Amberlough(9)

“Accident? Someone told me there was a demonstration.”

The officer’s neck went stiff. “Suppose you could call it that.”

“Listen,” said Cyril, “I live just up the street. You can see my building from here.” He pointed over the officer’s epaulet.

“I’m afraid I’m under orders, sir.”

Though he was Master of the Hounds, Cyril couldn’t pull rank on an officer; the federal position wasn’t technically a part of the force. Shifting his briefcase from one hand to the next, he reached for his billfold. “And how much are those orders worth? Let’s say, thirty-five?” The officer turned red, but said nothing. “Fifty?”

“Please, sir. I really can’t.”

“Well,” said Cyril, irked to have found the one honest hound in all of Amberlough, “perhaps your friend here can.” He turned to the next officer in line. “This is ridiculous. I live right there. What’s going on that’s so damned important?” He slipped the woman a folded bill.

This officer, younger and slighter than her stubborn colleague, was also more susceptible to bribery. She made the money disappear. “OSP demonstration,” she said. “Got a bit nasty. Some hecklers broke in and beat one of the unionists bad. Turned into a brawl, and now we’ve got orders to keep everyone out who’s not a party member.”

“For fifty, will you pretend I’m an Ospie?” Cyril gave the woman a smile that should’ve been charming, but probably came off more like a teeth-baring grimace. His face felt stiff with frustration.

The younger officer looked sideways at her neighbor, who was silently projecting a air of deep disapproval.

“I really can’t, sir,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”

Cyril let his shoulders slump forward. “Fine. Good luck with this wreck.” He turned away and moved back through the crowd.

Halfway down the block, he body-checked a man in a heavy overcoat who was paying more attention to the police blockade ahead than he was to the two feet in front of him. Cyril staggered back, and the man caught him and set him straight.

“So sorry,” he said. “Careless of me. Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine.” Cyril smoothed the front of his coat. “You’re in an awful hurry for nothing, I’m afraid. They’re not letting anyone through.”

“Not anyone?”

“See that?” Cyril pointed. “I live just there.”

“Awful. And they wouldn’t budge for anything?”

“Not for fifty crisp slices.”

The stranger sighed. “Well, I suppose it’s all to the good. I’d rather an upstanding hound any day of the week.”

Cyril laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly so. You’d prefer the agents of justice roll over for a little bit of pin money?”

“If it would get me home with my feet up.” Cyril squinted at the man in front of him. “Where did you say you were headed, exactly?”

“The rally, of course.” He flipped open his coat to show a gray-and-white cockade pinned in his buttonhole. “Election’s coming up. We’ve got to support our people in Nuesklend. Acherby’s fighting for all of us, not just the western constituency. For honest, upright folk who are sick of the way things are. Sick of the graft and embezzlement and the coastal blockade. People ought to know we’ve got a vocal presence, even in Amberlough.”

“Vocal, certainly. Caterwauling, even.” Cyril snapped up the collar of his coat and turned away. “Excuse me.”

“That’s right, walk away.” The man’s shout followed him down the street. “Afraid of a little civil discourse? Afraid we might be right?”

He knew he shouldn’t, but he turned and shouted back. “If you want to scare me, do a little better in the polls.”

The man turned red, and blustered, and Cyril left him there before he could come up with a response. Bitterly, he reflected that the polls didn’t matter anyway, if what Culpepper had told him was true. It gave him a modicum of pleasure to realize he had misled the man; the hounds had said they would let Ospies through, but this fellow would probably turn around and go home.

Unfortunately, Cyril didn’t have that option. Without the prospect of a change of clothes and a tumbler of rye with his landlord’s excellent supper, exhaustion and disgust threatened to break over him like a gray wave. Nothing for it but to keep moving. His post would have to wait. He made his slow way back to the edge of the crowd and followed the streetcar tracks to Buttermarket.

The sky lowered, threatening more rain. He sat on a bench under the meager shelter of a budding pear tree, briefcase on his knees, waiting for the southbound trolley that would take him to the Harbor line, to Temple Street, and the Bumble Bee Cabaret.





CHAPTER

THREE

From the stage, Aristide couldn’t see much of the audience. Not with the spotlight in his eyes, striking sparkles off his jeweled false lashes. But he could hear their thunderous applause. Pleasure curled through his middle, and he took a bow.

The curtains, heavy swathes of black velvet, fell between him and his admirers. He blinked, still dazzled by the spot, and waited for the lights to come up onstage. Before he could quite see again, he heard Malcolm snarl at one of the chorus dancers, then her despairing wail as she burst into tears. Well, she’d tripped up her half of the kick line. What did she expect?