Angel With a Bullet (10 page)

Thirteen

The taxi drops me
at home under the protective gaze of King William. From his perch on the window ledge, William has a clear view of his kingdom and all its subjects.

I tip an invisible hat to him and am rewarded with a wink. I even hear the throaty rumble of a purr, a sure sign that I am one of his special humans.

No sooner have I entered the lobby than the apartment door to my right opens and Mr. French beckons me inside.

Despite my weariness, I oblige.

As I follow the short man down the narrow hallway, past bathroom and bedroom, puffs of smoke rise above his head like the Hogwart's Express. The puffs smell deliciously of black licorice.

When he stops at Baccarat's cage and turns to watch me greet his feathered pet, I see his latest burl pipe is a fierce Chinese dragon polished in such a vibrant shade of red it could make a Ferrari look drab. This causes a brief and disturbing image of Mr. French in the yellow kimono with red dragons to flit through my brain.

At least it wouldn't be short on him.

“Long day, Ms. Flynn?” Mr. French asks as he settles onto the couch beside the long coffee table and pats the cushion beside him.

I nod and sit.

“Gathering the first threads of a story is always the toughest part,” I say. “The fun doesn't begin until you find the right one and begin to tug.”

“And then it all unravels.” A smile adds delight to smooth, chubby cheeks.

“Precisely.”

He claps his hangs together. “Oh, Baccarat and I enjoy that.” He turns to his bird. “Don't we, Baccarat? Yes, we do.”

The bird chirps in response and flutters its wings, sending several small, multicolored feathers flying through the air.

Mr. French turns to me expectantly, and I wonder if I am meant to applaud.

“Clever,” I say.

Mr. French beams and two large puffs of licorice smoke erupt from his pipe before being sucked away toward the air purifier in the corner.

After a second of contemplative silence, Mr. French removes the pipe. His face turns serious.

“The paper,” he says, referring to the note I dropped off that morning. “I believe I have found the initial source and departure point.”

“Initial source?”

“The manufacturer,” he explains. “There was a small watermark on the paper that gave me the name of the parent company. From there I was able to uncover its West Coast distributor and with a few discreet inquiries track it to the departure point.”

“Departure point?”

“The local store from whereupon it was most likely purchased.”

“Ahh.”

“And the news gets better.”

“Go on,” I encourage.

“The store owner is a fellow collector. I have made an appointment with him for the morrow. With access to both his memory and his bookkeeping, we shall soon uncover the name of the likely purchaser.”

“Very impressive.”

Mr. French puffs out his chest. “Baccarat was rather pleased when I told her too. She often worries about me, little dear, so these exercises assure her my mind is still sharp.”

“I'm sure.”

I stand to leave, but Mr. French leaps to his feet, face stricken.

“Forgive my dreadful manners, Ms. Flynn,” he says. “I was so caught up in my own news that I failed to offer a pick-me-up after your laborious day. Would you care for a whiskey, a wee dram as the Scots like to say, before you go? I have a rather smoky eighteen-year-old malt from the Isle of Skye, or Isle of Mists as the locals call it, that I believe you will find most pleasing.”

I waver, but only slightly, as the only Scotch I can usually afford doesn't bother announcing its age on the label.

Mr. French beams with delight when I accept his offer. He quickly busies himself pouring generous measures of barrel-aged single malt into two crystal glasses.

_____

Upon returning to
my apartment, I turn the faucets to fill the bathtub and set iTunes on the computer to play a soothing mix of Coldplay, Travis, Lissie, and James Morrison.

The taste of fine malt lingers on my tongue, igniting desire for another dram. However, I don't want to spoil the taste with the cheap blend I keep under the sink. Instead, I pour a cold glass of tap water, drop my clothes on the bathroom floor, and climb into the wonderfully deep clawfoot tub—the one true luxury of living in an older building.

Easing my body against the tub's curved back, I feel the grime of the day begin to soak away. A sprinkle of bath salts turns the water to liquid silk, and I close my eyes to sigh contentedly.

There is a knock on the front door.

Bloody hell.

Opening my eyes, I strain to see the clock in the other room. It's only seven. Declan is early. I begin to pull myself out of the tub.

“Dixie. Dixie, are you in there?” Kristy calls, attempting to sound sweet.

