The Queen Marigold Hotel
The Queen Marigold Hotel.
I ran through the sequence of the party that Tiffany had described, laying each step out in my head.
First, arrive at the hotel and pull up to the front, getting out of the car first.
Then hand the keys to the approaching valet, ask him to park it, and escort Tiffany inside.
Every stage of that process would be watched by the reporters and onlookers who hadn't been invited to the party.
That's how it works, then.
Deciding to focus on nothing but the process for now, I spoke up.
"By the way, Tiffany."
"Yes?"
"At shows, the invited guests don't all arrive at the same time, right? They show up one after another at different times."
I recalled the award ceremonies I used to watch on television. The building with the red carpet laid out in front, Hollywood stars emerging one by one from their cars, bathing in a barrage of camera flashes — that was the usual drill.
"How do they manage that? It's not like everyone waits in some back alley for their turn."
"They stagger the invitations at five-minute intervals."
"A remarkably simple solution."
"It is, which is why you have to arrive at a very precise time. We were invited for 8:10."
It was six minutes to the hour now.
"Then I'd better speed up."
I pressed down on the accelerator. The exhaust note surged, sharper and more electric than before, and the car slid through the streets of New York toward the party.
A few blocks out, the location began to make itself obvious.
Christ, that's garish.
No — wait, there were plenty of other hotels around here. Was it really okay to be that conspicuous?
Fireworks streamed up toward the sky in a chasing arc and burst overhead.
What was this, an old Batman movie?
Ah. This is 2005 sensibility.
With an awkward smile, I kept driving toward the front of the hotel. Security guards had cleared a path in advance, and I was waved through to park without incident.
"Make it look good."
Cheered on (sort of) by Tiffany, I stepped out of the car and immediately checked the 'spectators' across the street — the crowds who had gathered for even a single glimpse of a celebrity's face. Cheers rose sporadically, but none of them seemed to recognize me.
I smirked at that, and gave a casual wave toward the side where the cheering was coming from. Then I handed the keys to the hotel valet who'd approached my window.
"It'll be in good hands, sir."
"Thank you."
With the pleasantries done, I circled back and opened the passenger door, and Tiffany stepped out.
"A bit understated, isn't it?"
"Excess is never a good look."
The camera flashes rained down on us. Escorting Tiffany on my arm, I walked straight into the hotel.
Literally — the entire point was to project composure, so that was exactly how I carried myself. In truth, it was my first time at anything like this and my nerves were a tight knot in my chest.
But the only person that tension reached was Tiffany, holding onto my arm.
Inside, the hotel's stately, old-world interior unfolded before us — a lobby sparsely populated by security guards, staff, and invited guests. Tiffany and I made our way toward an elderly woman standing by the elevator.
Yes — the hostess of this party, and the only attendee who belonged to the senior generation.
Mrs. Hopkins.
Widowed from a husband who'd run a steel business, she had recently remarried a baseball star, Joseph Guiyosef. Recalling the dossier Tiffany had given me, I watched the 'sponsors' as they exchanged greetings ahead of us.
"Tiffany Maxen."
"Mrs. Hopkins!"
"How lovely of you to come. And this is?"
"A wrestler I'm pushing this time around. His ring name is Shin."
"Shin~. A pleasure."
"The honor is mine, Mrs. Hopkins."
Drawing close, I lifted the lady's hand and pressed my lips to it.
"Handsome, too. He doesn't quite give off the pro wrestler air, does he?"
"Haha, doesn't he? Most of the wrestlers who've come through have been absolute mountains of men."
"Well, I find this one rather dashing."
"A wrestler of the new era."
Having exchanged our greetings, we left Mrs. Hopkins and boarded the elevator ahead of the others.
I got straight to the point.
"...Her husband?"
I meant not the late one, but the current one — Guiyosef.
"Probably off charming some women under the excuse of going to the restroom."
"And that's allowed?"
"I knew exactly who he was when I married him. It's hardly our place to judge."
