Page 30 of The Devouring Time

“Good to see you again, George.” Rather than answer the question, Adrian shakes his hand warmly. “This is Mr. Sterling Caine. Cleo around?”

“She was at the bar last I saw her.” George steps back to let us inside.

“Thanks—and if anyone comes asking after us, you haven’t seen me in months and never met Mr. Caine.”

George puts a hand to his ear. “That a ghost I hear talking? Cause no one’s here but me.”

Adrian grins back and claps him on the shoulder, before heading deeper into the establishment. I follow, peering around in interest.

The space is wider than I expected—Cleo’s must occupy a good chunk of this floor. Round tables with white cloths take up much of the front room, though there is a small stage for a band, currently unoccupied. A mix of Black and White customers dine on oysters, clams, and other fare, the scent of brine and fish heavy on the air.

A pair of double doors in the back wall leads to the second room, which has a larger stage, dance floor, yet more tables, and the bar. Two of the female customers are wearing sailor suits, and I assume they’re a couple from both their outfits and the fact they’re holding hands.

To my surprise, I feel a pang of longing. This is the sort of place I needed before the war, when my family was pressuring me to take a job at the armament factory alongside my father and brothers. If only I were here under different circumstances.

Though who am I kidding? I’ve lived in New York for years and never ventured much beyond Forgotten Folios and my apartment building. I could have gone to any number of speakeasies, attended drag balls, done a hundred other things prior to my lost year. But I didn’t.

A woman sits at one end of the bar, talking to the bartender, and as we approach Adrian calls, “Cleo!”

“Adrian! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Boston.” She hops off the stool, revealing herself to be much shorter than her brother. “And what the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing to worry about.” He gives her a warm hug. “Cleo Evans, this is Sterling Caine.” He pauses and glances around. “We need to talk to you privately.”

Miss Evans looks me over skeptically. She wears a frock of crimson silk trimmed in crepe, with a pleated skirt and a white silk flower pinned to the shoulder. My poor suit might have passed muster if I hadn’t crawled through a building fire, but as it is she clearly thinks I’m not up to snuff.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Evans,” I say awkwardly.

She tosses a look at her brother I can’t interpret. “Why does he talk like an old man?”

Adrian just laughs. “He’s polite, Cleo. You ought to try it sometime yourself.”

She shakes her head and starts away. “Come on, Grandpa,” she calls back over her shoulder at me.

As Cleo makes for a secluded table shielded by potted plants, I turn to Adrian. “I don’t talk like an old man, do I?”

He cocks his head and flashes me a smile. “Let’s call it part of your charm.”

Heat rises to my cheeks, but thankfully he’s already turned to follow his sister. I scurry after them, taking a seat beside Adrian at the four-person table. A waiter in white tails materializes an instant later.

“You know my drink,” Cleo tells him. “Gents?”

Adrian orders a gimlet, but I hesitate, recalling Barney Foster. “No offense, Miss Evans, but, er, have any of your customers suffered from ailments of the mind after drinking here?”

Cleo arches an incredulous brow at me, clearly ready to take offense. Adrian lifts a hand to forestall her. “He’s got good reason for asking, sis. I assume you’re at least keeping the real McCoy for yourself and your guests, but…?”

She huffs, then relents. “I read the newspapers just like anyone else. I’ve got a different distribution network, if you know what I mean.”

I don’t, but nod as if I understand completely, lest I be called “Grandpa” again. “In that case, I’ll have a martini.”

The waiter leaves, and Adrian leans toward his sister. “Do the names Myers and Gabrielli mean anything to you?”

Her eyes narrow. “What have you got yourself mixed up in?”

“Just answer the question.”

“They work for Vince Vitali. He’s one of the major bootleggers, headquartered in some town in Massachusetts no one’s ever heard of.”

“Widdershins?” I guess.