“Here is fine,” said Aristide, when the cabbie crossed the intersection of Solemnity and Cane. She stopped at the curb. He paid twice the fare and thanked her. As she pulled away, he saw her eyes in the mirror, giving him one last doubting look.
The Stevedore was tucked down the back of an alley off of narrow, twisting Rifle Row. Broken glass choked the wet gutters. A steep set of stairs led down from the footpath to a basement door, marked with a tin sign painted in chipped lead white. The air inside reeked of spilled beer and stale smoke.
A few red-eyed patrons cased him when he walked through the door, but evidently found him less interesting than their pints. He checked his watch: one thirty-five. Cyril might be running late. Or he might be dead.
A low doorway at the back of the room led to a corridor that ended in a service stair to the left. At the right, it doglegged. Aristide made the turn and found himself in a second room, smaller and darker than the first, cluttered with tables. The chairs were up at most of them, crooked legs sticking into the air like the feet of dead animals. But in the rear corner, at a table lit by a chimneyed taper, Cyril sat with his back to one wall. A second chair stood empty against the other.
Weaving between the disused tables, Aristide took Cyril’s measure. He’d dressed down for the locale—a tweed flat cap and a collarless shirt, an oily rag around his neck. He had the details right even down to his ragged, hand-rolled cigarette. Despite his attire, he was clean-shaven. The circles Aristide remembered beneath his eyes were gone.
“You look well.” Aristide lowered himself into the empty chair.
Cyril snorted. Smoke barreled from his nostrils and twisted through the candlelight. “Thanks.”
“Will you please tell me why we’re meeting in this wretched place? You could’ve come by the theatre. Cordelia’s anxious about you. You g-g-gave her a bit of a scare, apparently.”
Stubbing out his cigarette, Cyril sat back in his chair and removed his cap. A lock of pomaded hair fell out of place and curved across his forehead. With an impatient gesture, he flicked his head to the side. The movement was ineffectual, but Cyril didn’t try again. Aristide had to check his hand from rising to smooth the stray bit of hair. The jerk of the chin, the fleeting irritation—familiarity cut keenly. How many times had he seen that same blond crescent fall against Cyril’s brow?
“I hope,” said Aristide, looking away, “you weren’t planning on an assignation.”
“Ari, please. If it was sex I wanted, we wouldn’t be in the basement of the Stevedore. No matter who was on my tail.”
“Is there anyone?”
“Of course. You don’t think the Ospies would give me my parole. I’m doing good work for my handler, but he doesn’t trust me. He’s afraid I’m going to embarrass him.”
“So it was you. Who scratched Taormino, I mean. And Hebrides, too?”
A self-deprecating smile hooked the corner of Cyril’s mouth. “You noticed?”
“I could hardly fail to. Which means Culpepper will notice too. Has she sent anyone after you?”
“Not yet, but she will. I can handle it, don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t.”
“That’s sweet of you. I’m flattered.”
“Cyril, why are we here? Tell me I didn’t come all the way across t-t-town to flirt in a dirty basement.”
With a sigh, Cyril pushed the stray curve of his hair back. Speaking more to the candle wick than to Aristide, he said, “Cordelia’s running for you.”
“Yes.” He’d been hoping to keep that from Cyril, but there wasn’t much one could.
“Our history—yours and mine—isn’t exactly secret. Think of how that would look, if it came out Cordelia was in on your schemes.”
“It won’t,” said Aristide, with practiced confidence.
“What could possibly have possessed you?” Cyril’s fist curled tight around his tweed cap, bunching it into a tube. “Ari, the whole point was to keep me looking like a respectable Ospie. And you start sending her on errands?”
“She wouldn’t take my money,” said Aristide. “And I needed her help. What was I supposed to offer?”
“You needed her help? I thought she was—”
“Yes I needed her rotten help!” Aristide cut him off, suddenly overcome. He put his face in his hands and pushed his fingers past his hairline, tugging on his curls until his scalp stung. His burr leapt out like a rat from a sack. “Plague and pesteration, Cyril. I needed her help to keep you safe.”
“But you’re still using her.” Cyril’s soft voice didn’t take the sting out of the accusation.
Aristide took a deep breath and made sure the next sentence came out smooth. “You’re using her too.”
There was a tight pause. Aristide could feel Cyril’s anger building. When his outburst came, it snatched Aristide’s breath with its force and revelation. “Not to move stolen goods for wanted refugees.”
“What?”
“Oh don’t play innocent; you’re no ingénue. Cordelia was wearing Minna Keeler’s stolen citrines yesterday. Do you have any idea the kind of trouble that could land me in?”
Blood drained from Aristide’s limbs. His hands went suddenly cold and heavy, as if they were cast in lead. “Citrines?”