Cyril stood so quickly Aristide didn’t have time to startle. He whirled around, swaying, a dark shape against the bright slash of windowpane. “You don’t understand,” he hissed. “You’ve got to get out of here. Leave. I mean it—I can’t see you anymore.”
“Culpepper’s not tearing you up about me, is she?”
“Rot Culpepper!” He slung his glass into the depths of the armchair. It bounced and struck the floor but didn’t break. “This isn’t about her.”
All the tension that had drained from Aristide at Cyril’s laughing dismissal of Ospie collusion … it came roiling back to the surface. He was almost surprised at the level tone of his own voice. “Then who is it about?”
Cyril turned away and stared out the window. Aristide saw his breath cloud on the pane as he spoke. “I’m such a coward.”
Aristide rose from the arm of the chair and came to stand behind him, not quite touching, but close enough he could feel the heat of Cyril’s body. “So what if you are?” he said. “What did you do, Cyril?”
Lines of pain creased the edges of his eyes. Without warning, he turned and thrust his hands out, striking Aristide in the chest. “Go on,” he said, “truss them up. The strings’ll come in handy for Acherby, or whoever.” He jerked his arms in a grotesque parody of a marionette.
Aristide retreated, until the backs of his knees struck the chair and he was forced to sit. But Cyril shadowed him, staggering, then tripped on his abandoned glass and fell. The tumbler rolled beneath the sofa, rattling over the herringbone inlay.
“Go on,” he said, putting his wrists on Aristide’s knees, opening his palms so the yellow light from the street fell across them. “Are you going to tell her?”
“Culpepper?” Aristide shook his head. “If I did, you could deny it. What sort of credit do I have with her? Anyway, you haven’t told me what you—Ah!” Aristide put his fingertips over Cyril’s open mouth. He felt a sudden weight of responsibility, and the sharp intake of Cyril’s breath. “No. Don’t. I have no desire to see you executed for treason.”
Cyril’s damp cheek pressed against Aristide’s knee. He started to speak, several times, his lips moving against the pads of Aristide’s fingers, but only at the third attempt did he manage, “Sweet of you.”
Aristide wondered what he had tried to say, the first two times, but thought it better not to ask.
* * *
“If you’re going to work with them,” said Aristide, when Cyril had finished weeping, “you can’t keep on like you’re accustomed to.”
“Thanks.” Cyril slumped with one arm folded across his face, his nose in the crook of his elbow. “I wouldn’t have thought.”
They sat next to each other on the cold linen damask of the sofa. A draft slithered along the edge of the threadbare heirloom rug—old money never bothered with luxury, or proper insulation. Aristide drew his feet up.
Hard on the heels of Cyril’s revelation, he’d started scheming. If Cyril had thrown in with the Ospies, it meant he thought—he knew—that Acherby would keep his seat, whether he’d earned it or not. There were things Aristide had to do now, people he had to see, and soon. But first … “Cyril, I’m in earnest. It’s not as if your tastes are any secret. If you’re collaborating with the Ospies—”
Cyril made a small sound of protest, but said nothing.
“—you need to look the part.”
“I know, I know. Celibacy.”
“More than that. You need a girl.”
Cyril let his arm fall, and stared bleakly across the drawing room. “Ari, it’s too late for that. They already know everything about me.”
“This isn’t an issue of disguising your past,” said Aristide. “It’s a gesture of good faith. This shows them you’ll play along.”
Cyril’s pout made him look so much like a sulking child, Aristide’s heart almost softened. “You are playing along, aren’t you?”
His assent was a bare incline of the chin.
Aristide made his voice cold and final. “So look like it.” Relenting a little, he added, “I know one. A girl. She’d be a bit of a handful. A little scandalous. But the right kind of scandal, for the Ospies.”
The putt-putt-putt of a single motor echoed in the street. It switched to an idle, and Aristide, who had sharp ears, heard the clank and jostle of a milk delivery headed down the alley to the service entrance.
“I’ve got to be going,” he said. “There’s an accountant on Baldwin Street who’ll want his breakfast.”
