minute" gesture before turning to mix a complicated-looking cocktail for someone else.

I use the moment to study him, trying to gauge if he might be a potential source of information. He moves with the easy confidence of someone who's been doing this job for a while. His eyes are sharp, taking in everything around him even as his hands work on autopilot. Yeah, this guy's seen some shit. He might know something useful.

When he finally makes his way over to me, I'm ready. I lean in, pitching my voice low enough to be heard over the music but not so loud that anyone else will catch it. "Whiskey sour, please. And make it a double. It's been that kind of night."

He nods, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. "Coming right up. You look like you could use it."

As he starts mixing my drink, I keep my body language open, inviting conversation. "Yeah, you could say that. You ever have one of those weeks where everything that could go wrong, does?"

He laughs, a short, sharp sound that's more weary than amused. "Welcome to my life, kid. I mean, uh… sir." He eyes me a little more closely, as if trying to gauge my age.

I wave off his concern. "Nah, you had it right the first time. I might be legal, but I still feel like a kid most days. Especially in a place like this." I gesture vaguely at the club around us.

He relaxes a bit, sliding my drink across the bar. "First time here?"

I nod, taking a sip. Whiskey tastes like shit. I make a face, trusting on my super-liver or super-kidneys or whatever to just ignore the actual alcohol part. But it's still not exactly pleasant. "That obvious, huh?"

He shrugs. "You've got that wide-eyed look. Plus, you're actually talking to the bartender instead of just barking drink orders. Trust me, that stands out."

I laugh, feeling some of my nervousness ease. This guy seems alright. Maybe this won't be as hard as I thought. "Guilty as charged. I'm Jessie, by the way."

"Pete," he says, reaching across the bar to shake my hand. "So, Jessie, what brings you to our little corner of paradise?"

I lean in, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "Would you believe me if I said I was running from the law?"

Pete raises an eyebrow, looking more intrigued than alarmed. "Depends. We talking parking tickets or grand larceny?"

I grin, warming to my role. "Oh, way worse than that. I stole a pack of gum from a convenience store. And I didn't even feel bad about it."

He clutches his chest in mock horror. "My God, we've got a real criminal mastermind here. Should I be calling the cops?"

I waggle my eyebrows. "Only if you want to be an accessory after the fact. You did serve alcohol to a known gum thief, after all."

Pete laughs, and this time it sounds genuine. "I like you, kid. You're alright."

I feel a little surge of pride at that. Maybe I'm better at this undercover stuff than I thought. "Thanks. You're not so bad yourself. How long you been working here?"

He shrugs, starting to mix another drink for someone down the bar. "Couple years now. It's not a bad gig, all things considered. Pay's decent, tips are good if you know how to work the crowd."

I nod, trying to look interested but not too interested. "Yeah? Must see some pretty wild stuff, huh?"

Pete's eyes flick to mine, a hint of wariness creeping into his expression. "Nothing too crazy. Just your typical club scene, you know? Drunk people doing drunk people things."

I backpedal a bit, realizing I might have pushed too hard too fast. "Right, right. I bet it all starts to blur together after a while. Honestly, I'm just glad to be somewhere that isn't my crappy apartment for once."

His expression softens a bit. "Rough week?"

I sigh, deciding to lean into the sympathy. Maybe if I open up a bit, he'll do the same. "You could say that. Got into a fight with my roommate. Again. I swear, if I have to listen to one more lecture about who's turn it is to do the dishes…"

Pete nods sympathetically. "Roommates, man. They're the worst. Well, except when they're paying half the rent, I guess."

I laugh, taking another sip of my drink. "True that. Still, there are days I fantasize about just… I don't know, running away. Starting over somewhere new. You ever feel like that?"

Something flickers in Pete's eyes, there and gone so fast I almost miss it. "Sometimes," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "But you know what they say. Wherever you go, there you are."

I nod, trying to look thoughtful. "Yeah, I guess. Still, can't help but wonder what it would be like. To just… disappear. Become someone else entirely."

Pete's quiet for a moment, wiping down the bar with a rag. When he speaks again, his voice is low, almost lost in the thump of the bass. "Trust me, kid. It's not all it's cracked up to be."

I lean in, my heart racing. This feels like it could be something. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."

He looks up, meeting my eyes. For a moment, I think he's going to say more. But then someone further down the bar starts yelling for service, and the moment's gone. "Sorry, duty calls," he says, already moving away. "Try not to get into any more fights, alright?"

I nod, watching him go. Damn. So close. I take another sip of my drink, mulling over what just happened. Pete definitely knows something. But is he Kingdom, or just another person with a past he'd rather forget? And how can I get him to open up more without blowing my cover?

I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss my opportunity. Pete's busy with another customer, his back turned to me. Without thinking, I reach into my pocket, pulling out one of Jordan's bugs. It's tiny, no bigger than a button. With a quick glance around to make sure no one's watching, I stick it to the underside of the bar, right near where Pete was standing.

My heart's pounding so hard I'm sure someone's going to notice. But no one does. Pete finishes with his customer and turns back to me, none the wiser. I pop my gum, using the motion to cover sliding the now-sticky wad over most of the bug. It's not perfect, but it should be enough to keep it hidden unless someone's really looking.

"You need a refill?" Pete asks, nodding at my nearly empty glass.

I shake my head, suddenly feeling the need to move. To do something. "Nah, I'm good. Think I'm gonna hit the dance floor for a bit. Work off some of this nervous energy, you know?"

He nods, already turning to another customer. "Have fun. And remember, no fights!"

I laugh, sliding off my barstool. "No promises!"