“Is that supposed to cheer me up?” Arthur said. “Felicitations, you’ve been entangled in a dire political emergency, an alderman caught at a speakeasy or perhaps the mayor wore the wrong sort of hat.”
He sounded wry, his fancy accent extra fancy, like Mrs. Brodigan’s Irish brogue brought out the English in his speech. Rory rested his head against the back seat in contentment. He could listen to Arthur like music on a record.
“You could try to sound pleased about that,” Mrs. Brodigan said with amusement. “Now really, I can manage without your muscles, dear. If you’d like to take Rory to his boardinghouse—”
“Nah,” Rory spoke up. “I got stuff to do here.”
Arthur looked over his shoulder, cheekbones and shadowed jaw lit by the dim lights on the street. Geez, he was too handsome for a shabby place like Hell’s Kitchen, like a falcon in a flock of pigeons. “Have a good nap?”
Rory had. Sleep came easier when Arthur was close. “I thought we’d be here by lunch,” he said instead.
“The roads were in a terrible state,” said Mrs. Brodigan. “Last night’s snow, you know.”
“Yes,” said Arthur. “That snow the unexpected north wind brought in.”
Rory narrowed his eyes.
“Our Mr. Kenzie here is late to his appointment with his brother, but he’s insisting he’ll assist us in Hell’s Kitchen and be later still,” she said. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into him, dear.”
“For crying out loud,” Rory muttered, then raised his voice. “Get outta here, Ace. You hate being late, go meet with your brother.”
He opened the car door and tested his ankle against the curb. It smarted, but it was a lot better than it had been last night, enough that he stood from the car without too much pain. The wind was cold against his bare head. It felt weird to be out without a hat, but he’d bought his new glasses last month. A cap was gonna have to wait till he had the funds.
He watched Arthur get out of the car. The Cadillac wasn’t subtle, and it was a lot nicer than anything else on the block. Arthur himself was also nicer than anything else on the block, and was getting stares from everyone on the sidewalk and the steps across the street, and probably from anyone looking out the windows too.
If it bothered Arthur to be an object of curiosity, he didn’t show it as he came around to Rory and the curb. “You have luggage and your ankle is sprained,” he said, opening the front passenger door for Mrs. Brodigan.
“I’m walking on it and I got one bag,” said Rory. “Besides, I told you, I got things to do here.”
“What things?”
“Work,” Rory said. “March rent isn’t gonna earn itself.”
Arthur opened his mouth, then glanced at Mrs. Brodigan, who was unlocking the front door of the antiques shop. “Maybe we should talk about your lodgings,” he said, his voice quiet but pointed, as Mrs. Brodigan disappeared into the shop to the familiar jingling of the door’s bell.
“What’s to talk about?” Rory said, as Arthur reached past him and pulled Rory’s ratty messenger bag and Mrs. Brodigan’s cloth suitcase from the back seat. “I gotta pay bills or I’m gonna end up sleeping with even more rats.”
Arthur stiffened, bags in hand. “You shouldn’t have to sleep with any.”
Rory shrugged. “Everywhere’s got some rats.”
“Not my place.”
“Yeah, but you don’t even got roaches.” Rory reached for the door of the antiques shop and held it open. “How’d you manage that in New York, you pay ’em to leave?”
“Cute,” Arthur said dryly, as he carried the bags across the threshold and set them by an antique chair. “I’ll call after I find out what John wants.” Then, as he straightened, his mouth brushed close to Rory’s ear. “Think I could convince you to sleep somewhere without rats tonight?”
Heat ran through Rory, and he clenched his fists to keep from throwing his arms around Arthur’s neck. “I dunno,” he said, gaze fixed on Arthur. “Does it have monks?”
Arthur laughed, a low, rich sound. “No monks. No other Kenzies, even.”
He was too handsome to be real when he laughed. Rory forced his hands behind his back to keep them to himself. “What happened to your church talk?”
“Oh, it’s coming,” Arthur promised softly, then said, more loudly, “Good day, Mrs. Brodigan,” getting an answering farewell in return as the door swung shut behind him.
* * *
John’s club was two blocks from City Hall, hidden on the fifth floor of a high-rise with only a small plaque next to the door to mark it. A white-gloved host led Arthur into the club, the wood paneling on the wall nearly black, the tablecloths bleached to arctic white, and the smell of cigars in the air. It was dimly lit and packed with men in heavy wool suits, but Arthur didn’t have to wait; the host led him straight to a private booth in the back, where John was already seated, a sizable stack of papers on the table.
John glanced up as they approached. His eyes returned to his papers almost instantly. “You’re late.”
“What’s that?” Arthur said, as he took a seat on the leather bench across from John, their host vanishing. “Why yes, there was bad weather, and it was frightfully decent of me to still come all the way down to Lower Manhattan to talk to you.” He picked up the glass already waiting in front of him, and the scent of ginger ale wafted up. “Would you mind terribly if I bribed the waiter to spike this?”
“Yes. I don’t need that scandal.” John abruptly looked up. “Is that what’s keeping you busy? You better not be involved in bootlegging—”
“And break the laws you and Father work so hard to pass? Perish the thought.” Arthur picked up the menu. “What’s good here?”
“You’re having pigeon with jellied tomato cream and asparagus au gratin,” said John. “I ordered for you.”
Arthur, who’d been eying the flavorless offerings and wishing he’d managed to fit in a stop at Zhang’s teahouse, sputtered. “You ordered my dinner? Were you planning to cut it into bite-size pieces for me too?”
“Be on time to our next appointment.”
To think he could have had dim sum. Arthur tossed the menu aside. “What do you want?”
John hesitated. “I—” He snapped his mouth shut as the waiter materialized at the edge of their table and set their plates before them.
John had ordered himself a steak. Naturally. Arthur narrowed his eyes over his own anemic fowl and sickly green vegetables. Well, he’d eaten worse. He picked up his fork. “You what?”