Amberlough(57)

“Try me,” said Cyril, and kissed her. She tasted like fresh lipstick, and kissed back.

“You put on a sterling show,” said Müller. “That last part especially. I’ve never seen somebody get out of a girdle with such panache.”

Cyril felt Cordelia smile against his mouth. She broke away, and gave Müller a once-over. “Glad you enjoyed it. It’s for the punters, after all.”

“Surely you enjoy it, too. Or you wouldn’t be doing it.”

“Damn right I wouldn’t. Pay’s piss-poor.”

“And all those bits of paper pushed into your garters at the interval?” Müller’s flirtation made him grin, showing sharp teeth stained with nicotine. “What were those? Telephone exchanges?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No.” He flicked ash into the gutter. “No, I don’t think I would. But I’d hope they were written on some hefty bills.”

“All right, you two.” Cyril pressed the heel of his palm to his mouth, checking for lipstick stains. “I’ll just head home now. You seem like you’re getting along fine.”

“DePaul!” Müller laughed, and Cyril felt a bit of tension ease from his shoulders. He’d been worried Müller would stay stiff all night. “I didn’t have you pegged as the jealous type.”

“Not jealous,” he said. “Sensitive to the needs of my friends. For instance: Next round is on me. Where should we head?”

“You a port drinker?” asked Müller. Cyril wasn’t, but nodded anyhow. “The Kelly Club, then.”

It was on the other side of town, the northeast quarter, not far from Cyril’s flat. However well Müller liked Cordelia, he didn’t seem enamored of the theatre district. “I’ll get us a cab,” said Cyril, and left the two of them together.

Leaning against a streetlight with his arm out—the first rush after curtain had taken most of the nearby taxis—he watched Cordelia work on Müller. She was a sharp one—she’d figured out first thing, at the interval, that Cyril was using her for something, and started laying it on thick. Her flirtation was a seamlessly choreographed dance: She tossed her hair; touched Müller’s arms, the back of his hand; threw her face to the sky in exaggerated laughter. All so smoothly it seemed natural. Like he was brilliant and special and must think the same thing about her.

No wonder she couldn’t stand Aristide. There was barely room for both their egos on the Bee’s broad stage, let alone in conversation. Their clashing tempers and over-the-top personalities were what made that striptease so sizzling.

In the backseat of the cab, he would put her in the middle. Let his weight fall on her in the curves, so she’d fall into Müller in turn. If only he could pass his pocket flask around. But Müller was the deputy police commissioner, and he’d proved himself vigilant even out of uniform.

Headlights made him squint. A black cab drew up beside him, and he waved to Müller and Cordelia. Müller went around to the street side. Cyril stopped Cordelia with a hand on her wrist.

“You’re perfect,” he told her. It would pass for an endearment, if Müller overheard them, but from the look in her eye, she knew it wasn’t flattery; it was fact.

Car doors fluttered along the curb, opening and shutting like the shells of beetles. Before Cyril followed Cordelia and snapped his own door closed, he looked down the taxi rank and saw Aristide arm-in-arm with Finn. Aristide noticed him staring and their eyes locked. Cyril caught his breath and looked away.

*

“You know Cyril,” said Finn, as Aristide ushered him into the back of an illegal hack.

“What’s that?” Aristide climbed in and gave the driver his address, hoping his feigned inattentiveness would put Finn off. He wasn’t so fortunate.

“You know Cyril DePaul, somehow. The first time he brought me round, I kenned it. Too much frizzing in the air.”

“Frizzing?” Aristide pretended incredulity, though he knew the northern slang.

“You know.” Finn wiggled his fingers. “Electricity. Even just now, and you two hardly said a word. Still, zap!”

Aristide snorted. “Silly boy. C-C-Come here. I’ll show you electricity.” He lifted his arm and Finn hesitated. “Oh, Finn, p-p-please. We all have p-p-pasts.”

Finn relented and slipped across the leather seat into the curve of Aristide’s body. “He’s an old spark, isn’t he? Why was he so keen on introducing us?”

“What Mr. DePaul once was to me is now irrelevant.” To prove it to himself, Aristide tipped Finn’s face up to his own. The accountant’s mouth tasted like gin and tea tree chewing gum. “I’m sure he has his own c-c-curious motives, but in general I try not to question them. He’s a very useful friend to me sometimes, and he may be useful to you someday as well. Don’t put him off over a t-t-trifling little thing like jealousy.”

“It’s not that,” Finn started, but Aristide stopped him—utterly.





CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

The Kelly Club was a set of second-story rooms on Orchard Street, just off Ionidous Avenue. The avenue was distinct from the arch; cocooned in the fashionable central city, Loendler Park boasted the patronage of wealth and beauty. Ionidous Avenue ran straight through the heart of the financial district. The Kelly Club had wealth, but lacked elegance.