That projection was wasted off the stage. Then again, Cordelia couldn’t think what kind of act would fit him. Maybe strong man. Or a lion tamer.
“Curtain goes up same time tonight as every night.” He strafed his employees with narrow black eyes like machine gun barrels. People cringed, but he held his fire till he struck on Tory and Cordelia. “You all better be on your toes,” he said. Though he meant it for the company, Cordelia knew it was aimed at her. “I ain’t above sackin’ anybody who lets this election get in the way of their performance.”
It would’ve been a solid threat, but it didn’t hold up long. The double doors at the back of the house swung open like a set piece, revealing Aristide Makricosta like the climax of a campy drama. The entrance was perfectly timed; Cordelia didn’t think he was above listening at the keyhole for the right cue.
“Awfully sorry I’m late,” he drawled, stripping off a pair of claret kid gloves. With theatrical surprise, he took note of them all gathered in front of the stage, half in street clothes still. “My, my. What is happening here? Haven’t we got a show to put on?”
Malcolm turned a dangerous shade of red, not too different from Ari’s gloves. “Makricosta.” He leveled his crumpled sheet music like a baton and thrust it at the target of his rage. “What kept you?”
Aristide’s smile was thin and sharp as the blade of a Market Street fish knife, and he broke out the central city stutter. “Apologies, Malcolm. It was a t-t-trifling matter, and obviously it could have waited. I didn’t realize what a state the place would b-b-be in when I arrived.”
Malcolm let his fistful of music fall to his side. “You and me both.”
“It’s ‘neither,’” said Aristide, and flounced off to change. His departure seemed to signal the rest of the cast, who rose from their chairs. Cordelia followed in the general rush, hoping to avoid a scene. For once, she was grateful to that overgrown, overrated blush boy. He’d drawn enough of Malcolm’s ire that she might make it out unnoticed. But just before she gained the downstage entrance, Malcolm grabbed her by the arm. The overlarge sweater made him miss her flesh, and he ended up with a handful of knitted wool. Still, it was enough to yank her from her path.
He scanned her face without meeting her eyes. “You don’t even have your paint on yet.”
“Trolley was running late,” she said, thrusting her chin in the air.
“Swineshit.”
She huffed. “Look, Mal, the whole city’s hung right over, or still asleep, or they’ve got their noses in their rears over the headlines out of Nuesklend.” She grabbed her sleeve and tugged it from his grip. “What do you want from us? We ain’t no different from the rest of ’em.”
“Oh, you are,” he said, “and you’re a damn sight worse.” Then he did a double-take, half reaching toward her arm again. His face went soft, then crumpled back into a frown. “Delia, what are you wearing? You look like a rag lady.”
She gathered the folds of his oversized sweater more tightly around herself and marched for the stage door. Over her shoulder, she offered, “At least I don’t look like an asshole.”
CHAPTER
NINE
Culpepper paced the debriefing room like a zoo animal, shoulders hunched around her ears. “Mother and sons, DePaul, what happened over there? Where’s my evidence? What am I supposed to tell Hebrides?”
“Tell him I was blown before I could get anything.” It was the story he’d cooked up, bolstered by an artfully hectic exit from Nuesklend and a week lying low amid the dust sheets at the DePaul estate in Carmody, waiting for the election drama to play out. “They’re sharper than you thought, and they didn’t buy Landseer. Or maybe you’ve got a mole at home. I don’t know.”
“A mole?” she snarled.
“How do you think they clocked me? Somebody told them, and I’d wager it’s someone in the Foxhole. Who else would know?” He’d been wondering too, though his few inquiries had amounted to nothing.
Culpepper stopped in front of his chair and jabbed at him with her cigarette—her fourth during the debriefing. “Why don’t you tell me? I know I don’t slip FOCIS secrets to any old blush boy with a generous pocketbook.”
“Oh, very flattering. He’s got nothing to do with this.”
“You’re telling me he didn’t know where you were headed?”
“I’m a professional, Ada, not a gossiping grandparent.”
“I hope that’s true. You’ve run honeypots before, but that doesn’t mean you won’t fall for one if it smells sweet enough.”
