Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

After Evelyn?
    Then he said it, “After Evelyn.”
    That could be a long time, she thought. After Silvestri? That could be forever.
    “When I get back from the Coast,” he said. “We’ll make some decisions.”
    “This is to hold me for a while?” Private property, no trespassers. She’d been here before.
    “Is that a problem?”
    She touched her forehead. Her fingers came back red. How long had she been lying here? And where was here?
    With difficulty she rotated onto her side. Pain flooded her.
    Silvestri’s apartment. Silvestri missing. Rita Silvestri, their plan to bypass the Feebs who were watching for Wetzon on the street.
    I’m Wetzon, she thought. Of course. Smith and Wetzon. I have to get to the office. Smith will have a fit.
    But here she was lying in the dirt behind a row of brownstones, one of which was Silvestri’s. She remembered that all right. She’d been running. She looked back—God, she was stiff—and saw why she’d fallen. Two steps she hadn’t counted on. She’d flown through the air with no ease at all and fallen on her head.
    She propped herself up, steadying her hand against the fence, shading her eyes against the midday sun.
    “Yoo hoo!” An apparition was hanging out a third floor window, waving at her. “Yoo hoo!” The apparition disappeared.
    Wetzon held onto the fence. The ground was moving under her.
    She blinked, her stomach churned.
    “Les!” The apparition reappeared. Next to her. “What are you doing? Dearie, dearie, you’re bleeding.” Clucking sounds. “What a mess you’ve made of yourself.” Strong hands held her. “Here now, lean on Patrice.”
    Bump, bump, diddly dum ...
    Candide, Wetzon thought, giving herself over to Patrice Buchanan, the transvestite who lived one flight above Silvestri. Candide, I am, I am. Take a bow. I am pure and innocent and free of malice, well mostly, as I make my way through a dangerous and mad world.
    “Patrice, Silvestri’s mother. She’s in his apartment.”
    “She left a long time ago, dearie. I heard her. Are you sure that’s his mother?”
    “It is.”
    “So mom’s a babe.” She fluttered long false lashes. “Hoo hah.” She scrutinized Leslie in the sunlight. “You’ve got a bleeder on your lip, and an ugly scrape on your forehead, dearie. Would you believe I was a medic in my other life? Don’t worry, Little Les, I’ll clean you up.”
    “You saw me from your window?”
    “I heard you leave the back way and figured you didn’t want that fat Feebee to see you. Can you handle the stairs?”
    “I’m fine.” The stairs yawned above her, formidable. She took one step at a time, one solid ache.
    “There’s not much around here that Patrice doesn’t know about. But I keep it to myself.” As they passed Silvestri’s door, Patrice gave it a good rap. No answer, only a pathetic whine and scratching from Izz. “See, no one home but Izz.”
    “Don’t cry, Izz. I’ll be back.”
    Inside, the phone began to ring.
    One more flight. Hard work. Dragging.
    Patrice flung open her door.
    Incense and a Carly Simon CD. And cat. Cats. Chat’s purr like a persistent motor.
    Glitter and Be Gay , Wetzon thought. Red fringe everywhere, silky tie-dyed throws on a worn gold velvet sofa. Threadbare Orientals on the floor, an ornate gold filigreed chandelier with little red shades, crystal fringe. Styrofoam heads wearing wigs of many colors and abundant curls. Maroon velvet draperies, open. Resting on the sill, a pair of mother of pearl opera glasses.
    “Opera glasses?” She sneezed once, twice.
    A broad wink of the blackened lids and inch long lashes. “‘The better to see you with, my dear.’” Patrice brought Wetzon to a tall stool and pressed her down. “Let’s have the coat. Mmmm. Nice leather. Saks?”
    “Filene’s Basement.”
    Patrice’s first-aid kit was pulled from a mirrored closet. “This is going to sting, but we have to clean out all the schmutz so we don’t get any scars.”
    Wetzon eyed Patrice’s long false nails with sparkly designs. “How are you going to do that with those nails?”
    “Vinyl is a wonderful invention, no?” Vinyl gloves came on with a professional snap. “Now hold still.”
    Her face was on fire. She grabbed Patrice’s hand. “Ouch, ouch, Patrice, stop!”
    “Almost finished. So, dearie, you and Silvestri are back together?”
    “How do you know we split up? Oh, excuse me, you know everything.”
    “Right. I’m going to put a thin coat of Neosporin on