I sink back into the tub, wishing I had remembered the remote in order to crank the music.

“Dixie, I can hear your music,” Kristy calls again.

I groan and cover my ears, wondering if I remembered to lock the door. I usually don't.

There is silence for a moment, and then the front door swings open and Kristy appears in the living room.

Shit!

I try to duck below the rim of the bathtub before she spots me, but I'm too slow.

With a toothy smile, Kristy skips into the bathroom, drops the toilet lid, and sits. She is barely wearing a white silk teddy, one strap dangling mischievously off her shoulder to give her the oops-one-of-my-voluptuous-breasts-is-about-to-pop-out-of-hiding-and-smack-you-in-the-eye look that could liquefy the average man in under half a second.

Before I can utter a word, she dips her fingers in my bath water.

“Feels nice,” she says. “Not too hot, not too cold.”

“You're not coming in.”

Kristy laughs. “I wasn't hinting.”

“Just so we're clear.” I fold my arms across my breasts, which are not used to sharing bath time and feeling rather jealous.

Kristy laughs louder and splashes water in my face. “You know I don't fancy you, Dix.”

“How do I know that?” I protest. “I'm a fantastic catch.”

“You're straight, for one.”

“True, but you've often said that's only because I don't know any better.”

Kristy grins, her tiny pink tongue darting between her lips, enjoying the game.

“I prefer my women the same way you prefer your men: a little rough around the edges.”

“Are you saying I'm too girly for you?”

Kristy nods. “And you have small tits.”

I scream in mock horror and splash bath water high into the air. Kristy screams when the water splashes over her teddy, turning the garment transparent.

“Oooh, y-you!” she stammers. “This is silk. I'm wearing it for a reason.”

“What's that? You're all out of body paint?”

“No!”

I start to giggle. “Go on then?”

Kristy's lower lip vibrates. “I wanted your opinion on if I should wear this to go upstairs.”

“Upstairs?”

“Yeah, you know, to visit Derek.”

“Derek—Shahnaz's husband?”

“Yeah, he looks fit and he's really nice. Good teeth, polite—”

“Hold on,” I say. “You're talking about seducing Derek?”

“Sam and I want a baby. We talked about this.”

“And Derek has volunteered? What did Shahnaz say?”

“Well, we haven't told her yet.”

My mouth falls open in disbelief. “You're going to sleep with her husband behind her back? The cheating bastard.”

“It wouldn't be sleeping,” Kristy protests. “Just a one off.”

“And Derek agreed to this?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

Kristy twirls a loose strand of hair around her finger. “We haven't talked about it.”

I close my mouth. “Are you saying he doesn't know you're planning to bounce upstairs and jump his bones?”

“You make it sound … mean.” Kristy pouts again. “It didn't seem like that big of a deal when I thought of it. He's got it, we need it. It wouldn't
mean
anything. But …”

“Kristy …” I'm not sure where to begin. “You can't pounce on one of your neighbors just because you're feeling maternal. Shahnaz is a friend.”

“Yes, and as a friend she should want the best for us.”

“But the best for you doesn't mean sharing her husband.”

“I don't want her husband.”

“No,” I agree. “You just want his sperm.”

“Exactly.” Kristy beams. “I knew you'd understand.”

I sigh and bury my face in my hands. The water is becoming colder and I can feel goose pimples puckering my flesh.

“Look,” I say calmly. “If you're really serious about this, then you need to go about it properly. Invite Shahnaz and Derek over for drinks and discuss in a rational, friendly manner the possibility of him becoming a sperm donor. Just be forewarned that they may be planning a family of their own some day, and he may not be comfortable sharing DNA with the neighbors.”

Kristy wrinkles her nose. “Rats. That sounds more complicated than just wearing the teddy.”

“I know,” I say soothingly. “Adult decisions often are, but the end result is better for everyone. Now pass me the towel, this water is freezing.”

After I wrap
myself in the towel and step out of the tub, Kristy lunges forward to wrap her arms around me.

“You're so great, Dixie,” she gushes. “Thanks for being my friend.”

I laugh and kiss the top of her head.

“You're welcome, sweetie,” I say. “But I really need to get dressed now.”

“OK.”

Kristy skips across the floor, her ethereal teddy fluttering like angel wings, and yanks open the front door.

Standing outside, just getting ready to knock, is Declan.

