Jack tore through the pack of unrolled tobacco, he was almost out of time and out of money. On the counter was a small mountain of wax paper along with a mound of tobacco. People with secret identities try to go unnoticed, but Jack had managed to attract a small crowd. General stores always had a few old timers around who'd play horseshoes eat peanuts out of the barrel, and gather all the town's gossip.

  Jack wasting the last of his paycheck for a novelty card seemed to qualify. The old timers huddled him, and peered over his shoulder. Occasionally they'd 'tsk' or give a grunt of displeasure when the pack came up empty.

  "Give me another." Jack sighed, he'd already wasted fifty cents on this venture, what was one last nickel?

  "You know son." The store owner said, handing Jack one last pack. There are easier ways to gamble. If you're looking for some action..."

  "Just the cards, thanks." Jack said, taking the pack and ripping the wax paper away.

  "Who's he looking for?" Asked a new member of the audience, an older man with a canvas bag full of celery.

  "Omene." Said one of the older men, who was puffing on a pipe generously packed with Jack's tobacco and folly.

  The man whistled his appreciation. Omene was a wildly popular dancer. Even for the time you could find her in the news paper, at the picture show, even on playing cards in the back of a tobacco pack. It was obvious to any man why you'd want a picture of her to stick in your wallet.

  Only, Jack wasn't looking for titillation. He happened to have a interview with the dancer. This had all started because he thought showing her a card of herself would be a cute hook for his story, but now it was all down to a matter or pride. How many different cards could there be?

  The ripped open the last back, and brushed aside the tobacco. He'd seen almost a dozen Indian chiefs and boxers stare back at him today, but at long last he was met with the gayly dressed Omede bent backwards at a ninety degree angle. Even with the modern fashion for women being so sparse and exciting, she was scandalously dressed. There's was hardly a skirt there, and hardly a top too for that matter. Her stomach was completley exposed of course so she could do to hypnotic undulatings of her famous belly dance. The only play for modest was the thin veil she wore in the picture, but even that exposed mischievous, mysterious eyes.

  "Look at that." One of the oldtimers chuckled. The rest of the crowd joined in him some light applause and a few slaps on the back. It wasn't much but it's what passed as entertainment around Fort One Week.

  "Ms. Omede?" Jack ducked his head into the private booth of the speakeasy they'd agreed on. A green velvet curtain separated them from the rest of the world, and it looks like Ms. Omede had already ordered a bottle for the table.

  She gasped as he came in, hat in hand. "Oh sir..."

  "Jack, I'm here for our interview."

  "Oh," she relaxed some, and blushed a little. "Sorry when I read your articles in The Telegraph, well I just didn't imagine you'd be a colored man."

  Jack smiled, all teeth. "I get that a lot." He took his seat without any further objection and took out his pencil and paper. "First thing's first, how's the drink?"

  "Strong and cheap." Omede smiled, pouring herself another glass. He'd caught her in a moment of surprise, but he could tell she was quickly getting back into character.

  Omede was in all likelyhood one of the better liars to grace America's soil. In her own words she was born in Istanbul, sold to the sultan, liberated by a British officer, married in Cairo, divorced, in Thebes, and then tutored in London before finding her fortune in the theaters of America. Whether any of this was true Jack didn't know, she spoke with a perfect British accent, so that much at least seemed true. Whether it was or not, Jack didn't quite care. He was after the one piece of evidence that he could confirm.

  "I'm here to talk to you about The White Church Club."

  "Yes, your letter mentioned."

  "I think my readers would be interested in getting to know One Week's most exclusive club."

  "That's why I'm here." Smiled affably. Jack knew he'd picked a good one. The other guests of The White Church Club were politicians, intellectuals, that kind of person. The type that just might honor the oath of secrecy the club swore it's guests to. Omede was not that type of person.

  "I'd only been in One Week for a few minutes. I got off the train and there was a black carriage waiting for me, honestly." She gave a well rehearsed pause and look of distress. Jack wasn't the only person who'd heard this story. "A man get's out and tells me that I'm being abducted, and that the president wanted to meet me."

  That would be The White Church Strangler, or Dead Eye Jack, no relation. He was a still-at-large serial killer, who stalked the White Church area of town, also known as The Vile Mile. The Club has elected him their honorary president, and saved a seat for him at the head of their table for each meeting.

  "I was so terribly scared that I had no choice but to get in. They threw a hood over my head, and whisked me away to their secret clubhouse." Jack's pen was keeping pace. "It was an awful place, with black wall paper and all these ghastly decorations."

  "Like what?"

  "Nooses, weapons, coffins, there was even a skeleton. They said it was all stuff from real crimes, and executions."

  Now this was good stuff. Those moralizing temperance gals would have this club rode out on a rail by the time Jack was done with them. "Did they say who the skeleton belonged to?"

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  "Some Indian chief." Odeme said dismissively.

  'A brave veteran of the American Indian wars.' Jack wrote in his notes.

  "So they give me a tour, and then show me to their lounge. It's wonderfully furnished, but that's when I notice they have a coffee table made out of a coffin." She paused again to make sure he was getting it all down. "I was the night's entertainment you see, and after dinner they wanted me to get onto that table, and dance for them."

  "How was the dinner?"

  "Decadent as you might imagine. Streak with a king crab truffle butter. It was marvelous actually, except they all drank out of wine chaices made of skulls. They said they were from the heads of dead prostitutes."

  "How awful."

  "Oh it was awful, but I had no choice. I ate the dinner, and then they threw me up on that coffin. I gave them a good show, and feeling inspired or maybe possessed I took some of their decorations and began to dace with them as well."

  "What decorations?"

  She blushed. "The skull, and a few bones."

  "Really?"

