Amberlough(40)

“You have work. Or doesn’t Malcolm p-p-pay you anymore?”

“Come on, Aristide.” She could hear the wheedling cant of Kipler’s Mew creep into her voice. “I’m looking for a little tar, and everybody knows you can get the good stuff.”

“Maybe. But I only sell it wholesale.” In the mirror, he pursed his lips into an appraising moue. “And I d-d-doubt you could afford it by the k-k-kilo.”

She bit back a snipe. “Who says I need it for myself?”

He paused, holding a piece of cotton wool above his cold cream. When he spoke, the words came out precarious, as if he were afraid of being caught in ignorance. “Don’t you?”

A sneer caught her upper lip and she stood, pulling her robe tight.

He sighed. “Cordelia.”

“No.” She reached for the door handle, pulling it half open. “I see how it is.”

“Wait.” He set the cotton on his vanity and turned in his chair. “Come back. Close the door.”

She paused, considering. It was put up with him or put up with an empty belly. “All right,” she said, lowering herself on the settee proper. “What do you got to say?”

“First,” he said, putting a finger to his chin, “that I’m favorably impressed.”

“What, just ’cause I ain’t a junkie? Flattering.”

“Hmm. I suppose I did deserve that one.” He finger-combed his hair, from scalp to tips. “Who’ve you been running for, till now?”

“Ricardo Ty.”

“Ah.” Drawing the springy mass of his hair over one shoulder, he began to braid it with deft, bony fingers. “That explains it. You’re the third of his I’ve had this week. I said no to the other two.”

She cursed. “Guess I’ll take myself down the pier, since you’re not picking up new help.” She made to get up again. Hang it all, her legs were getting tired.

Aristide waved her down. “Oh, Cordelia. Don’t be b-b-beastly. Just sit for a moment and let me finish.” His curling central city accent soared into stage parody, tripping over itself in his hurry.

She matched him with a crude gesture and a higher, nasal take on her native whine. “Bet it won’t take long.”

“Very funny.” Leaning back in his chair, he lit a cigarette. He did not offer one to her. “As it happens, I need a favor. And I’d be quite willing to do you one in return.”

“What sort of favor are we talking?”

“I have a friend,” he said, “who needs some … female company.”

She shook her head. “I’m outta that game, Ari. Have been since I started on the stage.”

“I am not a p-p-pimp, Miss Lehane. You misunderstand me. What you do with this gentleman, once you meet him, is your affair entirely. Though, I should mention that if the t-t-two of you continue your association, I could be p-p-persuaded to continue ours.”

“So all I gotta do is chat up some swell, and you’ll stock me? What do you get out of it?”

“Philanthropic satisfaction.”

“Swineshit.”

He sighed, nostrils flaring, and stood from his chair. “Will you meet my friend or not, Cordelia?”

She thought of her empty larder, and her landlady. “Yeah, I’ll meet him.”

“Excellent.” Aristide arranged a velvet scarf around his neck. “He’ll be at B-B-Bellamy’s, three days from now, at half past two. And don’t worry,” he added. “He’ll be paying.”

She bared her teeth at him, and slammed the door on the way out.

*

Madame Bellamy’s was on the swell end of Baldwin, too refined for catcalling. When Cordelia let her wrap slide down so she could sun her bare shoulders, she didn’t get any whistles, but she did catch a few passersby smiling at her from beneath the brims of their hats.

The front of the place was decorated with wrought iron in fancy spirals and flowers. Tiny colored panes made up the windows, above and below two larger, plainer stretches of glass printed with “Tea” and “Coffee.” Between the curlicue letters, Cordelia saw the bent heads of diners, and black-jacketed waitstaff drifting from table to table.

Cordelia had never been to Bellamy’s—couldn’t afford it, for queen’s sake. But she’d chatted up enough of the punters to walk and talk like a swell. No one would realize where she came from if she didn’t want ’em to.

“Ma’am.” The maitre d’ gave her a courteous half bow. “Do you have a reservation?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Cordelia, holding her voice carefully even. “Will that be any trouble?

The maitre d’ maintained a mask of bland indifference. “No trouble at all.”

He led her to a table near the center of the room. A waiter took her order and returned with coffee. Oh, she liked this. She liked it very much. As she was stirring cream and sugar into her cup, she heard the distant chime of the bell hanging above Bellamy’s door and looked up, wondering how she was supposed to know Ari’s friend if she saw him, or if he was supposed to come to her.

The man who entered was a pinch shorter than average, but he had charm enough it made up for the extra inches. Turned out in a white tennis sweater and pleated flannel trousers rolled at the ankle, he was a little too dressed down for the scene, but he looked at his ease. The maitre d’, who she would’ve pegged as a starched proper, gave him zero grief about his rags. If Cordelia knew anything, that meant money.