Amberlough(39)

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.”