A Lobby, Some Lobbyists

“Yeah, I’ve been doing some community work in the Bronx, figured I’d get her advice on organizing and all, kinda make sense for me to just be picking up tips from the pros at this point, y’know?”

The speaker is a rail thin man, mid-thirties and wearing glasses that form twin perfect circles. He leans on one arm that strokes his chin while the other gesticulates. There are two others sitting next to him in the small lobby, one an overweight black lady who the other two apparently recognised on sight (she didn’t introduce herself, the others did), and the last girl some lawyer-type who’d apparently met Scarlet at a gala or fundraiser or something or the other and wanted to follow up on whatever they had talked about that night.

“So, what’s your story, mask guy,” the man asks, wheeling around to face me. I’m slumped back in the last chair, hood up, Guy Fawkes mask secured over my face.

I shrug back at him.

We’re sitting in a wood-panelled room where a Swarovski crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting the near-black wood in a warm glow. A secretary sits behind an imposing desk, fingers clattering away on the keyboard, while a bodyguard stands just outside Scarlet’s door, looking straight ahead at the opposite wall. One of his thumbs slowly circles around the side of his pants—other than that, he is completely still, the sheen on his bald head a constant, unchanging distraction.

The secretary looks over my way. She’s been giving me the odd glance or two ever since I walked out of the elevator ten minutes ago. I can’t see into Scarlet’s office; it’s closed behind a wood door. I can’t make out any noises, either, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I shut my eyes and try to rest. My body is still aching, and the darkness of my eyelids is comforting.

“Come on, just a tidbit?” It’s still the thin man’s voice, but I don’t bother reacting to it. I hear him get up and walk over the hardwood floor to the secretary’s desk. “Hey, if you’re not going to tell me, I’m just going to take a peek at the guest-log.”

“Leave the guy alone,” the black woman says. “He wants an audience with Ms. Najbreit, he’s going to have to tell her something eventually.”

I hear the faint ruffle of pages, and then the guy crows, triumphant: “Here’s his name! Ah, you really just put down a ‘V’?”

“Anarchy’s in vogue,” the lawyer lady quips, and it gets a small chuckle out of the man, who I’m pretty sure is just laughing along to flirt with her.

I hear a door swing open. My eyes snap open. From behind the mask, my vision is obscured, but then I see right there, shaking hands with some elderly man in a suit, her. Scarlet’s outfit is a white tie-neck sheath dress, the sensual curves of the dress hugging her waist and bust, and I drink in the view for a few long seconds before I realise that I’ve just ogled my half-sister. I push the disquieting thought aside. There are more important things happening.

As the elderly man takes his leave, the bodyguard leans in to Scarlet’s ear and whispers something. He points to me, and her gaze follows his finger, where it rests on my masked face. Her almond eyes widen a fraction.

“You wanted to escort him out?” she asks, just loud enough for me to hear. I don’t know what that tone of voice is meant to mean. Her eyes are still wide, and they frantically dart over the other occupants in the room.

“Yes, he could be a security risk. Sir, would you mind stepping outside with me?”

The bodyguard approaches me with sure steps, and I panic, looking around for options, but all I see is the smug grin on the rail-thin guy’s face.

Scarlet puts a hand on the bodyguard’s shoulder.

“Actually, I think I’ll meet with him next,” she says.

“Ma’am, I can’t say that this is a sound idea,” the bodyguard says.

“The others here have been waiting a good deal longer,” the secretary pipes up, and I see lawyer-lady nodding eagerly.

“Yes, and there’s a reason why I keep these hours unscheduled and flexible,” Scarlet says. “Come on in,” she says, waving at me.

I get up and begin to cross the lobby when the bodyguard makes his final objection.

“Mask off, friend,” he says, with eyes that, even through the mask, bore straight into mine. Can he see through it? Surely not. But he’s holding out a hand, asking me to place the mask there…

“Do you want to take it off?” Scarlet asks, looking at me. I shake my head, not trusting my voice. “That settles it then. No need to follow me into this meeting either, Jonas,” she says to the bodyguard, and then I’m standing inside her office.

Like the lobby, it is spacious and features plenty of dark wood, mahogany wood panels set against walnut furniture. Half a dozen nature stills hang on three walls, while a floor to ceiling window occupies the last. Scarlet shuts the door, locks it, and then crosses the room, pulling down the blinds with a sweeping motion.

She gestures for me to take a seat, and I do, slowly sinking into the parlour chair across her desk. The name Scarlet Najbreit is embossed across its side in swirling script. The lady herself stands still by the blinded windows, staring at them with her fingers interlaced behind her back.

“Alright. Let’s see if I’ve been played the fool. Take off the mask,” she says, and I do.

Her hands fly up to cover her mouth.