Django Durango

Today, Rodney was shadowing Valerie, the Reform Club’s hostess, at the front door.

“Working the door is about maintaining safety and security, greeting our members, making sure everyone is paid up on their dues, and – most importantly – making a quick assessment of each client’s needs each night so that you can give their handler a heads up on anything different they might need to account for.” Rodney’s face fell a bit, surprised by how much more work the door seemed to be. “You thought I just stood here making goggle-y eyes at Constable Rowlandson all night, didn’t you?” Valerie teased. She and the constable shared a chuckle at Rodney’s expense and her pun. “Don’t worry. It’s easier than it sounds.”

“In general, there’s two kinds of people who come to the club,” she explained. “First are the socialites. These are your Sally Boyles, your Dr. Verlocs – don’t ever call him Anton when he’s here – and your Nick Lightbearers.” She ticked each dropped name off on her rubber-gloved fingers. “Before he trashed the Rumpus Room anyway,” she added with annoyance, revoking the finger she’d marked Nick off on. “They’re not really here for most of our services. This is just a nightclub with a kinky theme to them.”

“So they’re poseurs?” Rodney asked, leaning against the counter to mimic Valerie’s stance.

Read on…

“He’s not even a scientist,” Anton Verloc said. He glanced dismissively around at the party to celebrate the opening of The Department of Scientific and Industrial Research. “He makes kitchen gadgets for bored housewives.” He sneered at Richard Arkwright, who was chatting animatedly with Lionel Castershire. Verloc felt Castershire had even less business being here.

“Richard Arkwright,” Harry Haworth leaned in and said to Verloc in a lowered tone, “is the smartest person in this room.” That was saying something, considering the entirety of Wellington Wells’ scientific community was in attendance. Haworth had brought Verloc to this party to introduce him to those who would become his colleagues. Scientific endeavors in Wellington Wells were often a collaborative effort, so it would behoove the boy to do some networking.

“He doesn’t even have a doctorate,” Verloc said, rolling his eyes. Haworth watched in annoyance as they landed on the starry-eyed shop girl Stewart Adams had crassly brought instead of his wife, Fiona. He did note with reluctant approval that the girl had the presence of mind to forgo flirting with Dr. Faraday and engage his wife in conversation instead.

“No, he does not,” Haworth said patiently. “What he does have is the good sense to leave the future in the future instead of promising it tomorrow like the rest of us do.”

Read on…