His smile turned brittle, and fell. “Nothing she hasn’t already. I’m a terrible husband.”
“But an excellent policeman.”
“Am I?” Müller took a drink. The port stained his teeth purple, briefly. “Then why wasn’t I made commissioner five years ago?”
“Perhaps,” said Cyril, crossing his arms, “that’s exactly why. You said it yourself: The ACPD isn’t exactly on the up-and-up. Take that raid on the docks, for instance. We both know it was a sham.”
“Taormino’s under pressure to crack down on the smugglers. You know. You probably put the squeeze on her. It wouldn’t surprise me if she cut a deal with somebody so she came out looking good. Makricosta, maybe.”
It wouldn’t have surprised Cyril, either.
“DePaul,” said Müller. “Why are we here? What do you need me for?”
Tapping his fingers against the foot of his schooner, Cyril thought for a moment and finally said, “You know, I really don’t like this.”
“I can tell.”
Pushing the glass away, Cyril looked up at Müller. “What gave me away?”
“You’re putting up with an awful lot,” said Müller. “You said you’re not the jealous type, but a man doesn’t let somebody get so close to his mistress unless he wants something, badly.”
“I meant the port,” said Cyril.
Müller’s snort was expressive. “Oh. That was easy.” He picked up the glass Cyril had been studiously ignoring and tipped it so the liquor climbed the crystal. “It’s a single-year tawny. Cove Oscár, or something like it. Overpriced, overrated, too sweet. You should’ve told me you didn’t ‘know port from nothing.’ At least Ms. Lehane got a glass of something she enjoyed.”
“Next time,” said Cyril.
“So there’s going to be a next time?” Müller picked up his spectacles from the water-ringed table and polished them with his handkerchief. “How long are you going to keep courting me, DePaul, and what do you want at the end of it?”
Cyril looked past Müller, into the warm, dim expanse of the dining room. The crowd had thinned, but a few of the razors were still gathered in a die-hard clump at the far end of the bar. Cordelia returned from the washroom and put herself in the thick of it, flirting with the woman who’d recommended the port Müller so disdained.
“You’re not satisfied with the work the ACPD is doing,” said Cyril.
“Damn right I’m not.”
“And you despise Marissa Taormino.”
“I don’t respect how she got where she is.” His scowl belied his diplomacy.
“This might be a hard sell, then.” At the bar, Cordelia hopped up between the razors and settled herself among empty glasses and smoldering cigar butts. She crossed her ankles with the delicate precision of a society matron, and let her new friend light a straight for her. “But if you buy, you’ll be commissioner within the year. Maybe the next six months.”
Müller’s face went slack, but he caught himself and reassembled it into grim outrage. “Whoever’s goods you’re shilling, I don’t want ’em.”
“Even if it means a straitlaced police force? Things done above the board? Promotions based on merit, not on graft?”
“In this city? Tar dream. Never happen.”
“It is happening,” said Cyril. “Now.” This wasn’t strictly true, but he could afford to talk an enormous amount of absolute swineshit, as Cordelia would put it, as long as it bagged Müller for the Ospies. “You can either ride the wake, or you can drown.”
Müller looked over the tops of his spectacles, his eyes like chips of yellow resin beneath his prominent brow. “Are you threatening me, DePaul?”
“No. No, of course not.” Cyril adjusted one of his cufflinks, projecting unconcern. “The idea never crossed my mind. I’m merely telling you it’s a good time to consider some alternatives. Because later … well, no one likes a brown-noser.”
“I’ve lived in this city far too long. I know that isn’t true.”
Cyril wondered if the entendre was meant for him.
“You think the Ospies really have a chance?” Müller’s stare was calculating.
“I know.”
“How?”
Cyril switched to the other cufflink, barely sparing a glance for Müller in between. “Who do you think I’m ‘shilling’ for, Alex? Certainly not the current regime. Hebrides knows where he is with Taormino; she’s tucked right into his watch pocket, on the end of a gilded chain. And knowing Josiah, that chain was paid for with dirty money.”