"..."
"Money can buy love, but it can't chain anyone down."
A strange thing to say.
Tiffany laughed playfully and leaned her shoulder against mine.
"Be careful, Shin. This place is probably going to be full of things you don't understand."
"For example?"
"The reason my father fought with Jaina White was because Jaina wanted to stage actual fights between the wrestlers."
"...Should I be steeling myself for something?"
"No, don't worry. I've already made that point absolutely clear — that WWF will not participate if they make the wrestlers fight each other for real."
"Hmm."
Something about that still didn't sit right.
"So they're going to make them do something else?"
"I honestly couldn't say."
"Let me look into—"
And right at that moment, the elevator bound for the top floor paused at an intermediate level. Tiffany and I fell silent mid-conversation. Then the doors slid open—
"Oh?"
My eyes went wide.
"...Ah."
The other party seemed equally surprised.
Well, he was wearing sunglasses, so it was hard to tell for certain.
"Hey, maaan~ we go way back, right?"
"Snoop-Duck. We do keep running into each other in elevators."
"True that. You were Shin, right?"
"You actually remember."
"Ah, my bad. I was a little... gone, up in the head, that day."
"..."
"Oh, Tiffany Maxen."
Snoop-Duck recognized Tiffany standing behind me and sauntered over.
"Long time no see, Snoop."
"You been keeping good?"
"Yes. Are you performing tonight as well?"
"That's the plan. Mrs. Hopkins was kind enough to arrange it."
Unexpectedly... he came across as remarkably gentlemanly when he spoke.
"When did you two meet?"
"Was it a year ago?"
"...Three days ago, actually."
"Ah, my bad. When I'm lit, my memory ain't the best."
Not from cigarettes — from something else entirely.
"We met in an apartment elevator. We exchanged hellos."
"Didn't know Snoopy talked to strangers."
"No offense meant, but you're real different from the Asian folks I've known."
With that, Snoop-Duck offered me his hand again.
"That was some ignorant talk back then. It got a racial edge to it, so let me apologize proper."
"It's quite all right."
I let it slide.
There'd been no real malice in it, and besides, I was hardly in a position to sour the mood.
And so we rode the rest of the way to the top floor, chatting with Snoop-Duck along the way.
The rooftop had a clean, polished atmosphere. A stage with a DJ setup. Around a large central fountain, surrounded by lush ornamental plants, guests mingled and talked. Everyone wanted to get their greetings in early, before the party officially began.
Snoop-Duck sauntered ahead, leading us toward the stage.
"That DJ rig right there? Brand new model. Thing absolutely kills."
"So most of New York will be having a sleepless night, then."
"Don't sweat it. Everybody chipped in and bought out a night at the hotels around here."
"That's... impressive."
Despite my easy tone, I turned to Tiffany, just slightly — okay, considerably — thrown off.
'That was the entrance fee,' she whispered to me.
So this was high society.
Well, when that much astronomical money changes hands, it becomes the talk of the town — which, presumably, was exactly what all of them wanted.
"Let's start with a drink, one each."
Snoop-Duck handed out glasses from the liquor set on the stage.
"And Shin — didn't we agree we'd be friends?"
"We did."
It had been a misunderstanding, but still.
"Call me Snoopy. All my friends do. So you're an athlete, huh — can you handle your 'champy'?"
"I'll manage."
"Here. Have yourself a glass of the most expensive champagne in the world."
I took a light sip of the champagne Snoop poured for me.
"Two million dollars a bottle, that one."
"...?"
"No — it's expensive because of the diamond inside the bottle."
"Kehihi — careless, you might end up drinking the diamond itself!"
Snoopy grinned at my momentary flustered expression, then climbed up onto the stage. Naturally, as if it were second nature, he threw on his own music and started DJing.
"He's a fun one, isn't he?"
"...Aside from the part where he's spraying a two-million-dollar champagne around like a garden hose."
