He said nothing. It was true.
“Something happen to Ellie? I was fine making pickups from her.”
“No. Nothing’s happened to Ellie. But this came across my path, and I thought you’d d-d-do it credit.”
“You trying to ask me a favor?”
“You’ve already done me several. Consider this a b-b-bonus.” He’d taken it, with her in mind, from the lot that had come in this afternoon—delayed after the dummy raid for Taormino.
So far, their arrangement had worked flawlessly. Cordelia had been spotted all over the city with Cyril. He’d even seen her in the background of a photo in the Clarion society pages. Cyril, of course, had avoided the camera’s gaze. And now, he felt confident enough to come back to the Bee posing as her lover. He must be in good stead with the Ospies, and with Cordelia.
Speaking of … Her eyes were suspicious as she tugged one flap of the package open. After a quick inspection of the blocks of tar, she arched one finely plucked eyebrow and pinned him with an accusatory glare. “Damn sight finer’n what you pass on to Ellie.” When she rubbed the edge of a brick with the pad of her thumb, her skin came away stained brown.
“Like I said,” said Aristide. “I thought of you. You needn’t mention it to her when you see her next.”
“Quiet as a sleeping eel.” She surprised herself by pecking his painted cheek. “You know, you really ain’t as bad as all that.”
“Oh no,” he said. “I prefer to think I’m worse.”
* * *
In short order, Aristide followed Cordelia out into the house. The jumble of voices poured over him, and the press of bodies and adoration propelled him forward. Everyone reeked of wet fur and smoldering, damp tobacco.
The crowd hadn’t changed much in the few weeks since the election—at least, not on the surface. Corks still popped from champagne bottles, and flirtations flew with as little discretion as they ever had. But if one listened carefully—and Aristide always did—conversation around the mosaic tables tended strongly toward politics, and little else. Moritz had moved to impeach Josiah Hebrides in a special session of parliament, and the wheels of the process had begun to turn.
Most of Malcolm’s star performers found their stacks of interval invitations diminished. Aristide, on the other hand, stuffed both his pockets and even then ended up putting off some punters until after. Since Acherby’s victory, he could count on one hand the nights he’d gone to his bed before the sun rose from hers.
He had people to see tonight—he was especially keen to rendezvous with Zelda Peronides about moving some hot Lisoan ivory. But he lingered near the front of the house, careful to keep hidden in the crowd and stage left of center.
The chance movement of a large group toward the bar gave Aristide a clear line of sight. Cyril was at his regular seat, resting his elbows on the blue and green tiles of the tabletop. As he spoke, he gestured with a cigarette. Cordelia sat beside him, sipping a cocktail. And in the chair across from him … Aristide couldn’t be sure. He could only make out the back of a head: long-skulled, square-cornered, furred with close-clipped silver hair. When Cyril’s guest turned, attending to Cordelia, Aristide saw the flash of spectacles resting on an aquiline nose: Deputy Police Commissioner Alex Müller.
“Mr. DePaul,” Aristide murmured, hand over his mouth. “Keeping such low company these days.” But it made sense. If Hebrides fell, the unionists would move into Amberlough. Without a standing army, the police were the nearest thing the Ospies could touch that might help with a coup, or whatever they had planned.
He thumbed through the business cards Tito had brought him, scanning the crowd, matching names to faces. When the pad of his thumb struck cheap matte paper amidst the creamier textures, he looked down, surprised. His finger hid the given name, but left Lourdes visible.
He didn’t have time—really, he didn’t. But seeing Cyril had stung him more than he cared to admit. And if he didn’t have one lover’s card in his pocket, at least he had another’s. Casting his attention over the crowd, Aristide searched for the bright distraction of the accountant’s copper hair.
* * *
When the curtain rose on the second half, Cyril indulged in a single, relieved sigh. Watching Müller flirt with Cordelia at the interval was equal parts gratifying and embarrassing. Müller was clearly smitten with her, and she clearly knew it. He’d take them both out after the show. He needed Müller feeling catered-to, expansive. There were a few things Cordelia could contribute that Cyril, though he was willing if it would get him what he wanted, couldn’t quite. And they were all on display in the penultimate number of the cabaret’s second half.
