The doorman’s gaze went to the long loaf of bread sticking out of the top of the paper bag. It had more than a few bites taken out of it, because Rory had ridden the train with the bag on his lap and fresh bread right under his nose, and he was only human.
“Mr. Kenzie isn’t in at the moment.”
Rory knew that already. He shifted his grip, supporting the heavy cans of tomatoes at the bottom of the bag. Asking this gorilla to let him into Arthur’s pad anyway would be nothing but an invitation to call the cops. He didn’t want anyone getting ideas about him and Arthur, but it wasn’t the middle of the night, it was evening, and he hadn’t done anything more suspicious than walk up to the door. “But I can wait for him in the lobby, right?”
The doorman’s bland expression didn’t change as he looked at the stains on Rory’s coat, the rip still visible on the side. “Maybe it would be best if I just tell him you stopped by.”
Rory swallowed hard.Fine. Sure. I’ll scram.
The words were on Rory’s tongue, but he didn’t say them. If there was bad magic in Arthur’s apartment, Rory was going to find it, and some doorman wasn’t gonna stop him. “Then let me call him.”
The doorman’s eyebrows flew up. “That would be highly irregular—”
“You got a phone, right? If he’s not in, I can call him. I know where he is, he’s running late at the Waldorf.” Rory shifted his groceries again and said pointedly, “Unless you want me to tell him you wouldn’t even let me call?”
The doorman hesitated, but Rory could see his knowledge and boldness had wedged itself in the other man’s doubt. Could see him weighing whether he wanted to chance being the sap who turned away one of the weirdos the congressman’s spawn brought around.
After a long moment, the doorman moved out of the way and held the door wider. “One call.”
Rory straightened, clutching his bag tighter as he entered the lobby.
Chapter Twenty
Arthur pulled up in front of the covered 33rd Street entrance to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel on the corner of Fifth Avenue. The lofty stories stretched up into the sky, graceful arches around many of the windows and green turrets on the corners of the roof.
He would have liked to have unsubtly pushed Wesley out of the car and driven off, but he could practically hear his mother’s blood pressure rising if he were ever so rude as to turn a family guest out on the curb in public. So instead he climbed out, waiting on the curb as Wesley joined him. “Well, I got you here,” Arthur started. “Now I really must—”
“Excuse me.” Chester, Wesley’s valet, had joined them a polite distance away. Along the curb, more cars were waiting to drop off the rest of Wesley’s party.
Chester held up a briefcase. “I kept this out of the other bags, my lord. It’s got an, um,importthat I snuck on the ship.” He glanced at Arthur. “If you catch my meaning.”
Arthur forced another smile. Christ, what had he brought? Wine? Whiskey? “I’m fairly certain the police three blocks away caught your meaning.”
But Wesley looked pleased. “Well done, Chester,” he said. “Aren’t you resourceful? Bring it up to my rooms. I’m sure it’s been a while since Arthur’s had a decent drink.”
Not quite twenty-four hours, at my count.“Actually—”
“Right away, sir.” Chester dipped his head and headed into the hotel.
Wesley snapped his fingers. “That fellow was a good hire.”
“I don’t remember you having a valet,” Arthur said. “Rather old-fashioned, isn’t it?”
“I’ve never been to America before,” said Wesley. “Chester approached me to offer his services the day I bought the ticket. He’s very experienced, had impeccable references, and his former employer had just died and freed him up. Excellent arrangement for all.”
“Perhaps not for the dead former employer,” Arthur said dryly.
Wesley waved it off. “You’re coming up as well, yes?”
“I—”
“It’s miserable weather and I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with myself. What kind of inconsiderate lout has a New York wedding in February instead of June?”
Arthur kept his disappointment off his face. He should already be at the Zhangs’ teahouse with the others. Someone—something—was out there, making tracks in the Coney Island sand. He should be with Rory.
But if anyone found out Arthur had bailed on the governor’s guests—and everyone would find out, because he could perfectly picture how loud Wesley would complain at the wedding that Arthur had cut and run. He didn’t imagine the governor would take it well either.
Arthur buried a sigh and kept his company smile pasted on. “Guess I’m staying.”
