In the corner of the bar is a small stage. Just big enough to fit the band. By stage I mean the metaphorical idea of a stage; in reality, it is just a section of the bar that, through general consent, no one is going to intrude on. The same trick can be done by drawing a chalk line and telling people not to cross it or stringing fancy yellow tape that says Police Line Do Not Cross. But for one feathered animal, one descendant of giants, one fmingo, it's where he gets his chance to be a star.

  The fmingo dances to the slow bass line, showing off his skills as a backup dancer. When the song ends, the crowd is cheering for him and his band.

  Or so he thinks.

  Izzy and Jacob enter the bar. The band is pying something sweet and slow. Couples are dancing close together. Izzy can't tell if the jazz is period correct or some modern song being pyed in the style of the period. She turns to look at the stage and is surprised to see that the fmingo is standing on the stage, swaying back and forth comically not in sync with the beat of the music. Sensing her gaze, it gres at Izzy, and she gres back. ‘What the hell is the deal with the fmingo?’ she thinks.

  Jacob bumps into the motionless Izzy; they stumble and start to fall but are caught by the Doctor, who makes two long tubes out of his hands that wrap around them and hold them upright. “You have to be more careful; you might get hurt, and I don’t get to wear my Detective Dirk Stabbard costume very often.”

  “What?” Izzy asks as she gets her bance back.

  “Why did you stop?” Jacob asks, smoothing out the fabric of his outfit.

  “The fmingo is on the stage, and he is not swaying with the beat,” she responds and points. Jacob looks up and watches the band start pying again. The fmingo begins dancing; this time the song is more upbeat and bouncy.

  “Hardly the most unusual thing going on in here tonight,” he responds and watches the fmingo. “Actually, that’s because it is swaying to the bass. Why would it do that?” Jacob then looks around the room.

  The doctor has returned to drinking a martini while reading a copy of Dirk Stabbard, Detective for Hire.

  The room is crowded. Grup is towering over everyone; his outfit makes him look like a green Al Capone with Scarlet as his arm candy.

  Scarlet is wearing a bright red sequin dress that makes shimmering noises when she moves. Her lips were red and exaggerated with lipstick. Her eyelids painted a pale pink, she looks like a lounge singer. She has her arms wrapped around one of Grups wrists. Grups hand holding her belly.

  Mars is sulking in the corner watching while talking with the doctor about the comic he is reading. They occasionally ugh, and a smile creeps onto his face—that is, until he looks over at Scarlet; then the sour look returns.

  Izzy looks around for Dr. Blob; she hates to say it, but their brief exchange left her feeling a kinship with the little guy. But he is nowhere in sight.

  Instead, her eyes nd on Tulip Macpherson dressed as a mob enforcer. Her bck suit has white tulips embroidered on the edges, her hat has a white band, and she has a wicked grin on her face as she surveys the room with a violin case in one hand, the other one drinking a whiskey. She is having a conversation with Nurse Happy, who is wearing a 1920s-style nurse outfit. Izzy suddenly has a fear of cuckoo clocks.

  Among the faces she recognizes are many people she simply doesn't. Jacob grabs her arm and tries to lead her to the bar. On the way, the fox-eared woman slips through the crowd. A 2-foot tray with a champagne tower held in one hand.

  She moves around the room handing out gsses. Jacob grabs one for him and one for her and turns around to find Izzy 10 feet away. He slides through the crowd till he gets back to her. He hands her the gss and says, “To a fun night, Izzy.”

  She clinks gsses with him. “To a fun night,” she says, and together they traverse the maze of people to get to the bar.

  “What’s the password?” the cat says with a grin. His costume is perfect; he looks like he stepped out of a 20’s speakeasy.

  “Great costume,” Jacob compliments and takes his hat off and sets it on the bar.

  “And you would have looked better in the dress.” The cat winks at Jacob, enraging him inside. “No password, no service.”

  “What, they wouldn't let you put in a door? You know how this is supposed to work, right?” She raises an eyebrow questioningly at him.

  “Well, you’re no fun, Izzy.” He pouts, “I bet you can’t guess my password.”

  She looks at the ancient trickster “Rumpelstiltskin,” she says with a grin.

  “Oh, so close but also completely wrong. It's a good answer. I never heard of a narc that could read,” he grins, showing too many teeth. “Would you like to try again?”

  “No, just tell me. What’s on the menu? I’m hungry.” Izzy says.

  “It’s Coronado,” a masculine voice says in a slow French accent.

  Izzy looks around and spots the source of the voice. A person sitting at the bar with the colr of his dark brown greatcoat popped and his hat pulled low. But his piercing blue eyes seeing Izzy through the gap, she can almost imagine a smile hidden behind the colr that looks like the cat's.

  “Coronado,” Izzy says to the cat, but her eyes are glued to the stranger.

  “You ruined my fun and my night,” the cat glowers at the stranger. “Go away forever.”

  “Cat, your lover's quarrel can wait. What's on the menu for tonight?” she asks, her stomach rumbling.

  “A Derby Hot Brown, you will like it,” the cat says, his eyes only gncing away from the stranger for instants and then snapping back like his gaze is holding the man in pce. “Before you ask, it’s an open-faced sandwich with thick-sliced turkey, bacon , tomato, and a creamy mornay sauce.”

  “Yeah, that sounds good, Cat,” Izzy says while also keeping her eyes on the stranger. “What is Mornay sauce?” She asks, but before the stranger can talk, the cat slips a hand between the two, his nails long and sharp.

  “They are trouble; you should stay far away from them.” Cat says, the way he says it, the weight of his words pushing Izzy backwards.

  “Uh, yeah, ok, I want the sandwich,“ she says, and Jacob smiles at the cat, unaware of the psychic push Izzy just received.

  “Yeah, I want one too unless you have a better idea.” He asks the cat.

  “No, I think it’s a fine idea,” the cat retorts and walks briskly to the back to pce and pick up the order.

  The man who is hiding behind his colr picks up his gss of thick red liquid and drinks it down.

  “Holy shit, Jacob, I think that’s a vampire.” Izzy whispers.

  “The cat warned you to leave them alone, Izzy,” he responds, sipping the champagne not because he likes it but because he finally managed to get alcohol.

  “Yes, you’re more likely to live a long, happy life the less you know me,” the vampire says.

  “Ok, good,” Izzy says and looks away, turning back to Jacob, turning away from temptation. The cat's words ringing in her head.

  For once, Izzy listens to the cat and follows directions and might not end up having sex with a mysterious supernatural being…. ‘No, stop it, Izzy,’ she tells herself.

  ‘This guy feels wrong—more wrong than the cat, and that's impressive. But who are they? What are they doing here? Why does the bar keep blood around to service them? Her logical self yells from behind the chair that is fending off the hedonist attacking it with its empty void of desire. Meanwhile, the cat comes back with their order and delivers it.

  “I have to deal with this. Enjoy,” he says, distracted.

  The Cat walks in front of the vampire and sets down another gss of blood.