“Of course.” Cyril scrubbed at his face. “And the girl?”
“You’ll bump into her,” said Aristide. “At Bellamy’s.”
“When?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Ari, I told you, I can’t—”
“I’m not stupid, Cyril. How long did it take Central to clock me? And even then, it was only because of one stubborn rule-breaker.” He had to swallow against a tight throat, dry with sudden emotion. “I can send you a date and time without drawing anyone’s suspicion.”
He made to rise, but Cyril stretched out an unsteady hand. His sleeve was rolled past his elbow; the fine hair on his forearm stood up over gooseflesh. “Wait.”
“No.” Aristide lifted Cyril’s hand from his knee. “It’s time for me to leave.”
Cyril, who was still very drunk, struggled admirably to keep his composure, and failed.
Aristide stood and tugged on his hat. He let one gloved hand brush the back of Cyril’s bowed head, and then he left.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Cordelia hunched in front of her mirror, chewing on the end of her hair. Things had not gone well this week.
After the western vote went crooked, it was like the whole city had a pin in its ass. Fights and riots and demonstrations on both sides—blue and yellow scrapping with gray and white. And the ACPD acting like just about anybody might be out to get themselves in trouble. The hounds were snapping folk up left and right, trying to look tough.
Including her man on the docks. Ricardo hadn’t brought in her allotment on account of being locked in the trap, his whole shipment confiscated by the police. Acting for the good of the community, righteous as a temple full of Hearther virgins. Like they wouldn’t turn around and sell it. And she’d wager high they’d undercut those who’d earned a right to the market. Wasn’t like the hounds had to make a living off the stuff.
She, on the other hand, had rent to pay. And customers who’d help her pay it, if she could rustle up a wholesaler. She’d have to go down the pier and start shopping around. Or … no, she couldn’t endure his scorn.
But she knew he wouldn’t sell her tar cut with ink, or rubber, or whatever trash the scullers were mixing up these days. She’d get better stock, and faster, if she could put up with Ari’s attitude.
His dressing room was two down from hers, and the door was three-quarters closed. After the show, he usually had a highbrow punter or two back for drinks and who knew what. Everybody figured Ari was in on things besides a little bit of tar. He made more money than sheep made shit. Malcolm hadn’t clocked Cordelia’s sideline yet, but he kept the books and he knew he wasn’t paying his emcee so much. He didn’t dare complain. Really, what had he got to harp on? Ari had his fingers in the pockets of people Malcolm needed, and Malcolm was more than happy to put up with his airs and snobbery if it meant Taormino turned a blind eye when ballast washed up under the bar.
Cordelia tried not to get tied up with him. They worked together up on stage, all right, but off the boards he drove her screaming mad. Besides, near as she’d gathered, Ricardo was his competition. She didn’t know if Ari had clocked she was selling tar, but if he had, he couldn’t be happy about who she was running it for.
She listened carefully at the threshold of his dressing room, but didn’t hear any chatter. One more moment to assemble herself, and she slipped in and shut the door behind her. Didn’t bother knocking. Like as not he’d say no without asking who had called.
His dressing room wasn’t much larger than hers, but he’d brought in enough trinkets and plush-shabby furniture that it looked like a thieves’ den out of a folktale. Silk scarves softened the corners. Business cards and kiss-stained love notes were stuck to the walls with jeweled hat pins and brooches that might or might not have been paste. A string of glass bells looped above the door chimed softly, still swaying from Cordelia’s entrance.
She sat on the arm of the battered settee. “How’s it turning?”
“Smooth enough.” He didn’t seem surprised to see her, but he was a stage man: Of course he wouldn’t show it. He peeled his false eyelashes away and rubbed pellets of glue from his skin, blinking glitter out of his eyes. “Is there something you need?”
In the mirror, she met his gaze. “Maybe.”
“I’d rather you didn’t d-d-dance around it, whatever it is. Must rush—I’ve got a dinner engagement.”
Well, he’d asked for it. “I’m looking for some work.”
“You have work. Or doesn’t Malcolm p-p-pay you anymore?”
