“So you want a tour guide,” she said, appraising him.
“No.” He tilted his head slightly, as if considering, and blew on his coffee. His lips were damp and shone pale pink like the inside of a strawberry. “Tour guide makes it sound, ah, pedestrian. I am not touring. I am researching. I need an escort. Someone who knows the city and also can deal with any… trouble that may arise during my research.”
“Do you anticipate a lot of trouble?”
“I try to be prepared for anything.” He pushed his shoulders back, possibly in an attempt to look prepared, but the effect was of a teenager trying to look older.
“Then you’d be able to handle the trouble yourself,” Simone said.
“A fair point,” deCostas said with a curved smile. “Let’s say then that hiring you would be part of my preparations. You look like you’re capable of handling trouble.” He let his eyes look her over slowly. She met his gaze and locked it.
“I suppose I’m used to it. I don’t know if that makes me capable.”
“Asumiria.”
“Pardon?”
“I mean that’s ideal.”
“So if I feel a drop, I get us out of wherever we are—that’s what you’re looking for?”
“If a drop means trouble, yes.”
Simone nodded. “That I can do. Now, explain to me exactly what you’re looking to find,” Simone said, sipping her coffee. He had black eyes, mirrorlike. Seeing her drink apparently reminded deCostas that he also had coffee. He took a sip of his, then frowned.
“Used to the good stuff?”
“Used to the weak stuff.” Simone raised an eyebrow. “I’m a student, Ms. Pierce, I can only afford weak coffee.” He pursed his lips in a way that was probably supposed to suggest this was his lot, and he was used to it, but which Simone found incredibly sexual. “I am looking to find areas where the architectural strength of the buildings kept them watertight, so the buildings themselves are still inhabitable to street level. No water.”
“I know New York, Mr. deCostas. That’s all driftwood.” He looked confused, so she explained: “Nonsense.”
“I’ve done extensive research on architectural techniques used in New York over the past hundred years. Some buildings—and I have a list where we can begin—some buildings should have been strong enough, and used technology advanced enough, to keep out the floods.”
“Even all these years later?”
“Yes.” deCostas frowned. “Maybe. I think so. And it does not really matter if you don’t think so. I just need you to help me locate these buildings and take me there. If I am wrong, you’ve been paid for what will most likely be an easy job. If I am right, you get to see a secret side of the city you claim to know so well. You get to be part of a great discovery.” He raised his eyebrows slightly.
“If these buildings did exist, don’t you think someone would know?”
“Maybe. But they might want to keep it a secret.”
“Ah, and now we come to the trouble you predicted.”
“Yes. Some inhabitants of these possibly watertight buildings might not take well to having what they consider their private spaces invaded.”
Simone swung her legs off the desk and opened the drawer in a cabinet to her left.
“I’m not some exterminator, Mr. deCostas. If you find some place you want to move in, you need to take care of current occupants some other way.” She took out a business card for Dash Ormond, another private detective in the city whom Simone sometimes sent business to. He had what Simone would call a different set of ethics, but he’d been around as long as she had, and he sometimes sent her stuff that he didn’t want. “This guy can probably do the job better.” She handed him the card. He stared at it but didn’t take it.
“No, I think you misunderstand,” he said. “I don’t mean for you to harm anyone who does not pose a threat.” Simone stared at him. She was fairly certain that that was exactly what he had meant. He stared back, a small smile forming. “Please, Ms. Pierce. The mayor’s office said you were the best in the city. Said you knew every inch of it, because you’d grown up here.”
“Okay,” she said, “I’m a thousand a day, in advance, on my schedule, and I’m no tour guide; you find out which buildings fit your structural integrity criteria, tell me what they are, and I’ll take you there, and get you in, if getting in isn’t as easy as walking in the front door. I still think you’re not going to find anything, but I’ll take your money just the same.”
deCostas stood and nodded, then drank the last of his coffee.
“When do we begin?”
“Tomorrow,” Simone said, “if you can get me your credit information and the names of some buildings today. At least two buildings ASAP. I’ll handle the rest.”
“You won’t just take me to the nearby buildings and say they’re the ones I asked for?” he asked, smiling.
“You’ll have to trust me, angel,” she said, smiling coyly.
“Then I will do so. Until tomorrow, then. Thank you for the coffee.”
They shook hands and he turned and walked out. Simone caught herself staring at his ass. She would have to think of reasons to walk behind him. Easy money and eye candy. She did owe Caroline.
Trying not to linger on deCostas’ curves, Simone decided on the rest of her day. She needed a way of hearing what Mr. St. Michel was talking about with The Blonde, which meant a bug, which meant meeting him, which meant a cover, which meant Danny. That was fine. She hadn’t seen Danny in a while. She brought up the photo of The Blonde again and printed it out. She could send it to Danny, but if she was going to him anyway, a hard copy seemed safer. She had another cup of coffee, locked the office up, and headed out.
Danny’s office, if it could be called that, was only a few bridges from the Rialto, the old freighter moored where Union Square used to be, filled with shops and street performers who docked motorboats around the bridges and played guitar in neon-piped scuba suits or juggled. It was a good location for his business—the top floor of a twenty-two-story building, just barely above the water, accessible by the old fire escape that led up to the window he used as a door. He had painted over the sliding glass door with images of crystal balls and pentagrams and had hung velvet curtains behind it. A neon sign proclaiming “Psychic” flickered in the window, and above that another sign: “The Great Yanai, Seer of the Future, Teller of Fortunes.” It looked like crap, but Danny did a decent business. Simone climbed the steps and walked into the shop. The waiting room up front smelled of sandalwood and had old gray carpeting and glass cases displaying various occult accouterments. The curtain leading to Danny’s “reading chamber” was closed, so Simone sat down in one of the old chairs and picked up a digital magazine called Horoscope Weekly.
Simone was an Aries, born March 29. “Now is a great time for love,” her horoscope read. “You’re letting out a seductive energy no one can resist. Use it wisely, but beware of fair-haired women.” Simone raised an eyebrow. Those were words to live by. She put down the magazine, a thin sheet of white polymer that scrolled through pages as you brushed a finger on the bottom. Originally, people had had entire libraries on small screens like that, subscriptions to magazines downloaded every day or week, but then advertisers and publishers had realized they could make more money by selling each magazine and book individually. Simone’s bookshelves were lined with the thin, folded white sheets, their titles and authors stamped across the front in black.
The curtains to the back parted and a well-dressed, wealthy-looking woman stepped out. She was pale, and her eyes were red. Behind her, Danny stepped out, wearing a ridiculous feathered turban and cape over what were probably black pajamas. His eyes met with Simone’s for a moment, and Simone winked. Danny raised his eyebrows, then turned back to the woman, clasped his hands together, and bowed slightly. The feather on his turban bobbed.