Chapter Text

It wasn’t a craving so much as it was an itch, like a lone hair tickling at his wrist, that Arthur felt when he saw a speck of blood had landed onto his white shirt. The broken-nosed mugger wasn’t as much of an issue now that he was clutching his face on the ground, and he told himself the stain wasn’t really worth the change of clothes either if he was going to keep sweating in the searing heat. Since he quit two years ago, he didn’t regularly have cigarettes on him anyway.

Arthur wiped the sweat from his brow with one finger as he was occasionally buffeted by pedestrians bustling past him on the street. The last time Arthur smoked, he had an itch, though maybe it wasn’t an itch so much as it was a craving.

Arthur departed from the airport and redialed a missed call on his cellphone.

“Thanks for calling back,” came the voice of his landlord. “This is Mrs. Camfield. There’s been a break-in at the building. I haven’t called the police. Nothing’s been stolen as far as I can tell, except a painting.”

“Which one?”

“The one, uh, next to the cactus, yes.”

“Alright, I’ll get over there as soon as I can.”

He had a long smoke to himself afterwards. His apartment door was the only one opened.

The sun’s rays shunted Arthur into a café, and he ordered a cup of espresso. The coffee was pleasant enough, but it didn’t make him forget he needed to retrieve his stolen painting. A singular Sargent oil work, a smiling shadow of a lady that had hung warmly above his sofa, snatched away by nimble fingers that ignored everything else in his apartment.

Arthur looked down. The cup only had a couple of brown dregs lying on the bottom. He placed it onto the counter, rose, and left the cool comfort of the roofed haven. Arthur had work to do.

___________________

The sound of a sharp knock disturbed Arthur, and he slowly opened his eyes. His vision spun in wobbly motions for a moment, before refocusing on a familiar face. Ariadne had popped her head into the office. “Your 4 P.M. appointment is in, Arty. And man, is she a looker—”

“Stop ogling at the client. This keeps up, you’ll scare even the sewer rats outta here,” Arthur replied, frowning. Few people who walked into the Manse Detective Agency decided to walk out with their wallets a little lighter.

“I expect you to take every sewer rat’s case to cover my salary, Mister.” She ducked her head out and closed the door before Arthur could get in another word. The door opened again, and in stepped the 4 P.M. appointment.

Ariadne was right; she had gams to stop taxicabs and the face to crash them. Her jacket and skirt were a demure brown, but he could tell from the way she squared her shoulders and held her head high, that she was a champagne-and-diamonds kind of gal. The shiny heels of her shoes reflected the grimy floor tiles. Her arched eyebrows and ruby lips demanded courtesy. Arthur folded his crumpled Daily News, covering the unfinished crossword, and rose to greet Mallorie Miles.

They shook hands. “I’ll take your coat,” he offered.

“Thank you.” Miss Miles shed her wool coat for Arthur to hang on the rack before sitting down. “We spoke on the phone earlier.”

“We did. Why the urgent need to meet in person?” He returned to his chair behind the desk.

She closed her eyes, looked like she was entering a world of her own, before snapping her lids back open. “Someone is going to murder me,” Miss Miles said with all of the conviction in the world.

Arthur paused. “And what makes you say that?”

Her lips quirked downwards, wrinkled her peach-skin face. “I’ve been followed for the past two weeks.”

“And you were followed to this detective agency?”

“I made sure to lose him before coming here,” she replied with a steely gaze and a tone that would sound harsh to the ears from anyone less gorgeous.

“What’d he look like?”

Her wavy bangs shook over her knitted eyebrows. “I never got a clear view of my tail.”

“You know the reason why someone’s after your life?”

She shook her head. “Non monsieur, I haven’t the faintest clue.”

“And you don’t think this could all be one bad dream?” Arthur took a good look at her when she pursed her lips. Steady brown eyes, maybe foolish, but steady thinking that she was going to be offed.

“I know, detective. That feeling, of being watched,” she cast her lashes downward, “it never leaves me. Look, I know you’re skeptical, but I can pay.” She took out her pocketbook and placed several wads of hard cash on his desk, pushing them forward with the edge of her fingertips. “Five hundred dollars now, five hundred after you catch my killer.”

 “You mean would-be killer.” He knew that rich ladies could be paranoid, but at least they could afford to be.

“So you’ll take my case?”

Arthur eyed the green. He needed the money; no question about it. But it was an odd deal all around. “Alright. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do it.” He slowly picked up the wads, flipped through them, and then dropped them into the bottom drawer.

“Merci, detective,” Miss Miles thanked, face lighting up. They both got and up shook hands again. “I left my address with your secretary. I’ll call if I need anything.”

He showed her out through the door and listened until the clicks of her heels faded away.

“Well?” Ariadne posed from her desk, one eyebrow arched.

“Very classy sewer rat.”

___________________

Maybe Arthur should have suspected this, maybe he could’ve done something before everything went to pieces, but the only thing he thought about was the itch on his lower back when he picked up the phone in the middle of the night after rolling out of bed. “Hello?”

“Detective, this is Lieutenant Fischer speaking. I think you want to get down here.”

“And where is ‘here?’”

“253 Forty-Ninth Avenue. Second floor, you’ll know where we are. Hurry up.” The line clicked dead.

Arthur frowned at the abruptness, but rubbed his eyes open and stood up. His feet crumpled the newspapers laid below his bed. Rain pattered against window pane behind him. Within minutes, he was outside and in a car driving towards Forty-Ninth.

