The last of Harry’s confusion cleared up. “A very fair point,” he said, shaking his head with a fond expression. “He’s been all brawn and bravery since he was a baby.” Harry tapped the roof of the car. “Safe travels,” he said, already turning away.
“Thanks,” Rory said, and watched Harry make his way into the house without giving him a backward glance.
Chapter Eleven
Rory tried to stay awake, he really did.
But with the Ivanovs staying at Harry’s place until Saturday to finish the garden walls, Rory had the back seat to himself to stretch out, back against one door, his ankle propped across the long bench seat and Arthur’s huge coat draped over him like a blanket. Add in the rumbling of the engine and Arthur’s deep voice as he chatted with Mrs. Brodigan, and Rory was asleep before they’d left the village limits.
He woke to find the dense buildings of the city, the softer light of late afternoon slipping between the buildings of Hell’s Kitchen. “Nonsense,” Mrs. Brodigan was saying in the front seat, as Arthur pulled the Cadillac to the curb in front of Brodigan’s Appraisals. “There’s still plenty of afternoon left. I have things to do here and you have an appointment to keep. At least you know it won’t be magic with your brother.”
“Is that supposed to cheer me up?” Arthur said. “Felicitations, you’ve been entangled in a dire political emergency, an alderman caught at a speakeasy or perhaps the mayor wore the wrong sort of hat.”
He sounded wry, his fancy accent extra fancy, like Mrs. Brodigan’s Irish brogue brought out the English in his speech. Rory rested his head against the back seat in contentment. He could listen to Arthur like music on a record.
“You could try to sound pleased about that,” Mrs. Brodigan said with amusement. “Now really, I can manage without your muscles, dear. If you’d like to take Rory to his boardinghouse—”
“Nah,” Rory spoke up. “I got stuff to do here.”
Arthur looked over his shoulder, cheekbones and shadowed jaw lit by the dim lights on the street. Geez, he was too handsome for a shabby place like Hell’s Kitchen, like a falcon in a flock of pigeons. “Have a good nap?”
Rory had. Sleep came easier when Arthur was close. “I thought we’d be here by lunch,” he said instead.
“The roads were in a terrible state,” said Mrs. Brodigan. “Last night’s snow, you know.”
“Yes,” said Arthur. “That snow the unexpected north wind brought in.”
Rory narrowed his eyes.
“Our Mr. Kenzie here is late to his appointment with his brother, but he’s insisting he’ll assist us in Hell’s Kitchen and be later still,” she said. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into him, dear.”
“For crying out loud,” Rory muttered, then raised his voice. “Get outta here, Ace. You hate being late, go meet with your brother.”
He opened the car door and tested his ankle against the curb. It smarted, but it was a lot better than it had been last night, enough that he stood from the car without too much pain. The wind was cold against his bare head. It felt weird to be out without a hat, but he’d bought his new glasses last month. A cap was gonna have to wait till he had the funds.
He watched Arthur get out of the car. The Cadillac wasn’t subtle, and it was a lot nicer than anything else on the block. Arthur himself was also nicer than anything else on the block, and was getting stares from everyone on the sidewalk and the steps across the street, and probably from anyone looking out the windows too.
If it bothered Arthur to be an object of curiosity, he didn’t show it as he came around to Rory and the curb. “You have luggage and your ankle is sprained,” he said, opening the front passenger door for Mrs. Brodigan.
“I’m walking on it and I gotonebag,” said Rory. “Besides, I told you, I got things to do here.”
“What things?”
“Work,”Rory said. “March rent isn’t gonna earn itself.”
Arthur opened his mouth, then glanced at Mrs. Brodigan, who was unlocking the front door of the antiques shop. “Maybe we should talk about your lodgings,” he said, his voice quiet but pointed, as Mrs. Brodigan disappeared into the shop to the familiar jingling of the door’s bell.
“What’s to talk about?” Rory said, as Arthur reached past him and pulled Rory’s ratty messenger bag and Mrs. Brodigan’s cloth suitcase from the back seat. “I gotta pay bills or I’m gonna end up sleeping with even more rats.”
Arthur stiffened, bags in hand. “You shouldn’t have to sleep with any.”
Rory shrugged. “Everywhere’s got some rats.”
“Not my place.”
“Yeah, but you don’t even got roaches.” Rory reached for the door of the antiques shop and held it open. “How’d you manage that in New York, you pay ’em to leave?”
“Cute,” Arthur said dryly, as he carried the bags across the threshold and set them by an antique chair. “I’ll call after I find out what John wants.” Then, as he straightened, his mouth brushed close to Rory’s ear. “Think I could convince you to sleep somewhere without rats tonight?”
