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  Mom says, “That hair of yours, like an old broom in a stiff wind. And still with the men’s suits, I see.”

  “What’s the matter, Mom? Don’t you think navy blue is my color?”

  Her lips twisted in disgust, Mom waves off my little joke. You’d think I’d know by now not to make a play for even a shred of shared amusement with her.

  Mom might be past any sweet times with me, but she’s still an old-fashioned hostess, a trait bred in the bone. “Sit down, have a piece of honey cake, Cantor. It’s good. From Weinstein’s over on Rivington Street. I just heated it up.”

  “No, thanks,” I say, and head for the liquor cabinet in the sideboard, where I pour myself a stiff Chivas. “You don’t mind, do you, Mom?”

  “A lotta good it would do me.”

  “No good at all.” I swallow the scotch, pour myself another.

  “Sure, go ahead, drink up my liquor,” she says with a sarcasm so syrupy it could coat the walls. “You always were a little savage, Cantor. I tried to polish you up, but…” Another derisive tsk finishes her sentence.

  “Sorry to be such a disappointment, Mom.”

  “So who says you’re a disappointment?”

  The doorbell saves me from a moment I can’t figure out. “That must be Miranda,” I say, and leave the dining room.

  At the front door, there’s almost more silver fox fur than Miranda, the coat wrapping her from head to ankle, the hood pulled forward, obscuring her face. She slides past me and into the house. “You certainly bring me to the best addresses,” she says.

  “Welcome to the place of my misspent youth.”

  She takes the hood down, looks at me with mild surprise. “I thought you were a boardwalk tough from Coney Island.”

  “I got around.”

  “Clearly, you still do.”

  “How’d it go with the cops?”

  With a shrug, she says, “They came, they asked their questions, they went away.”

  “Yeah? And what were your answers?”

  She gives me a shrewd smile, takes her time with it, lets its mischief play around with me. “Don’t you trust me, Cantor?”

  With a sly smile of my own, I say, “Any reason why I shouldn’t?”

  She meets my smile with an even slyer one. “No reason at all.” The arrogance in that smoky voice of hers is as playful as the glint in her eyes. “I told them I had no idea the doorman was dead until they told me so, and oh, how terrible,” she says with mock horror. “The poor man. And no, Officer, I didn’t see anyone sneaking around.”

  “Good girl.” I help her off with her coat. In her powder blue cashmere pullover tucked into a pencil-thin skirt—a deep maroon number that flows just below her knees on a pair of legs that no doubt still earn their share of wolf whistles—her hands graceful in maroon gloves, her hair pulled back into a smart little light blue hat, and a rose-petal perfume that drifts with the delicacy of a garden at a country house, Miranda fills the role of high society diva very nicely.

  “Come with me,” I say. “I’ll introduce you to the lady of the house.”

  Mom’s chewing a piece of honey cake when we walk into the dining room. She continues chewing as she looks Miranda up and down, Mom’s small eyes like scalpels cutting down to Miranda’s marrow, searching out her substance. Miranda doesn’t flinch, even when Mom finishes her examination with a quick “Hm,” then swallows the piece of cake and says, “Have a seat, Miss—?”

  I make the introductions. “Mom, meet Mrs. Miranda van Zell. Miranda, meet Mrs. Esther Sheinbaum, also known in certain circles as Mom.”

  I pull out a chair for Miranda. Mom offers her a piece of cake, which Miranda declines. I offer her a drink, which she accepts.

  “Bourbon, no ice. Why am I here, Cantor?”

  I pour her a bourbon from the liquor cabinet, hand it to her, pick up my scotch, and after we each take a pull of our booze, I say, “Because you have a right to know what happened to your treasure, and Mom has the connections to help us get it back.” I tell them about the thug who tried to snatch the pyxis in Piraeus. I tell them about Pointy Chin and Bulby Nose and how they grabbed it tonight, and how the doorman wound up dead. And I say to Mom, “That’s why I asked Miranda to meet me here. When the cops got around to questioning her, I couldn’t be in her apartment when they knocked at her door.”

