Close to the spillway on South Seagate Road, a narrow alley dove off the street into a deep brick courtyard. The arches of old tenements sheltered crisscrossed laundry lines and a mossy fountain. Antinou’s took up the northern edge of the yard, tables and chairs crowded under the striped awning and scattered more thinly right up to the edge of the water.
This late, the place was still jammed full of students, actors, and whores. Tory stood on a chair, running through some new material. He’d been working on a routine for the election, and now he was doing his impression of Caleb Acherby, the Ospie candidate running for Nuesklend’s primary seat. He was so good at it, the crowd was hissing. Cordelia wondered how it would play with their punters, though. It wasn’t hard-scrabble types the Ospies pandered to.
Malcolm laughed at Tory’s jokes, jabbing with his cigarette and calling out suggestions. One of his hands rested on Cordelia’s neck, his thumb rubbing absent circles at the base of her skull. He was in his shirtsleeves, not bothered by the chill.
When their waiter brought the food out, Tory gave his audience of drunken night owls some peace and slipped back into his seat. Snatching one of the sticky pumpernickel buns, he took a bite and said, through a mouthful of nuts, “Delly, sit up and have a cup of something hot. You’ve had a big day.”
Huddled in the raised collar of Malcolm’s khaki overcoat, she glared at him. Was he trying to show his hand?
“Big?” Malcolm tangled his fingers in Cordelia’s hair and shook her head back and forth. “Last I saw you before rehearsal you were flat on your back and half asleep.”
“What I get up to ain’t your business. Now leave off.” She slapped his arm. “I’m perishin’ for some coffee.”
The stuff was gritty, thick as oil, and potent. Within a few minutes of her first cup, she was awake and sitting straight, holding a red-checked piece of waxed paper piled high with charred and dripping lamb. Still pinned about both of her companions, she hunched over the kebab and used her fingers to eat—no one with half their senses trusted the silverware at Antinou’s.
“Commissioner was at the show tonight,” said Malcolm, tearing chicken from a skewer. He stopped to chew and swallow before he continued. “Makricosta was supposed to talk to her. I asked Tito to tell him at the interval.”
“That boy’s too poor to take any orders that don’t come well-padded with cash.” Tory poured himself another cup of coffee.
“I rotten pay him,” said Malcolm. “He works for me.”
“But you don’t pay him much,” said Tory. “That piece our Ari was flirting with looked like a sheep past due for shearing, but I know a fine suit when I see one. Even two days worn. Tito’s passed out drunk somewhere with a whore on his prick. Taormino never had a chance.”
“Talk to the commissioner?” Cordelia set down her kebab and licked her fingers. Malcolm grabbed her hands and tried to finish the job for her, but she yanked away and wiped them on his coat instead. “About what? The ballast?” Ballast liquor was tax-free, smuggled in the bilges of ships coming into Amberlough’s harbor by river and sea. “Every place in town has a sailor or two brings ’em cheap hooch.”
“Not every place is the Bee,” said Malcolm. “We’re a rotten example now. And it’s pay off the hounds or hang in the snare.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?” Cordelia picked at her food.
“Makricosta knows the market,” said Malcolm. “And Taormino’s a fool for a pretty face.”
Cordelia pursed her lips. “And what am I? A sow? I’d’ve had her here.” She cupped her palm.
“And how were you going to convince Taormino to blind-eye our ballast? Stimulatin’ conversation?”
She sneered. “Oh, that’s flattering. I’m just two pears and a peach, is that it?” She grabbed her crotch.
“Aw, Delia, put away your fangs. Far as I’ve heard, Taormino don’t go in for tits anyhow. She likes her squeezes with a big prick and too much paint. Halfway won’t sway her.”
Cordelia knew her makeup was probably smudged beneath her eyes by now, her lipstick blurring at the edges. She shoved Malcolm, and not gently.
“Hoggies! Hoggies! Stand down.” Tory held his hands up as if he could push the two of them apart. “You’re just hungry and it’s making you snap. We were having a nice little supper before somebody started talking business.” He leveled a baleful glance at Malcolm. “Now. Let’s all be civil and finish our kebab. Agreed?”
They went back to eating, and it wasn’t long before Malcolm and Tory were lobbing friendly insults back and forth. Tory was a bowlegged ladychaser who came out so short on account of his ma taking too many men while she carried him. Malcolm was a lecherous old cur who couldn’t please a lover ’cause he’d spent too long pleasing creditors. Cordelia was cold, disgusted, and ready to go to bed.
CHAPTER
FOUR