I stand speechless outside the bathroom door, frozen to the spot, cold water dripping from my body and towel to form puddles on the floor.

Kristy barely bats an eye as she gazes up at my date and asks, “So what's your sperm count?”

“Kristy!” I shriek.

Kristy glances over her shoulder, winks mischeiviously, and runs across the hall to her own apartment. I'm thankful Declan doesn't go chasing after her.

Dixie's Tips #7:
Never let your date see another gorgeous half-naked woman in your apartment, especially if their curves make your curves look like a kiddy ride
.

“Am I too early?” Declan asks as he steps into the apartment and closes the door. His lips are quivering with an effort not to grin.

I look down at my pale, towel-wrapped body and fight the urge to cry.

“Take your time,” he adds, sensing my discomfort. “I'll wait.”

I retreat to the bedroom, wondering how much worse the date can possibly get with this kind of beginning.

Fourteen

Despite my bath being
interrupted before I had time to shave, I decide to brave a tight-fitting, above-the-knee black skirt that presents my ass in its best possible light. I marry it to a short heel for extra lift, black tights with a subtle swirl of green, and a jade silk blouse that shimmers like lake water and exaggerates the gentle sway of unrestrained breasts.

Unfortunately, due to tonight's cooler weather, I have to hide the sexy illusion beneath a bottle green, calf-length leather trench coat. On the plus side, I look damn good in the trench coat.

Declan is a silhouette of elegance in black Calvin Klein jeans, black T-shirt under a charcoal gray crewneck sweater, and a thigh-length, soft wool jacket that London Fog has ripped off a World War II sailor and updated in fashionable style. The
pi
è
ce de r
é
sistance
, in my opinion, would have been a pair of black crocodile cowboy boots, but Declan chose a more conservative pair of soft leather loafers.

“So where are we going?” I ask, boldly linking my arm through his.

“Chinatown,” he says. “I thought it might be fun to play tourist and catch a cable car.”

I smile agreeably.

“Should we drive to Market Street?” He stops beside a gleaming two-door Mercedes. The electronic key fob is already glowing in his hand.

I give him one of my patented “Do I look like a woman who's impressed by a car?” eye rolls and shake my head.

“Parking's a bitch. Let's walk.”

Walking is nice. Arm in arm, the crisp evening air makes each breath puff from our mouths in tiny clouds. I show him how to blow rings—a trick my father taught me when we relaxed on the front porch after supper and he puffed on a cheap Mexican stogie.

When mom caught him giving me a puff, he told her it was the best way to make sure I never picked up the habit. He was half right. I don't smoke cheap Mexican cigars, but a Canadian boyfriend was sorry to learn that when we broke up, I took his smuggled stash of fine Cubans with me.

From Market Street, it's only another half block to the bottom of the cable-car route. The open-air station is packed with tourists, their grins locked on high beam for a pair of amateur jugglers dressed in tuxedos, top hats, and Abraham Lincoln beards. One is black, the other white.

“It would be quicker to keep walking,” I reason.

“What's the rush?” Declan replies. “We're tourists.”

“In that case, the ride is my treat.”

I cross to the ticket machine and buy two passes before he can protest.

A soapbox preacher, his stubbled chin and sour stench failing to hide that he drank every donated penny, is stationed within spitting distance of the machine. No one is listening to his slurred version of the gospel; the jugglers are more entertaining.

The preacher catches me looking and turns his rhetoric up a notch. His arms flail and his bloodshot eyes begin to weep.

The topic is sin. Isn't it always?

A quote springs to mind as I pull a handful of change out of my pocket and drop it into the hat that lies at the foot of his salvaged pulpit.

“Forgiveness begins here,” I say and point at his chest.

The preacher stops talking and stares at me like he has just been confronted by the devil.

Another saying springs to mind:
Don't feed the animals
.

I cross quickly back to Declan. Jeez, a few minutes playing tourist and I start to act like one.

“What was that about?” Declan asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “He reminds me of someone. It was a long time ago.”

When the cable car arrives, I spot Sam jumping off the back to help turn the vehicle around. The circle of road turns slowly until the tracks click back into place. The tourists quickly pack onto the car, leaving just enough room for us to stand at the back railing, directly beside Sam.

“Hey, Dix.” Sam beams as she leaps aboard to take her post on the brake.

