The Freeworker was New Madison’s finest hotel and they made sure to tell you about it. The first large building the revolutionaries built after covering up Old Madison, the Freeworker unironically presented revolutionary ideals adorned with the trappings of the oligarchs: crystal and gold chandeliers throughout, real marble floor looted from the old capitol, and the heaviest looking concierge counter Remy’d ever seen.
Remy stuck out like a sore thumb. He walked through the main entrance and his eyes traced the gilded staircases spiraling upwards on his left and right. The main atrium opened all the way to the roof, letting light flow through stained glass pilfered from ancient churches in the undercity. The setting sun’s light flickered and danced down the central opening’s crystal chandeliers ensuring that each visit showed the room in a different light. Remy handed his coat and newly bought hat to a thin man smoking a long cigarette. He looked Remy up and down before taking his materials.
“Room number. Sir?” He paused just long enough to let the “sir” land as a jab. Remy fucking hated this place.
“Just drinks tonight.” He held out a credit chip and the man exchanged it with a receipt.
“Very good, I’ll ensure your…accoutrements…are secured. Good evening.”
It was early in the evening and the happy hour crowd spilled out of the bar itself into the common area of the lobby. Remy brushed past men forty years older than he standing far too close to women ten years younger to get into the proper bar area. Though he didn’t care for the design, the company, or the fancy drinks, it was a damn impressive space.
The bar itself was called the Schadenfreude which probably had some pithy double-meaning lost over the years. Like many bars in New Madison, it had been the name of some pre-war bar according to a small brass plaque on the bar. Within the Schadenfreude, the Library and the Supper Club served as distinct areas. Remy paid a man in an old-style penguin suit far too much for a glass of gin far nicer than he needed and walked through the Library section.
The Library was built with aged pre-war timbers, plump leather chairs, globes and knickknacks two centuries out of date, and real, honest-to-God leather bound books on the shelves. He knew better than to touch the books. No one would come to the library to read, but it was a key part of the illusion they sold. Instead, he paced through the winding chairs filled with folk who had more credits than sense checking out old photographs and trinkets.
Damn, the gin went down quickly when it didn’t sting like gasoline.
He’d been in here before, but only for meetings with potential clients and one really bad date that turned out to be a life insurance sales pitch. Remy had never had that much luck with women. He was here today though for something completely different. Before any job, Remy liked to case the location. Check it out like a local, exploring it’s natural flow, where cameras might be, look for staff routines that others might miss, and generally find a way to do your job in the least disturbing way possible. Remy passed a polished brass column and noticed the still fading scars on his face from the Beltrider. His clothes and his face marked him as an outsider.
“Can I get you anything, sir?” A penguin-suited fella stood behind him with a small serving tray, gesturing to Remy’s empty glass. Time to see if the codes had changed early this year.
“Are the cranberries fresh? I’d heard good things about the harvest.” Remy offered his empty glass and a credit chip and waited. The waiter looked him over like the man at the coat check had done but gave the slightest of nods. If a raccoon could tip, the waiter would welcome him.
“Yes, sir. Shall I alert the chef of your choice?”
“Please do. And another gin, please.”
The waiter slithered through the chairs and disappeared into the room behind the bar with Remy’s empty glass. Remy moved into the Supper Club section and waited for someone to return. He was happy enough to remember the seasonal codewords but was about ready to knock the teeth out of the next mustached man who flicked his eyes over Remy discerningly. He made a mental note to pick up better shoes for the real thing. Josie had told him that they always look at your shoes first.
Where the Library was built like a 19th century parlor room, the Supper Club was a ballroom, dining room, and tap house all at once. Thick barreled trusses arched over his head and large brick hearths contained fires on each side. Long wooden tables ran the length of the space and dining parties sat next to one another as waiters brought courses and drinks to their table. It was loud, warm, and busy. Traditional clothing or not, the diners looked ridiculous in their overpriced suits and evening dresses pulling up to a big shared wooden table. Traditions lingered longest among the richest and the poorest but the Freeworker mashed these traditions together in a jarring blur.