Unbidden, Cyril thought of the crease of Aristide’s neck, where it met his jaw: the musky remnants of his everyday cologne mixing with the softer, darker smell of sweat. “Ada, I’m insulted.”
“Don’t be. It’s not personal; I’ve seen it happen to far better agents than you.” She smiled sourly. “There, you can be insulted about that one, if you want.”
“Thank you.” He stood, gathering his coat and hat. “No, really: thank you. You’re extremely generous.”
“And you are extremely useless.”
He stiffened. “Director, you are out of line. I have served this organization faithfully”—indignation made the lie easy—“for the last ten years of my life and more. Useless?”
His excoriation seemed to strike her like a blow. She sagged and sank into the chair he had just vacated. “I apologize. You’re right. But you have to understand … This is extremely upsetting.”
“I do,” he said. “Believe me, I do.”
“Go home,” she said.
“And what? Wait for orders? What’s the next step?”
“We have some contingencies, but I want to meet with Josiah. I’ll ring you up. For now, just get some rest. You look like somebody peeled you off their shoe.”
Slinking out of her office, he passed beneath Memmediv’s appraising eyes and had a sudden, creeping suspicion. Before he turned the corner, Cyril looked up and met the secretary’s gaze. Insight struck him in the gut like a boot, and he turned to flee.
* * *
He stood in the corner of the trolley stop, pressing one shoulder each against the cold walls. He was weary with travel, verging on ill. Pity, too. The evening was beautiful: sun low over the western edge of the harbor, fruit trees ready to burst into blossom. Yet all he wanted to do was go home, drink something strong, and sleep until he died.
He needed to see Aristide, or send him a message, but couldn’t scrape together enough acuity to address the problem of how. Van der Joost had made it clear he couldn’t see Ari anymore, not and hope to keep his skin. It had to be roundabout, however he dropped the news. He already knew he wouldn’t tell the truth. No, he’d just jettison Ari and let him figure it out on his own. Because of course he would. He was many things, but never a fool.
“Mr. DePaul?”
Cyril didn’t jump, but he must have moved, or made a face, because Finn apologized immediately.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, stepping under the overhang of the trolley stop. When he drew closer, his brows knit together in concern. “Queen and cairn, do you always look so rough?”
Cyril shrugged one shoulder. “Came in on the sleeper. Didn’t sleep much.”
“Ah, yes. I never do either. Where were you coming from? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“You can ask,” said Cyril, and made a point to say nothing else. Silence hung in the air, explanatory.
Finn laughed, though the joke was weak. “I don’t suppose you’d join me for a pint, then. You ought to go home and turn in.”
“Oh, damn. I owe you one, don’t I?”
“It can wait, really.” Finn waved him away, a blush rising on his broad cheeks. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to call in the favor. I only—”
“No, no,” said Cyril, because despite his exhaustion, he suddenly saw an opportunity opening in front of him. Maybe his methods didn’t have to be so roundabout, after all. He just needed a patsy, and a boring colleague would work perfectly. “Listen, I do need t
o drop by my flat and freshen up, but how would you feel about dinner and a show?”
Finn made a sweet, sly face, like a naughty child. “Is this a pickup?”
It took Cyril half a second to realize he was being mocked, and when it hit him, he surprised himself with laughing. “I deserved that.”
“Aye, you did. What sort of show?”
“The only sort,” Cyril said. “The best. Have you been to the Bumble Bee Cabaret?”
* * *
They’d rolled things over while Cyril was gone, put up a new revue. It was like coming home to find all his neighbors had changed.
Spotlights swirled across the boards and the drape of the velvet curtains, sparkling on the jeweled costumes of the nymphs in the tableau. It glanced off the buckles of Aristide’s shoes, and the gold leaf glued around his dark eyes like dazzling freckles.
The applause for the opening number went on so long, Aristide had to hold up his hands and pat the air. “Children, children,” he said, “p-p-please.”
Gradually, they quieted. Aristide fanned himself with a languid hand, theatrically overcome. “You do know how to make a fellow blush.” Someone shouted a lewd remark from the rear of the theatre, to which he responded, “And I’m sure you know how to do a bit more.”
Three separate wolf whistles blended in sharp harmony. Aristide simpered, flicking dismissive fingers at his fans.