“Come on, Aristide.” She could hear the wheedling cant of Kipler’s Mew creep into her voice. “I’m looking for a little tar, and everybody knows you can get the good stuff.”
“Maybe. But I only sell it wholesale.” In the mirror, he pursed his lips into an appraising moue. “And I d-d-doubt you could afford it by the k-k-kilo.”
She bit back a snipe. “Who says I need it for myself?”
He paused, holding a piece of cotton wool above his cold cream. When he spoke, the words came out precarious, as if he were afraid of being caught in ignorance. “Don’t you?”
A sneer caught her upper lip and she stood, pulling her robe tight.
He sighed. “Cordelia.”
“No.” She reached for the door handle, pulling it half open. “I see how it is.”
“Wait.” He set the cotton on his vanity and turned in his chair. “Come back. Close the door.”
She paused, considering. It was put up with him or put up with an empty belly. “All right,” she said, lowering herself on the settee proper. “What do you got to say?”
“First,” he said, putting a finger to his chin, “that I’m favorably impressed.”
“What, just ’cause I ain’t a junkie? Flattering.”
“Hmm. I suppose I did deserve that one.” He finger-combed his hair, from scalp to tips. “Who’ve you been running for, till now?”
“Ricardo Ty.”
“Ah.” Drawing the springy mass of his hair over one shoulder, he began to braid it with deft, bony fingers. “That explains it. You’re the third of his I’ve had this week. I said no to the other two.”
She cursed. “Guess I’ll take myself down the pier, since you’re not picking up new help.” She made to get up again. Hang it all, her legs were getting tired.
Aristide waved her down. “Oh, Cordelia. Don’t be b-b-beastly. Just sit for a moment and let me finish.” His curling central city accent soared into stage parody, tripping over itself in his hurry.
She matched him with a crude gesture and a higher, nasal take on her native whine. “Bet it won’t take long.”
“Very funny.” Leaning back in his chair, he lit a cigarette. He did not offer one to her. “As it happens, I need a favor. And I’d be quite willing to do you one in return.”
“What sort of favor are we talking?”
“I have a friend,” he said, “who needs some … female company.”
She shook her head. “I’m outta that game, Ari. Have been since I started on the stage.”
“I am not a p-p-pimp, Miss Lehane. You misunderstand me. What you do with this gentleman, once you meet him, is your affair entirely. Though, I should mention that if the t-t-two of you continue your association, I could be p-p-persuaded to continue ours.”
“So all I gotta do is chat up some swell, and you’ll stock me? What do you get out of it?”
“Philanthropic satisfaction.”
“Swineshit.”
He sighed, nostrils flaring, and stood from his chair. “Will you meet my friend or not, Cordelia?”
She thought of her empty larder, and her landlady. “Yeah, I’ll meet him.”
“Excellent.” Aristide arranged a velvet scarf around his neck. “He’ll be at B-B-Bellamy’s, three days from now, at half past two. And don’t worry,” he added. “He’ll be paying.”
She bared her teeth at him, and slammed the door on the way out.
* * *
Madame Bellamy’s was on the swell end of Baldwin, too refined for catcalling. When Cordelia let her wrap slide down so she could sun her bare shoulders, she didn’t get any whistles, but she did catch a few passersby smiling at her from beneath the brims of their hats.
The front of the place was decorated with wrought iron in fancy spirals and flowers. Tiny colored panes made up the windows, above and below two larger, plainer stretches of glass printed with “Tea” and “Coffee.” Between the curlicue letters, Cordelia saw the bent heads of diners, and black-jacketed waitstaff drifting from table to table.
Cordelia had never been to Bellamy’s—couldn’t afford it, for queen’s sake. But she’d chatted up enough of the punters to walk and talk like a swell. No one would realize where she came from if she didn’t want ’em to.
“Ma’am.” The maitre d’ gave her a courteous half bow. “Do you have a reservation?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Cordelia, holding her voice carefully even. “Will that be any trouble?
The maitre d’ maintained a mask of bland indifference. “No trouble at all.”
