Order of the Tarot Chronicles

Skullduggery

By

Silvia Foti

Chapter 1

On my back with the Chicago mayor sprawled on top of me, I gasped for breath. Pain radiated along my left arm. Above me, a collage of faces, aghast, quickly assembled.

A woman leaned over, so close I could see her cleavage end in a midnight blue bra, a perfect match to her gown. Her face contorted like one of those twistable squishy dolls. Then she shrieked.

"He's dead! He's dead! The Chicago mayor is dead!"

This wasn't my fault. I thought the man drank too much alcohol, the way he stumbled forward. I just danced with him, for Chrissakes.

I looked over to my right, past the mayor's left ear, his helix sprouting three long black curly hairs. Something looked out of place, aside from the two-hundred pound mayor belly down over me. I searched through my mind.

"The skull," I gasped. "Crystal Skull is missing."

Just past the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve, I waited for somebody to lift Mayor Morales off me.

"Mayor Morales, are you all right?" I whispered in his ear.

He didn't respond.

What a way to start the year.

It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes ago when I spotted the mayor and his wife coming toward our table. They made a complementary Mexican couple. He looked big and thick, she small and thin. The clock ticked near midnight on New Year's Eve.

I sat with my date at The Crystal Palace, another new theme restaurant in River North, filled to capacity. This eatery had a mystical motif with dancing gypsies sashaying between tables, astrological charts of famous people adorning walls, and big, jagged crags of crystal–probably plastic–hanging and twirling from the ceiling, ricocheting light. It looked like your regular, elegant end-of-the-year bash with streamers and balloons.

It turned into much more than that.

All of the guests received specially engraved invitations to this grand affair, an event so politically charged you could electrocute a Democratic Donkey. If you leaned Republican. But in this town, you wouldn't.

On the face of it, it appeared a New Year's Eve party. The guest list included, besides the mayor and his wife, the Windy City's wind-up well-to-dos. You had your aldermen, your actors, your bankers, and their significant others. Some even came with their wives. The host–Edgar Sheldon, billionaire tycoon.

Here on an assignment for Gypsy Magazine, I wasn't getting any material for my story. I mean, who wanted to talk to a reporter at a New Year's Eve party?

"Just absorb the atmosphere," said my editor.

Oh, okay. I worked on absorbing the champagne.

Ten minutes to midnight.

I looked over to Juan Gonzales, my date, the mayor's press secretary. With any luck, we'd miss the political kissy-kissy and beat the crowds out of here. I began to imagine myself tucked in my bed, snoring away the effects of this year before I could make any resolutions for the next.

The mayor and his wife headed our way. Juan sprung from his chair like a jack-in-the-box clown. He tried hard to have all the right moves.

Unable to escape this visit by Chicago's First Couple, I gulped down my champagne, grabbed my white linen napkin, dotted my lips, and stood up alongside Juan.

"Mrs. Morales, you look absolutely stunning," gushed Juan to the mayor's wife, as he reached over to shake her hand. She held his hand and wouldn't let go. The floor filled with dancers swaying to the Big Band sound. Still in the clutches of the mayor's manicured wife, he looked compelled to ask her to dance. Both looked at the mayor. He nodded. They walked into the dancing crowd.

Juan threw a look back at me. I let him know with the glare in my eyes that I expected something of him soon. He knew this look of mine. Then, for the sake of the mayor standing next to me, I pasted a wide grin on my face. Very wide.

Feeling uncomfortable, I groped for something to say to the mayor. I hated being in these predicaments and never knew how to get out of them. It didn't matter that as a reporter I talked to strangers on a daily basis, asking them the most intimate questions about their lives. Just this morning, in fact, I had interviewed Mayor Bernardo Morales about his views on astrology and crystal for my magazine article. The only reporter in town to land that interview, my face still flushed with the added glow of exclusivity.

"You look beautiful, Alexandria," the mayor said.

"Oh thank you," I answered. "I wasn't sure what to wear tonight."

His eyes scanned my body. My automatic response of feeling revulsion didn't kick in. He surveyed every nook and cranny, then winked salaciously.

Maybe I asked for it. Tonight I stepped into a long black, body-hugging gown that revealed my entire back, from the neck to below the waist, with only one thin black strand connecting the back of the dress at my shoulder blades. I had my hair piled into a dozen twists and twirls.

I wasn't hungry that night so I had barely eaten. But I'd done some serious drinking.

Whoops!

My ankle collapsed causing me to lose my balance, and I fell right into the mayor's arms.

