Shell Game

by Carol O’Connell

  She slipped the flower stem through the boutonniere slit in her lapel. And now the black leather coat was flying Riker’s way. He caught it in midair and watched Charles lead Mallory toward the musicians. He held her in a slow dance to an old blues tune from the forties.

  Mallory was humoring Charles, dropping the pretense that she could have any reason to be angry with the poor bastard. So she was on best behavior tonight, and this also worried Riker. His only consolation was the familiar bulge that the gun made in the line of her white satin suit.

  Nick Prado was standing at the bar, lifting a glass with Emile St. John. Malakhai had not arrived yet, but both men had assured him that he would know when this man walked into the room.

  The band abruptly ended their set to have a few words with the harried-looking manager. Charles and Mallory walked back toward the table. Prado intercepted them and touched the flower in her lapel, pretending interest in it, as if there were not fifty identical blooms appearing all around the room. „The gardenia was Louisa’s favorite. Oliver’s too. He left funeral instructions for a carload to be – “

  Prado was distracted by the entrance of two uniformed police officers. Every head was turning toward the door. „Oh, good! It’s a raid.“

  Riker recognized one of the uniforms, a man his own age who had not yet been forced out in NYPD’s rush to replace all the gray men with kids fresh from school. Officer Estrada was standing with the manager when Riker joined them. „What’s the problem?“

  Estrada pointed to a young couple sitting at a table a few yards away. „Those two called in a complaint about the smoke.“

  The manager chimed in, „Right. But smoking is legal here. This is a bar, not a restaurant. We only serve hors d’oeuvres. So now they’re changing their complaint to dancing.“

  „What?“ Nick Prado had joined them. „No dancing?“

  The manager rolled his eyes back, showing all the classic symptoms of a New York mugging victim. „We don’t have a cabaret license, sir. The mayor says no – “

  „Right.“ Riker never had the patience to listen to the backstory. „No smoking in the restaurants, no dancing in the bars.“

  Officer Estrada grinned. „It gets worse, Riker. The mayor shut down your favorite strip joint today.“

  Riker winced as he amended his list. „And no more sex in New York City.“ He looked down at the gun belts of Estrada and his young partner. Both were sprouting gardenias. „Okay, you guys are with me.“

  As the three policemen walked toward the complaining couple, Riker noticed a flower growing from his breast pocket. He swatted it to the floor, as if this might be a visitation of the delirium tremens that had once covered him with crawling spiders.

  „Good evening, sir, ma’am,“ said Riker. „You wanna press charges, right?“

  The couple said, „Yes,“ in unison, as if this were a response at a prayer meeting. And Riker supposed it was. He was becoming accustomed to the religious fervor in a taxpayer’s exercise of power.

  „We need a written statement, folks. These two officers are gonna run you down to the South Bronx. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours.“

  „You’re kidding!“ The man looked up at Riker with an expression of shock. The woman was shaking her head, saying, „Not the Bronx.“ But her tone of voice said, Not the thumbscrews.

  Riker pegged them as Manhattanites, and he could even roughly guess their address on the Upper East Side. They would regard the outer boroughs of New York City as remote satellites, faraway planets requiring visas and vaccinations.

  The woman pulled a gardenia from her hair and held it up to her startled eyes, truly mystified in the absence of an identifying price tag.

  „Sorry, folks,“ Riker was saying. „That’s the law. All the dancing statements go to the South Bronx. But I really appreciate you screwing up your whole evening to do the right thing.“

  The uniformed cops were looking elsewhere, hiding smiles, as the couple gathered up their coats, heads shaking in deep denial. And now they were marching toward the door.

  Riker pursued them. „Hey, where are you going? If you won’t do the paperwork, how’re we gonna shut this place down?“

  As the door swung shut behind them, Riker turned to the silent assembly and shouted, „Resume dancing!“

  The band and the crowd obeyed.

  In the middle of cheers for the hero of the evening, Riker’s thunder was suddenly stolen. As promised by Prado and St. John, he recognized Malakhai the moment the magician walked into the room.