“So how exactly are you proposing to buy me? And what uncomplimentary metaphors are you going to use to describe our relationship?”
“I don’t want to buy you, Alex. I want to offer you the appointment you deserve, in a system that works the way it should. And I represent people who can make that happen.”
“The Ospies. You’re in league with the Ospies. What was your price? Just so I can benchmark.”
This was not going as well as he’d hoped. Leaning in, he brought a ferocity to his tone that he’d so far let lie dormant. After Müller’s snipe, it wasn’t hard to find. “Look, I’ll be blunt with you—”
Müller cut him off. “Yes, please. I’ve had enough of your dancing around.”
“All right. I’m asking you to compromise your principles, yes. But I’ll only ask you once. Look the other way, this time—just for a little bit, while things are ugly—and I promise you’ll never have to look away again. We won’t want you to.”
The “we” nearly stuck in his craw, but he said it nonetheless. His chain wasn’t gilded, and it held him by the throat.
Müller finished off his port and fell against the cracked leather of the booth. “Well, I’ll give you credit: You know how to tempt an upright officer of the law.”
“And are you?”
“What, tempted? Of course.” Something caught his attention in the dining room, and Cyril followed his gaze. Cordelia had left the bar holding what looked suspiciously like a gin and tonic. She picked her way between abandoned chairs, watching her shoes. Vermillion waves of hair rippled over one bare shoulder and fell between her breasts. “But a man’s got to draw the line somewhere.”
* * *
“Stones,” said Cordelia, after Müller had caught a cab. “What did you say to him while I was gone? He looked like he’d been sucking on a lemon.”
They stood on the corner outside the Kelly Club. Two more cabs went by, but Cyril didn’t flag them, and other night wanderers climbed in. “I made him a proposition he didn’t like.”
“Did you now?” Cordelia’s eyebrows arched up like drawn bows.
“Ah, go yank yourself,” he said, mocking her. She slapped at him, playfully. He deflected it and tucked his arm through her elbow. “Walk me home? It’s nice enough outside.”
“I’m supposed to keep you safe from muggers, or what?” But she let him draw her along the footpath, dodging between drunken salaryfolk.
“Sure,” he said. “If you do a good job, I’ll pay for your cab back home.”
He wondered where she lived. Somewhere in the southern half of the city, almost certainly. It would be a hefty fare, but he wanted company, and wouldn’t force a late trolley ride on her. He didn’t like the thought of facing his failure, and entertaining would take his mind off of it. Midsummer wasn’t immediately looming, but the mild night reminded him his deadline was much closer than it had been.
Cordelia wasn’t going to let him avoid her questions. “You threw me at him pretty hard,” she said. “You gonna tell me why?”
“I threw you?” He jostled her arm.
“Hang it, you know what I mean. You needed a little bait for your trap.”
“And you were clever enough to figure it out. Thank you.” He liked that she was sharp. Smart, beautiful, and disaffected … She would have made a good fox, perfect for running honeypots, if only one of Ada’s recruiters had cornered her when she was young. Then again, she could be anywhere from eighteen to thirty
and he couldn’t have guessed her age with the barrel of a gun to his head. Central might still have time to groom her.
Might’ve, rather. He wondered if the Ospies would be amenable. Maybe he could put in a good word. If he swung the ACPD. If he couldn’t do that, he was just the party’s instrument, and no one valued the opinions of a tool.
He hoped she could find something to do under the new regime, because he imagined it would be hard going on Temple Street after Acherby rose to power. So much rode on Cyril’s treachery.
“You’re welcome,” said Cordelia, hauling him back into the conversation. “Now what exactly am I in the middle of?”
“Cordelia, I told you, I can’t—”
“You said you’d tell me if I needed to know. I think I do.”
“It’s not exactly your decision.”
She halted, in the center of the footpath, and pulled her arm from his. A drunk stumbled past and tried to steady himself on her shoulder. She shoved him away with the unconscious brutality of someone used to dealing with public disorder.
