Amberlough(94)

She heard hobnails scrape on wood. Gritting her teeth, she pulled into a tighter ball. The blow was a long time coming, but the thin man would’ve been good on stage: He knew the value of anticipation.

*

She held out until the knife. It was a good run, she thought. Might have given Ari time to get out of the city, even.

Sometime after the thin man broke her nose, but before her left eye had swollen shut, a dumpy sculler in a gray suit came and sat across from her, his hands folded primly in his lap. He looked like a pudding, pale and soft, his thinning hair combed neatly over his scalp.

“Hello Miss Lehane,” he said. “I’m Konrad Van der Joost. My colleagues tell me you’ve been somewhat reticent during your questioning.”

She didn’t have the energy to talk smart, so she didn’t say anything.

“Your silence is unfortunate, for us and for you. We are attempting to bring a criminal to justice, and I’m sure you are more than ready to go home.”

Home. She didn’t rotten have one anymore. Not in this city. Not with people like this in charge of things.

“Why don’t you tell me who gave you those papers,” he went on, “and we can all get exactly what we want out of this.”

“Why don’t you stroll off,” she said, summoning the last of her attitude, “and leave me with my friend here.” She jerked her chin at the thin man, who stood at Van der Joost’s shoulder. “We was getting along just fine.”

“Regrettably, Miss Lehane, I will not be strolling anywhere. But please don’t let my presence interrupt your rapport with Rehimov.” He waved the thin man forward with two fingers. Cordelia braced herself, sinking down into the solid foundation of her chair. She latched her good hand under the seat, holding on, but Rehimov grabbed her wrist and yanked her fingers free. One of her nails splintered and she yelped. Van der Joost pursed his lips.

“Now,” he said, as Rehimov pinned Cordelia’s hand to the table. “You have ten fingers, and each finger has three joints. That’s … well, it’s thirty, technically, but the last joint of the thumb is always difficult, or so Rehimov tells me. So let’s say twenty-eight. I thought we’d start with your good hand, and only move on to the broken one if we have to.”

Cordelia realized what he was getting at, and tried to stand. Rehimov sat in her lap, pinning her to the chair, her arm lodged against his ribs. She could feel the grain of the wooden tabletop under her palm, and scrabbled at it, breaking more nails. Rehimov put his own hand over hers, stretching her pinky finger flat. A cold, thin weight came down on her first knuckle.

“Twenty-eight joints,” Van der Joost repeated. “That’s twenty-eight chances to answer one simple question. Who gave you those papers?”

She reeled back, gathering momentum, and slammed her head into Rehimov’s spine. He grunted and gave, but not enough. She was trapped.

“Miss Lehane,” said Van der Joost, irritation creeping into his voice at last. “Patience is not one of my strongest suits. If you think I am toying with you, I suggest you revisit that assumption.”

She couldn’t see Van der Joost nod, or give his silent order, but she felt Rehimov tense, saw his shoulders move. The tip of his knife slid into her knuckle, separating the bones and cutting neatly through the tendons. He did it so quickly, the first of her twenty-eight chances was gone before she even started screaming.

When she subsided into sobs, her cheek resting between Rehimov’s shoulder blades, her tears soaking through his shirt, Van der Joost cleared his throat. He had mastered his irritation, and spoke as calmly as he had before. “So, Miss Lehane,” he said. “Tell me: Who gave you those papers?”





CHAPTER

THIRTY

As he prepared to leave, Aristide opened his tall glass parlor doors onto the balcony so he could listen to the city’s anger. He had friends down there. Lovers. Associates. As he made his final circuit of the flat, he stopped and stared at Baldwin Street.

The crowd had not begun as a riot; it had started with puppets, costumes, songs. Students and artists and actors, the denizens of Baldwin Street and the theatre district, giddy and frightened, acting out. But the comical effigies they had burned earlier were at the bottom of heaped bonfires now, beneath smoldering mattresses and motorcars. Aristide stood at the back of the balcony, listening to the chanting and catcalls. Across the street, a woman in lace knickers and a defaced Ospie jacket—how had she gotten ahold of that?—hefted a gray-and-white banner and hurled it across a pile of burning detritus. A rock careened out of the crowd and smashed the windows of the dress shop behind the conflagration.

Aristide was on the second story, near enough that the protestors could throw things if they wanted: a fact he was counting on.

“Mr. Makricosta?” He turned and saw Ilse lingering at the parlor door. Her face had a sick green tinge around the lips. “Sir, there’s some folk come to the service entrance with a … well … they asked for you.”

“Ah. Yes. Go to the kitchen, Ilse, and stay there. I’ll take care of it.”

She nodded and fled.

Two men with shipyard muscles waited at the bottom of the service stair. Between them, they carried a laundry basket. From the way their arms were straining, it weighed nearly as much as either of them.

“Come in,” said Aristide. “Can I help you carry?”