___________________

“You’re a sopping cat if I’ve ever seen one,” the lieutenant commented as Arthur approached him. walking towards an apartment door left ajar. Despite the fedora, water leaked into his hair, wriggled a lock out of place.

“A sopping cat’s just a cat after one too many days,” he replied. “So what’d you interrupt my sweet dreams for?”

“You know Miles of Miles & Brandford Construction, across the pond? His daughter Mallorie’s dead.”

Arthur felt a cold trickle of water behind his ear. “Why’d you call me?”

“We found your card on her vanity. Figured she maybe went to you ‘bout something. And she did, I’m thinking.”

“Yeah.” He glanced into the apartment and saw red. Lots. “Came into my office yesterday afternoon, letting on about someone wanting to murder her. No name, no motive, no clear leads. Of course, she wanted me to find out who. I took the case, but none too seriously.” His eyebrow creased.

“Well the dead dame’s got a job for you now then. Gonna brood or what?”

Arthur slipped out of his trench coat and hat, sprinkling water droplets onto Fischer, who wrinkled his nose. He placed them on the little table in the hallway corner before following him through the door. “She didn’t have any information, besides having a tail that could be Charlie Chaplin for all she knew.”

When they entered, Fischer motioned for an officer stooping on the carpet to leave. Officer Brandon got up and walked towards them, patted Arthur on the shoulder, and said, “My children thank you for this.” Brandon winked a sleepy eye at Arthur before leaving, and the detective tried not to roll his eyes.

Arthur took in the surroundings: a copper dusting the vanity for prints, somebody mumbling in a room to the right, and in the middle of the floor a large crimson stain shining like a bullseye. “There’s—“

“No body,” Fischer finished. They bent down for a closer look at the blood. “There’s no chance she could’ve lost this much blood and lived to drink another glass of champagne. We think stabbing wound, then she bled out. No shells. We found brown hairs in the carpet, but no sign where the body could have gone.” He nudged his head to the side, and they walked into the adjoining dining room. There, another cop was interviewing a bald, middle-aged man wearing a navy apron.

“He called it in?”

“Yah. Elliot Smith from Rudy’s Delicatessen. They take late-night orders. Said Miss Miles phoned ‘em asking for turkey on rye around 2:30 A.M. Operator confirms 2:27. Showed up, nobody answered his knock, left the sandwich outside the door, was about to drive back when he noticed the apartment window at the fire escape was smashed, so he dialed us up at 2:55.”

“Rudy’s? That’s so far downtown it’s practically in Brooklyn.”

Fischer shrugged. “Best subs I’ve ever had. She must’ve agreed.” They moved into the kitchen. Here, several spice jars were thrown about, herbs dotting the floor like green chickenpox. A chair had been knocked over next to a spot in the wall where floral wallpaper was peeled back, revealing the sleek silver of a key-hole safe. Fischer nudged the door open. It was empty.

“So it was a robbery?” Arthur asked, taking a closer look at the undamaged safe.

“Looks like it. Thieves break in, threaten Miss Miles to open the safe, snag the goods, kill her, and then run. With the body, apparently.”

And odd deal all around. “What was stolen?”

“Not sure. Coulda been cash, coulda been a snowglobe. Her jewelry box was emptied too, though.”

Arthur swept his eyes across the room before settling them back onto Fischer. “Odd that her tail would case her, and then they break in when she’s around.”

“Then you think it’s at least a two-person job too, huh. Probably weren’t counting on the safe being such a tough crack.” Fischer peered back into the living room and motioned for Arthur to follow him back. The copper dusting the vanity was gone now, and Arthur took the opportunity to examine the empty jewelry box. Fiscer kept talking. “But of all the rich eggs, they pick her. Her father’s company hit hard times back in Britain. She can’t have much besides her powder and bracelets.”

“Well, whatever they wanted,” Arthur replied, straightening himself up from the vanity, “doesn’t look like they got it, if they took the body too.”

“Unless they’re hiding evidence.”

“You got a suspect?”

“It’s no rumor she hangs with a shady crowd. One Dominick Cobb, who’s got connections to some Chinatown bootleggers, namely Saito and his gang.”

Arthur kept the twinge of recognition in his brain from surfacing on his face. He hadn’t seen Cobb in a long time, not since the war. They parted ways, Cobb disappearing into the west. Arhur hadn’t known he was back, but still he knew the soft-eyed man wasn’t the kind of man for this job. “Why would he need the money if he’s on a gangster’s payroll?”

“Who knows?” Fischer shrugged. “Word on the street is they were pretty tight. Maybe he wanted a shot at the big life, but found out she couldn’t afford no more than a cheap sandwich with no tomato.”

Arthur nodded slowly. “Alright, thanks for the call.”

“Just part of the investigation. You gonna look into it?”

“Yeah. She did hire me, and the thieves owe me half of the fee from their haul. But first I need to get some sleep.”

“Better hope we don’t crack this case before you wake up,” Fischer smirked.

“I wouldn’t count on it.” The detective gave a half-wave and headed out into the hall. He circled around a drunkard in a tux who mumbled whasappened, picked up his coat and hat, and drove back.

___________________

Arthur woke up with sunlight beating down on his face. His mouth was stale but the murder was still fresh. As if he had never fallen asleep in the first place, Arthur got up and fried breakfast. He took his eggs and slightly burnt toast with the morning newspaper. It read:

The reporters got a hold of that story like blood-whiffing piranhas. Skimming over the rest of crockery they were fed by police who had gotten nowhere with the investigation, Arthur glanced at the rest of the headlines.

