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I love this bar. The man behind the counter is almost a friend. The type of friend who knows I wouldn’t harm someone who pours a cocktail as well as he does, but washes the glasses carefully anyway.
Good old Gerry.
“What can I get you tonight, Miss Elizabeth?” he asks me, his eyes careful but smiling under his grey brows.
“Get me a Cosmopolitan, Gerry.” I pause at the bar and lean forward over the counter. It’s dry and clean, as it always is. “It seems like just the night for it.”
“Just as you like, Miss Elizabeth.” He pauses, his eyes moving around the room. “There’s a private investigator in here this evening, miss. You take care, now, won’t you?”
“You’re so good to worry about me, Gerry.”
The younger fellow takes my hat and coat, with a brief comment on the shape and cut of my red dress.
I laugh, pretending at charm. Fresh! Comments like that I expect from a man more than twice his age, not some little snip nearly a decade my junior. But Elizabeth Fairfax is a passionate and self-assured creature and she can’t tell a man off for noticing that she’s got curves like a bottle of Coca Cola. So I laugh it off, and roll my eyes when I turn away.
I claim a table at the back of the bar and see Gerry giving the boy a clip behind the ear. Ah, it warms my heart.
There are a couple of men here sitting alone. One at the bar clinging to his glass like a life preserver, one with a bottle of champagne and a smile on his face down at one of the small, lower tables. I don’t know what he’s so happy about… you never see a man by himself with a bottle like that. Champagne cries out for company. He must be waiting on someone.
There are two men I recognise at a table nearby, wrapping up some sort of conversation. They are both in a particular line of work. One of them catches my eye and raises his glass.
The boy delivers my drink with a sheepish grin and I give him one of my best smiles. I can forgive him for his fresh little comments, I think. I learned a long time ago that it’s helpful not to hold a grudge. Boys will be boys, and that’s always helpful.
I run my bottom lip along the cold edge of the glass as I watch those two men. It’s not business, this conversation of theirs. Business is rarely, perhaps never, conducted with just two men, face to face. There would be others. Maybe sitting at the same table, or standing behind it. Maybe at another table close by. No, not business. Perhaps it’s just a couple of friends, discussing old times. Sweet, really.
Businessmen are beginning to file in and take seats here and there, in booths and at tables. Quite a few climb onto bar stools and take shots of rum or vodka while chatting to one another and to Gerry. It’s a popular place for high-rollers, gamblers and wealthy businessmen to wind down after work and make little deals and bets with each other.
A few men wander over, one at a time, for a chat and a drink. That’s one great advantage to being a woman: you never have to buy your own drinks. Even if I shout a round someone always manages to pick up my tab.
There’s always the distant worry that he’ll expect something for such a kind gesture. Something, yes, I will happily give him. Trouble is, it’s never what he actually wants.
But these men, most of them, are friends. Associates. We discuss the horse races, the troubles inherent with having accountants, money, sex, religion. Eventually we talk about their mothers, their troubles, their wives. I don’t mind being a man’s shoulder to cry on. If nothing else, it gives me a little in the way of information, and information’s something one should never turn down.
A friend kisses my glove and leaves my side, and I’m alone again in my own little booth. I let my gaze wander around the room, let my lips ease into a smile. I love this place. I feel like a queen holding court.
My empty glass is taken from my table. I should take my leave, soon, and find a meal.
It’s been a long time since I’ve cooked for myself. A long time… Nick used to take me out nearly every night. Poor fellow. It’ll do me good to spend some time at home.
My eyes catch on someone at the far end of the room. He’s at a small table in the corner, nearly entirely in shadow. He’s wearing a coat and tie, and his hat is on the table in front of him. He has a certain… determination about him. This isn’t the place for men like him. He’s here for a reason.
And he’s watching me.
A thrill runs through me. I get watched often. All the time. Men watch me from across the room and raise their drinks. Men watch me with sad eyes, loaded with longing or regret. Men watch me with hungry eyes, licking their lips as they look me over. Women watch me, too, with suspicion, or envy, or genuine personal interest.
This man is… all of these things. Sadness and hunger, suspicion and interest.
The young waiter – the name pinned to his waistcoat reads “Timmy” – brings me a fresh cosmopolitan. I take it with a smile and toy with the slice of lime sitting on the edge of the glass. I catch the boy’s eyes, and nod towards the man in the dark corner.
“Do you know him?” I ask Timmy.
“You like him, Miss?” Timmy is all eagerness, baby blues lit up with the desire to please.
I look at the man sideways, out of the corner of my eye. Passion in that man’s eyes, passion I rarely see. But not passion for me, and that’s the exciting part. He has dark hair, short and brushed back, and a face lined with long nights.
“Maybe,” I say to Timmy. “Let’s say I’m interested.” I meet Timmy’s eyes. “So you know him.”
“Not really, Miss. This is his first night in here.”
“I didn’t think he looked familiar.”
