Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(28)
When he arrived, though, Miss Starkwell wasn’t at her desk. Jack asked the old guy, Mister Winkle, to have her paged.
While waiting, he pretended to do some browsing, even if — in actual fact — he was steeling his nerves.
The wall Bulkhead crashed through was completely repaired and looked like it’d never been scratched. Instead of appearing brand spanking new, the wallpaper there had deteriorated with age. Jack moved on, to study an oddball lump of metal on a perch over near the main entrance.
“Twilight Over Hoboken.”
“Huh?”
Jack jerked about to find himself face-to-face with Louise — Miss Starkwell — and her cat’s eye glasses. Once again, he found it difficult to breathe.
The girl was decked out in a sleeveless, knee-length flapper dress in varying blues divided by a diagonal ivory lightning bolt. There didn’t appear to be any injuries to her body. She had a small, business-like smile, but there was no hint of recognition in her glorious, emerald eyes.
She was merely being friendly and informative to a customer.
“The sculpture you’re admiring, sir. It’s called Twilight Over Hoboken. By the famous Italian-American artist Pierre Picolino — do you know him?”
“Can’t say I do. I don’t see it.”
“What don’t you see?”
“The twilight.”
“This is an abstract piece. You’re supposed to imagine it.”
“Still.”
“There’s always something there, sir, if you look closely enough.”
Jack, somewhat overwhelmed, gazed at the girl’s face. “I’m beginning to realize that. Please, call me Jack.”
“All right. You’re the gentleman who asked for me?”
“I am. I wanted to say thanks for the other day.”
“Oh! I’m so glad I could be of assistance.”
Jack could see she had no clue what he was talking about, but she covered nicely.
“Yeah, well, it’s always nifty to get good customer service these days, you know?” Jack, on the other hand, covered poorly — he had to stop the ramble in its tracks. But there was one more thing to pursue. “Listen, what time do you finish here?”
“The bank closes at four, and I usually stay on an hour after that.” Those eyes darted his way. “Why do you ask, sir?”
“Jack.” He swallowed with difficulty. “And I’d like to take you out for a drink.”
“A drink?”
“Tame stuff. Coffee only. I’ll be a complete gentleman, I swear. We can talk about Twilight Over Hoboken.” Was that panic in his tone? God, he hoped not.
“I don’t know. This is highly irregular.”
“Go on — be a devil,” Jack dared.
“A devil?” The girl laughed softly.
It was a joy to see some of the veneer flake away. She peered over at Mister Winkle, and then nodded the smallest fraction. “At five o’clock, then.” “On the dot.” Unbelievable, crossed his mind.
#117
They were perched on maroon-and-cream hound’s-tooth pattern cushions, atop barstools made from rosewood and gleaming chrome, inside a diner pretending to be a streetcar. The place was called Quality Street.
Since the evening was pushing chilly, Louise had donned a tight sweater, a red and gold cotton scarf, and a chocolate-brown beret. Jack did notice she’d added red to her lips as well, but he was more preoccupied trying to stop his right leg from jigging nervously.
“What do you want to know about Pierre Picolino?”
“Who?” Jack had gone completely blank.
“Twilight Over Hoboken.”
“Ahh — the artist!”
“Your excuse for whisking me off here.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Miss Starkwell took a small bag off the stool beside her to place on the table. After clipping it open she whisked out firstly a small paperback, Run for Love, and then a packet of Paul Jones blended cigarettes and an ostrich skin-covered cigarette lighter. The girl flipped the lid of the lighter and rotated the flint wheel with a dainty thumb to create flame. Jack was mesmerized.
“You can’t smoke here,” he finally managed to utter.
“Really?” Louise glanced about. “Oh, I’m sorry — I didn’t see any signage.”
“No, I mean you can’t smoke here. In Heropa.”
Louise looked at him with wide eyes that suddenly sparkled in merriment, and she laughed in a boisterous manner.
“Oh, go on! Next thing, you’ll be telling me our chain-smoking mayor’s introduced some kind of tobacco-prohibition! God forbid!” The flame hit the end of the cigarette in the corner of her mouth, and she quickly inhaled. Smoke drifted out lazily a few seconds later. “I needed this. My boss drives me crazy. I only smoke at night, you know.”