She rolled her eyes and reached back to finish her own buttons. “Stroll off,” she said. “I got places to be.”
“I ain’t strolling anywhere. I’m gonna sit here”—he dropped into her makeup chair with a tremendous squeal of metal and straining leather—“and you’re gonna tell me what it is about this welterweight swell that makes him so special.”
“Get out, Sailer.”
Malcolm checked his watch, casual as a man waiting for a train. “Think he’ll mind if you keep him waiting?”
She slammed her hairbrush down on the table and rounded on him. “Mother’s tits, Mal. Fine. You want to know why Cyril? Because Ari’s making me a tidy trade over it.”
“Makricosta?” Malcolm looked caught between laughing and rage. “What, he’s pimping for you now?”
“Is it always gotta be about whoring with you?” She fixed her hat in place, so fast the combs tore her hair. “Just ’cause I grew up in the bad end of the first precinct doesn’t mean I gotta make my living on my back.”
“I figured you was more in the side streets line. Standing in an alley, or something like that.”
Oh, she nearly slapped him then. “You got no idea what line I’m in.” Furious, she dug into her handbag and hauled out Ari’s brown paper package. It struck Malcolm’s lap with such force that he flinched, probably aiming to protect his tackle. The smack of it against his thighs gave her grim satisfaction.
“Go on,” she said. “Open it. See if you like what you find.”
He peeled back the edge of the paper and sniffed. “Tar?”
“Real good stuff, too.”
“Makricosta’s selling to you? Delia, I didn’t know—”
“You better shut your mouth before you swallow any more trouble.” She took the package back and carefully rewrapped it. “I don’t smoke tar. And if I did, I couldn’t afford this.” It hit the bottom of her handbag with a heavy thump. “I can get enough from that to live on. Better than what you’re paying. Ari’s not selling to me. I’m running for him.”
Malcolm crossed an ankle over his knee. She watched him watch her. “Since how long?” he asked.
“A couple of weeks.”
“How’d he hook you? You owe him money?”
“He owes me.”
“What for?”
She flung her hands wide. “For spending my time with Cyril. Queen’s sake, use the head your ma pushed out, for once.”
“So you are hiring out.”
“Only my time, Malcolm. Get outta my chair. You’re sitting on my coat.”
He snorted, but followed orders. “He’s awful pretty, Delia. ’Scuse me if I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” she said. “I tried him out, but that bayonet won’t fix. Not for this charge, anyhow.” Swiping her coat from the back of the makeup chair, she shoved her arms up the sleeves. “He don’t go in for peaches and pears. More like big noses and bad attitudes. Come to think of it, you’d be just his type. So if anyone’s got cause to be jealous, it’s me.” She pulled the door wide open and swept her arm to show him the way out.
*
Aristide didn’t say much to Finn at the interval, and didn’t get anything done besides drop by people’s tables and jot names and dates into his diary. The two of them arranged to meet after the show, in front of the theatre. It took Aristide a long time to spot Finn’s bowler through the wreaths of adoration the crowd was laying on. Disengaging from a bevy of admirers, he crept up on Finn and lifted the brim of his hat with one finger. Finn jumped like a cat, then saw who it was. His smile spread, unguarded.
“I’m so sorry it took me such a long time to come back,” he said. “I was out of town for a family matter. You were brilliant, of course.”
The hint of his Farbourgere lilt made the words musical, and eerily evocative: the sound of Aristide’s childhood. To stop him talking, Aristide ducked down and kissed him. “D-D-Don’t trouble your pretty copper head about it, darling. You’re here now.” He shuddered elaborately. “Family matters. How t-t-tedious.”
“Actually, my mother’s been ill. We don’t … didn’t get on, but it was good to see her before…”
Oh, perdition. Aristide grabbed his ankle and pulled his foot out of his mouth. “Poor dear.” He put an arm around Finn’s waist, squeezing him close. He was soft about the middle, and gave pleasantly under the pressure. “You’ll want cheering up, then.”
The warmth of Finn’s exhalation against his collarbone was welcome in the cool, damp night. “Yes, I suppose I do. It’s why I came.”
“And are you feeling better?”
“Mightily.”
“What’s your p-p-pleasure? Another show? A quiet drink? Or would you rather just … head home?”
He could’ve scraped Finn’s blush from his cheeks and used it for rouge. But before the boy could answer, someone in the crowd checked his shoulder, and he stumbled.