A different thin man albeit with the same pencil-thin mustache brought Remy a freshened-up glass of gin and Remy handed him another credit chip. No one said casing was cheap. The waiter pocketed the chip a single smooth gesture without offering change.
“Your gin, sir. I’m afraid the chef said, ‘cranberries must linger 12 days before ripeness.’ Will there be anything else?” Remy ran the words back through his head until he was sure he had them all memorized.
“That’s all. Thanks.”
He took another sip and slowly circled around the Supper Club. It really was excellent gin despite its price. He supposed folks here wouldn’t abide with the swill Luis served down the street. Shit, he barely abided it. Casing a room this big was a challenge. Each shadow could hold a small camera, and since he was in plain sight as he walked around, there was no way to do a thorough job without being obvious as Josie would’ve been. He wondered what she was doing tonight. She said something about laundry and working on some Vasc modifications, but he hadn’t really been listening. Maybe he should’ve let her come with; a second set of eyes might’ve been useful. He finished a lap with most of his gin intact and walked through the Library section again. Only the public auction would be in the Supper Club so it wasn’t as important. He hoped so at least.
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Remy’s boots clinked on the marble floor as he cross the lobby to the bank of lifts along its right side. He waited for an elderly man who had either his well-endowed granddaughter or his mistress on his arm to take one before he jumped into the next lift by himself. A digital panel with numbers and letters lit up in welcome.
He punched the response in order.
“C…M…L…One…Two…D…B…R.”
Nothing happened. Remy tried the order again, he’d fat fingered codes before. Nothing happened.
“Cranberries must linger 12 days before ripeness. C,M,L,1,2,D,B,R.” A waiter could certainly give the wrong code when asked but Remy’s shoes weren’t so bad as that and he wasn’t all pissed up enough to be turned away. He repeated it in his head. “C…M…L…One…Two…D…B…R.” He groaned as an idea came to him. “Oh, that would be stupid.”
He punched in the code again. “C…M…L…One…Two…D…B…4…R.” The lift rumbled to life and he felt it descend. Remy rolled his eyes. “God damn it. ‘Before.’” He snorted. They probably thought themselves terribly clever for that joke.
The lift opened into a hazy room that smelled like rich wood, tobacco, and expensive perfume, with all too much of each. An upbeat tune of an assortment of synthetic brass horns and bass guitar played in the background and a man crooned about his love for a girl who didn’t love him the same. Two hundred years later and music might change but the key parts always stayed the same.
An old man sat on a stool near the lift and offered Remy a cigar as he passed. Remy waved it away and walked through the bar. The servers here were more obnoxious than the penguin-suits above. The ladies wore short, glitzy dresses, and the men wore suspenders with rolled up sleeves. One of the girls approached him as he settled onto a stool at a high table near the corner. It offered a good view of the room and there was a wall at his back.
“What’ll it be, hun? Want me to freshen that one up for you?” She smiled prettily up at him and beat her thick lashes. Men tipped more if they thought she liked them. Remy knew it was an act but it worked on him anyway. He slid a credit chip across the table.
“If you go get another one, I’ll be ready when it gets here. Gin, no ice. Thanks.”
She winked and bobbed between men smoking at the next table to repeat the process.
“Need something, sugar?” she asked and Remy returned to taking in the room.
The speakeasy below the Freeworker was the worst kept secret in New Madison but that didn’t matter. Secrets were valuable but not everything. Folks across the Federation knew the Redcaps kept their gold reserves in some military base out east but they’d still shoot you on sight if you weren’t supposed to be there. “Secret” was a marketing trick as much as a practical effect. The good folks at the Freeworker might not shoot you in the head but your kneecaps might not work anymore if you we’re caught where you weren’t supposed to be.
Freeworker’s speakeasy wasn’t anything special as far as a bar went. It had thick, dark wood, mirrored panels behind bottles on display, a hazy smoke of cigarettes and cigars, and old men leering at young women. Farther down, side rooms split off to give patrons a place for private conversations. He’d spent a fair amount of time in those side rooms, once on a very successful date with a woman who had turned out to be a delayed prostitute. He just ended up paying her after and for several weeks. Remy finished his gin as the young waitress returned. You win some, you lose some. Today, he hoped to win.