“I can walk,” she said, thrusting an arm out, hand extended toward the street. “You want me to walk?”
He stopped too, and turned so they stood face-to-face, about three feet apart. Around them, foot traffic continued, uninterested.
Holding the lapels of his overcoat, he leaned back on his heels and took in her defiance. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “I don’t think you can.”
“No?” She flung the trailing end of her scarf over one shoulder. “Watch me.”
He let her get a quarter of the way down the block before he realized Aristide would kill him if Cordelia left now. Pushing between pedestrians, he hurried after her. When he caught up, in front of a darkened tobacconist’s shop, he pulled her into the doorway. “I’m sorry, all right?”
She shook him off and backed up against the grated window. Behind her, cigars and pipes lay on a fall of red velvet, arranged around bunches of silk cherry blossoms. “Can we get a couple things straight, right now? I don’t have to be here. Ari’s making it worth my while, but I don’t have to hang around with you.”
“He’s—he’s paying you?” Cyril wanted to laugh.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Mother and sons, that’s just what he needs. A procurement charge. Unless you’re licensed?”
Her glare would have cut diamonds.
“Wonderful. A reason to shove him in the trap and get a good look through all his affairs. Wish he’d done it when I—” He stopped himself, but Cordelia had caught it.
“When you what?”
“Nothing.”
She took a step toward him and he gave ground. She stepped forward again, and he backed into the window. Delicately, she slipped his bow tie from its knot. Then, with more force and speed than he would have credited, she wrapped it around her fist, pulling his face close to hers.
“Cyril,” she said. “What are you?”
“Let’s take this indoors.”
She tugged on his tie. “No stalling.”
“I’m not stalling,” he said, putting his hand over hers and drawing it away from his throat. “I’m just trying to keep things quiet.”
* * *
Back in his flat, Cyril chain-smoked. He needed something to do with his hands, and his straights were convenient. If he paid excruciating attention to lighting them and flicking away the ash, he didn’t have to look up at Cordelia.
They’d ended up hiring a cab—the incident in the street had left him too unnerved to enjoy a walk. And he didn’t trust Cordelia not to bring the issue up in public again.
“I can’t tell you exactly what I do, or who I work for,” he said now. “But know that I need you, or I’m hanged.”
“Is that a saying, or actual fact?”
“Bit of both.” He sighed. “All right, the thing is, I may be doing some business with the Ospies—” From Cordelia’s face, she didn’t approve. He hurried to assuage her, before she could cut him off. “I don’t like it either, but it’s keeping me out of trouble.”
“Hanging trouble?”
“More or less. The only problem is, well … you know how they feel about … well, about everything.”
“You mean, the only problem is Ari.”
“Well, Ari and a few others.”
“More’n a few, I’d wager.” He could tell she wanted him to laugh, but all he did was nod and stub out the end of his third cigarette.
“Load of dead fish,” she said. “Not an ounce of spark in any of ’em. How’d you end up under their heel?”
“Work,” he said. “I was … sent on an errand, but they got in the way. And it was go along, or get trampled.”
“So now you’re running for ’em. Or something.” She kicked off her shoes and pulled her feet under her skirts. “And you need a pretty girl on your arm to make you look the part. Did you ask Ari to rustle somebody up?”
“No. No, that was his idea. I—well, I hardly thought about it.”
“He’s a good friend to you,” she said.
“How did he convince you to take me on?” asked Cyril. “What did he tell you?”
“All he said was you needed a girl. Sounded off-color to me and I told him so, but he said it was strictly underthings on, no wandering hands. At least at the outset. Made it sound more like a matchmaker’s scheme than any whoring I ever done.”
“Oh, so you did used to be in the profession?”
“Sure, after Ma bumped off. For a little while, anyhow. Then I turned to stage life. And a few things on the side I don’t like to mention to a gentleman.”
“You already told me you hired out. And believe me, I’m beyond shocking, by anything you might say.”
“Maybe I won’t shock you, but I don’t want you hauling me in to the vice squad, either.”
