She laughed like a dog: wide mouthed and panting, more exhalation than sound. One hand in the air, she said, “I’ll testify in court. Tell me, is he a hard knock? Always thought he was fine, but I couldn’t get him to look twice.”
He took Cyril’s card from her. “Did you need something, Miss Cross?”
She reached into her jacket and pulled out a velvet bag—the kind jewelers used to store diamonds. Aristide took it, and tipped it out into his palm. Three sticky squares of poppy tar tumbled free. Aristide rubbed his thumb across one of them—it left a streak dark and tacky as pitch.
“Uncut,” she said. “Strongest stuff you ever smoked. My man can get it by the brick.”
“And I, sweetest girl, will buy.” He kissed her cheek.
“Better be off,” said Cross, standing from the chaise. “Have fun with Cy, but don’t turn him too rotten. I don’t want him moving in on my market.”
“Don’t fret. He’s got no ambition beyond keeping c-c-comfortable.” Aristide stripped his sweaty costume from his skin and reached for the brocade dressing gown flung across the chaise. “You’ve been away. I think some sort of Foxhole mischief has d-d-dinged his p-p-pretty plating.”
“Well, you know what they say.”
“‘A chipped pot still holds soup’?”
“I was going to go with ‘one-legged whore’s still got holes.’”
“How … colorful. Now, if you don’t mind.”
She laughed her dog-laugh, and left him to his business.
*
Aristide slipped between the patrons, narrowly avoiding the languid swipes of expressive hands and cigarette holders. A blush boy snaked out jewel-heavy fingers to pinch Aristide’s bottom and got a sharp look for his trouble, but nothing worse. There were bouncers for that sort of thing.
In the beginning of their association, when Cyril was just curious, he’d been at the Bee nearly every night. He’d dropped off coming when he caught on to the fact that Aristide didn’t just have a finger in the pie, but that he’d stolen it from the windowsill as well. After that, Cyril couldn’t be reasonably seen paying court to a black market kingpin, so his attendance at the Bee slacked off in favor of more private meeting places.
Still, when he did come, he had a preferred table—slightly house left of center, second row back—and he paid well to make sure he got it.
Perched on a high iron chair, he had one heel hooked on the rail, one foot dangling. He wore the same dark suit he’d left in that morning. Yesterday’s suit. Ilse had done a good job on it, but it was undeniably past its prime. Patchy stubble gilded his jaw. Surrounded by the sparkling evening crowd, he looked wilted. Though he’d checked his overcoat at the door, he still had his briefcase. Curious. Aristide filed the observation away.
Opposite Cyril, a gin cocktail sweated onto the mosaic table. Aristide sat, sipped it, and insinuated a toe between Cyril’s cuff and ankle.
He jumped, then smiled. The expression was weary. “I have had a beast of an evening.”
“Gracious.” Aristide dipped his finger into Cyril’s drink, and licked it. “What is this, t-t-tonic and lime?” Either he was off his feed, or he had secrets to keep. “Ask Ytzak for something stronger. T-T-Tell him it’s on me.” Aristide settled his bare feet on Cyril’s chair, between his thighs. “Why on earth didn’t you stop at home to ch-ch-change?”
Cyril shook his head. His hands lit on the tops of Aristide’s arches, and he dug his thumbs into the cables of muscle that stretched from heels to toes. It sent a shock of feeling up Aristide’s legs, into his groin and belly. He let his head fall back and groaned.
“Ari, that’s obscene.” Tory passed them, poking Aristide in the hip. “If you’ve got to shuck a quick oyster at the interval, will you do it in your dressing room at least?”
Cyril pulled his hands up and cupped his drink.
“Why don’t you come down to Antinou’s with us after the show?” asked Tory. “Malcolm’s buying, for once. Cordelia’s going to come. Aren’t you Delly?” He reached out one short arm, and Cordelia wove through the crowd like the Wandering Queen coming down from the mountains, shot-away chin held high and her hair streaming out behind her. The whole cast knew she dyed it—going gray early, poor thing, but did it have to be quite so scarlet?
“That’s not how Mal tells it,” she said. “Says you owe him and you’re picking up the tab.”
Tory put his arm around the backs of her thighs, and something about the proprietary gesture, and the sharp look Cordelia dropped on Tory, piqued Aristide’s curiosity. Were they sleeping together?
“How about it?” asked the comedian. “Antinou’s, I mean. You can bring your pretty friend.” Tory shot Cyril with the imaginary pistol of his finger and thumb.
Cyril sagged over his drink, playing along, but there was real exhaustion in it. Aristide pushed one foot deeper into the crease of Cyril’s hip and curled his toes. “Not tonight, I think.”
Tory raised one eyebrow and squeezed Cordelia’s legs close. “Lucky man, you,” he said. “Eh, Delly?”