“Hey, Sam, busy night?”

“Always.” She rings the bell in response to the driver, releases the brake and the cable car lurches forward. “Did you see Kristy at home?”

“In more ways than one.”

Declan taps me on the shoulder, and I make the introductions.

“Sam, this is Declan. Declan, Sam.”

“We share the floor,” Sam says before grinding the brake and ringing the bell again as we climb a section of hill.

“Oh, really.” Declan's voice betrays too much interest. “I just met another one of Dixie's neighbors.”

“Kristy,” I explain.

Sam grins. “Did she do something embarrassing?”

Declan smiles back. “Ummm, well, she certainly isn't shy.”

Sam laughs. “Definitely not. Did she get your medical history?”

I feel my face turn red as Declan turns to me, his face wrestling itself in eager curiosity.

“I'll tell you later,” I say quickly. “If you're good.”

Declan grins.

Sam grabs the large handbrake to slow the car, allowing a handful of tourists to leap off, while others leap on. Releasing the brake again, she rings the bell and we climb farther up the steep hill.

“So can he be on our short list?” Sam asks. “Nice genes, I would say.”

“Oh, look. This is our stop,” I say abruptly. Grabbing Declan by the hand, I pull him off the slow-moving car.

We both land safely, four blocks from our destination, the only problem being an older American town car that finds the need to suddenly change lanes and accelerate past the tram on the left-hand side.

“What was that about?” Declan asks.

“The car? I don't—”

“No, your friend.”

“Oh. It's complicated.”

“I have a master's.”

I laugh. “You would need to have one in biology, psychology, and Audre Lorde.”

“Audre Lorde? The warrior poet?”

“Very good,” I say, appraising him anew.

Declan wrinkles his brow. “If you don't want to tell me, that's fine.”

Dixie's Tips #8:
The male ego is more fragile than a balloon at a children's birthday party
.

I pat his arm reassuringly.

“Sam and Kristy want to have a baby.”

“Ahh.” Understanding dawns and his eyes widen. “So the question about my sperm count?”

“They asked for help in finding a donor.”

“Hmmm.” Declan's mouth begins to morph from a worried line into a hopeful grin. “Does this mean you need to take me for a test drive first?”

Laughter erupts from my throat.

“You wish!” I punch his arm. “You haven't even bought me dinner yet. I'm starving.”

Declan joins in the laughter as we pick up the pace and enter the gates of Chinatown.

I don't know exactly what I was expecting from the evening, but Declan is surprising me by acting like we're on a
real
date. Despite my cynical misgivings of his true intentions, I soon discover I'm enjoying myself.

_____

Arm in arm,
I allow myself to be led as Declan maneuvers through the brightly lit tourist traps of Chinatown. Each store is filled with every cliché souvenir you can imagine: wisdom caps, fans, kites, chopsticks, and jade and ivory sculptures of varying size and shapes yet still looking identical, as if there is only one dragon willing to pose. I wonder if that is because she is the most beautiful or the most vain.

We also avoid all the Caucasian-filled restaurants with photos of first-, second-, and third-tier Hollywood stars that supposedly dined inside. Naturally, it never says if the celebrities actually enjoyed the food or just stuck to the booze.

Finally, Declan turns down a dark alley toward a flickering neon sign that reads:
Dragon's Wing
.

“I've never heard of this place,” I say.

“It's usually quiet, and the food is fantastic.”

As Declan leads the way down the unlit tunnel, I peer intently into every pitch-black doorway that dots both sides like abandoned guard posts. I've long believed you don't make it through life in a large city like San Francisco without a healthy fear of the dark.

Glancing over my shoulder, I spot a dark four-door town car gliding slowly past the mouth of the alley. Nothing unusual in it, except the driver appears to be looking at us rather than the road ahead. I open my mouth to mention it to Declan, but the thought leaves my mind as quickly as the car vanishes back into traffic.

Just before the lit entrance to the restaurant, a small sign glows in reflective paint upon a plain wooden door. It consists of an elaborate Chinese symbol and, in smaller English script beneath it,
Wong Door.

I point it out to Declan. He seems slightly embarrassed when I ask what it is for.

“Superstition,” he says. “Some Chinese believe it's bad luck to use the same entrance as non-Chinese.”

