“Oh, yes — of course, of course, of course…” The ‘of courses’ trailed away as the newcomer lit and road-tested his cigar. He sat back, slid his right leg over his left thigh, and smiled again. “So lovely to see you.”
The smile came across less than affable and quite a distance sinister. This man knew something, was playing a game. Louise held his eyes, maintaining a placid expression, something she’d mastered while working with Henry Holland.
Lighting up another cigarette gave a few seconds to consider options.
It would be easy to walk out of the restaurant without further word — either cough up the cash on the way to the front door, or leave this strange visitor to foot the bill. He looked rich enough.
But there was a possibility he genuinely knew something about her past, something she’d forgotten or lost grip on.
Louise also sat back. “I’m still waiting.”
“Yes, so you are. Excuse the manners.”
The man placed his cigar on the ashtray, took out an ivory cigarette-holder, and proceeded to squeeze into it the end of the cigar, which was too big. Finally, the slightly bent thing sat in precarious fashion in the holder. That accomplished, he leaned closer on one elbow, eyes glittering.
“You could easily be her,” he murmured softly, appraising the girl anew. “Change the hair colour and style, tweak the makeup, get rid of the silly glasses. Slap some exaggerated confidence into your expression.”
“This Mitzi you mentioned.” Louise ashed her cigarette.
“That’s right, baby.”
“Who was she?”
“Oh, a complete bitch.”
Having killed the ciggie and emptying her glass, Louise then slid the packets of Paul Jones and matches back inside her purse and stood up.
“Well, well, look at the time,” she announced.
The stranger smiled more. “Must you go, Louise?”
“I do. To be honest — I’ve had enough of strange arseholes in my life and, while I don’t mean to be rude, would you go find some other patsy to mess around?”
The girl didn’t look back as she strode away. Nor as she went to the cashier’s desk, certainly not while waiting for change, and she looked straight ahead in the process of walking out of the restaurant. She waltzed down the street at a leisurely pace, pretended to admire shoes in a shop window, and then turned the corner.
Only at that point did Louise fall back against a brick wall, out of breath, feeling faint, and light up another cigarette. She took off the glasses, to rub her eyes with her left hand — mascara be damned.
#148
Captain Robert Kahn sat slumped at his desk in the cluttered premises of police headquarters, a place buried in the basement of City Hall, and he was also unhappy.
He stretched the muscles in his shoulders, heard a couple of bones crack, and then leaned back in his creaky leather swivel chair to stare at the files and boxes assembled haphazardly across a nearby tabletop. Ten different cases, apparently related, all of them still open, unsettled, ongoing. He sipped from a mug of thick black coffee, which had turned lukewarm while he pondered.
“How many now, boss?” Detective Forbush asked, from his miniature desk diagonally opposite Kahn’s larger one. The officer was supposed to be composing a report, but had obviously noticed the other cop’s distraction.
“Ten.”
“Double figures it is, then. Ten Bops. Half a pack of ciggies’ worth — the list grows bigger.”
“On a daily basis.”
“No wonder we’re bloody busy.”
“Let’s hope the guilty parties take a weekend off.”
Kahn checked his calendar. Eight in the past week alone. No suspects, no decent lead. The Capes were falling like flies while he dogged down dead-ends.
Detective Forbush had been chewing on a toothpick that he carefully laid on a dish. “Me an’ the boys, we’ve been talking about the Bops. ’bout how to deal with the ones that’re left, the stragglers — unofficial-like, I mean.”
“I won’t have vigilantes on the force, Irv. You hear me?”
“Sure, boss.”
“Tell me you’re not involved in these deaths.”
“Our hands’re clean, I swear. But what about the Bops? They’re the vigilantes from Hades.”
“They don’t wear a police uniform or a badge.”
“So if I put on a pretty costume and mask, it’s okay?”
“Of course not.” Kahn sighed. “Right now, we need them. It won’t always be like this.”
The other cop picked up his bent, saliva-logged toothpick and began masticating again. Kahn wondered how much longer the thing could last.