The show would end with an extravaganza: all the members of the cast onstage, confetti, streamers, swelling orchestra. But the eleven o’clock number was a sultry partner striptease: Cordelia and Ari, sliding around each other like oil and paraffin, just as slippery and just as volatile.
They started on opposite sides of the stage, alone in dramatic spotlights that hit the boards with a crisp beat from the orchestra. Aristide was wrapped to the neck in white fox fur. He had abandoned the powdered wig in favor of his natural curls, gathered in an elaborate coif pierced with two long, gold pins. His hands, clutching the fox at his throat, were gloved in black satin.
Cordelia contrasted in every way. Where Ari was dark, the spotlight turned her fair skin ghostly pale. Her brilliant hair was tucked beneath a silk top hat. Against Aristide’s white fox, she wore a black tailcoat, nipped in tight beneath her ribs. High-cut dress trousers made her legs look impossibly long for her short stature, and her spats were blinding. She struck an arrogant pose with a gold-topped cane, smirking over one shoulder at the audience.
There was no introduction. The emcee was otherwise occupied, and really, they didn’t need one. The audience sucked in its breath. In the orchestra pit, a slinky vamp skipped between the snare and the cymbal and a soulful clarinetist coaxed an aching note from somewhere below her waist. As the moan of the reed reached its climax, the timpani growled to the brass and Cordelia and Aristide rolled their shoulders in perfect unison. Another growl, another roll. And then the drummer struck a fast one-two and they each turned their heads on a separate beat, skewering the other with a glare.
It should have been slightly farcical, mildly absurd. The emcee dressed like the mistress of a magnate, the sultry stripper done up in glad rags like a concert tenor. But the personalities under the clothes burned through. And soon enough, the clothes started coming off.
Ari dropped the fox fur in one heavy shrug, and it fell like a diva dying on the opera stage. He spun out of the coat’s radius in a swirl of red feathers and kicked Cordelia’s cane out from under her. Rather than staggering, she swept it in a circle, executing a crisp barrel roll straight out of her jacket. It slid down the cane, hanging inside-out from the trapped sleeve to reveal a red lining that matched her waistcoat. Her skin was bare beneath the brocade.
With a flick of her wrist, she flung the jacket offstage. Aristide grabbed the cane and strutted away, dragging her with him. She pouted spectacularly, appealing to house left as he hauled her along.
Appealing, Cyril realized, straight to him. Or rather, Müller. Under the guise of reaching for his glass, Cyril snuck a glance at his companion. The deputy commissioner had half his mouth tucked up in a secret, satisfied smile, and he stared unwaveringly at the stage. The lights glanced off his spectacles, turning his gaze blank and gleaming.
As if she had seen the white flash of shining glass, Cordelia flung out one beseeching arm toward their table, chasing it with a blown kiss. Müller chuckled and swept a hand over his close-clipped hair.
Cyril sipped his drink, satisfied.
On the far side of the stage, Cordelia pulled the pins from Aristide’s hair and dipped him over one knee, hard and fast. His neck snapped back and his curls tumbled free from their knot. Cordelia lowered her head and bit his outstretched fingers with delicate teeth, dragging her mouth down until she caught
the tip of his glove.
The slip of satin against his skin played against a raunchy brass arpeggio, a muted trumpet caterwauling over a pulsing backbeat. As soon as the glove came free, Cordelia yanked Aristide up and nearly sent him flying. He took the momentum and slid back, out of his second glove, pulling her into a tight spin so she ended up against him. He swept the top hat from her head and brought it across her breasts, pulling her close so their hips aligned. The trombone howled and they ground down, Cordelia sliding her hands along her thighs to press her knees wider and wider apart. Ari stared over her head with hooded eyes, showing one dogtooth in a foxy smile.
Cyril knew that look. He’d met it countless times, from this very chair. Someone would go home happy tonight. Knowing he didn’t want to see, he still turned to scan the crowd.
