'Weird spelling but it's English all right,' Dalton said. 'I like _wichrrye' especially. Those capital Y's have a th sound. So it's just the word the. I make the author out to be Baldor of the Cairn, or something like that. A cairn is a pile of Celtic rocks.'
Thaxton thumbed through it. He found something of interest.
'Not what you call page-turning action, but you can make it out,' Dalton said, looking over Thaxton's shoulder. 'What's it on? Parlor tricks?'
'Interesting,' Thaxton said. 'Interesting. I think I'll be up reading, too.'
A servant appeared at the door.
'Gentlemen, dinner is served.'
Fourteen
Dutchtown
'Slowly, slowly run, O horses of the night.'
Tony Montanaro glanced at the passing carriage and chuckled. They were almost out of the park and into the uptown district on the west side of the city.
'Boss, I don't get it. What do they got up in Dutchtown that you need?'
'The seltzer trick is only going to work once. The old stuff gets stale eventually. I need something different, something new.'
'And you're going to get it off some melanzana?'
'Maybe. We'll see.'
They rolled out of the park and into uptown. The streets were still busy, a steady stream of patrons flowing in and out of the speakeasies. Expensive cars cruised the streets, pulling over now and then to engage tightly dressed women in conversation.
The majority of faces on the street were dark, but there was a substantial white representation. Some of the best clubs were in this part of town, and some of the very best music.
'You know where the Djinn Mill is, Tony?'
'Yeah, I been there once or twice.'
Tony wheeled left and slowed to let a group of laughing bar-hoppers cross. 'The place is always jumpin',' he said.
Tony made a right, then a left. He drove straight for six blocks, then went left again.
'I like Dutchtown,' Velma said. 'I need a drink. Are we going to stop awhile?'
'Yeah,' Carney said. 'Right here.'
The Djinn Mill's front was not imposing. There was no sign, just a green-painted door with a light over it. Tony pulled up to the curb.
Carney opened the door. 'C'mon, Velma. I'll buy you a drink.'
'Sure.' She smiled prettily at him.
'Tony, no disappearing act.'
'Don't worry, boss, I'll be close by. Take your time.'
The peephole opened in the green door and a black face appeared.
'Carney, John Carney. Is Biff Millington here tonight?'
'Evenin', Mr. Carney. Yessuh, I do believe he's here.'
The door opened. Jazz came through, hot jazz, but served with a dollop of cool urban sophistication, a baked-Alaska of sound. They entered. A broad-shouldered, nattily dressed bouncer looked them up and down, smiled, and took a long drag on a rolled cigarette. Carney recognized him, and winked. The man nodded.
The maitre d' said into Carney's ear, 'He's in the back.'
Smoke was a swirling fog in the main room. Fake palm leaves hung from the pillars, 'jungle' vegetation abounded everywhere. The dance floor was large but crowded. The stage held a ten-piece band and King Elmont at the piano, doing a fast, syncopated rendition of 'Shake That Thing.' The dance was a fast two-step. There were a lot of pale customers; the club catered to a largely white clientele, but there were some brown faces: celebs mostly, entertainers, along with prosperous Dutchtowners, the odd hood, and a politician or two.
They crossed the sea of tables. Friends and acquaintances shouted greetings along the way, their invitations to sit and drink reluctantly turned down.
He did stop to ask of one city councilman, 'Where's Mayor Speranza?'
The councilman shrugged. 'You haven't heard the latest. Three councilmen are missing. We're all worried.'
'Tweel, do you think?'
'That's what's on the grapevine. There were dengs all over City Hall today, hanging around, looking like they owned the place.'
'Maybe they think they do, now.'
'We gotta do something to clean up this town,' the man said, lifting his bathtub-gin martini. He took a drink. He smiled. 'Present company excepted, John. If some ganglord has to run things, I'd rather it be you.'
'Thanks for that vote of confidence, Stanley.'
Delivering a reassuring pat on the shoulder, he moved on.
They crossed in front of the stage to get to the other side of the room. King Elmont took his left hand from the keyboard briefly, to wave. Then the hand dropped to sound an augmented ninth chord.
'Is there anyone in Necropolis you don't know?' Velma said.
'Long ago I learned how to win friends and influence people. Read a book on it.'
'It must have been a good book.'
The back room was busy, the craps table surrounded three-deep, the roulette even deeper. Blackjack dealers slapped cards down in front of the apprehensive players. Private poker games were over in one corner.
Stately, plump Biff Millington was seated at a green-felt table holding a pat hand, Caribbean cigar clamped securely between his teeth, one eye shut against smoke drifting back. His skin was a little darker than cafe au lait. His suit was custom-tailored and his nails were manicured, the white carnation on his lapel so fresh it could have been cut moments before and rushed from the hothouse with sirens wailing. Slowly, one end of his lip curled up, then down. His was not the best of poker faces. But he made up in luck what he lacked in skill.
One dark eye found Carney.
'Be with you in a minute,' he said around the cigar.
'I call,' said the player beside him.
'Straight, ten high,' Millington said, showing him.
'Damn!'
'I should have stayed in,' said another player. 'I was working on a flush. But despair's my greatest sin.'
'Ego te absolvo,' Millington said. 'Nil desperandum.'
'No capeesh. I flunked that subject, along with others.'
Millington rose and picked up his cash. 'Gentlemen, deal me out.'
Carney and Velma had taken seats at the bar. The bartender was setting a gin-and-tonic in front of Velma when Millington arrived.
'John, nice of you to drop by.'
They shook hands. 'Biff, meet Velma.'
Velma flashed her small even teeth.
'Hello, Velma. That's on the house.'
'He's paying.'
Millington blew more smoke into the smoky air. 'Have a drink, John. On me. Then get the hell out.'
Carney grinned. 'Still sore about that brewery in Melville.'
'I liked that little operation, and I didn't like having it salamandered.'
'Your insurance paid off. Business, Biff, just business. Nothing personal. The profit margin didn't allow our