“No.” Timmy looks around surreptitiously, in a way recently learned. He’ll get the hang of it eventually. “He’s a private eye,” he says. “I think he stopped in because of the death of that Mr Trollieti – it was all over the papers.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I haven’t seen the papers. Nick Trollieti’s…. dead?”
I’ve practised this many times before. I’ve managed to get the natural sob down pat. I press my hand against my lips and drop my eyes.
“Oh – that’s right – you knew him, didn’t you Miss!” To his credit the kid doesn’t make a scene. He pulls out a handkerchief and offers it to me.
Sweet kid. I dab my eyes a little and offer it back to him with a sad smile.
“Yes, I knew him. I knew him quite well.”
“Don’t worry, Miss. Mister PI over there won’t hear anything from us.” He takes the handkerchief and tucks it away, and gives me a smile laced with pity. “Mr Trollieti was found dead in his hotel room this morning. No one knows how he died, yet. It could have been natural causes.”
It could have been. I’m not going to bet on that being the autopsy doctor’s final decision.
“Thank you for letting me know, Tim. No, I’ll be all right. It’s always a shock to lose a friend.”
He mutters platitudes and takes his leave.
No, Gerry and Tim won’t say anything. Not to an inspector, not to a policeman. I’ll wager there’s been a detective in here this morning, looking for information. No one will talk. Given this place’s regular clientele, it wouldn’t be clever.
My Private Eye isn’t asking for information. His eye wanders about the room but it always tracks back to me, hard and dangerous as black ice on a busy road.
Do I ignore him? It might be better if I came onto him, won his touch if not his love, distracted him from his mission.
Or maybe I should act the girl. The frightened, insecure woman worried by his gaze. I could storm over there and demand, shaking hand and trembling lip, to know why he is staring at me in that way.
Chances are he won’t believe me regardless of what I do.
How exciting.
I can’t help but bite my lip, buzzing inside, and it isn’t the alcohol. I haven’t been chased by anyone in years – not like this. The danger of it all is tangible, delicious, like a strawberry that has been left at the bottom of a glass of champagne. Tingles on the tongue, sweet, enticing.
A detective had his eye on me once. He couldn’t prove anything and the case went cold, and he lost interest in favour of more active, interesting cases. He hadn’t cared all that much about the case, I don’t suppose… He wanted to bring me down and when he couldn’t, he turned his mind to those dead, dusty cases that drive a good cop mad.
That was in San Francisco. I loved that city, I really did, but I left it behind me after that. I couldn’t risk that detective deciding to re-open the case and try to bring me down. Or charge me with something else. A girl’s gotta live her life.
Still, it’s nice to be wanted again. In a manner of speaking.
* * *
She’d caught my eye as soon as she walked in and for all the wrong reasons. She was sex on legs but trouble was written all over her, from the thick waves of dark chocolate hair to the unforgiving heels.
She’s involved. How, I don’t know, but she’s involved somehow. I’d put her down as one of Nick Trollieti’s flings.
I’d bet she gets flung all the time. She certainly has no shortage of suitors. She’s the sort of woman who never has to buy her own drinks. She’s got red lips and all that implies. People watch them as she talks, and not to follow her words.
A dangerous woman. I know her type. The world trips over itself to give her anything she wants and she exploits it.
When she sends her glass away to get refilled her gaze wanders. Wanders over me, for the first time. Those over-sculpted eyebrows raised slightly. She doesn’t just see me, she notices me. She’s got eyes like a bolt of lightning.
I could have broken the gaze but that would have been suspect. Better she thinks I’m just staring off into space.
She’s bad news. Bad news. She finishes her last cocktail and makes her way to the bar. To settle her bill, but I’ll bet dimes to doughnuts that someone’s already settled it for her.
I shake my head as she leaves the building. I’ve spent too much of my night watching her. There are too many people in this bar that could have connections to Trollieti.
I drain my glass. Still… the young kid had been speaking to her. He said something that shocked her. Trollieti’s death? Her reaction looked genuine but I’ve long ago learned not to trust a woman when it comes to emotion.
I pull out my notebook and scribble down a few notes about this woman in red. I need to get her out of my head and down on paper. I’ve learned to trust my gut – this dame is definitely someone I need to keep an eye on – but I’d be a fool to concentrate on her to the exclusion of anyone else. I need information, and that’s something I can get from anyone in this bar.
Gerry’s keeping the kid away from me. Smart move on his part. The kid’ll break easy. Question is, do I want information enough to put him in harm’s way? Right now I’m not so sure.
The two suits in the corner stand up and someone from the back room ushers them through a hidden door even I wouldn’t have noticed. It swings shut silently behind them with barely a line to show where the door had been. The wallpaper is vertically striped: the perfect disguise.
Probably a hold-over from speakeasy days. I’d spent time enough in little rooms like that behind false walls and hidden doors. Barmaids keeping watch through holes in the wall. Men sprawled over the floor or hunched on stools under too-low ceilings.
Hard days. Great days. You could get plastered in one of those places like you could nowhere else.
Speaking of getting plastered. I’m about ready to stop sipping at this damn scotch and tip it down my throat.