At first, he couldn’t tell for whom the smoldering glance was meant. A giggling clutch of students snatched at each other’s hands, their cheeks pink with wine and embarrassment. But Aristide wasn’t looking at them.
Alone at his table, Finn Lourdes nursed something he probably couldn’t afford. He was redder than the students, with better reason. Cyril’s jaw clenched. The faces of the crowd around him went slack in sudden amazement, and they all gasped. A few applauded. Something magnificent had happened onstage. Cyril shut his eyes and turned away from Finn.
Another gasp, another round of applause. Someone whistled, sharp and clean. Cyril took a deep breath and opened his eyes again.
Cordelia’s trousers and waistcoat were gone. She wore an elaborate construction of black lace and gold fringe that covered all it needed to and not much more. Aristide was down to rather less than that, and a red feather boa.
Or, no … not a boa. He pulled the drape of ostrich plumes from his shoulders and twirled. The feathers snapped open into two huge fans. He kept one and passed the other to Cordelia in an exchange that involved popping the clasp on her top. She slapped a hand across her chest to keep the cups from falling.
They both spun until they stood back to back at three-quarter angles, fans held open across their bodies. The snare and timpani raced against each other, counting heartbeats between trumpet blasts. And then, with a wail of brass and woodwinds, both Aristide and Cordelia pulled off what little they had on behind the shivering feathers and tossed the jangling bits of gilt and tassels into the pit.
The orchestra hit a beat, the fans snapped shut, and for half a moment they both struck a tantalizing pose. Not quite long enough to see exactly what they were or were not showing, but long enough to make everyone in the audience wonder. Then the lights went out and the crowd screamed for more.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Cordelia was half-in, half-out of her street clothes when Malcolm stepped into her dressing room.
“Knocking,” she said. “Ain’t it a habit some people have?”
“Some more than others.” She scoffed, and he ducked his head. “Sorry, Delia.” He closed the door behind him. “Next time.”
“You’re assuming, Sailer.”
“Queen’s sake. Why you gotta stomp on me before I’m even standing? I came in to ask if you were free for a bite.”
“You clocked me at the interval,” she said. “You know I ain’t.”
His shoulders pulled down and back, tugging the starched front of his white dress shirt into strained wrinkles at the buttonholes. “So you got plans with that swell you been seeing.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. “What about old kite-face Müller? You ain’t angling to take on both at once, I hope.”
“Don’t be a pig, Mal.” She turned her back and presented him with her half-done buttons. “Finish me up. You can make sure I’m shut in nice and tight.” His fingers were calloused; she could hear them, rough against the fine fabric of her dress. “Careful,” she said. “Don’t snag my satin.”
He let out a frustrated breath. It stirred the fine hair at the back of her neck. “You make me so vexed I’d like to skin you, Delia.”
She smiled, then realized he could see her face in the mirror. Too late to drop it, so she looked his reflection in the eyes and made it a tease. He blinked, twice, then scowled and turned his attention back to her buttons. His touch was hot and dry against her bare skin.
“You’re so warm all the time,” she said. “Bet you gave your ma a fright when you was small; always feverish.”
His steady progress up the line of buttons faltered. “Dell…”
“What?” She turned her head, tossing hair across his face. “Something wrong?”
The heat of his hands spread as he opened his palms over the taper of her hips. His thumbs met in the small of her back. “How long you gonna keep this up?” He spoke with his face down, forehead resting in the curve of her neck. His sticky pomade smelled of sweet tobacco.
“I ain’t the one who got all sour in the first place,” she said, leaning into his touch. She shouldn’t encourage him, but it felt good to fall back against that solid chest. They’d get on so well if he wasn’t such a jealous ass.
“So you’ll come on out with me tonight?”
“Mal, I can’t.”
His grip on her waist tightened briefly, and then he pushed away. “Delia!”
“Look, I would, all right? But Cyril wants me to tag along with him and Müller, and I can’t exactly say no.”
“And why’s that? You selling out ’cause he can treat you like a center city swell? You think you’re better than the rest of us?”
“Oh, that’s rich. I’m high and mighty and a whore. The sense you ain’t making would buy a house! Just listen to yourself.”
