The Granite Moth (19 page)

Ernesto had been there from the beginning, too, everyone's darling. “You go to some places, and the dealer's invisible. Communicates in hand gestures like a mime. It's okay, I guess, but Ernesto was endearing. Even while he was studying us—and oh sure, he studied us—he was quick to make jokes, compliments. That sort of thing. He's the one who brought in those birds.”

“The parrotlets?”

“That's almost a question, Kennedy, or whoever.”

“My apologies.”

Sybil grunted in acknowledgment and lit another cigarette from the tip of the first one, gaining me at least two more minutes. “But yeah, parrotlets. Ernesto said the room was too drab, and hell, it was, you know? The rest of that place is shined with gold, but we get a what I call an ‘any room.' I've seen worse, though.” I resisted the urge to inquire where and instead let
her finish. Her gambling habits weren't under investigation. “He took them right from Eva's office. She didn't mind. She doted on him.”

This time I couldn't help myself and asked what she thought that Eva had meant when she screamed that it was her fault when Ernesto started convulsing. Sybil didn't say anything, and instead threw her half-smoked butt to the sidewalk. She ground it into the concrete then glanced up the street for a ride.

“You have to find the right game,” she said, raising her hand at a distant set of “On Duty” lights shining from a taxi. It moved toward us, and she turned toward me. “I think you mean well, so I'll say that. You have to find the right game.”

The Pink Parrot didn't open until noon, but Dolly met me down the street for breakfast. We sat on a park bench in the middle of a busy intersection, watching the pedestrians dodge traffic, making deals and dates on their cell phones. A seemingly schizophrenic man screamed about a gas leak and imminent deaths, but on closer inspection, a blinking bluetooth could be spotted in his right ear. It wasn't quiet, but it was my version of white noise.

My mind was wandering, trying to put together the pieces of two different cases, suspecting they might be linked after all, however ridiculous that had seemed at first. I'd gotten a few more hours of sleep the night before and was feeling alert, ready. If I were honest with myself, I'd admit that traditional detective work wasn't my forte. While I had been given the title of detective after my requisite time undercover, I'd never actually worked an NYPD case beside the Magrelli brothers. And in that scenario, I was more trying to prevent crimes than solve them. It was one of the quirks of law enforcement, titles
being bestowed as rewards rather than signs of readiness. Come to think of it, perhaps that wasn't a quirk exclusive to police departments.

We were a pretty pair, Dolly and me. I'd foregone a disguise, knowing that my sling would make me memorable in any getup. Dolly was always one to make heads turn, but the people who turned for a second look today were more curious about the scabbing slash on his face. Parts of it were a sickly looking yellow, but I knew better than to mother him by suggesting another doctor's appointment and more antibiotics. Big Mamma would take care of him. She would take care of him now, and she would take care of him down the road. Even if he couldn't perform, he could bartend, keep the books maybe. He was smart, that much I knew. Would he want to continue in that vein? Or would it be too hard watching the others on stage?

I took a bite of my neglected bagel, cursing when a blob of cream cheese slid onto my shirt.

“Language,” Dolly scolded mildly. His own bagel looked like it had been picked at by one of the circling pigeons. There was one mangy fellow that worried me, but so far, he hadn't gotten any closer than the others.

“Laundromats are my personal hell,” I said, dabbing awkwardly at the spot. Dolly poured some water onto his napkin and did a better job.

“Thanks. Can we do this every day?”

“Bask in the sanctuary glow of exhaust and smog? You bet, sugar. When was the last time you left the city?”

The last time I left the city, I had been treed by a deranged spa owner. The great outdoors had never recommended themselves to me, and I said as much.

“I'm thinking of going home.” He said it assertively enough that I knew he didn't mean for a vacation. “When this is over. When you do your spy shit and nail these fuckers.”

“Language.”
My tone was light, but the thought of losing someone else made me ache. Maybe it was for the best, if Lars's disappearance was somehow connected to me. I pinched off some of my bread and threw it toward the diseased bird. He lunged at it, puffing up his feathers so that he looked more like some sort of tropical pet, at least temporarily. If I squinted, he wasn't so far removed from Eva's prized parrotlets, even if he was ten times their size. His white feathers were pretty if you ignored the red eyes and bald patches. “Can birds get mange?” I asked.

Dolly squeezed my knee. “I'd stay in touch.”

“I know,” I said, though I didn't believe him. If he was running away, he wouldn't want to be followed. No one ever does. But despite his warm and fuzzy memories of his family, I didn't buy that Dolly wanted to leave. He'd made a home here and was now being chased out.

I rose, dusting myself off as best as I could, then we walked toward the club without saying much. Outside, a big man in sunglasses and a suit greeted Dolly, opening the door for both of us.

“Hey, Earl,” said Dolly, blowing the security guard a kiss. He nodded, but didn't respond in kind. All business, good at his job, only showing emotion if someone calls him a bouncer by mistake.

“Hey, Earl,” I repeated. “I'm—” I hesitated, squashing my impulse to lie. “I'm investigating the explosion for Ms. Burstyn. Do you think I could ask you a few questions?”

Dolly stepped back out onto the street and removed a recording device from his bag. It was so new it shined, and I wasn't sure recording the conversation was a good idea. Ideal for a courtroom, but people get nervous when they know what they're saying is permanent. No chance to deny later. Correcting Dolly and embarrassing him wasn't an option, so instead I asked Earl if he minded.

“No, ma'am.
Ms. Burstyn said whatever you need.” He spoke into his walkie-talkie, requesting a replacement so that he could give me his full attention. We waited until a nearly identical man arrived, and I asked if I could interview him, too.

