people as if they’d just come up from the sewer smelling of shit.” He shook his head. “And I have no idea how you do that thing with your voice. I could have sworn when I met you that you were born in Riverside.”
“There’s a reason I got picked for this job,” Sula said.
And her ability to do accents wasn’t it. She and Martinez had just blown apart and she’d thought that killing people or getting killed herself would be a welcome distraction from her miseries. Her idiot superiors had taken her, and now here she was.
There was a moment of silence as they all negotiated the front door of the club. This time, at least, Macnamara didn’t try to slam the door on Casimir. Score one, she thought, for civility.
The delay at the door gave Julien time to catch up. He caught his breath in the copper-plated corridor outside, then turned to Sula. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Better luck next time, hey?”
“I’m sure you did your best,” Sula said. It was all she could do not to snarl.
“Tan-dau got wounded in an assassination attempt last year, and he’s not game for new adventures,” Julien said. “Sagas isn’t a Daimong to take chances. And Pops,” he gave a rueful smile, and shook his head, “Pops didn’t get where he is by sticking his neck out.”
“And Patel?” Sula asked.
Julien laughed. “He’d have followed you, you heard him. He’d like to fight the Naxids just for the love, like he said. But the commission’s rulings are always unanimous, and he had to fall in line.”
They descended the moving stairs. Sula marched to the doors and walked out onto the street. The pavement was wet, and a fresh smell was in the air: there had been a brief storm while she was conducting her interview.
“Where’s a cab rank?” Sula asked.
“Around the corner,” said Julien, pointing. He hesitated. “Say—I’m sorry about today, you know. I’d like to make it up to you.”
Can you raise an army?Sula thought savagely. But she turned to him and said, “That would be very nice.”
“Tomorrow night?” Julien said. “Come to my restaurant for dinner? It’s called Two Sticks, and it’s off Harmony Square. The cook’s a Cree and he’s brilliant.”
Sula had to wonder if the Cree chef thought it was his own restaurant, not Julien’s, but this was no time to ask questions of that kind. She agreed to join Julien for dinner at 2401.
“Shall I pick you up?” Casimir said. “Or are you still in transit from one place to another?”
“I’malways in transit,” Sula lied, “and now you know why. I’ll meet you at the club.”
“Care to go out tonight?”
Sula decided she was too angry to play a cliqueman’s girl. “Not tonight,” she said. “I’ve got to assassinate a judge.”
Casimir was taken aback. “Good luck with that,” he said.
She kissed him. “See you tomorrow.”
She walked with Macnamara to the cab rank and got a cab. He sat next to her in the seat, arms crossed, staring straight forward. One muscle in his jaw worked continually.
“So what’syour problem?” Sula demanded.
“Nothing,” he said. “My lady.”
“Good!” she said. “Because if there’s anything I don’t need, it’smore fucking problems. ”
They sat in stony silence. Sula had the cab let her off two streets from her apartment. Rain had started again, and she had to sprint, her jacket pulled over her head. One-Step, sharing a vendor’s awning with a few others caught in the downpour, did a double take as she ran past, her blond hair flying.
Inside, she tossed the wet wig onto the back of her chair and combed her short, dyed hair. She considered checking the news, but decided against it, knowing the news would only further irritate her.
In the end she decided a long bath was in order. Followed by her latest book of mathematical puzzles, and possibly a book she’d acquired at a stall two days ago,The Diplomatic History of Napoleonic Europe, something obviously printed by a history student for his own use, bound cheaply, then discarded. It was just the sort of page- turner she most enjoyed.
She took the book into the bath with her and found it an ambiguous comfort. Compared with the likes of Paul II or Godoy, her own superiors seemed positively…brilliant.
After her bath, she wrapped herself in a robe and went to the front room. The rain was still pouring down. For a long moment she watched herju yao pot as the crackled glaze reflected the beads of water that snaked down the window.
While watching the pot an idea occurred to her.
“Ah. Hah,” she said. The idea seemed an attractive one. She examined it carefully, probing it with her mind like a tongue examining the gap left by a missing tooth.
The idea began to seem better and better. She got a fresh piece of paper and a pen and outlined it, along with all possible ramifications.
There wasn’t a problem that she could see. Nor a way it could be traced to her.
Perhaps she could credit the influence of Metternich or Castlereagh or Talleyrand for the idea. Perhaps the afternoon of staring into Sergius Bakshi’s predator-fish eyes and wondering what was going on behind them.
Or perhaps the scheme came entirely from her own mind, from the mind that floated with the reflection of the raindrops on the window. In which case, she really had to admire her brain.
She destroyed the paper, leaving no evidence of her scheme. She looked at her right thumb, the thick pad of scar tissue where her print had once been.
It was very important that she not leave her fingerprints on this one.
NINETEEN
In the morning, Sula made deliveries with Macnamara and Spence. Macnamara was a little stiff but at least he wasn’t sulking too visibly.
In the afternoon, she went to the Petty Mount for a shopping expedition, and wore the result to meet Casimir at the Cat Street club. She was late, and as she approached the club with her large shoulder bag banging her hip with every stride, she found Casimir pacing the pavement next to the apricot-colored car. He was scowling down at the ground, his coat floating behind him like a cloak.
He looked up at her and relief flooded his face. Then he saw how she was dressed, in a long coat, black covered with shiny six-pointed particolored stars, like a rainbow snowfall.
“You got a coat like mine,” he said, surprised.
“Yes. We need to talk.”
“We can talk in the car.” He gestured toward the door.
“No. I need more privacy than that. Let’s try your office.”
Petulance tugged at his lip. “We’re already late.”
“Julien will be all right. His chef is brilliant.”
He nodded as if this remark made sense and followed her through the club. There were few patrons at this early hour, mostly quiet drinkers at the bar or workers who hadn’t managed to get home in time for dinner.
Sula bounded up the metal stairs leading to Casimir’s office. “How did the judge thing go?” he asked.
She had to search her mind for a moment to recall the story.
“Postponed,” she said.
He let her into his office. “Is that what you need to talk about? Because even though Sergius said I wasn’t supposed to help you, there are a few things I can do that Sergius doesn’t need to know about. Because—Oh, damn.”
They had entered his office, the spotless black-and-white room, and Sula had thrown her bag on a sofa and opened her coat to reveal that she wore nothing underneath it but stockings and her shoes.
“Damn,” Casimir repeated. His eyes traveled over her. “Damn, you’re beautiful.”
“Don’t just stand there,” Sula said.
It was the first time she had set out to please a man so totally and for so long. She moved Casimir over the room from one piece of furniture to the other. She took full advantage of the large, oversoft chairs. She used lips and tongue and fingertips, skin and scent, whispers and laughter. She would never have dared try this with Martinez—with him, she lacked this brand of confidence. There was something whorish about it, she supposed,
