“Those are for the regular floors. This goes up to the penthouse.”

The elevator showed up a few seconds later and they got in. Coop couldn’t help but stare at the surveillance camera over the sliding doors.

“I can set you up with someone,” said Morty.

“Please, I’m asking you nicely. Do not set me up with anyone, human, fish, or otherwise. I’m only even talking to you for business reasons. The idea of making small talk with a stranger makes me want to kill myself and everyone in this elevator.”

Morty glanced around the car. It was just the two of them.

“Point taken. But might I remind you that we’re going to a meeting with a client who’s never laid eyes on you? A certain amount of small talk is inevitable.”

“The difference is I’m not trying to woo him. I just want to woo his money.”

The elevator began to slow.

“Here we are. You ready?” said Morty.

“Sure.”

“Woo. That’s a nice word. You’re such a nice young man.”

“Quiet. You never told me the client’s name.”

“Mr. Babylon.”

“Mister what?”

“I don’t think it’s his real name.”

“No shit,” said Coop as the doors slid open. A middle-aged man stood there in a maroon silk smoking jacket with gold trim. He was as bald as a banana.

“No shit indeed, Mr. Cooper,” said Mr. Babylon.

“Sorry. Slip of the tongue.”

Mr. Babylon was very pale and round, and the folds of fat that formed his cheeks gave him the face of a giant baby.

“No apologies necessary. Shooting a little shit into the air is a good way to break the ice,” said Mr. Babylon. He nodded at Morty. “Good evening to you both. Would either of you like a drink?”

“Thanks,” said Coop.

“What’s your preference?”

“Anything brown that says bourbon on the label.”

Mr. Babylon walked to a wet bar across the room.

“I think we can accommodate you. Morty?”

“Whatever you’re having, sir.”

Mr. Babylon glanced back.

“I’m having diet ginger ale. Doctor’s orders.”

Morty hooked a thumb at Coop.

“In that case I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Very good.”

The TV was on quietly, tuned to the hotel channel. A handsome young executive type was strolling by what looked like a bank vault designed by the Inquisition. It was all bars, spikes, and crosses. The silver pentagram in the center of the door was the only outward giveaway that the vault carried enchantments.

The handsome man was saying, “ . . . and as a triple diamond member, you’re entitled to all of the hotel’s routine and supermundane security services, from our subterranean vaults, guarded twenty-four hours a day by our bonded and certified witches, to our encrypted computer and personal oracles . . .”