“Cordelia,” he said, “you’ve got enough leverage on me I can’t haul you anywhere.”
“All right. Fine. So I ran some stuff. Catha, hash, morphine, tar. It was good business.”
“Ever try any of it?” If she was an addict, he might have a problem. A scandalous mistress was one thing; he didn’t want to cover up any nasty habits in case Van der Joost came sniffing.
“I ain’t a fool, Cyril. I know a runner ain’t supposed to dip out of her own stash. And I don’t. Truth is, my ma took to tar pretty hard when I was a kid. Killed her, in the end.”
“And you still sold it?”
“Well sure. I said my ma took to it hard. But the runner who was selling to her? You didn’t see him hiring out to keep himself fed.”
Cyril ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of its carefully waxed coif. “You’ve got me there. Where were we?”
“Ari,” she said.
“Right. So he asked you—” It struck him then, like a fast-moving cosh to the side of the head. “Holy stones. You’re running for him now, aren’t you?”
“And it’s damn good business,” she said. “I don’t even have to buy the stuff. His girl just hands it over, and I go on my way. No overhead equals pure profit. Pays better than regular running, better than whoring, and birds and above what I get on the stage. But—” And here she leveled a finger at him. The nail was done in varnish dark as sweet cherries. “Remember I can always walk away. I got other ways of making money.”
“But you just said this money is better than all of them.”
“No money’s as good as knowing what you’re in for.”
“And are you satisfied, now?” asked Cyril.
“No. But I think I’m as close as I’m gonna get. You’re closed up like a mussel, and I don’t wanna break my nails prying you open. You gave me the gist. It’s enough for now.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
To meet with Zelda, Aristide donned summer-weight gray wool with a pashmina shawl and heavy pearl earrings set in platinum. The noodle house on Prattler was a bohemian establishment, right in the heart of the southwest quarter. Businesses on the banks
of the Heyn, where it flowed behind the theatre district, were as likely to cater to pirates as to penniless aristocrats. Wealthy courtesans mingled with starving artists. The men wore jewels and the women suits and everyone else a mixture of both. The place was a magpie’s den of true gems and counterfeits, impeccable taste and outrageous lack thereof. Aristide liked to strike a balance, and his pearls, at least, were real.
The day was fine—spring was coming on strong now, bringing warm sun and low-tide stink. Aristide stood at the back of the trolley, leaning on the rail. His hair fell over his shoulder and streamed in front of his face, catching the light. No gray in it yet, thanks be. He looked more like his father with every passing summer, as the sun, and smiling for the stage, put lines in his face. He wondered how long the old man had kept a full head of hair, and when it had gone silver, if it had, before he died. He surely had done, by now. Life was hard for a farmer—which was why Aristide was a smuggler and a stage man in the most frivolous city in Gedda, and not wrangling with blighted sheep in a windswept pasture.
He stepped down from the trolley at Prattler Street and Solemnity and walked the last block dodging the dandified lunch crowd. The noodle house didn’t have a name—just a beautiful lapis-tiled arch above the door. Thick vines crept up the façade. In the summer, they were laden with corkscrew flowers in shades of white and purple, but this time of year the tender green shoots were unadorned.
Aristide ducked in through a low door. The whole place seemed built for a more petite clientele. Sweeping through garlands of spider plant and sweet-smelling hoya, he searched for Zelda in the maze of folding screens and silk hangings. The deep bay windows were positively stuffed with blooming orchids.
“Ari. Ari, over here.”
He turned his head, and realized he’d already overshot. Hard to believe he’d passed her—she was draped in a resplendent silk wrap dyed black and orange, bright as embers. A headache band of fire opals low on her forehead glowed and shifted with her movements.
Still, she was short, and kneeling to boot, and her table was tucked behind an elaborate teak screen to keep conversations private. Her friend Mab sat beside her, feet drawn to one side. In a patchwork waistcoat and a yoked linen shirt thick with smocking, she occupied the decidedly more bohemian end of the southwest quarter’s spectrum.
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