Amberlough(15)

“Talk to the commissioner?” Cordelia set down her kebab and licked her fingers. Malcolm grabbed her hands and tried to finish the job for her, but she yanked away and wiped them on his coat instead. “About what? The ballast?” Ballast liquor was tax-free, smuggled in the bilges of ships coming into Amberlough’s harbor by river and sea. “Every place in town has a sailor or two brings ’em cheap hooch.”

“Not every place is the Bee,” said Malcolm. “We’re a rotten example now. And it’s pay off the hounds or hang in the snare.”

“Why didn’t you ask me?” Cordelia picked at her food.

“Makricosta knows the market,” said Malcolm. “And Taormino’s a fool for a pretty face.”

Cordelia pursed her lips. “And what am I? A sow? I’d’ve had her here.” She cupped her palm.

“And how were you going to convince Taormino to blind-eye our ballast? Stimulatin’ conversation?”

She sneered. “Oh, that’s flattering. I’m just two pears and a peach, is that it?” She grabbed her crotch.

“Aw, Delia, put away your fangs. Far as I’ve heard, Taormino don’t go in for tits anyhow. She likes her squeezes with a big prick and too much paint. Halfway won’t sway her.”

Cordelia knew her makeup was probably smudged beneath her eyes by now, her lipstick blurring at the edges. She shoved Malcolm, and not gently.

“Hoggies! Hoggies! Stand down.” Tory held his hands up as if he could push the two of them apart. “You’re just hungry and it’s making you snap. We were having a nice little supper before somebody started talking business.” He leveled a baleful glance at Malcolm. “Now. Let’s all be civil and finish our kebab. Agreed?”

They went back to eating, and it wasn’t long before Malcolm and Tory were lobbing friendly insults back and forth. Tory was a bowlegged ladychaser who came out so short on account of his ma taking too many men while she carried him. Malcolm was a lecherous old cur who couldn’t please a lover ’cause he’d spent too long pleasing creditors. Cordelia was cold, disgusted, and ready to go to bed.





CHAPTER

FOUR

Cyril peeled himself out of bed hideously early the next morning and briefly considered the merits of vomiting. Perhaps on Aristide. The other man stretched like a sensual fresco across more than his share of the mattress, lustrous tangles of hair fanned out against the linens. He looked peaceful, sated, and not at all like he’d been up in the night searching through Cyril’s things. Drunk, Cyril was a fitful sleeper, and he hadn’t missed Aristide’s nocturnal reconnaissance.

Swiping his billfold from the nightstand—Ilse must be back in, and already pressing his abandoned trousers—Cyril staggered to the washroom. He looked like a tragic melodrama: shadowed, bloodshot eyes, his neck and chest mottled with bruises … One particularly livid splotch colored his jaw. He desperately needed a shave.

What he got instead was a face full of cold water, and his briefcase. It was exactly as he had left it, untroubled by Aristide’s nosiness. The leather was beaded with moisture on one side, but the lock was dry. He held out hope for the contents.

Wrapped in one of Ari’s ridiculous robes—poisonous green velvet that did nothing for his complexion—Cyril hauled himself to the parlor and collapsed into the wingback chair by the bookcase. Ilse came when he rang, her cheeks still rosy from a cold commute.

“Get me a pot of coffee,” Cyril said. His stomach lurched. “And maybe a wastebasket.”

She nodded and disappeared, returning a few moments later with the basket. “Coffee in a minute or two, Mr. DePaul.”

She was true to her word. He was still contemplating the clean bottom of the wastebasket when he heard the faint whistle of a kettle somewhere in the flat. The smell of brewing coffee sent rich tendrils through the stillness of the parlor. Cyril released his grip on the basket and put it on the floor, within easy reach.

Ilse returned bearing a tray and a folding table, which she set up at Cyril’s right elbow. In addition to coffee, she’d brought him a tumbler of … something.

“Ilse,” he said, tipping the brownish orange concoction to catch the light from the table lamp. “What is this?”

“Mr. Makricosta’s proven hangover remedy,” she said. “An egg with tomato juice, a healthy dash of fish sauce, and three spoonfuls of hot chili paste. Oh, and a little bit of black pepper bounce. The liquor takes the edge off.”

He closed his eyes and breathed shallowly through his mouth against the briny, bitter smell of the potion. “Thank you,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it.

She snorted and made herself scarce.

Taken all at once, it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, though he was briefly blinded by the spice. He poured a cup of coffee against his exhaustion and splitting headache. With the key from his billfold, he unlocked his briefcase.

It was stupid to read this here. But Ari wouldn’t be up for another hour or so—the sky outside the arching parlor windows remained deep purple in the west, the barest flush of gray light creeping over the gabled roofs and chimney pots across the river.

He flipped the cover of the file. Focusing on the words made his eyes ache, but he was a professional, for queen’s sake, and a hangover was not going to dull his edge.