He led her to a table near the center of the room. A waiter took her order and returned with coffee. Oh, she liked this. She liked it very much. As she was stirring cream and sugar into her cup, she heard the distant chime of the bell hanging above Bellamy’s door and looked up, wondering how she was supposed to know Ari’s friend if she saw him, or if he was supposed to come to her.
The man who entered was a pinch shorter than average, but he had charm enough it made up for the extra inches. Turned out in a white tennis sweater and pleated flannel trousers rolled at the ankle, he was a little too dressed down for the scene, but he looked at his ease. The maitre d’, who she would’ve pegged as a starched proper, gave him zero grief about his rags. If Cordelia knew anything, that meant money.
The maitre d’ made to show the newcomer to a table, but the man stopped him and shook his head. He was looking straight at Cordelia, a wolfish half-smile curling the corner of his mouth.
Trouble. She’d have to turn him down fast, before her date got here. Unless …
He produced a thin, glossy billfold from his trouser pocket and tipped the maitre d’ with the casual graciousness of someone used to burning cash. For a brief, hot second she despised him. He said something that made the dour maitre d’ laugh. The way both their eyes flashed in her direction, she knew he’d made some kind of dirty joke.
“Come on over then,” she said softly, cupping her coffee with both hands and raising it to her lips. “Come on over and make me laugh.”
But he didn’t. He watched her all the way as he walked to the bar, then smiled, and turned his back.
* * *
Cyril didn’t go straight to the woman’s table. He was supposed to be meeting a stranger and taking a liking to her, and that required a little bit of patience. It wouldn’t do to march up and introduce himself like they’d both been sent here for that purpose. So instead, he made a tasteless joke to the maitre d’—Isn’t that the stripper from the Bumble Bee? Looks different with her clothes on—and went to the bar that curved against the western wall of the tearoom. The brass espresso machine hissed steam. Cyril followed the vapor’s progress to the ceiling, watching it dissipate amongst the frescoes of nymphs and half-clad hunters, snag on the antlers of gold stags’ heads and the crystals of the twin chandeliers.
When he looked back down, the woman was watching him, her head tipped quizzically over h
er coffee cup. A ringlet had escaped from the twist at the nape of her neck. It fell across her shoulder, into her décolletage, so perfectly placed he suspected she had let it free on purpose.
Cyril called the bartender over. “A glass of champagne, for the lady at that table. Green label, the forty-two.”
The bartender inclined her head. “An excellent choice, sir.”
He couldn’t tell if she meant the wine, or the woman.
When he’d come through the door and seen that scarlet hair, he’d wanted so badly to turn around and walk away. She was pretty, yes, and yes, Aristide was right: She’d make the perfect mistress for a hypocritical politician. But she was also Aristide’s colleague, and she’d keep Cyril close to the Bee. She’d cover for him, but she’d keep him within Ari’s orbit.
Champagne dispatched, the bartender brought Cyril a rye and soda dashed with house bitters. A twist of orange peel rested on the rough edge of the ice. He thought of complaining—he liked his drinks clean and simple—but before he could draw the bartender’s attention, a waiter leaned in beside him.
“The lady asks if you’d join her at her table.”
He took his cocktail and strolled between the remnants of the lunch crowd. The woman—he remembered Aristide saying her name, but what was it?—watched his approach with narrow eyes like chips of imperial topaz. He paused beside her and offered his hand.
“Cyril DePaul,” he said. “How’s the plonk?”
She put the tips of her fingers across his palm. “Sublime.” The barest hint of a nasal drone hung around the “i”: the signature sound of Kipler’s Mew. She’d worked hard to leave it behind, and he could tell.
He raised her knuckles to his lips. She didn’t break eye contact, and neither did he.
“Cordelia Lehane,” she said, when he’d straightened. “Go on, bend your knees.”
Cordelia. Yes, that was it.
“Are you lunching late?” he asked, sliding into the chair opposite hers. “Or are you only here for an afternoon tipple?”
“This is breakfast.” Cordelia tapped the side of the champagne coupe. “So far.”
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