Page 17 of Spades

MADDOX

Alissa’s eyes are wide.

She looks nervous, but at the same time unyielding.

I realize how this place must look to a newcomer.

Chet, the club bouncer, is a weird-looking guy. A weird guy in general, if I’m being honest. But he’s harmless.

The sofas and chairs lined in rabbit fur are also an odd choice. The whole place gives off casting-couch vibes, for sure.

I squeeze her shoulder gently, look into her eyes. “It’s okay, Alissa. You’re safe here with me.”

She seems to relax.

I gesture to Chet. “This is Chet. He’ll be checking us in.”

Chet leers at Alissa. “Is this your first time, young lady?” His voice is smooth, almost playful, with a slight rasp.

She swallows. “Yes, sir.”

Chet’s eyes widen. “No need to call me sir. I’m Chester Tabbit, the club bouncer. You can call me Chet. I’m responsible for checking members in.”

He reaches out with a bony hand, which Alissa tentatively shakes.

Chet turns to me. “ID?”

I roll my eyes. “Come on, Chet. You know who I am. I’ve been coming here for years now.”

Chet’s perpetual grin doesn’t falter. “And as I have told you before, Mr. Hathaway, the only person who gets in without ID is Rouge. Club policy. Everyone else, no matter who they are—politicians, businessmen, even the President of the United States himself—has to show ID at the front door and be checked against the list.”

I nod and grab my wallet out of the inner pocket of my suit jacket. I pull out my driver’s license and hand it to Chet.

“You too, miss.” Chet nods toward Alissa.

She uneasily reaches into her bag, pulls out her wallet, and hands her license to Chet.

He looks at both of the ID’s, pausing on Alissa’s.

“Maravilla. A beautiful name. Spanish, I assume?”

She nods. “Yes. My father was born in Spain.”

“It meanswonder, doesn’t it?”

Her lip twitches. “Yes. I don’t speak much Spanish myself. I was raised in London, moved to Chicago to go to school at Northwestern.”

“An excellent school, Ms. Wonder,” Chet says. “And I could tell from your accent that you were from overseas. Are you here as a guest of Mr. Hathaway?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Excellent.” Chet grabs a large dusty book from behind him and slams it on top of his pink desk. He opens it, looking back at my ID.

He traces a yellow fingernail up and down the page. “Hathaway… Hathaway… Hathaway. Here you are, Mr. Hathaway.”

Alissa looks up at me. “Does he check this list manually every time?”

I nod. “It’s the rules.”

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