  Mom gives that a nod and another short “Hm.” I can’t tell if she’s backing my moves or annoyed that my moves intruded on her night.

  “Look,” I say, “someone with connections on both sides of the Atlantic knew about that pyxis, knew my plans for getting it to New York and where I’d be delivering it. So it might be just as well you don’t have it, Miranda. They’d come after you if you did.”

  Even the whiskey can’t keep the color in Miranda’s cheeks. It drains from her face as the fear of being hunted rises in her bones.

  I’ll deal with Miranda’s fear another time. Right now, it’s Mom I need to win over, so I give her my best pitch. “Listen, nothing in this town moves without you knowing about it, right? You know every pinch-man and carrier in this city, and plenty of them owe you favors. Get me a line on who grabbed the pyxis, and I’ll—I’ll owe you a favor, too.” Here comes queasy again. Who the hell wants to owe a favor to someone who thinks you’re tainted goods?

  “You’ll owe me more than a favor, mommaleh. You’ll owe me money, good money.” Turning to Miranda, Mom says, “What’s this…whaddya call it? A pixie?”

  “Pyxis,” Miranda and I say together.

  “Okay, pyxis. What’s it worth to you, Mrs. van Zell? What’s Cantor charging you for this tchotchke?”

  “Twenty grand,” I say.

  Before my very eyes, and for the first time in over two years, Mom smiles at me. It’s not a big smile, and it’s not warm, but it’s got something familiar behind it, something I haven’t seen in her since I was a kid: acknowledgment that I did good. Cupping her chin in one meaty hand, the rings on her fingers catching lamplight, she says, “Twenty grand? Not bad. I’ll take ten of your twenty, Cantor.”

  “You’ll take five,” I say.

  “For five, I only ask half the city. You want the other half, I take ten.”

  “Five or noth—”

  Miranda jumps in, “I’ll pay it,” ending the negotiation. “I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars, Mrs. Sheinbaum, if you help us recover the pyxis.”

  There are two kinds of rich people: the kind whose fists are so tight they get hand cramp if they have to part with a penny, particularly if that penny goes to the hoi polloi; and the kind I like better, the more confident kind who throw money around in any direction for anyone to catch, especially if it will help buy what—or who—they want. Miranda, bless her well-dressed heart, is the second kind.

  But something’s picking at me. “Thirty grand, Miranda? Twenty for me and ten for Mom? That’s a lot of cash for that little jar.”

  With cool ease, Miranda polishes off her bourbon, takes a gold cigarette case from her purse, and puts a cigarette to her lips in the expectation I’ll light it for her.

  Never one to pass up a chivalrous moment, I take out my lighter, light her smoke, then light one of my own.

  She says, “Cantor, how much do you know about fifth century BC Athenian pottery?”

  “Enough. Why?”

  “Then you know how rare it is to find an unbroken pot, completely intact, including its lid. And you also know how desirable Classical period red-figure Attic pottery is, especially by the Dancing Goddess Painter. The van Zell name is attached to the very best pieces in the museum’s Greek collections, and I want to keep it that way. And you, Mrs. Sheinbaum, you can start earning your ten thousand dollars by contacting your connections tonight, start getting leads for Cantor.” She stubs out her smoke, gets up from the chair, picks up her fox fur, and hands it to me, silently demanding another chivalrous moment.

  I’m happy to oblige and help her on with her coat. “I’ll call someone to drive you home,” I sa
y. “You’ll never get a cab in this neighborhood at this hour.”

  “No need. I told my cabbie to keep his meter running and wait. Good night, Cantor, Mrs. Sheinbaum. You will keep me informed.”

  The scent of rose petals lingers after Miranda leaves the dining room.

  Mom says, “Bossy, that one.”

  Chapter Three

  Everything about this night is lousy: no Rosie, the loss of a twenty-thousand-dollar treasure, an innocent doorman dead in the street, and now even the weather’s gone to crap. It’s raining cats and dogs when I leave Mom’s, with the cats clawing right through my cap, and splashing dogs nipping my ankles. I need a drink. I need the pleasure of women.

