The Curse Servant (The Dark Choir Book 2) (6 page)

“Inner harbor, by the aquarium. In a half-hour?”

I quipped, “Well, I’ll have to cancel my tea with the Daughters of the Revolution.”

“I’m trying to help you, Dorian.”

I took a seat at my kitchen table. “Do I know you?”

“Just meet me.”

“How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll recognize you.”

He hung up.

The Inner Harbor was close enough to walk, and it was a nice enough day. Finding parking would have been a bigger time sink than hoofing it the twenty-some-odd blocks into downtown, so I just grabbed my sunglasses and got to walking.

I made the Inner Harbor in twenty-five minutes, and found a planter next to the stanchions marking the ticket line for the aquarium. A middle-aged, black man in blue shirt-sleeves approached me, his eyes moving everywhere as he walked. He seemed vaguely familiar, the fact of which granted me a modicum of relief.

“Dorian. We meet again.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it briskly.

“Yeah. See, thing is―”

“You don’t remember me. That’s okay. It’s been a long time.”

I had this trouble with clients now and then. They’d remember me, but I would lose their name in the sea of faces I’d done business with over the years. Considering the circumstances, I put a bit more effort in remembering this one.

“I want to say… Cedric?”

“Cecil.”

He pronounced it SESS-ul, without a hint of pretentiousness. And it started to click. He had been a client of mine, one of my early clients back when I had just returned to the States from England. I remembered his was a basic vindictive ex-wife taking him to the cleaners scenario. She had more karma coming to her than the person who invented telemarketing. The job was cake.

“Right. Cecil Rawls?”

He nodded and urged me away from the planter with his elbow. “Let’s keep moving.”

“How are things? I mean, aside from taking surreptitious photos of my clients.”

“I didn’t take the photos, Dorian. They were given to me to publish.”

“Small relief, I suppose.” I stiffened my spine. “Wait, did you say publish?”

“I work for The Sun. I’m the Editorial Assistant for the Baltimore City government reporter.”

“Look at you!”

“These were dropped onto my desk by an individual I won’t admit to knowing personally, nor am I willing to discuss his identity.”

“Understood.”

“I recognized your face. And knowing what I know about who gave me these photos to pass along, I knew they needed to land in the right hands.”

“Thanks for that. Seriously. That was pretty incredible of you.”

“Well, don’t thank me yet. We both know the odds that those photos exist on a hard drive somewhere.”

“I suppose you’re right. So, not to sound like a colossal dick here, but what was the point then?”

He sighed and turned us toward a brick walkway leading to the piers of sailboats stretching out into the harbor alongside a series of chain restaurants.

“You work for the Mayor.”

“Not exactly.”

“Still, you’re clearly involved with the Deputy Mayor here. Everyone in the city desk knows Julian Bright is a play-maker. These photos? It’s just a political gadget play. The whole point is to catch the other side off-guard, put them on the defense, and start pushing for yards while they burn one news cycle after another trying to craft a statement.”

“You didn’t play football in college by any chance, did you?”

“You get these into Bright’s hands, and he’ll position the Mayor such that he won’t lose ground. Better yet, he could parlay this into a win. If they’re ready for it. Do you see what I’m saying? It won’t matter who has these photos.”

I had to give Cecil credit. The man was deeply immersed in the political world, and it showed. Unfortunately for Cecil, he wasn’t fully aware of the peculiar dynamic between Julian and Sullivan. Namely, Sullivan would can his ass in a heartbeat if he admitted hiring a person in my line of work.

“What if it’s more complicated than that? What if there is no way to parlay this into a win?”

Cecil shrugged. “You have skills, Dorian. I’ve seen them. I’ve benefitted from them. As has the Mayor if I may be so bold. His approvals are sky high. They were, anyway, before Sooner got in the game. I know a man like you could change the rules if he needed to.”

He was right. I had been changing the rules. In fact, I had more skills than when I first decided to hang my shingle in Baltimore. Netherwork wasn’t a real option for me. But if I wanted it to be an option, I had Emil’s Library. And the Presidium knew that, which was why I really, really had to watch my ass.

“I’ll be sure this gets into Julian’s hands, Cecil.”

He lingered for a moment, still scanning the brick walkway in front and behind us.

“Is there something else?”

“Everyone knows Sooner is bankrolled by Joey McHenry.”

“Right.”

“I wanted to bring you here today for a reason.” He stepped ahead a few paces and held out his hand over the water. Across the inlet stood a series of glass and sandstone-painted concrete condominiums towering over the adjacent buildings. “Harborside Towers, courtesy of McHenry Construction.”

“Yeah?”

“I grew up in Federal Hill, Dorian. Just behind those towers. I went to school in an old, decaying building just across the water, there. Least it was before it was leveled to build these monstrosities. Before they leveled the house I grew up in. Or the corner bar where my father met my mother. Or the grocery store where he was gunned down.” He sighed. “A lifetime of memories, Dorian. A legacy. All torn down to let rich people move in and the poor people move out.”

