“What do they want?” I said, ignoring the messenger goon.

“Apparently, if I don’t go with the messenger right now, in his no-doubt-pokey little car, to discuss the repayment of Marcel’s debts, they’ll send my husband back to me one small piece at a time until I do. He won’t die. He’s immortal now, like me, but that just means his suffering could be infinitely extended…It’s such a bother, but I’d better go.”

“That might not be entirely wise,” I said carefully.

“Then they’d have two hostages with which to extort money from your father. And while he wouldn’t pay up for Marcel, he would for you.”

“They wouldn’t dare threaten me! Would they?”

“Look at the state of the thing they sent as a messenger,” I said. “These people don’t impress me as being a particularly up-market operation.”

“I have to go,” said Eleanor. “He’s my husband.”

“Then I’d better go with you,” I said. “I have some experience in dealing with these sorts of people.”

“Of course,” said Eleanor. “They’re from your world, aren’t they? Very well. Stick around and look menacing, and try not to get in my way while I negotiate.”

“Perish the thought,” I said. I turned my gaze on the messenger, and he shuffled his feet uneasily. “Talk to me,” I said. “Who do you work for?”

“I’m not supposed to answer questions,” the goon said unhappily. “Bearer waits. Car outside. That’s all I’m supposed to say.”

“But I’m John Taylor, and I want to know. So tell me, or I’ll turn you into something small and squishy and jump up and down on you.”

The messenger swallowed hard and didn’t know what to do with his hands. “I work for Herbert Libby,” he said hoarsely. “At the Roll a Dice club, casino, and bar. It’s a high-class place. Real cuisine and no spitting on the floor.”

“Never heard of it,” I said to Eleanor. “And I’ve heard of everywhere that matters. So, let’s go and talk with Mr. Libby and explain to him what a really bad idea this was.” I glared at the messenger. “Lead the way. And don’t try anything funny. We won’t laugh.”

We left Hecate’s Tea Room, accompanied by many gossiping voices. The bodyguards were back at their tables and sulking quietly, but the Ladies Who Lunched were ecstatic. They hadn’t known this much excitement in their lives in years. There was indeed a car waiting outside. Small, black, and anonymous, it stood out awkwardly among the shimmering stretch limousines waiting patiently for the ladies inside. The uniformed chauffeurs stopped talking together over a passed round hand-rolled, and looked down their noses at the goon in the messenger suit. Eleanor’s chauffeur actually stepped forward and raised an eyebrow inquiringly, but Eleanor told him to take the limousine back to Griffin Hall. She’d find her own way home. The chauffeur looked at the messenger, then at me, and I could see he didn’t like it, but, as always, he did what he was told. Eleanor stalked over to the small black car, stood by the back door, and glared at the messenger until he hurried forward to open it for her. She slipped elegantly into the back of the car, and I got in after her. The messenger eased his feelings by slamming the door shut behind me, and clambered in behind the wheel.

“The Roll a Dice,” Eleanor said coldly, “and step on it. I have things to be about.”

The messenger made a low, unhappy sound, and we pulled out into the traffic.

“I know it’s going to be one of those pokey little places, with sawdust on the floor and back rooms full of cigar smoke, where the cards are so crooked it’s a wonder the dealer can shuffle them,” said Eleanor. “Marcel must really be running out of bolt-holes if he’s been reduced to the likes of the Roll a Dice.”

“Hey,” protested the messenger, “it’s a good club. Got acoustics and everything.”

“Watch the road,” I said. “And anyway, it should be the Roll a Die. Dice is plural, die is singular.”

“What?”

“Oh shut up and drive,” I said.

The Nightside traffic flowed past us, including a lot of things that weren’t really traffic, driven by things that didn’t even look like people. There are no traffic lights in the Nightside and no speed limits. As a result, driving isn’t so much a journey as evolution in action. The bigger prey on the smaller, and only the strongest survive to reach their destination. Significantly, no-one bothered us. Which meant someone must have lashed out a fair amount of money for some decent protection magics for the car. The goon undid the collar and first few buttons of his messenger suit so he could concentrate better as he drove.

We soon left Uptown behind and quickly turned off into the darker, lesser-used streets, where sleaze and decay weren’t so much a style as a way of life. The Nightside has its own bottom feeders, and they’re nastier than most. The neon signs fell away because this wasn’t the kind of area where you wanted to advertise your presence. People might be looking for you. These were the kinds of clubs and bars you heard about by word of mouth, where everything was permitted because nobody cared. Enter at your own risk, mind your own business, and think yourself lucky if you came out even at the end of the game.

The car finally lurched to a halt before a row of dingy joints that were only a step up from hole-in-the-wall merchants. Blank doors and painted-out windows, with nothing to recommend them but the gaudy names they gave themselves. Rosie’s Repose, the Pink Pelican, the Roll a Dice. The messenger goon got out of the car, started towards the club, then remembered. He hurried back to open the back door for Eleanor. He wouldn’t have done it for me. Eleanor stalked past him to the club, not even deigning to look about her. The messenger hurried to get to the club door ahead of her, leaving me to get out of the car and close the door behind me. The goon made a real production out of his secret knock, and the door swung open to reveal a gorilla in a huge tuxedo. It was a real mountain gorilla, a silverback, with a long, pink scar across his forehead to show where the brain implants had gone in. It nodded familiarly to the messenger, looked Eleanor and me over carefully, and gave us both a sniff for good measure before turning abruptly to lead us into the club. The door slammed shut behind us with nobody touching it, but that probably came as standard in an area like this.

The room before us was silent and gloomy, closed down. Chairs had been put up on the tables, and the roulette wheel was covered with a cloth. The bar was sealed off behind a heavy metal grille. The floor was bare wood, no sawdust. The room stank of sweat and smoke and desperation. This wasn’t the kind of place where people gambled for pleasure. This was a place for addicts and junkies, for whom every card, every roll of the dice or spin of the wheel was a matter of life and death.

There weren’t any staff around. Not even a cleaner. The owner must have sent everybody home. Presumably Mr. Herbert Libby didn’t want any witnesses for whatever might happen now the Griffin’s daughter had arrived to join her erring husband. The gorilla led us through the room, out the back, and down a steep set of stairs. The messenger goon brought up the rear. We emerged into a bare stone cellar, a brightly lit space with bare walls, piles of crates and stacked boxes, and a handful of men standing around one man tied to a chair. The stone floor around the chair was splashed with blood. The man in the chair was, of course, Marcel, or what was left of him.

He raised his head slowly to look at Eleanor and me. He might have been glad to see us, but it was hard to tell past the mess they’d made of his face. His eyes were swollen shut, his nose had been broken and bent to one side, and his lips were cracked and bloody. They’d cut off his left ear. Blood soaked his left shoulder and all down the front of his shirt. Marcel’s breathing was slow and heavy, interspersed with low moans of pain and half-snoring noises through his ruined nose. Eleanor made a low, shocked noise and started forward, but I grabbed her arm and held her still. No point in giving these scumbags what they wanted this early in the game.