Amberlough(58)

The club was within walking distance—strenuous walking distance—of Cyril’s flat, and he’d gone there a few times in years past. He hadn’t been recently. They’d done the place up, polished the brass, et cetera, but Cyril still caught a whiff of old cigar smoke. Probably the same stale stuff he’d wrinkled his nose at the last time he came around.

There was a pack of razors at the bar, talking textile futures. They ignored Müller’s entrance, but when Cyril helped Cordelia out of her coat, they roused a chorus of wolf whistles. Cordelia flicked her skirt at the offenders, and chased it with a vixen’s smile.

The high ceilings bounced sound, but the tables were nearly filled. So many people were murmuring to one another, the effect of the echo was more obscuring than revealing.

“Table in the rear,” Cyril told the maitre d’, and she took them to a booth in the corner. He stood back and let Cordelia slip in. Müller settled beside her—not too close, Cyril noted, but close enough their feet could be doing who knew what under the table.

“What are we having?” Cyril asked, hanging Cordelia’s coat from one of the booth’s hooks, and hanging his own over it. He topped the column with his trilby, at a jaunty angle.

“They serve a good Maleno vintage,” said Müller.

“Hang it,” said Cordelia, “I don’t know port from nothing. They got gin back there?”

“A dry white’ll do for the lady,” said Müller.

Cyril, who was inclined to agree with “the lady,” resolved to have the same. At the bar, he squeezed past a hefty razor in her shirtsleeves and a backless waistcoat. She cased him and growled appreciatively.

“Sorry,” he told her. “I’m here with company.”

She cast her eyes whence he had come. “The old eagle or the pretty young jay?”

“And if I said both?”

“You’d put me in a twist,” she said. “I couldn’t straight envy you, but I wouldn’t give you any pity either.”

He propped a foot up on the bar rail. “What’s good here?”

“Not a port drinker?”

“I prefer whiskey,” he said.

“Are you a rye man, or do you like barley?”

“Rye, when I have a choice.”

She slid her schooner down the bar. “Try that beauty. Babe turned me on to it.” One of her companions saluted. “Thirty-year tawny. You’re gonna think it’s sweet, but give it a chance.”

He lifted it to his nose and barely smelled it, then took a sip to be polite. It was too sweet, but he could see where she was coming from. The butterscotch and nutmeg notes were reminiscent of a good, dark rye.

“All right,” he said. Then, to the bartender, “One of those. And the Maleno. And … oh, whichever dry white you like.”

The bartender went to work. By the time Cyril brought their port to the table, Müller was lighting Cordelia’s cigarette from his own, their heads bent close. Cyril doled out the glasses.

“Cheers.” Müller lifted his and looked at Cordelia. “To pretty things.”

She rolled her eyes, but let him drink to her.

Cyril did his best not to taste the syrupy stuff he’d ordered. Conversation wandered. When Müller was distracted by some detail of his story, trying to recall a name or place, Cordelia caught Cyril’s gaze and angled her head out of the booth. Presumably toward the washrooms, or the bar. He nodded, barely. When Müller finished up his punchline, she laughed, told him he was a lying show-off, and then excused herself for the toilet.

“Stuff’s gone right through me,” she said, tapping her nail against the streaky glass. “Ah, don’t look so shocked, Mr. DePaul. You know you love a little plain speaking.”

He caught her hand as she rose and pulled her down for a kiss—a wordless thank you. The dry port lingered on her lips, bright with citrus and a hint of nuts.

When he let her free, she fetched a tube of lipstick from her coat pocket. “Better take a minute and repaint the pucker too, if you’re going to keep on like that.”

“Hurry back, pigeon pie.” Müller’s smile was indulgent. “He’s going to make me talk business, I’ll wager. And I’d rather talk with you.”

Cordelia snorted and turned away. As she crossed the room, her hips rolled like a buoy in choppy water. Heads turned, including Müller’s.

“You’re awful, Alex.” Cyril shook his head. “What would Maxine say?”

His smile turned brittle, and fell. “Nothing she hasn’t already. I’m a terrible husband.”

“But an excellent policeman.”

“Am I?” Müller took a drink. The port stained his teeth purple, briefly. “Then why wasn’t I made commissioner five years ago?”

“Perhaps,” said Cyril, crossing his arms, “that’s exactly why. You said it yourself: The ACPD isn’t exactly on the up-and-up. Take that raid on the docks, for instance. We both know it was a sham.”

“Taormino’s under pressure to crack down on the smugglers. You know. You probably put the squeeze on her. It wouldn’t surprise me if she cut a deal with somebody so she came out looking good. Makricosta, maybe.”

It wouldn’t have surprised Cyril, either.