14. The City

At three o’clock on Friday afternoon, Ben Edwards, a.k.a. Big Demon, showed up in front of the tomb in a white passenger van he’d borrowed from the athletic department.

“Oh, the class,” Odile remarked dryly as she hefted herself into the back. And you had to admit, it wasn’t as nice as the limos we’d been tooling around in before the membership had lost its funding.

We all piled into the van. The party consisted of the twelve new taps and Malcolm (who avoided meeting my eyes). Apparently, another car would be following later with five more D176ers. I sat as far away from George as humanly possible, but it didn’t seem as if he even remembered making out with me at the bar, let alone had any interest in picking up where we’d left off with more flirtation.

The two-hour trip down to New York City was as uneventful as one could expect from a clunky passenger van helmed by an inexperienced chauffeur trying to navigate the streets of midtown Manhattan on a Friday afternoon. In other words: an exercise in terror. We passengers were mostly spared, but poor Ben got the brunt of the stress. I’m sorry to report that he was never quite the same afterward and we were momentarily concerned that he’d spend our entire sojourn at the Eli Club cowering in the bathroom, twitching and calling out for his mommy.

Once we’d parked (and Ben had emptied the contents of his stomach on the parking garage’s concrete floor), we made our way to the Eli Club, which is located around the corner from Grand Central Station and shares the same Gilded Age architectural decadence. One by one, we shuffled through the cramped revolving door and were spit out ungracefully into an even smaller entrance foyer.

Elegant crown molding, gilt frames, and a sweeping marble staircase and carved mahogany banister defined the formidable lobby of the Eli Club. I’d heard that the establishment threw parties here for students doing summer internships in Manhattan, angling, no doubt, to gain new members once the interns became graduates. Looking about the premises, breathing in air softly scented with calla lilies, I could understand the draw.

This was the bloody, beating heart of Eli’s mystique. Rich, elite, old school. No wonder the Tobias Trust had chosen to house their offices here. This is exactly what they wanted Eli to remain, a nest of decadent gentleman’s clubs and all-male secret societies.

I glanced at my compatriots. Old school was out.

“Can I help you?” asked a portly gentleman behind the registration desk. A blue blazer easily two sizes too small strained over his girth. A patch with the Eli crest was sewn crookedly on his lapel. If I were the paranoid type, I would think the whole getup was new.

(The cool thing I’ve learned about paranoia is, once you’ve confirmed that they are indeed after you, it kind of dissipates.)

“Yes,” said Malcolm. “Suite 312. We have an appointment.”

The doorman looked blank. “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong building. We don’t have a Suite 3—”

Malcolm placed both hands palms-down on the countertop and stared at the man. “Look at my collar,” he said calmly. “Do you think I got this out of a cereal box? Do you think we all did?”

The man blanched as he took in our crew and their pins. “Just a moment,” he whispered, picking up a receiver on his desk. “Hello, sir. Yes, I understand what you said, but—sir?” He listened for a moment in silence. “Sir, they’re wearing the pins. I was always told that if they were wearing—that I shouldn’t—yes, sir.” He put down the receiver and looked in our direction without making eye contact with any of us. “Someone will be out shortly.”

And someone was—a slight, silver-haired man in a suit, who came within three feet of us and held out his hand. “Please remove your pins and come this way.”

Nobody moved.

“Those pins do not belong to you. They belong to the organization. As you are no longer members of—”

“That’s what we’re here to discuss,” grumbled Josh.

“I’m sorry,” the man said. “But I can’t let you in with those pins on.”

“And we’re not taking them off.” Demetria stepped forward. “And since I know it’s happy hour in the dining room upstairs, I’m sure you don’t want us to cause a scene that the barbarians might hear.”

As if to illustrate her point, the door revolved and out tumbled a trio of businessmen carrying gym bags and briefcases. Malcolm was giving Demetria the evil eye, but no one else seemed scandalized by her threat. If they were going to play dirty with our lives, we’d play dirty with their precious secrecy.

The man glowered at us, spun on his heel (Are you picturing a Nazi? Because you’d have it about right), and walked toward the elevators. “I’ll have to take you up in two groups,” he said.

I somehow managed to squeeze in with the first, which consisted of Malcolm, Demetria, Clarissa, Josh, Omar, and myself. Our escort sidled in and inserted a small gold key into an elevator lock beneath the buttons. Then he pressed the button for the top floor (which was not floor three, I’d like to point out).

“Interesting place to put a Suite 312,” I said aloud.

“Miss, there is no Suite 312.”

Now I did turn to Malcolm, who was clearly trying to hold back a smile. “That’s our Amy. Always gets to the bottom of things.” Malcolm put his arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go meet the firing squad.”

The top floor of the Eli Club housed what looked like a series of executive offices. Each one had a plaque indicating what organization was renting the space. The Dartmouth Alumni Club, the Eli Crew Team, the University of Virginia Athletic Endowment Organization. The door we paused at had no plaque, only a small white card affixed to the door that read, “Thursday 7–9 P.M.”

The other crew of juniors joined us. Jennifer looked pale, and was clutching her crucifix so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. I was sure that if she opened her hand, there’d be a little imprint of Jesus in her palm.

We opened the door and filed inside. The room was windowless, paneled in dark wood, and the ceiling had intricate gold leafing around the edges, but this hardly occupied my attention. Instead, I was too busy with the following:

1) Clarissa shouting, “Dad!” while Mr. Cuthbert, who I remember from that long-ago night at Tory’s, ignored her and poured himself another glass of water.

2) Poe, seated at the far end of the conference table, hands folded before him, face turned down. Beside me, Malcolm stiffened, and I knew that he hadn’t expected to see Poe there, either. Which meant only one thing: He was acting for the opposition. (I knew it!)

Mr. Cuthbert spoke. “Little Demon, the door, if you please.” Odile started, but Cuthbert shot her a disdainful look as the short man who’d worked the elevator moved to close the door behind us. After performing the task, the old “Little Demon” crossed to the long conference table before us and took his seat, leaving the dozen students standing in an awkward huddle by the door.

Step one accomplished. They’d succeeded in making us wait before them like children called into the principal’s office. But the campaign of intimidation had just started.

“Please sit down,” said another gentleman, who looked ridiculously familiar, though for the life of me, I couldn’t place him. He gestured at the empty seats, and we all exchanged glances as we saw the offerings. Not only were we being divided, we were being trivialized. The long, burnished wood conference table was surrounded by mismatched chairs. Some were leather, high-backed, and ergonomic, others looked liked they’d been swiped from the dining hall to fill out the table. The comfy leather ones were all occupied, and it was obvious we were to take the smaller, wooden ones, which were scattered amongst the patriarchs’ places. We fanned out and sat down on the low Windsor chairs. The tabletop reached my chest and I thought I detected a smile on one of my neighboring patriarchs’ face as Odile, on his other side, practically smacked her chin on the table as she sat down.