“Here you go, hun.” She leaned in and brushed against him as she placed his new glass in front. She wore one of those perfumes that turned your head just a bit. “I’m Claire, let me know if you need anything else, alright?”
“Hey, my last name’s Claire. Sort of.” He returned her smile. “I’m going to take this one on a walk, thanks.”
“I’ll come find you.” She winked away again, back to another table. Remy followed her up and walked past her toward the back rooms. Each room was technically open to anyone but after coming a time or two - or just knowing who to ask - it was apparent that some rooms were explicitly for some folks and others for others. Happy Jack had a room, as did JD, but neither spent much time here. They had their own clubs and anyone who was anyone knew to go there instead. This was more of a social nicety.
Remy went straight to the room furthest away from the main bar, the Gallery. Unlike the other private rooms, there wasn’t much privacy in the Gallery. A broad, open space, with dim chandeliers lighting artwork from a dozen different eras. A few handfuls of groups milled about, looking at the different pieces and talking in the dark, quieter corners.
Remy made a show of looking at each piece. He wasn’t wearing nice enough clothes for the speakeasy’s resident ladies to take notice of, which was a relief. It was always hard to say no to someone that insistent on taking their clothes off for you, even if he had to pay for it. Not that many were that insistent to do that for him, but better to avoid the temptation altogether. This room would hold the important auction and he was looking for more than artwork.
He moved around the room, noting air vents, light fixtures, picture locations, and more, looking for anything they could exploit. He’d nearly finished a track around the Gallery when his attentive serving girl found him. Claire touched his elbow and pulled the empty glass out of his other hand, replacing it with a fresh one.
“Figured it was time.” She looked up at the painting he stood in front of. It was the largest painting in the room, wider than Remy could reach and taking up the entire height. An ancient sailing ship tossed on dark blue-gray waters with brush strokes as big as your head. “This ones my favorite, too.”
Remy shrugged, he hadn’t really noticed the painting itself. “I don’t know too much about any art, I’m afraid.” It was true. This one was older than most of the others in here but that’s about where it ended. “I like these kind of ships.” That was true too. His granddad always watched reruns of this old flick about sea pirates sailing around the ocean back with cannons and scurvy and things.
“I think it’s comforting. You know, like, here’s this big ship with little tiny people on board, and the ocean is just tossing it around like its nothing, but they’re holding on and trying anyway. There’s some things bigger than us and we can’t control that. Just, like, do what you can and hope for the best.” Claire wasn’t smiling now and bit her lower lip. “Probably silly.”
Remy blinked.
“No, I think that’s cool. Really.” Really. Remy had thought it was just an old wooden ship. The painting was a lot more interesting to look at now. “Know anything about these other ones?” Claire smiled back at him and patted his arm. He glanced down and really saw her for the first time. She was pretty, with a diamond stud in a nose just a bit too large for her face. Tight black curls fell to her shoulder and her eyes looked like they liked to laugh.
“You’re sweet, hun. I’m just getting out of here though.”
“Oh, of course. Here, for the drink.” He fumbled in his pocket for another credit. “Thanks for the lesson, then. I learned something new.”
“I work again on Saturday. If you come back, we can work through the others, deal?” She reached out her hand to shake and Remy took it. Her skin was soft and her fingers almost frail in his hand.
“You got it. Nice to meet you, Claire.”
She exited through the only visible entrance - Remy had been hoping to see a secret staff door - and finished up looking over the last few paintings. He wobbled a bit as he reached the last one. Smooth gin just went down too quickly. Striking out on any obvious entrances, he slammed back the glass and wound his way back to the lifts.
Remy retrieved his coat from the same disdainful mustachioed penguin-suit and popped up his collar against a stiff, and snowy wind that blew from the largest lake. He decided to walk home to sober up. It would do him no good if he kept coming home smelling like booze, smoke, and a strange perfume while Josie worked on her own tasks. Regardless of the smells he earned, he’d decided before he reached the first intersection that he’d be back on Saturday.