MORE GANG-RELATED DEATHS

MEATPACKER’S ROBBED

CASSIDY’S CAT STILL MISSING

He bit his tongue at the last one. Leave it to the rich old lady to waste the city’s time looking for her pussy.

He finished his breakfast and left.

___________________

 “Morning, Arty,” Ariadne chirped as he walked into the agency at exactly 9:00 A.M.

“Call me that again, I’m cutting your salary in half.”

She laughed. “Say that to my old man’s face. Your appointment’s in, by the way.”

Arthur stopped. “I don’t have any appointments today.”

“He said he spoke with you last night.”

They looked at each other. Arthur strode into his office.

“Who are you?” the detective demanded, throwing his coat onto the rack. The intruder was lounging in the chair, feet propped up onto the desk.

The seated man turned his head around. He grinned. “Good to see you again, detective.”

Arthur kept his face passive. It was the drunkard from last night. But this time with an unmistakable British accent. “When people want to speak to me, they make an appointment or wait outside.”

“I admit your secretary is adorable, but I was very anxious to meet famous Detective Manse,” he drawled. His body rose slowly, arm stretching out to shake; Arthur stepped towards his side, took something out of his pocket, and cuffed the stranger’s hand to the chair. When the stranger exhaled onto Arthur’s face, the detective smelled more of mint than booze. “Okay, I’ll make a point to remember that next time.”

“There won’t be a next time.” Arthur took his seat across the desk, facing the Brit. Short brown hair swept to the side. Some stubble. Green eyes, or at least they looked green in this light. Suit jacket spread open with a cocky stretch of his shoulders. An insufferable face. “I’ll have you charged for trespassing.”

“Surely you don’t want to waste the coppers’ time with trivial digressions when there are murders to be solved.” The man raised his eyebrows.

“What do you—“

Arthur’s revolver materialized in the stranger’s free hand. The barrel was aimed straight at Arthur. “I think listening to me would be a good idea. I wouldn’t break into a dick’s place without searching it afterward, you see. Oh, and here’s your cash back.” With his cuffed hand, he pulled out Miss Miles’ bills from his sleeve and threw them out to the side.

Arthur widened his eyes for a moment before a hint of a smile appeared. “It’s rare for someone to get the upper-hand over me.” With a flash of metal Arthur flipped out the gun he lifted when he cuffed the stranger. “As I said, it’s rare.” The barrels stared each other down.

“Big trap for a small gun,” the stranger said.

“You stay outta jail by jerking around men with itchy trigger fingers?”

“I stay alive by bluffing. Who says that gun’s loaded?”

Arthur grinned. “Who says hers ain’t? Ariadne!”

The door burst open. Ariadne rampaged in, brandishing a shotgun. She prodded the back of the man’s head with it. “Don’t point a gun at Arty, you ragamuffin.”

The man’s eyes widened, but he looked amused. “What a gal.” He dropped the revolver. It clanked onto the floor and was promptly kicked to the side. “I think I like you guys.”

“Our guns do have dashing personalities,” said Arthur, moving to retrieve his gun.

“I realized.” The stranger scratched his stubble. “I suppose I haven’t introduced myself yet. I’m Eames.”

___________________

Ariadne walked into the office and handed a folder to Arthur. “Officer Hamilton sends his regards.”

Arthur nodded in thanks, and the secretary left the room, not before flicking their guest in the head. Their guest was still cuffed. “Where’d you get her?”

“A lion’s den.” She actually quit clarinet in an all-girl band, but they were pretty much the same. “So, Mister Eames,” Arthur began, scanning the police records, “you’ve been charged with twenty-three counts of burglary, theft, larceny, and assault.”

“But never convicted,” Eames pointed out.

Arthur continued. “Last apprehended working with Two-Point Danny, Carousel Smithy, Abigail Smokefiend, the Table-Hound Kid, and Grip McHannahan on the Shuman Bank heist.” He paused. “Got a first name, Eames?”

“Nope. Mum forgot to fill out my birth certificate.”

“I see she didn’t leave you with a name, but she left you her brains.”

“That’s a low blow, even for a dick like you,” Eames clucked. “Mum’s rolling in her grave now.”

Arthur raised a brow.

“Okay, she’s living happily in the countryside cutting up chickens, but I never did nothing that wouldn’t make her proud. The Shambody caper, Vance Cici Duboy said he’d bump me off if I didn’t find a way into the lady’s heart and house. And the bank robbery, they were gonna give me to the coppers if I didn’t help ‘em stick the place up. All in self-preservation, you see.” He held one palm up, as if self-preservation placed him higher than the other crooks on the moral ladder.

Arthur lounged back in his chair. “You talk too much, Eames.”

“My mouth’s gotten me out of a lotta tight spots.” Eames’ smile was bordering on a smirk.

“So what’s a conman like you doing in a sleuth’s joint? Looking for metal piercings?”

Eames’ face looked bored, but his eyes were bright like a cat’s in the dark. “You’re the sleuth; figure it out.”

Arthur stared him down, but there was no way to crack Eames’ mouth open except with his own. “Mallorie Miles.”

“Yes.” Eames put one leg over the other. He folded his hands on his knees, showing that the cuff was picked and no longer attached to the chair. Arthur started up, but Eames said, “Relax. I’m here to hire you.”

Arthur slowly sat back down, but kept his grip on the chair arms. “I don’t take cases from crooks, much less lying crooks.”

One hand rested on Eames’ lap, and the other rested against his chin. He peered over it. “You want to find Mal’s killer, don’t cha?”

