Amberlough(33)

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.”