Amberlough(61)

She tugged on his tie. “No stalling.”

“I’m not stalling,” he said, putting his hand over hers and drawing it away from his throat. “I’m just trying to keep things quiet.”

*

Back in his flat, Cyril chain-smoked. He needed something to do with his hands, and his straights were convenient. If he paid excruciating attention to lighting them and flicking away the ash, he didn’t have to look up at Cordelia.

They’d ended up hiring a cab—the incident in the street had left him too unnerved to enjoy a walk. And he didn’t trust Cordelia not to bring the issue up in public again.

“I can’t tell you exactly what I do, or who I work for,” he said now. “But know that I need you, or I’m hanged.”

“Is that a saying, or actual fact?”

“Bit of both.” He sighed. “All right, the thing is, I may be doing some business with the Ospies—” From Cordelia’s face, she didn’t approve. He hurried to assuage her, before she could cut him off. “I don’t like it either, but it’s keeping me out of trouble.”

“Hanging trouble?”

“More or less. The only problem is, well … you know how they feel about … well, about everything.”

“You mean, the only problem is Ari.”

“Well, Ari and a few others.”

“More’n a few, I’d wager.” He could tell she wanted him to laugh, but all he did was nod and stub out the end of his third cigarette.

“Load of dead fish,” she said. “Not an ounce of spark in any of ’em. How’d you end up under their heel?”

“Work,” he said. “I was … sent on an errand, but they got in the way. And it was go along, or get trampled.”

“So now you’re running for ’em. Or something.” She kicked off her shoes and pulled her feet under her skirts. “And you need a pretty girl on your arm to make you look the part. Did you ask Ari to rustle somebody up?”

“No. No, that was his idea. I—well, I hardly thought about it.”

“He’s a good friend to you,” she said.

“How did he convince you to take me on?” asked Cyril. “What did he tell you?”

“All he said was you needed a girl. Sounded off-color to me and I told him so, but he said it was strictly underthings on, no wandering hands. At least at the outset. Made it sound more like a matchmaker’s scheme than any whoring I ever done.”

“Oh, so you did used to be in the profession?”

“Sure, after Ma bumped off. For a little while, anyhow. Then I turned to stage life. And a few things on the side I don’t like to mention to a gentleman.”

“You already told me you hired out. And believe me, I’m beyond shocking, by anything you might say.”

“Maybe I won’t shock you, but I don’t want you hauling me in to the vice squad, either.”

“Cordelia,” he said, “you’ve got enough leverage on me I can’t haul you anywhere.”

“All right. Fine. So I ran some stuff. Catha, hash, morphine, tar. It was good business.”

“Ever try any of it?” If she was an addict, he might have a problem. A scandalous mistress was one thing; he didn’t want to cover up any nasty habits in case Van der Joost came sniffing.

“I ain’t a fool, Cyril. I know a runner ain’t supposed to dip out of her own stash. And I don’t. Truth is, my ma took to tar pretty hard when I was a kid. Killed her, in the end.”

“And you still sold it?”

“Well sure. I said my ma took to it hard. But the runner who was selling to her? You didn’t see him hiring out to keep himself fed.”

Cyril ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of its carefully waxed coif. “You’ve got me there. Where were we?”

“Ari,” she said.

“Right. So he asked you—” It struck him then, like a fast-moving cosh to the side of the head. “Holy stones. You’re running for him now, aren’t you?”

“And it’s damn good business,” she said. “I don’t even have to buy the stuff. His girl just hands it over, and I go on my way. No overhead equals pure profit. Pays better than regular running, better than whoring, and birds and above what I get on the stage. But—” And here she leveled a finger at him. The nail was done in varnish dark as sweet cherries. “Remember I can always walk away. I got other ways of making money.”

“But you just said this money is better than all of them.”

“No money’s as good as knowing what you’re in for.”

“And are you satisfied, now?” asked Cyril.

“No. But I think I’m as close as I’m gonna get. You’re closed up like a mussel, and I don’t wanna break my nails prying you open. You gave me the gist. It’s enough for now.”





CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

To meet with Zelda, Aristide donned summer-weight gray wool with a pashmina shawl and heavy pearl earrings set in platinum. The noodle house on Prattler was a bohemian establishment, right in the heart of the southwest quarter. Businesses on the banks of the Heyn, where it flowed behind the theatre district, were as likely to cater to pirates as to penniless aristocrats. Wealthy courtesans mingled with starving artists. The men wore jewels and the women suits and everyone else a mixture of both. The place was a magpie’s den of true gems and counterfeits, impeccable taste and outrageous lack thereof. Aristide liked to strike a balance, and his pearls, at least, were real.