  Every pair of eyes was on him, this genetic celebrity of natural grace and form, unconsciously moving in time to the music as he crossed the floor. Or perhaps the band was playing to the tempo of the man.

  Though he had never used the word beauty to describe another male, it was in his mind. Malakhai’s dark blue eyes were young and incongruous with the long mane of white hair. Riker had seen this phenomenon before in the faces of ballplayers from another era, boys of eternal summer, and he called it magic.

  Mallory’s eyes were drawn to the bar, where Malakhai was drinking alone. He had not looked her way since his arrival, but she was constantly aware of him. And so were other women. She was not the only predator in this room.

  Emile St. John stood alone on the bandstand, his hands waving to conduct a floating black silk scarf across the small stage. The material was rounded out in the shape of a globe. When he pulled away the silk, the audience gasped to see a dove flapping its wings against the interior wall of a clear balloon. St. John lit a cigar and touched it to the rubber. The balloon popped with a bang, and the dove vanished.

  Charles leaned across the table so Riker could hear him above the sound of applause. „My cousin Max got a thousand doves for his funeral.“

  „Well,“ said Prado, „Oliver botched the trick, so he only gets one. And if he hadn’t died in the act, he wouldn’t have gotten that much.“

  „So that was good timing on Oliver’s part?“ Riker’s smile was wry.

  „Timing is everything,“ said Prado, missing the sarcasm. „Oliver bailed out before life went sour. Now me – I plan to die when the world has exactly six minutes of joy left. And that can’t be far off.“ He raised his glass in a toast. „Many die too late and some die too early. Still the doctrine sounds strange – “

  „Die at the right time,“ said Riker, completing the line. „Nietzsche, right?“

  Three heads turned to stare at the shaggy detective. Startled, Charles looked up through the wide front window, craning his neck to catch the moon over Columbus Avenue, perhaps to reassure himself that it remained in orbit and at least one aspect of the universe was in normal working order.

  Nick Prado smiled over the rim of his wineglass. „So, Riker, what brings you out tonight?“

  „Police business.“ Riker nodded to Emile St. John as the man pulled up a chair to sit beside Prado.

  „What’s happened now?“ asked St. John.

  „Oliver Tree’s death was reopened as a homicide case.“ Riker turned to Nick Prado. „But you already knew that, sir. The mayor’s publicist told you this afternoon.“

  Judging by Emile St. John’s expression, this was obviously news to him. And now St. John’s wary eyes settled on Prado, who was grinning in an attitude of touche.

  „Oh, call me Nick. So you’re investigating Oliver’s death.“

  „Mallory’s the primary on this case.“ Riker lifted his glass, not a stickler for police regulations against drinking on duty. „But you knew that too, sir – Nick.“ Riker was searching the faces lined up at the bar. „I thought Franny Futura might be here tonight. He left his hotel in a big hurry. A gypsy cabdriver settled the bill, and a bellhop loaded the bags into the trunk of an empty junker.“

  Prado sighed. „Ah, poor Franny. Not a stylish exit.“

  „Well, his credit rating wouldn’t support a stretch limo,“ said Riker. „Any idea where he went?“

  Mallory watched the magicians trade looks. St. John was hear
ing this story for the first time, but Nick Prado was not.

  „No? Okay, next question. That name of his.“ Riker bent over his notebook and flipped through the pages. „Franny Futura. It doesn’t go with the French accent. He made it up, right?“

  „No, Oliver made it up,“ said St. John. „Franny was just sixteen years old when Oliver rechristened him.“

  „What’s the guy’s real name?“ Riker’s pencil hovered over the page.

  „Francois something,“ said St. John. „Nick, his last name was close to Futura, wasn’t it?“

  Prado shook his head. „I only remember that Futura was the worst possible way to mangle the original pronunciation. Oliver renamed him in a stage introduction. It was a joke, a little revenge. Franny was always correcting Oliver’s bad French. But then, Franny got a nice write-up in the morning paper and decided to keep his new name – so as not to waste the review.“

  Riker turned to a clean page in his notebook. „So those two didn’t like each other much?“

  „Oh, but they did,“ said Emile St. John. „They were best friends. I’m not sure they kept in touch after the war. Franny never played New York. He’s been waiting for this chance all his life. Don’t worry. He’ll turn up for the performance.“ St. John spoke to Riker but he was looking at Nick Prado, and the message was clear: Franny Futura would appear on opening night. And as if a silent bargain had been struck, the other man made a barely perceptible nod.

