Sterling tugged until Harry released her, then pouted, massaging her own wrist. “Hey, if it’s so radioactive, why pass it off to me without a warning?”
“The guy showed me the coin like I’d recognize it. I don’t know what it’s for, but I’ve seen the bird logo around recently, and caught some gossip. One word keeps coming up:nightingale.”
“Nightingale? Is it a new swingers club? The coin gets you entry?”
“My first theory too, or perhaps a new play party. But who runs a party in Vienna without inviting me?”
Sterling shook her head in agreement, still huffy about her achy hand. “True.”
“I just got back. From what I gather, Nightingale appeared a month or two ago, and it’s some sort of secret club. If you ask questions, people shut down. Goldfinch cornered me outside the bar, introduced himself, and asked me to turn off our security cameras, like he was a celebrity. Said he had a meeting with Nightingale and flashed that weird medallion like it’d change my mind. I was more persuaded by the pair of five-hundred-euro bills he offered me after.”
“So you cut the cameras?”
“More or less. Purely by coincidence, I happened to bump wires out of place while getting ice. Apart from that, nothing unusual happened that night. A lot of regulars were at the counter, including Hedy. I saw her talking to Goldfinch. We didn’t chat beyond a wave across the bar.”
“Who else was there?”
“A few more of Weiss’s girls. Verena was at her usual spot, Hedy was at the other end, in your seat.”
“It’s not mine, it’s my aunt’s,” said Sterling.
“… Right. Like I said, your aunt’s seat. Anyway—about Nightingale,” said Harry, pulling a rumpled black cocktail napkin from her pocket and moving her hand into a strip of light as she unfolded it. “I’ve seen these at other cafés and hotel bars. They’re given only to certain customers. When I ask, people just say it’s a new supplier.”
She unfolded the napkin to reveal three sugar cubes, a bit battered from their transport, but one thing was clear: Pressed into the side of each was a bird. Same as the coin. The symbol of somewhere, or something, called Nightingale.
“What are they?” asked Sterling.
“Sugar, I assume, from the taste,” said Harry, popping one into her mouth.
Sterling smacked the back of her head and snatched the remaining cubes away. “Spit that out. What if it’s poisoned?”
Harry chewed the cube and swallowed. “I’ve put more dangerous things on my tongue,” she said, casting a suggestive glance downward, between Sterling’s legs.
“My friend can check if there’s anything else inside,” said Sterling, inspecting the cubes.
“Ah, how is Fernando? What’s his latest foray?”
“He’s fine. Acting’s his misadventure of the moment.”
“Nice. He’s suited for the dramatic arts. Will we see him onstage soon?”
“He’s got the dramatic part down. He has an audition at my uncle’s theater,” said Sterling, rolling the cubes around and sniffing them.
“By the way, Hedy’s funeral—you going?”
“Not sure. Too many people don’t want me there. I can’t believe they organized it in a week, even if she was Catholic. You going?”
“Eh, it’s hard to say if I’ll be busy, but I’ll do my best,” said Harry.
No, she wouldn’t.
“Hedy would have expected nothing less,” said Sterling, suppressing the venom in her voice. “I need a favor. You said Verena was there, but I can’t call one of Madame’s girls. Could you arrange an appointment with her for me?”
“When?”
“Thursday, before the funeral.”
“For you, sweetheart, I’d do anything. More or less.”