“Nobody else does.”
She rolled her eyes and reached back to finish her own buttons. “Stroll off,” she said. “I got places to be.”
“I ain’t strolling anywhere. I’m gonna sit here”—he dropped into her makeup chair with a tremendous squeal of metal and straining leather—“and you’re gonna tell me what it is about this welterweight swell that makes him so special.”
“Get out, Sailer.”
Malcolm checked his watch, casual as a man waiting for a train. “Think he’ll mind if you keep him waiting?”
She slammed her hairbrush down on the table and rounded on him. “Mother’s tits, Mal. Fine. You want to know why Cyril? Because Ari’s making me a tidy trade over it.”
“Makricosta?” Malcolm looked caught between laughing and rage. “What, he’s pimping for you now?”
“Is it always gotta be about whoring with you?” She fixed her hat in place, so fast the combs tore her hair. “Just ’cause I grew up in the bad end of the first precinct doesn’t mean I gotta make my living on my back.”
“I figured you was more in the side streets line. Standing in an alley, or something like that.”
Oh, she nearly slapped him then. “You got no idea what line I’m in.” Furious, she dug into her handbag and hauled out Ari’s brown paper package. It struck Malcolm’s lap with such force that he flinched, probably aiming to protect his tackle. The smack of it against his thighs gave her grim satisfaction.
“Go on,” she said. “Open it. See if you like what you find.”
He peeled back the edge of the paper and sniffed. “Tar?”
“Real good stuff, too.”
“Makricosta’s selling to you? Delia, I didn’t know—”
“You better shut your mouth before you swallow any more trouble.” She took the package back and carefully rewrapped it. “I don’t smoke tar. And if I did, I couldn’t afford this.” It hit the bottom of her handbag with a heavy thump. “I can get enough from that to live on. Better than what you’re paying. Ari’s not selling to me. I’m running for him.”
Malcolm crossed an ankle over his knee. She watched him watch her. “Since how long?” he asked.
“A couple of weeks.”
“How’d he hook you? You owe him money?”
“He owes me.”
“What for?”
She flung her hands wid
e. “For spending my time with Cyril. Queen’s sake, use the head your ma pushed out, for once.”
“So you are hiring out.”
“Only my time, Malcolm. Get outta my chair. You’re sitting on my coat.”
He snorted, but followed orders. “He’s awful pretty, Delia. ’Scuse me if I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” she said. “I tried him out, but that bayonet won’t fix. Not for this charge, anyhow.” Swiping her coat from the back of the makeup chair, she shoved her arms up the sleeves. “He don’t go in for peaches and pears. More like big noses and bad attitudes. Come to think of it, you’d be just his type. So if anyone’s got cause to be jealous, it’s me.” She pulled the door wide open and swept her arm to show him the way out.
* * *
Aristide didn’t say much to Finn at the interval, and didn’t get anything done besides drop by people’s tables and jot names and dates into his diary. The two of them arranged to meet after the show, in front of the theatre. It took Aristide a long time to spot Finn’s bowler through the wreaths of adoration the crowd was laying on. Disengaging from a bevy of admirers, he crept up on Finn and lifted the brim of his hat with one finger. Finn jumped like a cat, then saw who it was. His smile spread, unguarded.
“I’m so sorry it took me such a long time to come back,” he said. “I was out of town for a family matter. You were brilliant, of course.”
The hint of his Farbourgere lilt made the words musical, and eerily evocative: the sound of Aristide’s childhood. To stop him talking, Aristide ducked down and kissed him. “D-D-Don’t trouble your pretty copper head about it, darling. You’re here now.” He shuddered elaborately. “Family matters. How t-t-tedious.”
“Actually, my mother’s been ill. We don’t … didn’t get on, but it was good to see her before…”
Oh, perdition. Aristide grabbed his ankle and pulled his foot out of his mouth. “Poor dear.” He put an arm around Finn’s waist, squeezing him close. He was soft about the middle, and gave pleasantly under the pressure. “You’ll want cheering up, then.”
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