Arthur made a small huff. He took out a case of matches and a cig from his pocket, lit up, and blew out a stream of smoke. It wafted above his face like a ghost. He motioned for Eames to continue.

“I was heading home last night when I spotted all the ruckus outside the building. I snuck in, checked it out, and whatd’ya know, some thief made off with this dame’s jewels.”

“And you want help finding the looters so you can get a hold of their stash.”

“Damn right. And you didn’t even need a magnifying lens for that.” Eames relaxed into the chair’s back. “I have some friends who know of the dame. We help each other out, we both get what we want.”

Arthur stared at the conman. Eames’ mug gave the impression he would enjoy eating up all of New York for dessert. It was unnerving. “Stealing from the dead is sicker than stealing from the living.”

“Not her stuff anymore.”

Arthur’s frown deepened, and he got up. “I’ve had enough of your gum-mashing.”

“Wow, Budsy Spade was right. You really are the straightest sleuth on the East Coast. Anyone else woulda jumped at my offer and probably cut me out of the picture when we found the goods.”

“Get out of my office before I get the coppers.”

“Can I get my gun back first?” asked Eames, holding his palm out.

“Scram.” Arthur stared him down.

Eames picked up his hat, got up lazily, and rebuttoned his jacket, handcuffs jingling merrily like a bracelet. “I promise you, before the night is over you’ll be needing my help again, darling.”

Arthur kept his gun in hand as he led the man to the door. Eames tipped his hat to Ariadne before strolling out of the agency.

“I don’t know what he’s made of,” Ariadne looked up from her typewriter, “but it smells.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agreed, leaning on the wall behind Ariadne. “The punk breaks into my office, and then he compliments me.”

___________________

When the moon took the sun’s post in the sky, the city lit up like the eyes of a dame at Tiffany’s. Arthur crossed the street, briskly avoiding a honking car. Hands in his coat pockets, he headed down an alleyway, the passage fogged up by steam rising from the grates.

Emerging on the other side, Arthur heard raucous laughter and a couple of biting curses thrown around. A group of men, some sitting on crates, others lounging against the brick wall, were circled around a craps game. Arthur spotted a man with dark, greasy hair grimacing at the dice on the right. “Nash, let’s talk.”

“Spot me five, and we’ll talk,” Nash replied, which was followed by make it ten! we could use the cash and a couple of laughs. Arthur just gazed on coolly, and the stool pidgeon got up and approached. “Fine, whatd’ya want? Not another dope peddler is it? The last one’s hussy nearly knocked me cold.”

“Your fault trying to cash out his place. Now cut the bull. Where can I find a Dominick Cobb?”

“Geeze, geez alright. Dom Cobb? Might wanna try the flower shop down on Fiftieth and Sixth Ave.” His thin lips curled up. “You know, a lotta people’ve been looking for him.”

“Which people?”

“Lincoln might know,” Nash replied with feigned indifference. Arthur unfolded a crisp five out of his pocket, but held it tight even after Nash grabbed it. “Some of Cobol’s been asking around. Coppers too. That guy must be in deep—”

“Thanks, Nash.” Arthur let go of the fiver. “Don’t lose it all at once.”

___________________

Arthur took a cab to Forty-Ninth Street and then walked a block until he was standing outside of Kate’s Florals. It was getting late into the night, but he spotted a dim glow through the plastic tulips in the window and walked through the door. Inside, a sandy-haired girl was scribbling on some cards. “We’re closed,” she said without looking up.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“If it ain’t me or those rosebuds, you can scram.” She kept scribbling God-knows-what.

“Well, what a pleasant surprise.”

Arthur turned around, a little faster than he would have liked to. Eames stood there smiling, as nonchalant as he had been in the morning. But his suit was now replaced with a sleeker tuxedo, a little bowtie adorning his neck.

“We’re closed,” the girl repeated.

Eames remained unperturbed as he approached the counter. “I’m looking for some sunflowers for my lovely boy here, and all the other shops are flat out.”

“You—” Arthur started.

 “We may have some left in the back.” The girl looked up.  If you’d follow me, sirs.”

She turned around and disappeared behind bouquets of carnations sticking out from their racks, with the two men quickly following behind. They went through a large open hatch on the floor of the storage room, feet clapping on cement. Arthur resisted the urge to slam Eames’ head from behind for his previous comment, out of dignity and darkness in the narrow passageway. But they soon reached the end, and the girl opened a wooden door, revealing far less stark surroundings: “Welcome to the Incipere Club.”

The door closed behind them as Arthur and Eames walked onto the red carpeting. The club was a grand space before them, shiny wood and shinier dresses. The night was still young, and the mahogany tables were only somewhat filled with bobbed women and smooth-talking men. A piano played softly in the background as a thin blond on stage sang out a sultry what is it to be a lover and take me far away, love.

“Don’t look so grumpy, detective, have a drink,” Eames said as they approached the bar.

“How’d you find me here?” Arthur scowled. He took a seat nevertheless.

“By now, a roach living under a rock buried twenty feet down would know by now half the city’s after Dom Cobb.”  Eames waved a finger and a bartender began to walk towards them. “You should be a little more thankful of me helping you out after being cuffed to a chair.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

The wild-haired bartender came over. “Hey, Eames. Haven’t seen you in a week.” He glanced at Arthur. “Not blond, but he’s classier than your usual rent,” he commented.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed dangerously on Eames, and he replied, “Not today, Yusuf. This is Detective Manse.”

When Yusuf stared suspiciously, Arthur clarified, “Just here for a drink and some questions. I don’t work with the coppers.”

