“I’ll bear it in mind,” said Finn.
“Now, Ari.” Pixie-sized Zelda had to cock her head back to meet his eyes. “When can we have our little sit-down? I suppose a pretty thing like you has all manner of dinner engagements after a show of that caliber. I hear you’re dabbling with one of Culpepper’s foxes these days.” Finn stirred at Aristide’s side, but Zelda went on. “Rumor has it he’s a roto print of poor old Solomon Flyte.”
At that, Finn froze—he knew she wasn’t talking about him.
“D-D-Dabbling?” Aristide assembled his strongest quelling glance and aimed it down at Zelda. “I wouldn’t say that. Not anymore.”
“Oh dear. It always stings to be thrown over. You must be shattered. Do let us take you out. It would be such a treat.”
“I’m afraid I’m t-t-tied up,” he said. “Might we have a bite of lunch tomorrow? And let’s keep it strictly business, please. I prefer not to air my d-d-delicates in public.” He squeezed Finn close. The accountant’s spine held stiff against his embrace.
“Mab?” Zelda looked at her friend.
“I’ll be free.” She smiled at Ari like she expected something of him.
“Perfect.” Aristide caught Zelda’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “Ring me up in the morning, Zelly. But not t-t-too early, understand?”
*
“Makricosta, Makricosta … why do I know that name?” Müller chewed his lower lip. “Damned familiar.”
“The smugglers on the southern wharves owe him most of their success.” Cyril lit a cigarette and offered one to Müller, who took it but made no motion to light up. His eyebrows were drawn down against the thin frames of his spectacles, and he watched Aristide with the intensity of a hungry raptor.
“Of course,” he said, at last. “Makricosta’s his stage name. He goes by a different handle when he’s bringing in ships.”
“I know.”
“Isn’t that Zelda Peronides he’s talking to?”
Cyril finally let himself look at Aristide, instead of watching Müller look at him. He still had Finn tucked under one arm, and the accountant was suffering himself to be kissed on the face by a slip of a woman in an outrageously feathered hat. “Looks like it.”
“The two of them can’t be up to any good.”
“Relax, Alex. You’re off the clock. You can’t spend all your time chasing criminals.”
“That’s the kind of attitude that’s got the ACPD into such a shameful state,” said Müller, finally lighting his straight. “They don’t want to spend any time cleaning the place up. They’d rather play in the filth.”
“Well, then it’s good I’m not an officer.” With relief, he spotted Cordelia coming toward them. He held out an arm to her as she sidled between people queuing for the trolley. “Ms. Lehane! So kind of you to join us.”
She dipped gracefully into the circle of his arm. “Had a beast of a time gettin’ out,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of stuff that goes on behind that curtain.”
“Try me,” said Cyril, and kissed her. She tasted like fresh lipstick, and kissed back.
“You put on a sterling show,” said Müller. “That last part especially. I’ve never seen somebody get out of a girdle with such panache.”
Cyril felt Cordelia smile against his mouth. She broke away, and gave Müller a once-over. “Glad you enjoyed it. It’s for the punters, after all.”
“Surely you enjoy it, too. Or you wouldn’t be doing it.”
“Damn right I wouldn’t. Pay’s piss-poor.”
“And all those bits of paper pushed into your garters at the interval?” Müller’s flirtation made him grin, showing sharp teeth stained with nicotine. “What were those? Telephone exchanges?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“No.” He flicked ash into the gutter. “No, I don’t think I would. But I’d hope they were written on some hefty bills.”
“All right, you two.” Cyril pressed the heel of his palm to his mouth, checking for lipstick stains. “I’ll just head home now. You seem like you’re getting along fine.”
“DePaul!” Müller laughed, and Cyril felt a bit of tension ease from his shoulders. He’d been worried Müller would stay stiff all night. “I didn’t have you pegged as the jealous type.”
“Not jealous,” he said. “Sensitive to the needs of my friends. For instance: Next round is on me. Where should we head?”
“You a port drinker?” asked Müller. Cyril wasn’t, but nodded anyhow. “The Kelly Club, then.”