Amberlough(59)

“DePaul,” said Müller. “Why are we here? What do you need me for?”

Tapping his fingers against the foot of his schooner, Cyril thought for a moment and finally said, “You know, I really don’t like this.”

“I can tell.”

Pushing the glass away, Cyril looked up at Müller. “What gave me away?”

“You’re putting up with an awful lot,” said Müller. “You said you’re not the jealous type, but a man doesn’t let somebody get so close to his mistress unless he wants something, badly.”

“I meant the port,” said Cyril.

Müller’s snort was expressive. “Oh. That was easy.” He picked up the glass Cyril had been studiously ignoring and tipped it so the liquor climbed the crystal. “It’s a single-year tawny. Cove Oscár, or something like it. Overpriced, overrated, too sweet. You should’ve told me you didn’t ‘know port from nothing.’ At least Ms. Lehane got a glass of something she enjoyed.”

“Next time,” said Cyril.

“So there’s going to be a next time?” Müller picked up his spectacles from the water-ringed table and polished them with his handkerchief. “How long are you going to keep courting me, DePaul, and what do you want at the end of it?”

Cyril looked past Müller, into the warm, dim expanse of the dining room. The crowd had thinned, but a few of the razors were still gathered in a die-hard clump at the far end of the bar. Cordelia returned from the washroom and put herself in the thick of it, flirting with the woman who’d recommended the port Müller so disdained.

“You’re not satisfied with the work the ACPD is doing,” said Cyril.

“Damn right I’m not.”

“And you despise Marissa Taormino.”

“I don’t respect how she got where she is.” His scowl belied his diplomacy.

“This might be a hard sell, then.” At the bar, Cordelia hopped up between the razors and settled herself among empty glasses and smoldering cigar butts. She crossed her ankles with the delicate precision of a society matron, and let her new friend light a straight for her. “But if you buy, you’ll be commissioner within the year. Maybe the next six months.”

Müller’s face went slack, but he caught himself and reassembled it into grim outrage. “Whoever’s goods you’re shilling, I don’t want ’em.”

“Even if it means a straitlaced police force? Things done above the board? Promotions based on merit, not on graft?”

“In this city? Tar dream. Never happen.”

“It is happening,” said Cyril. “Now.” This wasn’t strictly true, but he could afford to talk an enormous amount of absolute swineshit, as Cordelia would put it, as long as it bagged Müller for the Ospies. “You can either ride the wake, or you can drown.”

Müller looked over the tops of his spectacles, his eyes like chips of yellow resin beneath his prominent brow. “Are you threatening me, DePaul?”

“No. No, of course not.” Cyril adjusted one of his cufflinks, projecting unconcern. “The idea never crossed my mind. I’m merely telling you it’s a good time to consider some alternatives. Because later … well, no one likes a brown-noser.”

“I’ve lived in this city far too long. I know that isn’t true.”

Cyril wondered if the entendre was meant for him.

“You think the Ospies really have a chance?” Müller’s stare was calculating.

“I know.”

“How?”

Cyril switched to the other cufflink, barely sparing a glance for Müller in between. “Who do you think I’m ‘shilling’ for, Alex? Certainly not the current regime. Hebrides knows where he is with Taormino; she’s tucked right into his watch pocket, on the end of a gilded chain. And knowing Josiah, that chain was paid for with dirty money.”

“So how exactly are you proposing to buy me? And what uncomplimentary metaphors are you going to use to describe our relationship?”

“I don’t want to buy you, Alex. I want to offer you the appointment you deserve, in a system that works the way it should. And I represent people who can make that happen.”

“The Ospies. You’re in league with the Ospies. What was your price? Just so I can benchmark.”

This was not going as well as he’d hoped. Leaning in, he brought a ferocity to his tone that he’d so far let lie dormant. After Müller’s snipe, it wasn’t hard to find. “Look, I’ll be blunt with you—”

Müller cut him off. “Yes, please. I’ve had enough of your dancing around.”

“All right. I’m asking you to compromise your principles, yes. But I’ll only ask you once. Look the other way, this time—just for a little bit, while things are ugly—and I promise you’ll never have to look away again. We won’t want you to.”

The “we” nearly stuck in his craw, but he said it nonetheless. His chain wasn’t gilded, and it held him by the throat.

Müller finished off his port and fell against the cracked leather of the booth. “Well, I’ll give you credit: You know how to tempt an upright officer of the law.”

“And are you?”