Wicked City (6 page)

Maybe they just didn't care.

A message waited for me when I finally dragged myself through the door of Mrs. Brodsky's. Katya was cleaning the kitchen. A pot of soup sat on the stove, and when I indicated I'd already eaten, she handed me a letter.

“From your brother, I think,” she said, in the thin voice that even now sometimes surprised me. For the first several months I had known her, Katya never spoke a word. We had attributed her silence to the shock from her husband's sudden death on a construction site, though now she thankfully seemed to be recovering. The young widow helped Mrs. Brodsky with the chores in return for very little thanks and even less pay. She had given birth to her late husband's child a few months before, and they both seemed to be doing well.

I opened the note, folded at a hasty diagonal on heavy watermarked paper, and recognized the handwriting as Harry's. As for the cream stock with the discreet filigreed monogram of E.H. in the lower corner, I assumed it belonged to another one of the rich society boys that Harry would leave brokenhearted in a week or so. When Harry first ran away to the big city to join Troy's Defenders, I hadn't anticipated that particular complication. But in the event, it did not come as much of a surprise to learn of his preference for pretty young men—and theirs for him. Troy might have cared had he known, but the only thing that really mattered to him was his job. And Harry did that well. None of Daddy's children were a slouch at demon hunting. Harry had made me swear on my life to never tell Daddy or Mama.
Like Mama didn't already know,
I told him, but I promised anyway. This was New York City, after all, the land of minimal social taboos and self-reinvention. If he was enjoying himself, then I wished him the best of it.

Though five years my junior, Harry had developed a slightly abashed sense of protectiveness toward me. He periodically checked to make sure I was “getting on all right.” Like he had tonight.

Zeph—

Don't know if you heard, there's something strange happening to the suckers. Probably nothing dangerous, but I've heard the Faust's now got poison in it. Or maybe it turned bad on its own? I even heard they didn't pop. Be careful. I know you can take care of yourself, right, don't fuss at me I'm just saying be careful.

See me tomorrow if you can.

Harry

PS Mama called. Said Daddy's acting odd and keeps asking about you.

I stared at this letter while my thoughts chased each other like aging rabbits. If Harry said the Faust might be poisoned, then I had to take the possibility seriously. I would have to devise some means of investigating Madison. I sighed—the prospect looked daunting. Elspeth thought I had connections with the mayor, but I wondered what kind of connection his strange letter represented.

Aileen hadn't yet returned when I climbed upstairs, but she was sitting on her bed when I returned from washing my hair. She was deathly pale, though the white dust on her collar told me the effect was due mostly to powder. But that didn't explain the dark circles under her eyes or her unusually bleak expression.

“Did somebody die?” I asked.

“Besides those poor suckers, you mean?”

I sat down beside her, still in my robe. “So you had a jolly time with the ladies, then,” I said, forcing a smile out of her.

“Oh, much fun was had at the Spiritualist Society tonight,” Aileen said, waving her hand theatrically. “Just not by their resident Spiritualist. Christ Almighty and spirits preserve me, but those ladies work me like a dog. Four separate séances, and they wouldn't be satisfied until the lights flickered and the room went cold and I channeled no fewer than
six
dead husbands. I felt like I was holding a jamboree.”

“You mean you pretended to channel them?”

“Maybe,” she said.

“Aileen.”

“Bloody stakes, Zeph, what am I supposed to do? Go back to passing out on the floor in the bottle factory? The great ladies pay me to use my Sight. They don't pay too badly, either, so I'd rather use this blighted curse for real money instead of eking things out on Skid Row. If you don't mind.”

She started pulling pins out of her hair and tossing them angrily on the floor. My heart felt like it was pulling apart in my chest. Hadn't I promised Aileen that I'd help her find a way to control her Sight? But instead it had just gotten stronger and more compelling as the months passed. It exhausted and traumatized her to use it, but I could see her point: if she had such a strong gift, why not use it to make money?

“Aileen, I didn't mean … You should do what you think is best. I just don't want it to hurt you.”