Mayor Bernardo Morales had fine features–thick black hair that hung slightly longish, a squarish jaw, penetrating brown eyes, and delicate, yet large, sensitive hands. I always noticed men's hands. When he ran for election four years ago, women in Chicago swooned over the first Mexican-American to run the Windy City.

"I'm so sorry," I said, trying to compose myself.

Regaining my balance, I saw Edgar Sheldon coming toward us. Mayor Morales grabbed my arm and steered me toward the dance floor.

Stuck in a jam this time. Who would have expected to see me waltz with the mayor?

Sheldon shrugged his shoulders and moved away. I'd probably hear about this later. He owned Gypsy Magazine, the national monthly that fed me.

This couldn't be happening to me. I swear, I just wanted to go home.

As I lifted my right arm in preparation for the waltz, I watched Sheldon work the crowd. Anyone who had a title found a way to this party: politicos, dollar-makers, and merry-makers. Tonight had been dubbed the "baptism of Sheldon's newest culinary establishment." In its first three months, The Crystal Palace had already captured the town's imagination. With crystal as the theme, pieces of crystal appeared everywhere. Big colorful pieces perched in the center of the guests' round tables, surrounded by white candles. Carefully polished pieces contrasted against rustic and jagged ones. Some artist even embedded small fragments into the walls, reflecting a magical luminescence.

Crystal Skull loomed as the grandiose decorative centerpiece this evening. It looked over the crowd from a Plexiglas pedestal that stood fifteen feet high. Not too far from the entrance. In fact, I touched it on my way in for luck. The skull added a special sparkle to the evening. I knew all about that skull, even though I didn't believe half the things I heard about it.

The waltz number stretched interminably. One, two, three. One, two, three. I moved to the waltz's beat. Fidgeting uncomfortably, like an awkward teen-ager dancing with her uncle, I wondered how all the grown-ups looked so cheerful. The mayor fixed his eyes on me. He started to grope me. Quite the lady's man! I took another deep breath and held it.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" asked the mayor, looking a little strained.

"Why, yes, immensely sir," I stammered, letting out my breath. Politicians and their libidos.

"So, you came with Juan tonight," the mayor said, as he held me even more tightly by the waist. He already had a mistress. What did that squeeze mean?

"Yes, sir, we both went to journalism school together," I said, avoiding the impulse to squirm.

"So I understand," said the mayor, breathing quickly and heavily. "Juan can't stop talking about Miss Alexandria Vilkas and her talents."

One, two, three. One, two, three. I looked down at the sea of pumps and flat heels grazing the floor. The waltz continued.

"Do you like to dance?" the mayor asked.

"Yes, I love it," I lied.

One, two, three. One, two, three. The waltz finally ended, and the countdown to usher in the New Year began.

"Perhaps you should look for your wife," I suggested.

"Oh, there's plenty of time for that," he answered, grabbing a hold of the inside tender part of my upper arm. He looked sweaty and his face twitched.

Ten.... Nine.... Eight... More than a thousand people chanted the last seconds at the cusp of the New Year. The lights dimmed. Seven... Six... Five... Thoughts of my pillow and sleep made me giddy. Four... Three... Two.... One!

Happy New Year!

The band blared, "Auld Lang Syne." Streamers descended, confetti snowed, and the mayor bent toward me for the kissy-kiss.

He threw his arms around me, clutching me. He buried his lips into my neck, a slobber, really.

This man will stop at nothing, I thought, taking a step back.

But then he began to feel heavy. I mean, really heavy. In fact, I held up his entire weight. On top of everything, I had to deal with a drunken mayor. What did that twitch mean? When will those lights go back on?

I put my arms around him to lift him. I lost my balance, falling backward trying to support him with my right arm. I broke my fall with my left.

Ouch! My left arm!

The mayor fell on top of me. People stopped kissing each other.

The music stopped.

"Turn on the lights! Turn on the lights!"

The lights blinked on.

There I lay on the floor with the mayor sprawled on top of me, his legs spread over mine, his arms folded around me. His hand lodged between my back and the floor. His face looked ashen, sweaty. He smelled like fish. I shook him with my right hand. My left hand throbbed with sharp pain

"Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, are you all right?" I asked.

He wouldn't budge. His wide-open eyes gazed out.

I tried to squirm my way out from under him.

A woman in a midnight blue gown leaned over. She shook the mayor. A sea of faces crowded around. I had trouble breathing.

"He's dead! He's dead!" shrieked the woman. "The mayor's dead! The Chicago Mayor is dead!"