I looked up at the condos. I had always admired them. They looked clean. Glass, concrete, stucco, palm trees out front. Iron bars painted beige, separating the driveway from Key Parkway and the rest of Federal Hill. It was as far from the red brick row houses of Baltimore as any man could conceive. I had never really thought about it, but to anyone who had grown up here, those towers had to look alien.

“This is personal, huh?”

“When McHenry says he wants to clean up Baltimore, I want you to set aside the rhetoric and the money. I want you to hear what he’s really saying. What is he really trying to clear out? Who is he clearing out?”

Cecil gave me a lot to think about. I wasn’t sure why he was pitching this all to me at that moment, but it was pretty compelling.

“Well, you don’t have to convince me not to vote for Sooner.”

His shoulders wilted a little. “I’m just trying to broaden your vision.”

“And I appreciate it. Really.”

Cecil held out his hand once more. “It was good seeing you again.”

“You too. Everything work out for you since last time?”

“Oh yes. Remarried. Three kids. All girls.”

“Wow.”

“I love my work. I’m living. And I don’t know how much of this would have been possible without you.”

“What can I say? You get what you pay for.”

He chuckled and gave my shoulder a tap with his knuckles before stepping quickly back up the brick steps to the street.

Cecil Rawls, editorial assistant to some asshole at The Sun. Married with three daughters. And a dozen years after hiring some jerk selling him a hex against his ex-wife, he’s in a position to change city politics. Hopefully for the better.

Hopefully for the better? That had been my professional credo since Emil died. It wasn’t every day I was given concrete evidence that I was changing people for the better. Yeah. It was a good day.

he next morning I still hadn’t reached Julian on his phone. I left a series of “it’s Dorian; seriously, call me” messages and decided to focus on the more terrifying part of my weekend. The date. Well, it was kind of a date. It was her and I and the entire Swain clan, and we were all going to be in my house.

That was the scariest part. Ches was going to be in my house.

By the time Edgar and Wren dropped off their kids before heading over to the Yards, I had retrieved the sandwiches from the corner deli, removed as much of the esoteric bric-a-brac as I could from the first floor, and started working on Aunt Viv’s cassoulet.

The Swain kids settled into the house without much fuss. The younger, Edgar Swain Jr., gave me a seven-year-old bro hug before hunkering down on my couch with some kind of electronic distraction machine. Elle, his thirteen-year-old sister, stayed at my elbow as I started layering the beans and spinach in a casserole dish. Her mouth kept moving. I mean, it never stopped. It was clear she was trying to impress me. She had been nursing a minor crush on me for a year, now. I honestly had no idea how to deal with that beyond putting her to work cutting onions.

She stood behind the island in my kitchen, chopping a yellow onion with the delicacy of a Visigoth.

“My Mom’s going to murder you.”

“Why, this time?”

“I’m not supposed to use knives.”

“Still got ten fingers?”

“Yeah.”

“Keep up the good work.”

Elle waved her knife at the countertop. “What is this, anyway?”

“It’s an onion.”

“No, the food. What are we making?”

“It’s a cassoulet. French dish.”

“Where did you learn to cook?”

“I didn’t. I mostly just burn things, then order pizza.”

She snickered awkwardly. “Do I have to eat it?”

“You saw the sandwiches, right?”

“They have mayo.”

“So?”

“I hate mayo. So does Eddie.”

“I didn’t know that. Maybe you can scrape it off or something?”

“Dad says it’ll give Eddie the running shits.”

I winced at that.

“Elle? You better watch your mouth. Okay?” I didn’t get a response, so I turned to face her. “Elle?”

She finally looked up at me, her cheeks flushed.

“I’m serious. You can’t go full S-Word when your parents aren’t around.”

She nodded dourly.

“I know I’m not your parent, but they kind of trust me not to screw you up too much when they leave you alone with me. I take that seriously. Crap, I keep a box of Captain Crunch around this place just for you.”

“I get it,” she mumbled.

“Good.” I returned to my beans and reached for the cumin. “These running shits kick in immediately, or what? Because I’ll need to make a run for toilet paper.”

She snickered again.

I had barely put the cassoulet in the oven when my doorbell rang. It was too early for the game to let out, and the Swains mostly just barged in. It had to be Ches. Checking the clock, I noticed she was a full hour early.

I brushed Elle off by the couch and went for the door. Ches stood on my stoop in a blue and yellow sundress, her hands behind her back. Most of her hair was pulled back into a charmingly sloppy bun, a few ringlets of light brown spilling over her eyebrow.

“You found me,” I muttered.

Ches reached from behind her back and produced a bottle of wine.

“I don’t even know if you drink wine,” she offered, “but I know I do. So, I figured…”

“Thank you. Looks great. Come on in.”

She stepped into my foyer, her eyes taking in my personal space as I took the bottle from her.

“I’ll, uh, get this chilling.”

“Oh, I love these old houses. I love the way they smell. Kind of like―oh. Hello.”