Aileen laughed. “It's not my idea of a picnic, doing this all the time.”

I wanted to promise that I would help her, but I knew better now. I just wrapped my arms around her waist.

“I'm tired,” she said to my shoulder.

“Me too,” I said.

 

CHAPTER THREE

I phoned Lily first thing Tuesday morning. I had awoken early, barely thirty minutes after dawn, overcome with nerves, the source of which I could not immediately identify. Then I recalled the
other
monogrammed letter that I had stuffed, along with the lilies, somewhere at the bottom of my clothes chest. The honorable Mayor James Walker had requested the pleasure of my company at four o'clock this afternoon. As I relished the thought of another encounter with agents McConnell and Zuckerman like I relished a fall in horse manure, I could not afford to miss it.

But until then, I had responsibilities.

I descended to the parlor in my kimono, my hair wrapped turban-style in a silk scarf that Harry had given me for my birthday. I had hoped that I might avoid the usual charade of asking Mrs. Brodsky for permission to use the phone by virtue of the early hour. But of course she was already seated in one of the chairs, reading glasses perched on her nose and correspondence laid out before her.

“Zephyr,” she said, “a surprise to see you up so early.”

“I merely wanted to appreciate the warm bounty of our rising sun,” I said.

Mrs. Brodsky's lips twitched. “As you and Aileen did yesterday? A fine incident that was. If you get arrested, Zephyr, I'll have you know I won't hold the room for you.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What if I pay my rent?”

She paused. “Well. In that case. Though I do not know what people will think of an establishment that houses a known felon!”

A known felon? Just the thought made me shiver. But I made my voice firm. “I assure you, Mrs. Brodsky, I am in no danger of arrest. The officers merely wanted some information from me regarding that incident last January. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to use the phone.”

“Information?” Mrs. Brodsky said. She shook her head. “I'll need a dollar for the phone.”

This was extortion, pure and simple, but I refrained from arguing. The fees to call the Hamptons would be greater than calling within the city, and if I
did
find myself in prison stripes money would be the last of my worries.

I gave Lily's information to the operator and waited while the line rang.

“Hello, who is this?” said a woman's slow, sleepy drawl.

“Is Lily Harding there?” I asked.

“Isn't it a bit early? Lily, someone says they want to speak—”

“Who is it?” Lily's voice came over the phone after a brief struggle, sounding strangely eager for such an early hour.

“Zephyr,” I said.

“Zephyr!” she practically cooed in delight. “Why, I believe I have missed your voice! How are things in our big red apple? Frightfully interesting, I'm sure. You must tell me everything.”

“Lily?” I said. “Is that you?”

She laughed, but it had a high, brittle edge. “Who else would it be? Have you forgotten me so quickly? I told you marching in this heat would addle your head.”

“And clearly lazing about has done wonders for yours,” I said.

“Oh, it's the berries, of course. Everyone whose anyone is up here. It's a social
whirl
, I'm telling you. Why just today I have no fewer than two lunch dates and a boat party with a very eligible fellow of whom my mother quite approves.”

“That's
a
berry, at least.”

“What? Oh, ha ha. Anyhow, Bill is terribly handsome. And rich—his daddy owns a manufacturing plant in Poughkeepsie, which he expects to take over. It makes him gobs of money.”

I had never thought of Lily as especially prone to babbling, but I could think of no other description for this frenetic cataract of words tumbling through the receiver. Mrs. Brodsky glared at me from behind her reading glasses, but I had plenty of practice ignoring her.

“What does he manufacture?” I asked.

“Oh, some widget or other. I endeavor to avoid the subject, he can drone on so.”

I laughed. “Sounds like a match made for a notice in the
Times
.”

“Throwing stones, as usual? Or do I need to remind you what I caught your very handsome beau hiding in his warehouse this January?”

I winced. “He's not my beau.”

“As you keep saying.”