“Stop it,” he said. “You’ll give him a big head. And that’s my job.” He executed an obscene gesture involving a closed fist and the clever application of his tongue to the inside of his cheek. The audience went crazy.
Despite himself, Cyril grinned. That was his line, from weeks ago. His laughter died in his throat when he glanced over and saw Finn, and remembered why he was here. If the boy drooled any harder, he would need a nanny to wipe his chin.
“Don’t get too excited, darling,” said Aristide, eyeing his admirer at the back of the room. “They call it ‘t-t-tongue-in-cheek’ for a reason.”
The show only grew more raucous from there.
Just before the interval, as Aristide was introducing each member of the chorus with brief, tantalizing biographies rich in sexual euphemism, the card boy began to make his rounds. It was good there were so many dancers in the kick line; every table had at least one card for Tito, and a wad of cash. He made slow progress toward their seats.
It gave Cyril time to make his move. “You’ve got a look in your eye, Mr. Lourdes.”
“Hm?” Finn turned. The dancing stage lights flashed through his hair and eyelashes.
“Why don’t you send your card back?” Cyril tipped his chin toward the stage, ignoring the small, sharp pain of jealousy where it dug beneath his ribs. “Makricosta can be very friendly with his clientele.” He let insinuations slide into it, and saw Finn’s eyes dart away.
“You know him?”
“Finn, I’m fifth floor. I know everyone.”
Finn bought it like a gullible mark, eager to believe. “He’s not going to come out here for an accountant.” To Cyril’s satisfaction, he belied himself reaching for his card case.
Tito strolled past their table and recognized Cyril. He opened his mouth, but before he could extend an incriminating greeting, Cyril stopped him with a hand on his arm. “This gentleman has a card for Mr. Makricosta.”
Tito took Finn’s proffered scrap of paper, slipping it into one of the divided sections of his tray. “That it?” His gaze lingered on Cyril for a weighty moment, but Cyril gave him nothing. When Finn turned his blushing face back to the stage and Tito started to walk away, Cyril snagged the gold-piped edge of his livery and tugged him back.
“Make sure he comes to our table,” he said, offering several folded bills of an impressive denomination. “But not for me, understand?”
“Yes sir.” Tito made the cash disappear in the cup of his small palm, then retrieved Finn’s card from the rear of the stack and dropped it at the front. It gave Cyril sick satisfaction to see him do it—a sour, noble feeling between masochism and confidence.
When the curtain dropped on the final tableau, Finn swiveled on his stool to face Cyril. “Do you really think he’ll come by?”
“Only one way to tell,” said Cyril. He raised his glass. “To taking chances.”
Finn tipped his drink in rueful return. When he lifted it to his mouth, Cyril grinned through shame.
* * *
“I don’t care who he is,” Aristide snarled, “or how much he p-p-paid you. Madame Fa is a friend and c-c-client, and what’s more, a very wealthy patron of the theatre.” She’d married rich the first time, and well the second, and was prone to dropping big cheques on artistic—and illicit—enterprises. “Do you want to explain to Mr. Sailer why I was ch-ch-chatting up an accountant while an Asunan b-b-baroness sat unattended in the front row?”
Tito’s fists spasmed, then opened into beseeching palms. “Mr. Makricosta,” he said. “Please. Just see him for a moment.”
“No.” Aristide slashed the air with an open hand. “For the last time—”
“It’s Mr. DePaul,” said Tito. “I weren’t supposed to say, but … well, he’s given me a hefty wad to make sure you see the young gentleman.”
Cyril was back? Aristide’s negating hand curled around the cuff of his dressing gown, drawing it close. “Is that so?” He squeezed his genuine smile into a foxy, acquisitive expression. “Give me twenty percent of your cut and I’ll see to it.”
“Ten,” said Tito, crossing his arms.
“Fifteen or he goes home disappointed.”
They shook on it, and Aristide took his cash and stack of cards from Tito’s tray. What was Cyril up to? He had twenty minutes to figure it out, before the interval ended—Malcolm ran them long, to give his stars more mingling time.
