The Game of Love and Death(36)

It took Flora a moment to understand his suggestion that Sherman was a pimp and she was his prostitute. And by “anything else,” Mr. Potts meant a bribe.

“Unless you gentlemen would like some more corn bread, that’s all I have. Most folks say it’s the best thing on the menu. My grandmother’s recipe.”

Mr. Potts flipped the book closed. He dabbed his lips with his dirty handkerchief, once again missing the perspiration beneath his nose.

“See, that’s just the thing,” he said. “Taxes are complicated, and I wouldn’t expect a young … lady … such as yourself to understand them fully. Your uncle being unavailable during working hours makes me certain he’s hiding something or up to some other unlawful business. So we’re going to have to shut this place down. Unless —”

“Unless what?” Flora looked at her pocketbook. She’d forgotten to put Nana’s money back in the canister. Mr. Potts registered the glance and a smile slithered across his lips.

“Well now,” he said. “I can see that you might be more savvy about business matters than you’ve let on.”

Flora looked away. The thought of giving this man what he wanted made her blood smoke. But if it would get rid of him, it was maybe worth it. She hesitated, wishing Sherman were here to handle things. This was her grandmother’s money. Money Nana meant for her to spend on her flight, not that she intended to. But if she didn’t pay, they’d shut the club down.

Flora panicked. In that moment, the thing she most wanted was for those men to be gone, and she wanted the Domino to keep its doors open. She could pay Nana back, eventually. She opened her pocketbook and pulled out half the bills. Mr. Potts made a show of eyeing what remained. Flora, her hands shaking, gave him all of it.

“Satisfied?” She couldn’t resist spiking the word with venom.

“I don’t have a clue what you might be talking about, miss.” Mr. Potts opened his jacket. His badge flashed as he tucked the bills inside and smoothed the bulge from his chest. She looked toward the door.

“If that’s all,” Flora said, “I have work to do. I hope you’ll be coming back for the performance.” She also hoped her tone made it clear she wanted them gone for good.

“No offense intended,” Mr. Potts said, “but your kind of music … it just isn’t our thing.”

As he headed for the stairs, Mr. Potts slowly brushed against Flora’s chest. He grunted as he did, and she swallowed her protests. You had to pick and choose your battles with men like these. It wasn’t so much about winning as surviving.

When they’d gone, she leaned against the storeroom door. Her whole body shook, but she did not cry. Even if they weren’t there to see it, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. She hoped Sherman wouldn’t be disappointed with how she’d handled the situation. The day she was free of all of this could not come soon enough.





NOT long afterward, Love followed Grady Bates into a rough section of town a few blocks south of the Domino. At first, he’d appeared as James Booth, in his shabby suit, his golden hair glowing in the light. Worried about witnesses, Love broadened his frame, ruined his posture, and added a bit more history to his clothes and face. He stayed two blocks behind Grady, following him through the benign rays of an early-afternoon sun.

The neighborhood was bleak compared to other parts of the city, especially compared to where Henry lived. A row of skinny maple trees planted along the sidewalk offered little in the way of shade or ornament. Crumpled bits of yellow newsprint tumbled through vacant lots, and shards of glass from broken bottles glittered in the dirt.

A single thought circled through Love’s mind as he walked, a mad idea, one he should have spit out like a piece of bad meat.

Kill Grady Bates.

It unsettled him, to say the least. He doubted this was how Death felt stalking her prey, exposed and quaking. But it was the right choice. Grady was a danger and an obstacle, and the way to remove him permanently was to steal a play from Death’s book.

She would be furious, of course. Love wondered briefly why that bothered him more than the prospect of a man’s imminent murder.

Grady stepped inside a shop that carried newspapers, magazines, and tobacco. Unsure how long the man’s business would take, Love leaned against a lamppost and waited. He was halfway tempted to go inside and buy a newspaper, but something held him back. Instead, he considered murder methods. What would he do if he were human? Use his fists? Wield a broken bottle like a knife?

How intimate fists and blades were. Almost as intimate as love itself. Death often used a touch, but Love couldn’t imagine it was anything like love, what she did. Her powers also far exceeded his own. She could manipulate matter, bring down an airship, and stop time. By comparison, his gift felt pathetic. All he could do was fill a heart with love.

He removed his hat and rubbed his forehead, squinting against the sun. The door opened and Grady emerged with a newspaper folded beneath his arm. Love peered inside Grady’s heart. The man’s next desire? A gingersnap — and a moment with the pretty girl who worked behind the bakery counter.

This small infidelity ordinarily would have bothered Love. Now, he relished it. He followed Grady into the bakery. The young woman behind the counter — she was perhaps two or three years older than Flora — regarded him with a flicker of suspicion before she turned her attention back to Grady and smiled. It stung to be treated differently for his skin color. To think of how often the white majority of the city looked this way at the small population of brown-skinned residents was worrisome. As ever, Death had been shrewd in her choice of player.