  I know where to find both.

  *

  The evening paper I bought from a newsie outside the subway station at the corner of Fourteenth and Eighth isn’t doing a helluva lot to keep the rain off me as I sprint the two blocks to an alley off Tenth Avenue. By the time I make it through the alley and down the stairs into the Green Door Club, a well hidden spot for women who like to sashay with other women, my cap and coat are soaked and I’m chilled to the bone.

  But it’s warm inside the club. Couples in red leather booths and at white-cloth’d tables give the place a cozy feel, even on this rainy Tuesday night, while the singles at the bar, ever hopeful, size each other up. Amber-shaded sconces on the walls and lamps on the tables throw a soft glow on everybody, highlighting lipstick on pretty faces, the bodices of colorful dresses, and the lapels of sharp suits on female bodies. On the dance floor, couples sway to the band’s dreamy rendition of Hoagy Carmichael’s classic, “The Nearness of You,” some stealing dangerous kisses, ignoring the always hovering threat of a raid by the cops and a brutal night in the city lockup. The band’s sax player, a blonde in a fetching red organza number, even gives her solo a little extra sass.

  Bartender Peg Monroe, a big girl with caramel skin in a pink-and-green plaid shirt and navy bow tie, and whose dark eyes don’t miss a trick, is busy mixing cocktails and setting up beers. She gives me a nod when I come in and has a Chivas poured for me by the time I slide onto a barstool. I signal to make it a double.

  “Evenin’, Slick,” she says, using her longtime nickname for me. Soft remnants of her rural Georgia childhood drift through her speech, giving my nickname a courtliness I don’t mind. “You’re gonna get my bar all wet. Hand over your hat and coat, I’ll put ’em back here to dry.” I give her my soaked duds. She hangs them on an empty towel rack. “What’re you doing here all alone on a rainy night? Where’s Rosie?”

  I answer with a shrug, say, “Not sure. Hauling some private fare tonight.”

  “Uh-huh. That why you’re here kickin’ back doubles alone?”

  “It’s not the first time I’m here drinking alone. What’s with the third degree?”

  “Because the last time you looked this miserable, everything about you droopin’ like an old tree, you’d just lost—”

  “Don’t. Don’t say her name, Peg.” I don’t want to hear Sophie’s name. I don’t need to pick at that wound after everything else that’s gone wrong tonight. “Just keep the whiskey coming.”

  “Sure, whatever you say. But I’ll cut you off, Slick, when I think you’ve had enough. Just like I always do.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m counting on it.”

  I down the whiskey in two pulls, feel it warm my bones, soothe my frayed nerves, relax me enough to look around, see who’s here, examine the possibilities.

  Peg says, “Anyone catch your eye?”

  I answer through a snappy laugh, “Give me time,” though the confidence behind it tonight is tepid as dishwater. Over the years, I’ve had my share of No thank yous, Some other times, even a few Drop deads, and if the pattern of my so-far crummy night is anything to go by, I won’t be surprised if I’m in for more of those refrains.

  Peg pours me another scotch. I take my time with this one, sip it slowly, let it ooze down my gut, enjoy its heat as it seeps into my sinew. I have a look at the ladies along the bar, especially a cute redhead at the far end, and try not to think about the night’s losses or who stole the pyxis or how they knew my plans. That last bit really sticks in my craw.

  “Martini, extra dry,” comes from a lilting voice next to me, pulling me out of my thoughts. The voice belongs to a face that could cause heartbreak or cure it. The face has chiseled cheekbones, full lips glistening with you-can’t-ignore-me red lipstick, a teasing curl at the corners of her mouth, and green eyes of the most dangerous kind. This knockout ensemble is capped off by short, wavy blond hair that would look terrific blowing in a breeze. As she slides onto the barstool next to mine and slips out of her evening coat—a white cashmere number that must’ve set her back a hefty handful of dollars—I see that the lower part of her ain’t too bad either: creamy skin in a slinky purple satin dress that’s cut low enough to be entertaining but still lets the imagination be creative about what lies beneath. When she crosses her legs, the dress ripples like a slow-moving river. I’d love to jump in and take a swim.

