"Perhaps I can help you find her, Harry. If you would like meto." Kuan stopped halfway up to look back at the boy.
"Yeah. Maybe."Harry shrugged. Right now, breakfast sounded like thebest course of action.
Now
White rain cascaded to black streets and shimmered in themoonlight, collecting in pools to reflect hundreds of square windows fromskyscrapers above. Curvaceous sedans and sleek coupes splashed throughintermittently, but any disruption in the rippled mirror below them was hardlynoticed. Black umbrellas bobbed along slick sidewalks, hiding grey faces andprotecting well-kept hair from the elements as quick, sure steps carried thosewho looked like real men and women along their way.
Some, in pairs, gestured and waved at taxicabs that splashed past,and on occasion, one would pull to the curb, cutting off the automobile behindit with a blaring horn. Gratefully, the pair would then enter the cab and shaketheir umbrellas outside before shutting the side door. And the cab would againenter traffic with another splash and another honking horn from anotherimpatient automobile behind it.
The pattern repeated itself with very little variation. Thedifferences were minute, few and far between, hardly noticed at all. At somemoments in time, the rain fell harder, making its presence known. At others,there were more automobiles congesting the streets. The umbrellas came andwent, as did the pairs of males and females issuing forth from the taxicabs.
This was a very consistent element along the street side of ThePearl, a popular nightclub where drinking and dancing were the evening ritual.The owner, a wealthy, influential man named Gavin Lennox, wanted all whoentered to check their problems at the door with their coats and enjoy all thatThe Pearl had to offer. It was a place to savor life.
It was a place to feel human.
The man who stood in the shadows across the street watched,blinking away the rain, as a stoop-shouldered father and his young son dodged automobilesand ignored irritated horns. They charged headfirst onto the sidewalk withoutan umbrella between them and stood for a moment beside the man without seemingto notice him. They swayed on their feet, facing the bright neon lights acrossthe street.
The Pearl.
"Rough night," the man remarked. He, too, stood withoutan umbrella. But he wore a wide-brimmed fedora pulled low, and it kept most of the rain off his face andout of his coat collar, turned up against the cold.
"Yes," the father replied, distracted. His eyes dartedto and fro as if trying to catch the rhythm of the traffic, preparing to dodgeit again, straight toward the long line of patrons waiting out front of ThePearl.
"Bad night to be out, that's for sure."
The father glanced up at the man, noting the grey in his beard,figuring they were about the same age—in their fifties, give or take a fewyears.
"Are you a regular?" the man said.
The father frowned, uncertain of the man's meaning.
The man nodded toward the nightclub with the brim of his hat."You go often?"
"No." The father shook his head, blinking against therain. "You?"
The man half-smiled. "Too expensive for my taste."
The father turned away, back to the busy street. Back to hissuicidal preparations.
"What about you, kid?" the man asked. "You like ThePearl?
The boy shook his head, soaked. His sodden hair fell across hiseyes, hiding one of them. "They don't let kids inside. Against therules."
"So you've tried, huh?" The man chuckled.
The boy shrugged. The father cast him a sidelong glance ofdisapproval.
"But that's where you're headed?" the man said.
The father turned back to him with evident impatience. "What's that?"
The man met his gaze and held it. "You're going to ThePearl."
"I-uh..." The father faltered. "I have to meetsomebody."
"He's not there," the man said.
"What?" The father's mouth hung open a little. He lookedboth afraid and confused. Maybe a little unstable. Decidedly untrusting.
"Meeting's canceled. You should go home."
"You should—" The father turned away. "Mind yourown business," he muttered.
"That's what I'm doing."
"Huh?"
The man leaned in, so only the father could hear. "I know whoyou are," he said. "What you are."
The father scowled and leaned away, but the man took hold of hiscoat's soggy lapel and kept him close.
"Cyrus Horton. That's what you call yourself."
"Let go of me." The father spoke low, not wishing tocause a scene, not wanting his son to see him bested by a complete stranger.
"This boy is not your son."
The father froze. "What do you want?"
"I told you. Go home. Never come back here. Never." The manpaused. "Not if you want this kid to have a father."
"Dad?" The boy stepped forward.
"It's fine, Harry—" The father half-turned, and the manreleased his lapel as he did so. "We're just talking here, so... How aboutyou get out of the rain a little? Yeah?"
Unsure of the situation, the boy obeyed nevertheless, steppingback a few paces beside the lee of the brick building behind them.
The father lowered his voice. "How do you know who Iam?"
The man paused before speaking. "I know the man who madeyou," he said. He noticed the shrinking effect this had on the father."Is that enough?"
"Yes."
"And you'll do what I say?"
"Yes." The father continued to stare across the streetat the glowing sign of The Pearl, but the desire to cross through the traffic had fled from his eyes. He remained transfixed for amoment. Then he turned and gazed up into the man's face. In earnest. "Are you...him?"
The man did not respond right away. His eyes held volumes of unspoken regret. "The name'sMuldoon. I'm a private investigator."
"Those still exist?"
"We're a dying breed." He watched the makings of thefather's smile before it faded. "But seriously, if you ever need me tofind someone for you, anyone—it's what I do." He paused. "Andfor you, Mr. Horton, the work would be pro bono."
Horton nodded, registering what the man had said. "Thank you.I..." He didn't know what else to say. He squinted against the rain."We can go, then?"
"It'syour life." Muldoon almost grinned. "Liveit."
The father nodded to himself. Then, beckoning to his son, they setoff hurriedly across the same
