“What? And why?”
“To keep the police off your back, and mine, you need an alibi. Which means you’ll be uncovering names of the Orient guest list,” said Madame, the corner of her mouth curling.
“I can’t share that. What do you want them for anyways?”
Weiss rested her chin on her hand. “For the same reason Mr. Kdoes. Knowing the affairs of the city elite keeps him untouchable. At this point, the man’s more racketeer than hotelier.” She paused, squinting, as if calculating something. “Which means you’ll have to ensure he doesn’t notice. I’m sure you could provide me one name a month without arousing his suspicions.”
“Your escorts take men to the Orient all the time. Aren’t those names enough?”
Madame winced, insulted. “Myclients expect anonymity. I’d never violate that. The customer comes first, dear. Isn’t that what you Americans say?”
Sterling had a few more colorful American phrases she’d have been happy to use right then. She settled for silence, sliding the knife-sharp sliver of peppermint across her tongue before crunching it between her teeth.
Madame opened her ledger to the calendar. “Seeing as you’re contending with the investigation, I’ll be generous and give you… one month. Which takes us to the thirteenth. Oh, that’s a bit macabre, how about we round up to Valentine’s Day? It will be our little date. In the meantime, find someone to pin this on and ensure the police leave my business alone. Then deliver me the first name, someone worthwhile.”
Sterling left without a word, slamming the front door behind her hard enough that the bell rang like an alarm.
Fernando was waiting, shivering. “How was it?” he asked through chattering teeth.
“Awful.”
“Did you learn who Mr. Lime was?”
“No. Hedy was off on Wednesdays and Thursdays. I got nothing on him.”
“Well, you survived.”
“For now,” she said, fishing a pearl from her cleavage and rollingit between her fingers. “But I’m back in Weiss’s clutches. She wants me to repay the money she’s lost from Hedy’s earnings.”
“Jesus, where does she think you’d get that? Mr. K?”
Sterling owed her boss enough, and she was holding on to his good graces by the skin of her teeth. He couldn’t learn about any of this.
“No. I’ll come up with something. For now, I have to make another visit. Did you bring the supplies I asked for?”
“Indeed. Should I chaperone you?” he said, handing her a package that she stowed in her jacket pocket.
“No, I’ll be fine,” she said.
“I need you to be more than fine. I need you alive.”
“Don’t worry. And I need the same from you.Bussi, Baba,” she said, kissing him on both cheeks.
Fernando kissed her good night, then headed home. She went the other way, towards the Loos Bar. The never-ending Thursday wasn’t over, and her troubles were only warming up.
— 15 —Fünfzehn
The tiny Loos Bar was packed, patrons sweating despite the open windows. Sterling stepped from the chill outside the onyx door frame into the glowing bar. Sconces washed the room in murky amber light, their warmth enhanced by mahogany ceiling panels. Everywhere in the dim something sparkled: the cut-crystal glassware, the tarnished silver mirrors, the conversation. Gold watches glinted as important men lifted cocktails, took polite sips, then set them down onto backlit tables, their glow purposely designed to highlight the men’s monogrammed tiepins but cast their faces in shadow. Half past ten was early here. Most words were not yet slurred.
Sterling attempted to get lost in the crowd while lost in a daydream about her last encounter with Harry. Six months ago, in summer, as the sun rose through the empty bar’s windows, Harry had lifted her onto the counter and knelt between her legs. They’d knocked over a pyramid of champagne flutes and a tub of ice, both of which shattered in equal measure on the checkerboard marble floor. Every time Sterling let Harry back into her life, things ended up broken.
Sterling had inherited many things from Aunt Serafina, including her dark humor and her permanent reservation for the first chair at the Loos Bar. The waitress clocked Sterling and asked the guest in Serafina’s spot to stand.
Once seated, Sterling adjusted her cleavage under her coat, then unbuttoned it and laid it over the back of her chair, revealing her strapless dress. Rabid men eyed her. Eager women eyed the bar but ignored Lukas, the other bartender. They were after something besides a drink. Which meant Harry would return any moment.
Harry was incapable of love save for when it came to her Doberman, Otis. But she was adept at romance. She kept a rotation of women whom she called play partners but who all called her their boyfriend. Harry’s cocaine-skinny physique looked damn good in a suit, good enough to get most women out of their clothes. She and Sterling were bothfree spirits. A polite way of saying they were both raging sluts.
Harry’s reticence towards commitment seeped into her dialect, a cocktail of macabre Romanian humor and dry German formality. Her accent was subtly dark, best heard in a deep whisper telling you what a good girl you’d been. Her favorite phrase wasmore or less. She was free next weekend, more or less. You were her favorite, more or less. She was good to her girls, and Sterling was one of her girls, more or less.
