Carol O’Connell - Shell Game

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?“