"That's why he's fun. Come on — let's keep working the room."
Led by Tiffany's hand, I made a circuit of the party. We met the invited sponsors and their athletes, trading greetings all around.
And then I noticed something odd, and my eyebrows rose.
Without anyone bothering to introduce themselves by sport, I could tell what each of them did just by looking.
Football.
Line position, probably? The thought came as I shook hands with a broad-shouldered giant of a man. And I was right, most of the time.
Tall, lean, with hands and feet disproportionately huge — basketball. An ordinary build with slightly baggy trousers — soccer player, most likely. A man who looked utterly unremarkable — no prize for guessing, an F1 driver. Beyond those, I picked out the boxers and MMA fighters by their knuckles and their faces.
My eye's gotten better, at least.
Even as I traded gentlemanly greetings, I studied each of them closely. If Tiffany's prediction held, something was coming today where I'd be competing against these people.
Jaina White.
Thirty-four years old this year, he had taken over a floundering MMA business and grown it into a powerhouse through relentless, aggressive marketing.
Almighty Fighting Championship.
AFC, for short.
The world, watching him blow competing organizations to pieces, called him the second coming of Bart Maxen.
Jaina himself despised that comparison more than anything.
Bart Maxen had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
But Jaina had been a nobody who taught aerobics for a living. He'd dragged investors into the room, pitched his vision until his voice gave out, tasted the bitterness of defeat, and clawed his way to where he stood. To be measured against Bart was, to him, an outright humiliation.
Besides, unlike that stale old relic of 'fake' pro wrestling whose golden age had long since passed, the MMA business still had oceans of room left to grow.
Fake, the lot of them.
Seated at the bar, Jaina knocked back his drink in one swallow. His glance drifted across the room and landed on a beautiful woman standing at one side of the party.
Tiffany Maxen.
He couldn't describe how much it had soured his mood when he'd spotted her name on the guest list while reviewing it before the party. Just when he'd thought he was finally free of the eyesore that was Bart Maxen, along came something even more foul-tasting.
Jaina's gaze settled on Tiffany's smiling face.
Mid-twenties, at best.
In the end, another silver spoon — cut from the same mold as Bart. That was precisely why Tiffany disgusted him even more. Unlike Bart, who had at least built a wrestling empire with his own hands, she had surely shown up to this party on nothing but her pedigree alone.
Which was exactly why he intended, by any means necessary, to knock her down a peg tonight.
And the instrument he'd prepared for the job was the man standing right beside him.
Freddy Helberg.
Not a fighter whose name carried any weight. His debut wouldn't even come until a bout three months from now — meaning he was, at this moment, still in the thick of building his body.
But the skill was undeniable. In Jaina's experienced judgment — a man who had watched countless fighters come and go — Freddy was the perfect athlete to bring along tonight.
Not that it even matters. There's no way a pro wrestler beats him.
In the end, wrestlers were showmen. Whatever form the game took, in an actual contest this side held the overwhelming advantage. And on top of that, Jaina had already gotten his hands into the rules of whatever game they'd be playing.
"Freddy."
It was to discuss exactly that that Jaina turned to the man beside him.
"Freddy?"
But Freddy's gaze stayed snagged on the man standing next to Tiffany.
Jaina tilted his head at the unexpected reaction. Freddy didn't even know who Tiffany Maxen was yet — so there was no way his interest had been drawn by the 'wrestler beside Tiffany.'
"What is it?"
Only after being asked several times did Freddy finally speak, still frowning.
"...It's nothing. Something's just... off about him."
"About who?"
Freddy had said it before: he could tell what sport any athlete had trained in just from the rough way they carried a suit.
And yet—
"That Asian man over there. Something about him is strange."
"What...?"
"I can't tell what sport he trained in. But that body has definitely been conditioned properly — you can see it in that thick neck of his."
Jaina turned to look at the Asian man beside Tiffany — and within moments, he was laughing at the sheer absurdity of it.
As if that were possible.