Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

skirts and balloon breasts popping out of skimpy halters. Then came Chinese coolies, American Indians, the Seven Dwarfs and a beautiful Snow White with a mincing prince and a fat, campy fairy godmother, like escapees from Charles Ludlum’s Ridiculous Theatre.
    While they were standing there, night had come on almost stealthily, and the streets were lit by the mercury vapor streetlights and the spillover from restaurants, which were clotted with people. Harvey Keitel and his wife, Lorraine Bracca, settled in next to Arthur. Under one of the lampposts, a drag Marilyn Monroe simpered for an amateur photographer.
    After a table with a sign saying “The Ladies Who Lunch”— complete with four place settings and four robots sitting in feather boas and huge flowered hats—strolled by, Wetzon looked at her watch. It was quarter to eight. She tweaked Carlos’s earlobe. “That’s it for me, guys. I don’t want to be late.” She’d walk over to Seventh Avenue and catch a cab down to the Odeon, which was on West Broadway in the section known as TriBeCa, the triangle below Canal Street.
    “Where are you going?” Arthur took her hand, then laughed and pointed to the street where a man was dressed as a shower, complete with running water when a hand pulled a string. It was an only-in-New York costume, for sure.
    “Down to the Odeon. Twoey Barnes is throwing Smith a surprise fortieth birthday party.”
    “Wouldn’t you just know the Barracuda would have her birthday on Halloween? It gives witches a bad name.” Carlos threw his arm over her shoulder. “Come on, Birdie darling, we’ll put you into a cab.”
    “You’ll miss the parade,” Wetzon protested.
    “We’ll catch up on Christopher Street later.” They edged out of the crowd, brushing past another Marilyn impersonator, this one on roller skates, wearing a long, red sequined sheath with a slit up the side. The skater rolled right into Wetzon, knocking the wind out of her.
    “Hey, cool it, Marilyn,” Carlos shouted.
    Marilyn giggled and gave Carlos an ungentle push, which sent him reeling into Wetzon. Then she took off on her skates. She was gone in the few seconds it took them to recover.
    “Can you believe that?” Arthur was pointing to the disappearing skater, talking to one of the cops, who then spoke into a walkie-talkie.
    “Forget it, Arthur. There’s a bitch in every crowd.” Carlos had quite recovered. They all had.
    Night was truly day in the celebrating Village. Horns blared. Music surged from the passing floats. Spotlights made eerie shadows of familiar buildings. The three retraced their steps on Tenth Street to Seventh Avenue. Turning back to the parade route for one last look, Wetzon caught someone looking at her. A derelict with a sombrero pulled down over his face, wearing ragged jeans and a quilted vest. When he saw she’d spotted him, he melted into the crowd. Chilled, she tugged at the collar of her trench coat. He was the same wino who was hanging out near the subway earlier. Surely he was too scary to be that cop watching her.
    “Move it, Birdie.” Carlos had gone ahead and had a cab waiting, door open. Traffic was rolling, but there was a lot of it because of the rerouting due to the parade.
    Wetzon gave them each a kiss and a hasty hug. “Have fun tonight, guys. The Odeon on West Broadway and Thomas,” she said, climbing inside. The driver turned. Her heart stopped, then she laughed. He was wearing a Freddy Krueger mask. “Very funny, ah ...” She leaned forward to read his ID. “... Mohammed.”
    “Stay in constant touch,” Carlos called as the cab pulled away. She felt a twinge of regret. If she went with Carlos and Arthur, she would never have to deal with Alton, never have to grow up, never have to make a decision.
    The Odeon, with its big red neon sign, sat in the midst of a nineteenth-century business neighborhood, most of whose buildings had been converted to lofts and apartments for artists and writers and movie stars. Fire escapes dotted the front of many of the grimy buildings. Much of TriBeCa and its nearest neighbor to the north—SoHo —were part of the city’s historic preservation, particularly because of the proliferation in this area of cast-iron buildings.
    She had read somewhere that the Odeon had had another life as a cafeteria, and some of the art deco amenities still remained, the tile floor and the wood-paneled walls. A long bar of the same period was against one wall, and tables were