“Charming,” I say. “So they meant it to say ‘Wrong Door'?”

He smiles. “No. It's named after the Wong family who first requested it. It's the owner's little joke.”

Inside, the restaurant is a low-ceilinged cave with a variety of wooden tables scattered haphazardly around a cement pit. Inside the pit, a small fire crackles and spits. Hanging over it, suspended on thick iron rods, is a large black cauldron. Something bubbles inside.

“Don't tell me you're a witch,” I whisper.

“Not yet,” Declan whispers back. “Still have to take a few more courses. Harry Potter makes the whole broomstick thing look easy, but it's a real bitch to master.”

A five-foot-zero elderly woman bows gracefully as we hang up our coats. Declan bows back and whispers something in her ear, and we are escorted to a table in the far corner where a glass-block window reflects the fire's glow.

I sit down and pick up the menu. It is written entirely in Chinese.

“Do you mind if I order for both of us?” Declan asks.

“No, go right ahead. I'm an omnivore.” I glance back at the cauldron, wondering what I am getting myself in for.

When the woman reappears, Declan rattles off a list of dishes with names I don't recognize. He finishes by ordering a carafe of house wine.

“I hope you don't mind red,” he says. “I know white is the usual choice with seafood, but the crispness of the air seems more suited to a heartier grape. The house red is a Cab Sav from Chile that the owner decants and serves at a perfect cellar temperature.”

“You could have stopped at the color,” I say with a laugh. “It sounds fine.”

Declan chuckles softly. “Sorry, do I sound pompous?”

I hold thumb and finger just slightly apart.

“Would it help if I told you the name of the wine translates roughly into ‘Grandma's dimpled knees'?”

I laugh again. “Now that doesn't sound pompous at all.”

Declan beams wider. “I'm glad.”

_____

Over dinner, I
begin to form a more detailed picture of this handsome man. If he's been told to charm me, he's certainly doing a good job.

It also helps that the smooth, full-bodied wine is relaxing our tongues and mellowing our inhibitions. Declan tells me he arrived in San Francisco from Portland almost two years earlier to open a gallery at the request of a friend. The friend financed the whole deal, and in return owns 40 percent of the business.

After a few glasses and a plate of squid in an inky black sauce, I learn his “friend” is Sir Roger Kingston, the same man who represents Adamsky and had sent Casper to collect Diego's blood painting.

As the night progresses, I manage to extract that Kingston disliked most gallery owners in the city because of their original refusal to carry Adamsky's work. And as a powerful businessman who never accepts the word
no
, it explains why he branched out to finance his own.

“I have complete say over what pieces I display,” Declan explains, licking a dab of sauce from the tip of one finger. “Of course, I also give a large display to Adamsky, but the sales of his work give me a certain financial freedom to display lesser-known artists.”

“You must also like sculpture,” I say, remembering the jade nude.

He beams. “I adore it. In fact, I think it's safe to say I represent one of the best collections of stone carvers on the West Coast.”

I don't doubt him, but one question nags at me. “If Kingston is angry at the other galleries, why does he let them carry Adamsky's work now that he's popular?”

Declan laughs. “Revenge, I suppose. Adamsky is the hottest artist in town these days; galleries beg Roger to carry his work. And Roger is first and foremost a businessman. He still rubs their noses in it, though, by charging them more than I pay.”

“You actually buy the paintings? They're not on consignment?” I ask.

“That's the way Roger works. If you're not paying cash, he doesn't want to know you.”

“Sounds like a cuddly guy.”

Declan laughs, but this time his eyes lack twinkle.

The waitress returns to the table and expertly replaces the empty carafe of wine with a full one. Once our glasses are refilled, she claps her hands and a waiter rushes over with two steaming bowls the size of dinner plates. Each bowl is covered with a bamboo lid.

The waiter places a bowl in front of each of us and lifts the lids. Clouds of steam mushroom from the bowls and the decadent aroma makes my head feel light.

Declan grins. “Drunken crab,” he says. “Dig in.”

I look down at the large, whole crab in the bowl and the lone pair of skinny chopsticks resting off to the side.

“How do I—” I am instantly silenced as Declan wrestles one of the crab's legs free with his bare hands, leaving the chopsticks untouched.

As he snaps the steaming leg in half like a wishbone and begins slurping out the meat, he catches me staring.