  Riker caught that. He was also staring at Prado. „Is this a publicity stunt? I don’t like to waste my time.“

  „No,“ said Prado. „But I might be able to do something with it. Another witness to the balloon assassination disappears under mysterious circumstances. You’re a genius, Riker.“

  Mallory turned toward the bar. Malakhai was gone, and a row of gardenias grew in a straight line along the mahogany surface. She spotted him at a table on the other side of the bandstand. He was in conversation with a young brunette one third his age, and she was clearly the aggressor in this flirtation. Mallory watched the woman go through stages of the mating dance, leaning forward as she played with a strand of her hair, then lightly touching his arm as she laughed.

  Malakhai turned to catch Mallory’s eyes on them. He smiled and rose from the table. As he walked across the dance floor, Prado was rising from his chair and moving away, quickly crossing the room.

  Mallory reached up to her hair and pulled out another unwanted flower as she kept track of the magician. In his wake, all the women he passed on the dance floor sprouted flowers. When he was standing by her chair Charles introduced him to Riker, then excused himself to fetch another glass and a fresh bottle of wine from the bar.

  Emile St. John was out on the dance floor, twirling a partner close to his own age. They were moving to a swing tune from the forties with dance steps half a century old. Malakhai sat down at the table and nodded toward the dancers. „I could teach you how to do that.“

  „My father taught me how to dance,“ said Mallory. „It seems I have less and less to learn from you. And I’m tired of all the lies.“

  „I never lied to you – not outright.“ Malakhai rested one hand on her arm. She looked down at it. He took her point, and his hand pulled back. „I think the best lies are told with the truth, and maybe a bit of distortion and misdirection.“

  Across the table, Riker was unconsciously nodding, recogni2ing his partner’s own style of deception.

  „Right,“ said Mallory. „A conventional liar needs a good memory. You don’t have that anymore.“

  Now she was aware of the young brunette closing in on their table. The woman bent down to show Malakhai all the cleavage of a low-cut blouse. Her voice was breathy as she invited him to dance. The moment Malakhai left the table, Nick Prado came running back.

  Mallory exchanged glances with Riker, and he nodded. There was another weakness in the ranks of the magic men.

  When the music ended, Emile St. John pulled up a chair and sat down. „I still can’t get over the dancing laws. What’s happened to this town?“

  Prado tilted his head to one side, considering this. „I think I like it better this way. More laws to break.“ He smiled at Mallory, who was the law. „Did the mounted policeman cancel his litigation? I understand you were cleared of the balloon shooting.“

  „Naw,“ said Riker, speaking for his partner. „The lawsuit is still on, but the wording keeps changing. Now Henderson blames the mayor for letting dangerous cartoons run loose in the streets. So the mayor ordered Macy’s to retire all the big balloons. If they don’t, he’s gonna cancel their parade permit.“ He lifted his glass. „And then the city will be safe for Henderson – idiot-proof.“

  Emile St. John clinked glasses with Riker. „To the last parade.“ And now he held up Mallory’s gold watch, but her hand was still attached to the fob at the end of the chain.

  Her face was icy as she put her pocket watch away.

  Prado sighed. „You’re getting slow, Emile. Time to call it an evening. I’ll pick up this round. I think your wallet is getting a bit light.“

  „Nonsense,“ said the Frenchman, reaching into his breast pocket. When he opened his wallet, there was nothing inside but bits of paper.

  Nick was nodding in approval. „Nicely done, my dear.“

  Mallory held up a handful of folding money and credit cards. Grudgingly, she laid them on the table.

  St. John seemed a bit subdued as he settled the tab with a waiter, but Prado was laughing. The two men said their good nights and walked toward the door, which was now framed in garlands of flowers.