“Thank god. We already shell out enough dough for those dinks as is.”

Yusuf made quick with their orders and placed two glasses on the counter. “You said you had questions?”

“Yeah.” Arthur put the glass to his mouth and, face half-obscured, asked, “You’ve seen Dominick Cobb ‘round here?”

Yusuf’s eyes went blank. “Nope, I haven’t.”

“You can trust him,” Eames said as he lit a cigarette.

The bartender looked at him and sighed. “I know you trust me enough that you’ll drink what I give you if this goes bad for me, poisoned or not.” He turned back to Arthur. “You’re talking about my boss, detective.”

“He owns Incipere?” Arthur managed to keep his voice from rising in surprise. It was credit to Cobb but a blow to his pride that his old friend established himself among the speakeasies without Arthur getting a whiff of his name.

“Yeah, but he disappeared four days ago.”

“That was before the incident with Miss Miles,” said Arthur.

Yusuf nodded. “Marlon’s been handling things instead. Nobody knows where to find him. He could’ve fallen into a manhole for all we know.”

“Where’d you last see him?” Arthur’s fingers tapped at his glass.

“His office at the back of this joint, talking to one of the Chinese about the latest shipment. I left after telling him to replace some chairs after a barfight.”

Arthur mulled over this. “You think one of the gangsters could’ve done him in?”

“Well we’ve had no trouble with them before. And Cobb’s a lot more slippery than people think.”

“You wanna talk about Cobb and Miss Miles?” Eames asked.

Yusuf looked at him shrugged. “Head over heels. Bit annoying if you ask me. Always tittering at the bar. Pair of lovebirds, if lovebirds could drink most people under the table.”

“So you don’t think he could’ve bumped her off?” Arthur asked.

“No chance in hell. As sure as you are sitting here.”

“Descartes would say we could just be dreaming that we’re sitting here,” Eames cut in with a thoughtful look.

“I think you should stop talking about that guy all the time, before I mix you something a little too strong,” Yusuf said, wiping a glass with deft hands.

Arthur switched topics with, “You know where I can find these peddlers?”

“Never been to their base myself, I’m afraid.” He paused. “Maybe you wanna check out Meng’s Eatery in Chinatown. Cobb’s favorite place to get noodles, and some other things if he’s in the mood.”

“That’s some help, thanks.”

 “Detective, I hope you find the egghead. He still owes me last week’s paycheck.”

Arthur raised his glass in affirmation and threw the rest back. With that, he left some money on the table and got up. “Thanks for the words. And Eames, don’t follow me out.”

“And here I thought this was the beginning of a beautiful partnership,” Eames said, but nonetheless remained behind, sipping from his glass.

The detective strode back across the room with his newfound information. Arthur hoped this didn’t mean there’d be a turf war between gangs. Cobb’s contacts were spelling trouble.

A waiter approached him and showed him out of the club through a different passage, opposite the flower shop one.  After ascending a set of steps, Arthur emerged through cellar doors in a back alleyway. He took a minute to get a hold of his bearings. The streets were getting noisier, with muffled claps of heels and riffs of auto engines spilling through the air. From a rail above, a water droplet fell and hit the ground. With each drop, the sound grew heavier. It dropped louder. And louder. It was pounding the asphalt. Arthur whipped around, but it was too late. A hulking figure had approached him from behind. The man fired two shots. There were screams in the distance. Arthur fell.

___________________

He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. The light stung at him, and he quickly shut his eyes, tears trickling out from the sides. His head throbbed harshly, and it felt as if his surroundings had warped around him. His arms felt like dead weight, heaps of lead stuck to the bed he was lying in. He tried to turn his neck to get a look-around, but it was stiff as a jerky. His whole body ached.

“Fuck,” Arthur mumbled. There was a soft laugh in the background.

“Try not to move. Yusuf only took out the bullets some hours ago.” A blurry face hovered over him. It sharpened into a feminine set of eyes, a nose, and a mouth. She wiped his forehead with a cool washcloth. “How do you feel?”

Arthur was tempted to say like shit but thought it would be more practical to say, “Thirsty.”

The woman nodded and left his vision. She returned with a tall glass and helped prop his head up. When Arthur tasted the cool water in his mouth he said, “Not that kind of thirst.”

She laughed again and disappeared out of the room. With a flourish, she reappeared with a smaller glass of amber-colored liquid. “That’s the last of it.”

She held it to his lips. Arthur sipped the beautifully burning drink. “Thanks, Mal.”

“Someone has to take care of you since you clearly don’t take care of yourself,” she clucked, leaving the glass in his hands. She walked to the windows and opened the blinds until sunlight peaked in through the striped openings. It cast a soft glow on her faded wool dress and her features, growing older at the edges, but still just as lovely. “I keep telling you to know your limits, but you just get your body torn apart.” Her voice grew quieter. “You don’t have a partner anymore.”

“I don’t limit myself, that’s why I’m good at sleuthing,” Arthur replied gently, looking at her. “I can handle myself without Cobb.”

The man was killed nearly two years earlier, after a surprise meeting with a murder suspect caught him from behind the head with two little, deadly, lead slugs. Cobb was dead before he hit the ground. Gone with a snap of the fingers were his years wooing a French immigrant, teaching a street urchin the tricks of the trade, losing God-knows how many pots to Arthur’s poker face, and smoking Chesterfields after every meal. Arthur hated Chesterfields. He always carried them ever since.

“You’re just like my husband: bull-headed.” Mal smiled forlornly and shook her head. She took care of him just like her husband, too. “Do you remember anything before you woke up?”

