„What about Malakhai? He’s already talked to her.“
„What of it? He’s the best documented lunatic on the planet.“
Though there was no gun, no raised fist, not even the hint of force, Franny walked toward the exit sign. He was not a willing companion, yet he offered no resistance. In his own private world, the storm troopers had never left. Shadow soldiers marched behind him as he passed through the stage door and into the street. He could almost hear marching footsteps traveling along with them as he and Nick walked down Broadway. Franny squinted in the noonday sunlight. There were pedestrians on the sidewalk.
Two policemen rolled by in a patrol car. There were many people he might have cried out to. But he went quietly, crying only a little – afraid to make a scene in public.
Every old thing was new again.
The walls echoed that theme with murals depicting the Prohibition era of speakeasy flappers and bathtub gin. On the low stage, musicians were playing vintage jazz. And best of all, there were ashtrays on the tables. Detective Riker sat in his own cloud of smoke and stared at the gardenia on the windowsill. He could swear it had not been there a moment ago.
The bar crowd was very young, except for the few gray heads of magicians he recognized. He had avoided them for the past half hour, not wanting to begin the interviews until Mallory arrived. She was late again, and this worried him. There was a time when he could have set a watch by her appearance.
Charles Butler was rushing the door, and this was Riker’s first clue that Mallory had arrived, for he could only see her blond curls and bits of white satin between the bodies of other patrons.
Wait. Satin?
And now he caught the flash of golden strappy heels where running shoes should be. His only good view of her was the reflection in the window. A white tuxedo floated in the night-dark glass. Elegant lines of material flowed over her body and threw off sparks of reflected light. She was carrying a purse instead of her knapsack.
He had been robbed; this was not his Mallory. She was late, the way a woman is late, and she was even dressed like a woman. There was no blouse worn beneath her jacket, and he had a vague feeling that it would be wrong to stare at that reckless neckline – almost incest. He had never mistaken NYPD for real family, but Mallory had always been a source of confusion. And now the kid was changing her rigid patterns and her style.
He hated change.
Riker put the blame on her new habit of sharing wine with suspects. Well, that would have to stop. This was what happened when amateur drinkers were set loose in bars and liquor stores.
She draped her leather trench coat over Charles’s arm, as though he were a living coat tree – not that he appeared to mind. His face was so happy and hopeful. Now Charles raised his empty hands, perhaps as a prelude to peacemaking, assurance that he came to her unarmed. Suddenly, a gardenia appeared in his right hand.
Mallory’s smile was strained, and Riker guessed that she was damn sick of tricks.
She slipped the flower stem through the boutonniere slit in her lapel. And now the black leather coat was flying Riker’s way. He caught it in midair and watched Charles lead Mallory toward the musicians. He held her in a slow dance to an old blues tune from the forties.
Mallory was humoring Charles, dropping the pretense that she could have any reason to be angry with the poor bastard. So she was on best behavior tonight, and this also worried Riker. His only consolation was the familiar bulge that the gun made in the line of her white satin suit.
Nick Prado was standing at the bar, lifting a glass with Emile St. John. Malakhai had not arrived yet, but both men had assured him that he would know when this man walked into the room.
The band abruptly ended their set to have a few words with the harried-looking manager. Charles and Mallory walked back toward the table. Prado intercepted them and touched the flower in her lapel, pretending interest in it, as if there were not fifty identical blooms appearing all around the room. „The gardenia was Louisa’s favorite. Oliver’s too. He left funeral instructions for a carload to be – “
Prado was distracted by the entrance of two uniformed police officers. Every head was turning toward the door. „Oh, good! It’s a raid.“
Riker recognized one of the uniforms, a man his own age who had not yet been forced out in NYPD’s rush to replace all the gray men with kids fresh from school. Officer Estrada was standing with the manager when Riker joined them. „What’s the problem?“
Estrada pointed to a young couple sitting at a table a few yards away. „Those two called in a complaint about the smoke.“
The manager chimed in, „Right. But smoking is legal here. This is a bar, not a restaurant. We only serve hors d’oeuvres. So now they’re changing their complaint to dancing.“
„What?“ Nick Prado had joined them. „No dancing?“
The manager rolled his eyes back, showing all the classic symptoms of a New York mugging victim. „We don’t have a cabaret license, sir. The mayor says no – “
„Right.“ Riker never had the patience to listen to the backstory. „No smoking in the restaurants, no dancing in the bars.“
Officer Estrada grinned. „It gets worse, Riker. The mayor shut down your favorite strip joint today.“
Riker winced as he amended his list. „And no more sex in New York City.“ He looked down at the gun belts of Estrada and his young partner. Both were sprouting gardenias. „Okay, you guys are with me.“
As the three policemen walked toward the complaining couple, Riker noticed a flower growing from his breast pocket. He swatted it to the floor, as if this might be a visitation of the delirium tremens that had once covered him with crawling spiders.
„Good evening, sir, ma’am,“ said Riker. „You wanna press charges, right?“
The couple said, „Yes,“ in unison, as if this were a response at a prayer meeting. And Riker supposed it was. He was becoming accustomed to the religious fervor in a taxpayer’s exercise of power.
„We need a written statement, folks. These two officers are gonna run you down to the South Bronx. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours.“
„You’re kidding!“ The man looked up at Riker with an expression of shock. The woman was shaking her head, saying, „Not the Bronx.“ But her tone of voice said, Not the thumbscrews.
Riker pegged them as Manhattanites, and he could even roughly guess their address on the Upper East Side. They would regard the outer boroughs of New York City as remote satellites, faraway planets requiring visas and vaccinations.
The woman pulled a gardenia from her hair and held it up to her startled eyes, truly mystified in the absence of an identifying price tag.
„Sorry, folks,“ Riker was saying. „That’s the law. All the dancing statements go to the South Bronx. But I really appreciate you screwing up your whole evening to do the right thing.“
The uniformed cops were looking elsewhere, hiding smiles, as the couple gathered up their coats, heads shaking in deep denial. And now they were marching toward the door.
Riker pursued them. „Hey, where are you going? If you won’t do the paperwork, how’re we gonna shut this place down?“
As the door swung shut behind them, Riker turned to the silent assembly and shouted, „Resume dancing!“
The band and the crowd obeyed.
In the middle of cheers for the hero of the evening, Riker’s thunder was suddenly stolen. As promised by Prado and St. John, he recognized Malakhai the moment the magician walked into the room.
Every pair of eyes was on him, this genetic celebrity of natural grace and form, unconsciously moving in time to the music as he crossed the floor. Or perhaps the band was playing to the tempo of the man.