  Riker turned to Mallory. „And what else have you got, kid? That little item from Nick’s side pocket? Were you gonna share that?“

  She pulled another flower from her hair and tossed it over one shoulder. Next she drew out a folded prescription sheet and spread it on the table. „I’ll run it by Slope in the morning. Probably harmless, but you never know what can kill in the right dosage. What do you bet the doctor’s signature is a forgery?“

  „Ah, bless him,“ said Riker, watching Nick Prado’s back as the door swung shut. „I hope I’m up to bumping people off when I’m his age. But poison’s too tame. No bet – I won’t take your money, kid. Or is it St. John’s money?“

  The band was playing the opening bars of a tune for slow dancing. Malakhai appeared at the table and took her by the hand. She didn’t resist as he led her onto the floor.

  „I’m going to teach you one remarkable trick.“ When they stood in the center of the dancing crowd, he released her. Other partners swirled around them. „I’ve never done this illusion with a live woman before.“

  He held up his right hand in the posture of a dancing partner. As her hand was rising to meet his, he said, „Now don’t touch me. Keep your palm flat and in front of mine. Hold your left hand about an inch above my shoulder. Don’t let it drop. Don’t ever forget to keep your distance.“ He smiled. „As if you could.“

  His arm reached around her, and she sensed a hand at the small of her back, though there was no physical contact. Her own left hand rode in the air above the material of his suit, her fingers curling to the shape of his shoulder.

  „Close your eyes, Mallory, or you won’t sense the next move. This thing can only be done in the dark.“

  The scent of flowers was stronger when her eyes were shut. She felt the warmth of his raised hand pressing the air. Mallory stepped back, and his heat followed with her.

  „Very good,“ he said, moving toward her again as she retreated to keep the distance between them. He moved to the right and she with him, not following his lead this time, but moving in anticipation. A clarinet was melding into the velvet saxophone.

  They turned in a circle, revolving to the music, never touching flesh to flesh. One tune blended into another with a faster tempo. She felt lighter as the music speeded up. The trumpet was rippling. Quick notes ran round and round in the dark to the heartbeat of drums. Mallory’s face was suddenly warm with a
rush of blood beneath her skin. The music was zooming. And then it slowed, swaying her body with mirror movements to the partner she could not see or touch. Downy hairs at the nape of her neck were standing out and away.

  She was turning and turning, eyes closed, blindly chasing the tease of heat. The music mellowed into a luscious basso, sweet and thick, notes dripping like slow honey. There was a sensuous rhythm in the strings of the bass, endlessly drawing out this prelude, this thrumming expectation of bodies not yet meeting. It was close to pain as they moved nearer to one another. The music was slowing, so soft now.

  Whispers of reeds.

  A sigh.

  In the last sweet extended notes of the horns, Malakhai’s left arm was warm and solid against her back. Her right hand was folded into his. She had not yet opened her eyes. The sweet scent of flowers mingled with wine and smoke. His hand lightly touched her hair, and Mallory’s head tilted back. Eyes shut, stone blind, she was staring into the blue eyes of a boy’s un-lined face. The large spread hand at the small of her back pressed her body close to his. Closer still. The saxophone moaned in the thrall of sex at the peak, at the top of the act, warm and liquid. It was 1942 – it was Paris.

  Mallory had made an error in timing and distance.

  She stepped back quickly, one hand rising, as if she meant to ward off an arrow. Malakhai stared at her with a boy’s blue eyes – so cold now that their dance was done.

  He turned around and walked away.

  She had not expected that.

  Suddenly absent the guidance of heat and music, Mallory stood alone at the center of the floor, not knowing whether to move right or left. She looked down at the white satin tuxedo – inspecting it for what? Blood?

  Chapter 17

  Mallory stood by the dragon screen and nodded at something Charles Butler had said, keeping up the pretense that she was paying attention to his words.

  It was his clothing that made her suspicious.

  For the third time in a week, Charles was wearing blue jeans, though he had been raised to wear formal attire. She had sometimes envisioned him as a toddler going off to a dress-code nursery school in a tiny suit and tie.