Lily had been the one to put together Amir's role in bringing Faust to the city, though in retrospect I should have seen the signs earlier. I only believed her when she came to me with photographs—stacks and stacks of frankfurter boxes, all filled with unlabeled bottles of a dark, thick beverage. Amir had asked for my help, but he'd been careful to hide the deal he'd made to distribute Faust. A deal that had gone very, very sour.

“You didn't spare the money for a chat,” Lily said. “Does that mean I smell a story?

I smiled to hear her hard-nosed reporter's voice finally return. She must be dreadfully bored. “Faust is acting up again,” I said.

“Really? Like in January? Are all the suckers going mad?”

I shuddered at the thought. But Amir promised no one else could access the “good stuff” once he had cut his personal connection. The goods on the street now were far less potent and dangerous than what had caused such trouble that first week. I hadn't told any of this to Lily, who knew too much already. “No,” I said, “but they seem to be dying.”

Lily's silence hung heavy on the line. “Dying,” she said, flatly. “I thought at least the damn stuff didn't pop them like liquor. Wasn't that the whole point?”

“That's the trouble, Lily. No one knows, but those suckers are dead. And I heard…” I paused, remembering the strangest part of Harry's hastily written note. “There are rumors the vampires didn't pop.”

“Suckers
always
pop. How else do they die if they don't exsanguinate?”

Lily had a point. “Maybe it's an effect of Faust we haven't seen before?”

“Well, bloody stakes,” Lily said, and I heard her mother issue a sharp
“Lily!”
in the background. “I'm taking the next train into the city. I'm sure Breslin won't cry if I cut my vacation short. Oh, Mother, tell Bill I'll see him some other time. The whole city is breaking. Zephyr, I'll leave a message when I get there. And don't you dare talk to another reporter in the meantime!”

*   *   *

Acutely aware of my impending meeting with Jimmy Walker, I hunted through my chest until I discovered Lily's cache of pity discards. Only one was remotely appropriate to the sweltering weather—a relatively simple day frock of blue cotton twill, lined in patterned yellow at the collar and hem. It wouldn't look particularly good with my faded green hat, but I decided that was better than the brown one or—heaven forbid—going bareheaded. I reasoned with myself that Beau James, punctilious dresser though he might be, could hardly fault a bluenose such as myself for her fashion sense. Though of course I had plenty of fashion sense. It was the funds that I lacked.

“Are you really going to wear that?” Aileen said, her voice drifting like a sleepy Irish ghost from the gloom.

“Do you have cat vision for clothes? It's darker than Hades in here.” Aileen had purchased some blackout curtains a few months ago, prompting Mrs. Brodsky to suspiciously examine our skin and teeth until satisfied that we had not turned vampiric without prior notification.

“The door is open,” Aileen said, rising on one elbow. The powder had rubbed off, but she still looked pale as a sucker, with a rasp in her throat. While sleep had revived me, she looked like she needed at least another twenty-four hours of it.

“How long were you at the Society, again?”

She sighed. “They do know how to keep an evening going. At least I don't have to regurgitate cheesecloth. It must be hell on your throat.”

“Pardon?”

She laughed. “Ectoplasm, dear. The old-timers have learned to ingest yards of the stuff and regurgitate it on cue. It's all a farce—even what I'm doing for them, in some ways, I suppose. Who knows who I'm contacting when I'm deep into it, though they all seem pleased enough with my performances, which is all that matters.”

“You look terrible,” I said.

She shrugged. “And you look like you should be selling flowers in Times Square. Aren't you meeting his Honorable Mayor this afternoon?”

I swallowed. “It's not so bad. Is it?”

“Zeph.” She shook her head and leveraged herself off the bed with the care of an old woman. I didn't smell booze or cigarettes on her—hangovers seemed easy compared to the effects of an evening using her Sight. She opened her own chest and pulled out a hat. A jaunty little thing of light blue, with a white flower attached to the band with a white ribbon. It matched my dress perfectly. I bent down to look at myself in Aileen's cracked dressing mirror and smiled. The hat seemed like the sort of thing Amir might comment on—perhaps I would see him today?