“This is my buddy. He just started. After all this.” Earl gestured toward Spring Street, but I knew what he meant. I didn't have the right words either. We walked about half a block away and learned against a brick wall. Earl surveilled the streets, so I didn't have to for once.

“I'd like to focus on the weeks before the parade, but after the funeral invitation arrived,” I said, confident that Big Mamma would have informed all her security personnel about the threats. “Did you have to break up any fights? Throw anyone out?”

“No, ma'am, it was calm, same as usual. We don't get a lot of scrappers here.”

“Scrappers?”

“You know the type. Prowling for a fight or hanging with the boys and too drunk. We don't get a lot of bachelor parties. Bachelorettes, sure. Need an escort out before they puke on the audio equipment, sure. But fights? Not so much.”

“Sounds like a good gig.”

“It ain't bad. My buddy needs the work, too. Lucky this spot came open, you know?”

“Was someone fired?” I asked, a small antennae raising in my mind.

“No, Ms. Burstyn added some staff. Because of all this.” He gestured again, and I forced myself not to look toward the traffic expecting to see anything helpful.

“What about amongst the staff? Anyone get mouthy?”

Earl glanced at Dolly as if for approval. He must have liked the response because he answered. “A few cat fights, excuse me, Miss Dolly.”

“No, it's
true, Earl. There's always some grumbling,” Dolly said, squeezing the guard's pythonesque arm. “Who gets the better song, time slot, what have you.”

“Anything more than that?” I asked.

“No, ma'am. I would notice, too.”

“I bet you would. Thank you for your time.”

Earl escorted us back to the front door where we ducked inside. I expected Big Mamma to be waiting for us, but the smattering of people on the main floor weren't familiar. There wasn't even a waiter in sight, and I questioned the appeal of The Pink Parrot without its stage performance. It was on the clean side for New York bars, but nothing special when not lit up with neon lights and bedazzled lip-synchers. Of course, noon on a Thursday isn't a peak business hour, the advertised $5 Special on Lychee Martinis notwithstanding. The customers sipping their drinks were as likely to be there for solidarity as for fruity concoctions. The Pink Parrot inspired loyalty.

“Hey, Dolly, I meant to ask you. How come you were singing live at the parade? Everyone else pretends with the tapes, right?”

“Oh sure, it's loads easier that way. Mamma's been thinking of putting together an album, so I've been practicing. A few of us have nice voices. You'd be surprised.”

“You never cease to surprise me.”

Dolly smiled at that, but he was lost in thought, worrying if he would still be allowed to sing on the tracks maybe. If the much anticipated recording session would even happen. If he'd be long gone by the time his friends recovered enough to quarrel over who got “Material Girl.” My stomach knotted at that thought, and I ignored the pangs. We were here for Carlton Casborough, Bobbie's former side dish.

At the funeral, Carlton had been in full costume, but we found him in sweatpants and a tank top playing on the break
room Xbox. It was easy to forget how young all these men were. Senator's son Carlton was self-possessed, though, and he didn't sulk or complain when we asked him to turn the game off. I noticed he saved his progress under username Studx10. Not exactly humble.

“You're here about Bobbie, right? That we were sleeping together.” He took a packet of cigarettes out and tamped them down, never actually breaking the seal. I nodded, thinking maybe he could conduct his own interview. So far, so good. “I guess everyone knew. I thought we were so clever, never arriving or leaving together. Sometimes you just know, right? Like, we probably laughed differently or something.”

“I hate to be blunt, Mr. Casborough—“

“Carl, please. Or at least Cassandra. Mr. Casborough is up on the Hill, voting on a measure to regulate drone usage in U.S.-occupied territories. I just killed a zombie with a purple mushroom.”

“Carl, does your father know that you perform in drag?”

“Oh yeah, adds a little excitement to Papa's life, don't you think? It's a well-kept family secret. Like House of Borgia-level secrecy. If anyone found out, it'd be blackmail city.”

I tried to think of how to ask my next question tactfully, but Carl saved me the effort. “Oh, it's fine, whatever. It's not a big deal that I'm gay, but this?” He put his hand on his lips and made a kissy face. “This would cause reelection problems. You don't see a lot of Senator sons working at car washes either, so whatever. It's all part of the grand illusion. Pop likes to talk about that photo of Mike Dukakis playing catch with his daughter. Playing catch? One toss, one photograph, let's get this show on the road.”

It was easy to see why Bobbie had been attracted to this one. In comparison, Martin seemed juvenile with his woe-is-me teenager attitude. Of course, wasn't a woe-is-me attitude
appropriate after losing your lover? Carl had yet to show any signs of grief, though he had been emotional enough at the funeral. In front of an audience.

When Aaron Kline walked in, he didn't look happy to see me. I'd called him a few times with the number Big Mamma had provided, but he'd yet to return the favor.

“You're a hard man to pin down,” I said.

“You're the first person to accuse me of that,” he replied, kissing Dolly on the temple then holding my friend's face between his palms. “Scars are distinguished, don't you think, Miss Stone?”

Scars, sure, but Dolly's forehead was ready for a horror movie, and I understood why Aaron was everyone's favorite. “Totally. Listen, Mr. Kline—“

He held up his hand, and I stopped. We both knew what I needed to ask. “Mostly, I want this all to be a nightmare. I wake up a week ago, and my family hasn't been torn apart.”

“We all want that. Tell her the truth,” Carl said.

Aaron picked up one of the Xbox controllers, fiddling with the buttons, but not really paying attention to the menu that appeared on the screen. “I was meeting Carl,” he finally said, tossing the controller down. “He was late because of these stupid games.”

It wasn't an alibi, but Carl confirmed this story. His guilt seemed real as he rushed to add that Bobbie was never going to leave Martin for him anyway.

“Tell me about Bobbie. Do you think that he was the intended target?” I asked.