  "Oh yes, I don't know what came over me. Like I said it's like I was possessed." She gave a theatric shudder for good effect.

  Maybe Jack hadn't picked his story as well as he had thought. He couldn't tell what was true and what as Odeme's added flare. She knew the more scandalous story she told, the more famous she'd become.

  Jack wanted to take The White Church Club Down, but he wanted to do it honestly. Which was Ironic giver the nature of Jack's relationship with The Telegraph.

  "Where you ever hurt or threatened while you were at the club?"

  "Oh no, they were perfect gentlemen. I was scared, but only because I'd heard rumors."

  "Of course, you're the first woman to enter their club house did you know that?"

  "That explains all the excitement. I must be changing hearts and minds, because they invited me back to watch the comet with them."

  "The Green Comet?"

  "That's the one. They say it's the herald for the end of the world."

  They would. "I recommend not taking them up on their offer." That wasn't very professional, but it's how he felt. The White Church Club was obsessed with death, even if they claimed their decorations were all for fun, Jack knew they were up to something more. Besides that, Odeme was kind of fun. More than fun she was stunning, and Jack was quickly running out of interview.

  "Do you have an alternate party for me to attend?" She gave him a look that surprised Jack. One that conveyed interest, and desire.

  "Ah, no." Jack said lamely. His skill with words could be found on the page, as far as he knew nothing good had ever come out of his mouth. "It could be dangerous."

  She gave him a coy pout. "Alas darling, I'm the type of gal who lives for danger." She winked. "And parties."

  "Then I'll have to find you a better one." It was a smooth line, and one he though Odeme would have appreciated but he only wrote it on his notebook.

  Odeme sighed when she found her banter had hit a brick wall. He seemed like he'd be so fun, but he was an absolute bore in person. His articles were always so, intriguing. "It looks like you're wrapping up." She said finally, hopefully even.

  "Indeed, there's just one last thing." Jack said, digging through his coat pocket.

  "What's that?"

  Odeme was surprised to see a picture of herself looking back at her, balanced delicately between Jack's finger. "Would you mind signing this?"

  The Tambourine Theater wasn't a place you'd expect to find future stars, and indeed Jack hadn't. It was a place you'd expect to find struggling artists, and indeed Jack had.

  Jack Ryan was Jack's other self. He was a two bit player in The Tamborine Theater, he fancied himself a leading man, and maybe he'd get there, but for the moment his most challenging role was that of a successful journalist.

  Ryan was Jack's face around The Telegraph. He took in stories, made connections and picked up the checks. These were all things Jack would have been happy to do, but alas it wasn't meant to be. He was black, and for the editor that was that. For Jack it just took a little extra planning, and a big cut in pay.

  He was technically making more than he'd make at any of the colored papers, but it didn't feel that way when Ryan got half his check. It was a noxious situation to be in, but Ryan endured it. The Telegraph was the oldest and most prestigious paper in the city. To be a part of it, even to only be half a part of it was worth the struggle to Jack.

  He stood outside The Tambourine fanning himself with the copy of the Odeme interview he'd printed off for Ryan. This is where they did all their drop offs. Ryan lived at the theater, sometimes literally. Jack was still kicking himself for the interview, and Odeme. He'd jumped straight into the article. He should have made some small talk at least, they had a whole bottle of wine.

  At intermission the would be actor came stumbling out of the back door, sweaty and out of breath. "I'm dying out there man." He said as he breathlessly took hold of Jack's shoulders. "I swear anything higher brow than a rodeo clown is completely lost on these people."

  Jack had some thoughts on that, especially since the higher entertainment Ryan was engaging in was a minstrel show. That's where whitefolk cover their faces in show polished and do the most distasteful impressions of Jack and his ilk. Not exactly Shakespeare. "It's noble to suffer for you art Jack, it's what makes you a real artist."

  Ryan smiled brightly, it was all the brighter thanks to the inch of red paint around his lips. "I know you don't mean that, but it feels good to hear." He clapped his hands together. "What have you got for me today?" He eyed the manuscript in Jack's hand greedily.

  "Try not to get shoe polish on it." Jack said dismissively. "It's the interview with Odeme, about The White Church Club."

  "Breaking the story on the club, you're going to be the envy of every gossip columnist in the city."

  "It should get their attention at least." Jack knew the club's ego wouldn't be able to survive Jack's slander. Soon enough he'd receive an invitation, and that's when things would get interesting.

  Ryan looked up at Jack, eyes sparkling. "And Odeme how was she?"

  "She was definitely using us as much as we're using her."

  "Beautiful though right?"

  "Pretty as a picture." Jack moved the card with Odeme's picture out of his jacket and into Ryan's hand. "Be sure to give that to the printer."

  "Wow!" Ryan drank up the pretty image in his hands. "Does she really dress that way?"

  "Not to interviews."

  "That's a shame." Ryan was shaking his head in disbelief that someone could be so pretty.

  "Hey." Jack had one last question for his minion. "Do you know of any parties that are going on, for the comet?"

  Ryan scratched his chin. "Are you talking about The Bloodmoon Ball?"

  Jack sighed. That didn't sound like a much better alternative than dinner at The White Church Club. "Sounds inviting."

  "It should be." Ryan laughed. "Half the money in town's going to be there. The Bloodmoon family is introducing their daughter to Society.

  "I see." The Bloodmoons were one of the big three families in One Week. They weren't as rich as the other two families, but they controlled the politics in town. There wasn't an elected office in the county thar hadn't at some point had 'Bloodmoon' etched into a plaque outside of it. And not as rich, didn't mean poor. Their mansion still had a ballroom big enough to host the city elites and their plus ones. One of their parties was the last place on Earth Jack belonged, and it was probably the only place that Odeme wanted to be. "When you turn that in tomorrow. See if you can get us in."