Habit helped him locate Cyril’s immaculate head, bent over his usual table in conversation with some copper-haired schoolboy in an ill-cut jacket. Business sense and good manners bade him stop front and center first to pay his respects to the Honorable Baroness I Fa.
“I’m awfully sorry I can’t stay.” He kissed her bird-boned knuckles. “Something’s come up.”
“How much did they bid?” she asked, her smile teasing. She was gray-haired, but still an incorrigible flirt.
“My dear, I’m afraid this is a p-p-pillow matter, rather than a pocket one. I simply cannot be swayed.”
“Oh, my iris. It is a wonder you ever escape your boudoir.”
He dimpled at her endearment. Traditionally, comparison to the flower implied elaborate beauty without artifice, and was clearly meant in irony. “May I ask you to luncheon tomorrow, instead? Caviar and brown butter sole will hardly remedy my t-t-treachery, but…”
“No, tomorrow is not good for me.” She took a small diary from her beaded reticule. “In fact, I am hemmed in for ages. But I am giving a little soiree in a few weeks. Shall I send you an invitation?”
“Oh, my d-d-darling, that would be simply splendid.” He kissed her hand again, rose from the table, and bowed. “Until then.”
With her bright black eyes following him, he made his way between the tables, approaching Cyril from behind. The shabby young man was shredding the carnation from his boutonniere. When he looked up from its bruised petals, he saw Aristide and turned the same appealing pink as the bloody inside of a steak.
Aristide couldn’t help it—he licked his lips. The boy’s eyes went wide, and wider still when Aristide settled his hands on Cyril’s shoulders. His long, lacquered nails put dimples in the wool of Cyril’s jacket.
“The p-p-prodigal,” said Aristide, his lips touching the edge of Cyril’s ear. “You smell like foreign parts. How thrilling.”
Cyril cringed beneath Aristide’s grip. “Mr. Lourdes,” he said, the tone of his voice chill with warning. “I’d like you to meet Aristide Makricosta.”
* * *
Cyril ground his teeth. This moment was the most delicate piece of his plan, and Aristide was threatening to derail it.<
br />
“Ch-ch-charmed,” said Ari, slipping into the seat between Cyril and Finn. “Charmed, I’m sure.” He took Finn’s hand—offered for a shake—and brushed painted lips over the backs of his fingers. While Finn was busy stammering and trying to look anywhere but Aristide’s face, Aristide shot Cyril a glance from beneath feathered, gem-studded lashes.
“I meant to get to the bar before the mob,” said Cyril, light and conversational. “But I didn’t, quite. Mr. Makricosta, if you’d be so kind as to use your celebrity to jump the line, I’ll gladly pay and carry.” Before Finn could volunteer his services, Cyril put a hand on his arm. “What can I get you, Mr. Lourdes?”
“Oh, just—” He looked between them, surprise plain on his face. “Gin and celery bitters? With a little soda.”
“Excellent choice.” Cyril slipped his palm beneath Aristide’s elbow and drew him out of his seat, away from Finn and into the interval hubbub.
As soon as they were away from the table, Aristide pulled his arm free. “Cyril,” he said, in his most affected accent, “if this is supposed to be some kind of a sting, you’re making a c-c-complete hash of it.”
“Shut up,” said Cyril. He didn’t let his façade slip—anyone watching would see him smiling over the crowd, following Aristide to the bar.
But Ari obviously heard the change in his tone, and paused to look back. “Then what is that c-c-copper top schoolchild doing at your t-t-table?”
“Keep moving,” said Cyril. “And don’t ask questions.” He could tell Aristide wanted to demand an explanation—the tension showed in the line of his shoulders, in his fingers curled around the cuffs of his dressing gown. But he flashed a rhinestone smile, as if Cyril had told an excellent joke.
As they approached their destination, Aristide dialed up the charm. “Pardon me,” he said, to a woman in blue-dyed fox fur. “I’m p-p-parched, and in a t-t-terrible rush. Interval only lasts so long, you know.”
She gave way, thrilled and tittering at his touch on her arm. Cyril slipped into Aristide’s wake. Crushed by giddy patrons, he had no choice but to press against Aristide’s side. Ari radiated heat, smelled of greasepaint and cologne.
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