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment. The contents of last night stayed murky. He shook his head.

“You must have been shot while tailing Mr. Milkins to that Ferraday Hotel.” She placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “You should be thankful. Yusuf found you coming back from one of his clients and drove you all the way here before the coppers nabbed you.”

“His driving would’ve killed me faster than those bullets,” he deadpanned. Arthur eyed the paper on Mal’s bedstand. “The reporters mention me?”

She spread the newspaper open for him and chuckled. “Just a couple words about mysterious shots and bloodstains in an alley,” she said, pointing a rough finger at a corner paragraph. “They spent more room on a dead pig stolen from a meatpacker’s floating up in the Hudson.”

“Good to know the city cares for its bacon,” Arthur replied, settling his head back onto the pillow.

There was a knock at the door. When Mal opened it, he heard someone enter the apartment and pad his way into the room. Yusuf, placing his black bag on the dresser, was quickly followed by a cat. It rubbed Yusuf’s leg affectionately. “Hullo, Arthur. Feeling better?”

He stared at Mrs. Cassidy’s million-dollar insured cat, which had wormed its way to Yusuf’s side.

Arthur had seen odder things in life. “If there was more booze, I would.”

“You’re not leaving that room Arthur,” Mal said, voice charming and bear-like. She reappeared by his side and gave him a peck on his pale cheek. “You get plenty of bed rest. Yusuf’ll take care of you while I’m at the factory. I’ll see you boys later.” She grabbed her bag from the dresser and left the room. The front door clicked shut, and Yusuf returned his attention to the detective. The cat meowed.

“You’re lucky they’re only minor wounds. A .38 clipped your right shoulder and the left side of your chest. That slinger has some bad aim. Any idea who coulda done it?”

“Maybe the milkman. You got the slugs?”

Yusuf grabbed a small plastic bag from his case and placed it in Arthur’s coat. Arthur slowly sat up and rubbed the bandages wrapped around his torso. The whiskey had dulled the pain. He looked at the empty glass on the table next to him. “We’re getting drinks, right?”

Yusuf was a house doctor who gained a good enough reputation with punctual visits and without questions asked that he regularly got calls from the upper class. His trade was in medicine, but his hobby was in drugs. Healthy people are all the same, too boring, he said. His glasses hid his smarts and his appraisal of the world as one big plaything. “Car’s outside,” Yusuf said, grinning.

___________________

When they arrived at the Incipere Club a couple of hours later, it was quiet and peaceful, the sleepy afterimage of a place brought to life by heavy drinking and bursts of jazz. The bandstand empty, the stools flipped onto the bar like turtles, the room bright from sunlight entering with Yusuf and Arthur through the door. The club was empty except for a busboy sweeping in the corner and two familiar figures still seated at a table as if the tiled floor was covered in shiny dance shoes rather than crumpled napkins.

One of them waved. “Mornin’,” Eames greeted. He was leaning back in his chair, white undershirt wrinkling underneath his suspenders. His upper chest was exposed, and he was smiling gaily, as welcoming as anything. “You look stiff, Arthur. Late night?”

“Was shot. The usual.” Arthur took a seat next to the stevedore Eames, whose clothing still had a scent of seawater from wear at the docks, while Yusuf went behind the counter and grabbed a bottle of scotch and some glasses.

“Lucy’ll put it on my tab,” Yusuf told the glaring busboy before sitting down at the table. He poured the hooch for Arthur and himself before looking at the other patron, who was eyeing them both mildly. “Who’s your friend, Eames?”

“Name’s Aria the Finch,” Eames introduced, ruffling the woman’s bobbed hair.

She swatted his hand away. “Haven’t been Aria since San Fran. You eggs can just call me Ariadne.” Her smile was sweet and rock hard. She was in a flapper dress she probably wore through booze and men last night, and was twirling a gold-colored chess piece in her fingers.

“She went on the lam after killing her twenty-three husbands. She knocked off a twenty-fourth too, but he divorced her first and ruined her count,” Eames teased.

“Bullshit,” Ariadne retorted. “I never signed the papers.” The bishop piece stopped and disappeared somewhere underneath her foldless green dress. “So who are you guys?”

“Arthur here’s a private dick.” Arthur felt the lingering warmth of Eames’ hand on his back before it slipped away. “And this clown Yusuf’s a quack.”

Eames got a swift kick from Yusuf and the chair nearly toppled over. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an insufferable beezer?”

“I’m sure the thought’s crossed many a mind.” Eames’ chair now remained firmly planted to the ground.

“I’m a doctor,” Yusuf corrected. “If you never want a nurse nosing into your bullet wounds, feel free to call me.”

“Thanks for the offer. I like a man who’s skilled with his hands,” Ariadne said evenly.

 Eames hacked out cigarette smoke. Some ash spilt onto the waxed table. “Anyways, Arthur,” steering his face to the left, “how’d you get slugged? Turn down another hooker?”

“I was on business, Eames. It’s not very exciting.”

“Spill it, Arty,” Ariadne demanded, bright-eyed.

Arthur sighed. “I honestly don’t remember much from last night. Apparently I was tailing a cheating husband, and next minute I wake up with a hole in my shoulder.”

“It ain’t serious?” Eames asked, moving a concerned face near Arthur’s.

Arthur stared right back, before breaking his gaze and addressing the entire table with a wave of the hand. “No, just clipped me. Whoever it was was trying to scare me. Or’s a shitty shot in general.”

