Gin Palace 01 - The Poisoned Rose

tightness in it. Whoever she was, she was anxious. Her jeans were faded and baggy. I got the sense by the way they hung off her hips that they had belonged first to a man.
    “I don’t know what to tell you, miss,” George said.
    “I’ve tried to call him but his phone is disconnected.”
    “I can give him a message when I see him. But I can’t say when that might be. That’s the best I can do. Maybe you can leave your name and number with me.”
    “No, that won’t work.”
    “I don’t know what else I can do. If you’re in trouble, maybe you should go to the police.”
    “I can’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “I just can’t.”
    “Listen, you’re welcome to stay and wait for him, if you want.”
    “I can’t do that, either.”
    “Well, if I see him I’ll let him know you’re looking for him. What’s your name?”
    “It’s okay. Thanks. I’ll try back later on if I can.” She backed away from the door, turned and disappeared. George watched her go. I waited till he closed the door before I went down to him.
    “She’s persistent,” he said. “She was halfway up the stairs again when I came back down. She must want to talk to you bad.”
    “And you’ve never seen her before?”
    “No. She’s pretty, though, don’t you think?”
    We all choose the worlds in which we live, and the things to which we are drawn. For George, women—pretty women—were what mattered. He was defined by them, his ego rising and falling by how accepting of him they were. The Hansom House bar was his court, but what the poor guy didn’t know was that he was, to those who came to it, more jester than king.
    I thanked him for his help and left. I was late and couldn’t wait any longer. I pulled the hood of the sweatshirt up over my head and ran through the rain to my ancient LeMans parked across the street. I got in and pulled the door shut, and that was when I saw an old two-door red Saab parked on the other side of the street, a few spots down from the Hansom House.
    A woman was behind the wheel. I could barely see her through the rain streaming down my windshield and hers. But I could make out the color of the overcoat, and that was how I knew it was her. I could see that her head was tilted forward, her forehead resting on the steering wheel. I didn’t dare start my engine. I didn’t want her lifting her head to the sound of my engine and seeing me. I didn’t want her rushing through that rain toward me. I couldn’t hear what she had to say. I just couldn’t. I was too broke, in every way possible, for any more charity. There was nothing she could say to change that.
    So I waited for a few minutes, smelling the damp must of the old interior, watching her. Finally she leaned back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. I looked away. Eventually I heard the engine of her Saab start. I looked up as headlights came on. Then the Saab quickly steered away from the curb.
    I ducked down as her car went past. I was confident that she hadn’t seen me. I sat up again and looked in the rear view mirror and watched as she turned left and rode past the train station, toward North Main Street. Then she disappeared from my sight.
    Still, I waited a bit longer before starting my engine and driving away.
    It was just four in the afternoon but looked like dusk. I had thought only minutes ago that it was dawn. I was close to an hour late for my meeting with Frank Gannon, but there was nothing I could do about that now. If it hadn’t been for George pounding on my door, I would have missed it altogether. As I drove I thought of all the ways that my going there was a mistake.
    I rode over flooded streets into Southampton Village. It was just a little over a mile. I parked at the corner of Main Street and Job’s Lane, then ran through the rain to the entrance to Frank’s building. I was soaked through by the time I reached it. His office was the only door at the top of thirteen steep steps. Each plank of creaking wood announced my presence as I climbed up.
    The office was dimly lit; the only windows were at the front and the rear of the long room, but even when it was a sunny day outside they didn’t catch all that much light. Before it was an office this space had been an attic storage area above a women’s clothing store. It still had that feel. The corners were dark, the ceiling slanted, particularly toward the back. The furnishings were simple: a desk and chair positioned midway down, two chairs facing it, and a