@grisonnants
At this point, Kovacs was a virtual connoisseur of Aerium parties. He could break them down into three presentations: the classically lavish parties, modern in appearance but which strove to honor the old world prestige of the Meths, during which the stylishly-dressed plutocrats could make their slow, vicious promenades. A place to see and be seen. And maybe wage a little veiled war. Then there were those on the far opposite of the spectrum, who strove to emulate the grit and grime of Grounder parties to such a terrifyingly mimetic degree that it was hard not believe that there were some expertise in the matter in play. And then there were those that were just fucking weird. Just the most extra, out-there, designed to shock you into how strange it all was, their purpose to elicit wonder Sometimes they were whimsical. Like some fucked up circus. Sometimes they were disturbing. Like some fucked up circus.
And then there was Dorian Gray, who was somehow all of them, all at once.
Kovacs hesitated at the gigantic, wood doors, inlaid with carved paneling depicting some stylized, celestial tumult involving angels and demons locked in some unbroken, eternal battle or some shit. Also looked pretty gay. Hand raised, knuckles at the ready, shaking his head at the lunacy of it, before finally rapping loudly on the door to announce himself.
He was allowed in by someone he could only surmise to be the butler, based on his ingratiating greeting and the dandy mannerisms which were indicative of someone taken to sucking the knobs of ivory canes. He heard this Mr Gray preferred that. Not that it was any of his business.
The butler led him through vestibules and chambers, each designed to represent some vice or other. The first room full of waiting hopefuls gave way to a room full of orgiastic excess, a morass of nakedness, tangling, twisting, weaving languorous limbs and lissome tongues, and Kovacs allowed himself a good, long look. Because what the fuck else were they doing this in public for?
Fucking meth parties.
Kovacs found that Meths were especially amenable to loosening their lips with a little pharmacological persuasion. So this was fine. For now.
The butler held the door open for him, bowing to instruct him to come through with a sweeping hand, which Kovacs followed, but not without an unpleasant grimace at the ostentation of it. At least this room was something a little more conducive to business. A little. A fully stocked bar in the far end, clusters of tables featuring all manner of standard fare casino games, played for exorbitant stakes, if he could assume correctly. Girls (and boys) dressed like something out of a 1970s Harrah’s showgirls insinuating themselves within the arms of the Meths crowding the tables. And upon an overstuffed lounger, attended to by a number of coq-plumed and pearl-adorned harlots, was Dorian Gray himself.
Suspiciously young-looking. Like a gilded angel, resplendent in the glow of a candle chandelier. With bright, alert eyes that seemed more perspicacious than he’d expect at this late in a party, where only the best narcotics were sure to run, and abundantly. Even the Bancrofts had the good taste to maintain themselves in sleeves appropriate to their sempiternal, middle-aged banality. But it was telling, the kind of sleeves they chose. Kovacs would remember that.
“Takeshi Kovacs,” he introduced himself, hands slipped into the pockets of his too-expensive slacks and he lifted his gaze and stared down his nose at the guy. “I know you know who I am. Bancroft has the subtlety of a freight train and just as much discretion when it comes to the investigation of his own death, so I won’t bore you with the formalities. But I’d like to ask you a few questions.” His eye caught sight of the lingerie-clad girl draping herself desperately over his shoulder, half glaring at him. Clearly, he was interrupting something. “If I may.”
