Chapter 28: The Angstrom

28

Bealz stood in the lobby of what to him seemed like a giant, jeweled egg. He looked around in wonder, his mouth agape at the opulence, the fine people and the beautiful atmosphere. Never in his wildest imaginings could he have ever envisioned himself amid such luxury.

Less than twenty minutes away from where he had lain his head all his life, the lands surrounding the Angstrom Residential Towers and Hotel in Chicago had been much less real to him than anything he could have ever dreamed up in the Incata.

“Close your mouth, son.”

Feeling as though all of the eyes in the large room suddenly turn to look disapprovingly on his ragged shoes, his unkempt clothes and hair, Bealz has nowhere to hide and instantly burns with shame.

“C'mon man,” he says, falling back on the practiced defenses of a wounded and embarrassed black boy. “What the fuck you bring us here fo'?”

“Stop cursing, son. I brought us here because we belong here,” Askauri says, placing his hand across his chest before turning and striding towards the concierge. “My Royal Brand has returned.”

Unseen wards protected many historic structures such as this, secret properties of the Merchant Kings. The Royal Family of the Askai were welcomed and honored guests. Their Brand acting as both an introduction and a form of payment, if necessary.

“Daddy needs a long hot shower, baby. I got a decades worth of prison funk to wash off my ass before we can do anything else.”

Addressing the highly suspicious concierge, Askauri says, “I'm gonna need the Royal Suite kept in wait for the House of Askai. And send us up a caterer, a tailor, a barber and a masseuse.”

Bealz, following stupidly behind his father, stops short. He is mute with fear.

In his world, these kind of white people were not to be fucked with. This is how you got locked up, if you were lucky; if you weren't you just might end up being the next #handsupdon'tshootican'tbreath meme.

As the concierge, a look of disgust on his face, begins to speak, no doubt to kindly suggest they vacate the premises, his words catch in his throat and a look of painful distress falls across his face. He clutches and claws at his throat. Panicked, he looks to Askauri for help.

“You alright, dude?” Askauri asks. “You must be pretty new here. Otherwise you'd know that what you're feeling? That happens with a denial of service. It's a breach of treaty.”

“They used to brief the old ones, especially if they didn't have any of the Blood,” he says casually.

Looking around for Bealz, Askauri turns to find his son staring at him with open mouthed disbelief.

Bealz had no idea what was happening right now. He could swear that he'd just seen his father exhale some sort of a luminous mist. It had steamed out of his mouth as if the temperature had suddenly dropped below freezing and formed itself into a fist that wrapped around the uppity white man's throat and squeezed.

“Come on up here, son,” Askauri waves him forward. “This fine gentleman is just about to get us all squared away.”

Turning back to the concierge, Askauri says to him, “There is a very old book kept in the manager of this establishment's offices. There, you will find my name. As well as a detailed account of the appropriate penalties for turning me away.”

“Let's just say that none of this happened, and you get your manager on the line so I can get started on my shower, OK?”

Soon enough, Bealz and Askauri are escorted to the Royal Suite, the hidden one, not listed in any of the architectural plans.

Askauri immediately locks himself away in the bathroom, leaving Bealz to be poked, prodded, measured, coiffed and groomed by strangers. They provide him everything he can imagine to ask for, and much of what he would never have considered.

They bring him three different gaming systems, show him how to call down for room service, upgrade his broken iPod with a brand new iPhone.

He is approached and pampered and treated like royalty. He spends a lot of time looking at himself in the many mirrored surfaces, admiring the fine clothing, the uncomfortably expensive shoes.

His eyes, though, keep darting back to the locked door behind which his father, whom he had only known in person for a few hours, had disappeared.

Over the course of the next two days, Bealz tries hard to hold back the tears that persist in light of constant disappointment.