Culpepper frowned. “I’m glad you take your job so seriously.”
Behind a lazy fa?ade, his brain was working. He’d have the off-record offenses restored, and maybe add some too. Müller could help him, if he could nail the man down. The problem would be Taormino’s people—the ones who liked where they stood under her governance. Unless Cyril could offer them something better. He’d have to squeeze money from the Ospies, and some promises, if Van der Joost wanted the city by midsummer.
“I do take it seriously,” he said. “Much more than you know.”
*
Two sleepless days later, brought up short by an unexpectedly Taormino-loyal faction in the upper echelons of the ACPD, Cyril dragged himself from his flat hoping fresh air and a walk in the park would inspire miracles. In reality, he made it as far as the other side of the street, and got the opposite.
The quick change artist-cum-paper seller was waving her wares at the curb, a breeze slapping at the pages. And there, on the front page, was Taphir Emerson’s haunted mug shot.
Cyril snatched the paper out of the girl’s hand. She squalled and he threw a crumpled bill at her. He didn’t even ask for change. Leaning against the iron bars of the fence that bordered Loendler Park, he scanned the article. Taphir had been caught in customs at Bythesea Station, but Sofie and Mab came up only tangentially; they’d managed to slip through. He felt relief out of proportion to his involvement, followed by sharp anxiety. Sofie and Mab were wanted women, and they were in the city. He wondered if he should reach out—he could probably find them, if he wanted to. He knew enough people.
And half those people, he reminded himself, were now in league with the Ospies—he’d won them over. Finding Sofie and Mab would put the women in danger. Cyril was already a liability to Cordelia, and to Aristide, as much as they were to him. He couldn’t bring more people into this mud pit. All he could do was hope, quietly, while he tried to save his own skin, and Ari’s.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
While they were waiting to go on toward the end of the second act, Cordelia asked Aristide for a straight—she was out, and his would be better than hers anyhow. She’d never have dreamed of it, three weeks ago, and he wouldn’t have obliged. But now, he pulled one from who knew where in that costume, along with a book of matches.
When she’d lit up, he tucked the matches back into some hidden pocket of brocade and lace and said, “I need you to run an errand for me.”
She looked up from her seat on the prop table, flicking ash from the tip of her cigarette. “Yeah? The usual kind?” She’d been moving up, running better stuff for him, and doing courier jobs between his people. Sometimes she even got paid in cash now, outside the tar. She liked to think he’d keep her on, even if Cyril dropped her. Or, if she decided she’d had enough of Cyril.
“No.” His eyes were aimed out toward the stage, watching the scantily clad gimmick pianists play a raunchy, four-armed duet. “No, it’s rather different. Do you know Zelda Peronides?”
“Heard of her. She’s a fence, right? You want me to run some hooky?” That’d be a step up. And a pinch riskier, for sure. With tar, you could buy off most beat cops if they caught you in possession, but hot stuff was harder to blind a hound to.
“Nothing like that, don’t worry.” The pianists were finishing up their act. Aristide checked his makeup in the mirror tacked by the curtain rope. “I just need you to take her a t-t-tiny message. Her shop ought to be on your way.”
“You know my trolley stops?” She ground her cigarette butt into the scarred wood of the table.
“Are you t-t-terribly surprised?”
“If I take it there tonight, after the show, is she gonna be awake?”
“Of course.” His eyes moved, fleetingly, toward the audience visible beyond the curtain. “You don’t have anything p-p-planned for the evening?”
“What, you mean with Cyril?” She shrugged. “Haven’t heard from him the last couple days. Probably busy with his work.” She hadn’t told Ari what she knew about Cyril and the Ospies. It was always good to keep back things like that; you never knew when they’d come in handy. “Why? You heard something?”
Aristide shook his head. “No. But you’re probably right. Mr. DePaul is a very busy man.” The pianists bowed. Their instrument slid across the boards as if by magic, but from where she stood, Cordelia could see the crew behind the stage left curtain hauling on the ropes.
“Come by my dressing room after curtain call,” said Aristide as the lights began to lower. Twin spots wheeled across the stage and backdrop. The orchestra vamped, waiting on his entrance. Liesl was probably swearing, wondering what was taking him so long. But Ari was a master of stagecraft—he knew the audience liked the anticipation as much as the reveal.
*