“Honestly, he coulda pulled the slugs out himself. You owe me, Arthur,” Yusuf said as he wiped his mouth of gin.

“Next time I send you a client, I’ll tape a thank-you card to his back.”

Eames was mulling over something. “Ferraday Hotel, as in the one on Park Ave?” Eames asked.

“Gorgeous bathrooms,” Yusuf commented. “Mr. Hines called me up there once. Shoulda nicked a faucet head when I got the chance.”

“If you can get me in, I’ll glaum all the free faucets and soap I can for you,” replied Arthur.

“I think,” Eames started,  “I have an idea to get in. You’ll need me, ‘course.”

“Will this be like how you broke into that Setview Bank with a peacock costume and a chocolate cake?” asked Ariadne.

“That was you?” Arthur almost yelled. Cobb never let him hear the end of it when he lost the culprit in a car chase.

“Hush, no it wasn’t,” Eames cut in. “Anyways, this wouldn’t be the same get-up. And I’ve gone straight since then.”

“You get me in, and I’ll ignore that,” said Arthur.

Eames clapped his hands together with a smile, and Yusuf said, “Just don’t get shot, both of you.”

___________________

The sidewalk glistened from the drizzle that had pattered down earlier, and Arthur breathed in the fresh scent of after-rain. It was the only thing he appreciated out of this entire, botched plan.

“Relax, darling,” Eames said as he strolled down the path with Arthur, one arm hooked around one of the detective’s, elbow pressing against his side. It was warm in the cool air, and oddly comforting.

“You’re supposed to keep your head shut.” Arthur was agitated. He was now stripped of his usual rough trenchcoat and had donned his only tux.

After rummaging through the city’s seedy underbelly and finally discovering the Mr. Fent’s daughter mixed up with some seedier hoods, the tailor thanked him with his pins and needles. He wore the result now, playful white bowtie looking odd against his serious mug. There was a small white carnation in his pocket, and pomade in his slicked back hair, a helmet against the high society milling around them on Park Ave, who seemed to, hopefully, not give them the slightest glance. He was out of his element. Arthur was immoveable in the face of guns and gangsters, but conning was not among his daily routines. He gritted his teeth and muttered, “I feel like a tuna among sharks.”

“You’re a Mr. Pullman among sharks,” Eames replied with Arthur’s persona. He patted the Arthur’s arm lightly. “You look just like one of Leyendecker’s finest.”

If anyone else proposed the idea, Arthur would have flat-out refused. But Eames had a way of pursuing, cajoling a bud of faith out of tempered soil, the way he viewed reality as malleable clay. 

“Remember, you’re not getting the short end of the stick.” Eames himself was wearing the most eye-catching garb on the street: worker’s clothing. His brown pants barely covered his ankles, and the shirt he wore under suspenders had some grease stains. But no one gave them the slightest look as they walked by towards Ferraday Hotel. Arthur thought back to when he first developed, now seemingly unnecessary, misgivings about the ridiculous con.

“This is ridiculous,” said Arthur.

“As ridiculous as running into firefights,” replied Eames. “Now listen. Those rich kicks sometimes come down to the wharfs. Pick a dashing young lad and invite him back to the car. You wear enough dough, people turn a blind eye. Or they follow you all the way home.”

“Why don’t I just go in alone?”

“With that tux, it’ll take one look and they’ll pass. With me and the tux, they won’t even take one look.”

“That’s swell bullshit Eames, go on.”

“How will you handle the weight of high society bearing down on you? How will you pass those cryptic social cues without me at your arm?”

“You just want a hand at those faucet heads.”

“You know me so well.”

Arthur wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about Eames playing his homosexual lover, though he had no more time to follow that train as they approached the hotel door. Arthur kept a stiff lip and a haughty aloofness. Eames’ face remained mild and submissive, and the detective had to admit that if he were to ever to play a millionaire who spent frivolous nights behind closed doors with manual laborers again, Eames would be his go-to guy. The doorman gave a, “Evening, sir,” as he opened the door for them, and they entered without any trouble.

The inside smelled of faint perfume and oyster fruit, and a jazz melody could be heard from the lounge to the right. The hall was brightly lit with twinkling chandeliers lifted high above their heads, casting an other-worldly glow on the other guests.

When they approached the front counter, the receptionist behind it said, “Good evening, sir. How can I help you?” His thin, pointed black mustache bobbed up and down with his bushy brows.

“I’d like to speak to a Mr. Vern Milkins, whom I believe is staying here,” Arthur said, the line practiced and commanding.

The receptionist nodded and thumbed through a set of cards. Having found the room number, he rang it up, but set the phone back down when no one picked up. “He is out at the moment, sir.”

Arthur put on a frown. “I was afraid of that. I won’t be in tomorrow, so I’d like to have this letter sent to him.” He handed the receptionist a letter Eames had penned earlier, containing general well-wishes and a fable about an impotent turtle.

“Will do,” the receptionist replied, taking the letter and glancing at the corner address, “Mr. Pullman.” He turned to the wall behind him, and Arthur watched as he placed the letter in a box with the label embossed with 317—

“There you are, Mr. Pullman,” came a voice nearby. Arthur turned his head to see a man with rather feminine features dressed in a double-breasted suit. He looked at Arthur expectantly. “We have been looking everywhere for you. My name is Robert Fischer, from Fischer Morrow. I am here on behalf of my father to negotiate the merger. It is a pleasure to meet the president of Proclus Energy.” He held out a hand.

Arthur stiffened. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else, Mr. Fischer. I’m Mr. Charles Pullman.”

