The Alchemist in the Attic Read Free Page B

Club
    The doorman at the Bohemian Club sneered down his nose at Atwood’s bloody face and rumpled attire, but let him inside. Atwood was a member of long, if not particularly good, standing. He had been with the Club since the early days, when it had been little more than a meeting ground for journalists, artists, and writers, before it had opened its doors to all manner of businessmen. Atwood remembered when the Club had been only a single room rather than a six-story brick edifice. He had felt more at home there, surrounded by court hacks, newspapermen and other less savory characters, all drowning their sorrows and successes. The food had mostly been slop but it was cheap, which was all that truly mattered.
    These days the Club had multiple dining rooms, an excellent French chef, and housed the most well-to-do bohemians Atwood had ever met in his life. It was also far too rich for his blood, but it was important that he, and by extension the Oracle , still be seen as belonging, especially after the last few weeks. A few of the other gentlemen in the dinning room looked up with narrowed eyes when he entered. Some of them hid their sneers in their napkins or turned away when he looked their way, but a handful met his gaze brazenly. Some of them simply didn’t like his state of dress and ugly black eye. Others had personal reasons to hate him, and some of them were Hearst’s men. Atwood wore their disapproval as a badge of honor, and even shot a broad grin at the gentleman in the corner, radiating bitterness and scorn. He scowled in response, causing Atwood to grin all the wider.
    Walter was waiting for him at their usual table, ensconced in a far corner.  Atwood sank into his chair gratefully.
    “We’re supposed to be making friends,” Walter said. “Keeping up appearances.”
    “I’m keeping up appearances,” Atwood protested.
    “Well, you’re certainly memorable,” Walter muttered. “Though I’m not sure this is what you had in mind.”
    “I liked you better in the old days. You kept your comments to yourself.”
    “No you didn’t,” Walter said, smiling. “You complained that I was too quiet and you never knew what I was thinking.”
    “Nonsense!” Atwood waved the comment aside with a reluctant half-smile.
    “What did Maguire have to say?” Walter asked when their grins had faded.
    “About what we expected. Another advertiser has pulled out.” Atwood sighed. “He’s taken me off of the court reports, so I guess that means you’re promoted. Congratulations!”
    “He fired you?” Walter leaned forward. “After everything your father…” He faded into silence. Their waiter had arrived.
    Fritz had been with the Club for years. He knew everybody and everyone knew him. He was also known to listen in on conversations and share what he overheard with anyone who was willing to pay. Considering those who frequented the Club, it was a lucrative racket. Atwood had made good use of his services over the years, but he was always careful to keep his own conversations from Fritz’s curious ears.
    “Atwood,” Fritz greeted him. “Harel,” he said in a soft Bavarian lilt. “Would you care for something to drink?”
    Atwood nodded and ordered a far-too-expensive bottle of wine. Neither he nor the Oracle could afford the extravagance and all three of them knew it. Fritz glanced between them. Atwood raised his eyebrows, while Walter simply observed him with a peculiar unblinking expression, daring him to comment.
    After a moment Fritz shrugged, hiding his sudden discomfort. It was all about appearances at the Club anyway. “Right away,” he said and smiled a tight smile.
    Atwood waited until the waiter was well out of earshot before resuming the conversation. “No.” He shook his head. “Maguire didn’t fire me. Not yet anyway.”
    “Then what?”
    “He wants me to find a story. Something sensational with bodies, preferably. And if I can’t find one, make one.”
    “A body?” Walter