Fischer pulled back in surprise. “Well I’m terribly sorry about that. Have a good evening.” He walked away to make a more thorough search of the lobby, and Arthur felt oddly proud that he passed for a millionaire executive.

“You should’ve shook his hand,” Eames said quietly as they moved towards the elevators.

Arthur glanced at him with half-lidded eyes. “At least try to remember you’re no swindler anymore,” he clipped.

“It’s terribly hard,” and he went quiet when they entered the elevator.

Arthur requested floor three, and the metal gates closed in front of them. The lift passed each floor with a rankling scratch until they finally arrived at the third stop. The pair exited into the hallway, and the elevator rattled away.

“317 is that way.” Arthur steered them towards the right, and then turned left down the hallway.

They found the room logically sandwiched in between 315 and 319.

“Keep a lookout for me,” said Eames. He pulled a pair of pins out of his pocket and began to fit them into the lock, while Arthur covered the view discreetly.

“You’d have made the better investment banker,” Arthur commented as he watched the hall.

“I have no tux, remember?” Eames wriggled a pin into the lock. “And I can’t be bothered to shave my face. The boys down at the wharf would never take me seriously.” One click. “And you hit on all sixes yourself, even with your chest hole.”

Arthur’s body went rigged. He quickly flicked his eyes at the back of the Eames’ head, hair greasy but pulled back more elegantly than that of any millionaire. Arthur watched the strain of muscles appearing and disappearing underneath the wrinkles of his simple shirt, like dunes of sand in the wind. Arthur’s mouth parted. “Are you like this with everyone?”

Eames looked slowly up, turning from the lock. “Like what?” The pins remained still. “I dunno if you’ve noticed, but I generally think of you as a skilled detective, even if you didn’t pinch me that time at Setview Bank.”

Arthur opened his mouth, but changed his mind about speaking when they heard the clanking of a cart wheeling its way around the corner.

Normally when Arthur was found in a place he wasn’t strictly supposed to be, he was found by a shady thug whose first words came out of a gun, so natch Arthur’s fingers went for the cool metal in his pocket, brushing against his lucky die. But Eames grabbed that hand and swung it back so it hit the wall. Eames’ other hand grabbed Arthur’s collar and pulled it forward — his chest wound throbbed — until Arthur’s lips smashed into his, their chests touching and hearts pounding. Eames’ hand let go of Arthur’s, and they were kissing as room service rolled its way towards them. Arthur’s whole body tensed when the worker stopped at room 312, and he felt tense with Eames’ lips on his, but then his body melted, and the pain of his bullet scratches began to slip away, and he was actually enjoying this—

“Alright, he’s gone,” Eames said, sliding away and turning back to the doorknob, leaving a void of heat Arthur couldn’t feel. “Didn’t miss that dirty look he shot us, though. What a prude.”

Arthur blinked, mind still reeling. The click of the successfully jimmied lock broke his daze, and he mechanically followed Eames into the room. It was empty, as the concierge had stated, but left behind were some suitcases and scattered clothing.

“What should I be looking for?” Eames asked.

“Any sign a woman’s been filling out here,” Arthur responded automatically. He skimmed his eyes through the bathroom before settling back in the main room, where Eames was flipping over the sheets and checking under the pillows, his back to Arthur. Eames looked animated. He bent down, now covered in shadow, and said, “Nothing here.”

“I should have guessed that, coming from you.”

Eames straightened up and turned, looking quizzical. “Look,” he started, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blindside you like that—“

“No,” said Arthur. “That’s not it.”

Arthur thought he’d seen every thing the city had to offer by the time Cobb had died, but then Arthur found the man running three blocks to nab a thief because the boy had taken the last piece of marzipan from a confectionery. (Eames exchanged it for a dime). Arthur wasn’t sure what it was about Eames. It was as if every time Arthur saw Eames again, the kaleidoscope had shaken just a fraction, revealing another facet of himself that confused, surprised, delighted Arthur the way criminals, no, people, normally didn’t.

And sometimes the kaleidoscope shook a little too much.

“I thought Ariadne, I mean, Aria the Finch looked pretty familiar when I saw her.” Arthur was rigid, staring back from the other side of the room.

“Pardon me?” asked Eames.

“Different dress, but same silhouette traipsing around with Milkins in the photo the wife gave me,” Arthur continued. “And you were looking pretty chummy with her.”

Eames remained quiet for a bit, realization dawning on his head. “I hang out with a lot of fellas who ain’t straight as me, that’s no secret.” He looked calm, but there was a harshness in his eyes. “If you’re going to accuse me of something, accuse me, but I’ve been on the level with you since the incident with Mal, and the Arthur I know is nothing sneaky.”

Sneaky. That was a word for crooks and former crooks and all the goddamn conmen twirling fools like him around their fingers. He always wondered why Eames seemed so open with a detective. Eames was open like the mouth of a Venus flytrap.

“Aria bummed out to New York, you and her decided to con some cash out of cheating Mr. Milkins, and now you’re here to throw me off your trail.”

Eames’ fingers flexed underneath his cuffs. It was well-feigned anger. “I’ve been living clean for the past year. You ‘spect me to blow shit to pieces by pulling a half-assed con and then shooting you for it?”

“You pulled a look-a-like Mr. Pullman from the hotel list. And those shots. I never said nothing about a chest wound.”

“Goddammit Arthur, when I elbowed you—“

And the door swung open and a gun appeared in a beeline towards Arthur and Eames. The door swung closed. “Alright, put your hands up, and maid service won’t be charging you extra for bleeding all over the walls.”

___________________