  Peg pours the martini. The woman raises her glass in toast. “Cheers.”

  Maybe heaven is finally throwing a little something my way tonight. I could sure use it. I lift my glass. “Cheers to you, too.” The woman sips her martini, I sip my scotch, then say, “There’s a half dozen empty seats along this bar. You could have sat at any one of them. So to what do I owe my good fortune, Miss—?”

  “Day. Lilah Day. And I sat here because I think you’ll be interesting.”

  “Is that so? Why?”

  “Because it will be interesting to figure out if you’re sad or angry. By the look of you, you’re one or the other.”

  “What if I’m a bit of both?”

  “Then you’ll be twice as interesting.” She punctuates the idea by reaching a fingertip into her martini to scoop out the olive. Whole books could be written about the way she slides the olive into her mouth, the kind of books that come through the mail in plain brown wrappers.

  She certainly has my attention. “Well, Miss Day, if I’m sad, then I could use a little tender loving care. And if I’m angry, then I could use a gentle touch to calm me. And if you still find all that interesting, then let’s dance.”

  With a short, smart laugh, she takes my offered hand. I lead her to the dance floor, find our place among the couples, now swaying to a mellow version of “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered,” an old Broadway tune with a pretty melody and chic lyrics that remind me why I don’t dare fall in love again.

  But dancing with Miss Lilah Day poses no risk to my heart, so I let myself enjoy the feel of her against me. She seems to know I’m enjoying it and moves her body in a way that allows me to enjoy her even more, fitting herself into me, swaying gently but seductively along the length of me, her back warm against my hand as I pull her even tighter to me.

  “I knew you’d be interesting,” she says.

  She has charmingly curved ears, the type that beg to be whispered into. With my lips brushing her right ear, I say, “Anything else you want to know about me?” letting it ride on a breath.

  “I’m getting there,” she says, equally breathy. “Anything you want to tell me?”

  “Maybe you’re interested in my name?”

  She gives my hand a quick, light, nearly imperceptible squeeze. A moment later, she says, “Yes, tell me your name.”

  “Cantor Gold.”

  “Interesting name. Anything else you want to share with me?”

  “Sure. But not here.”

  She pulls away from me a little, tilts her head, and looks up at me in a way that could bring the Arctic waters to a boil. “Are you trying to pick me up?”

  “I am. I think you’re just what I need tonight.”

  “And what about what I need?”

  “I’ll do my best to figure it out.”

  She gives me a bedroom smile. “My car’s outside.”

  *

  By the time we run from a parking spot
to my apartment building at the edge of the Theater District, we’re both soaking wet from the unrelenting rain. Upstairs, walking into my living room, Lilah says, “Nice place. Love the red upholstery.”

  “Let’s get out of these wet clothes.”

  “Aren’t you going to offer me a robe, or even just a towel?”

  “No.” I say it as I slip her coat off, then slip off my own coat and cap, my suit jacket and my tie, tossing them all on the floor as I lead her to the bedroom.

  Her eyes narrow when she sees my .38 revolver in its rig under my left shoulder.

  “Don’t let it frighten you,” I say.

  “It doesn’t frighten me,” she says, reaching for the gun.

  I stop her before she gets there, grab her wrist. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I don’t think we’ll need this tonight. Do you? It might, um, get in the way.”

  She’s right. I don’t need my violent life intruding on us right now. I need her, Lilah Day, her body, her lust, to blot out the crimes that stalk me. I take the rig off, toss it on the floor with the rest of my duds.

  As if reading my troubled thoughts, she turns and kisses me as soon as we cross the bedroom threshold, a long, warm kiss that savors me like a succulent hors d’oeuvre. When she’s done, she turns around and gives me the gift of her back. There’s a long zipper down her dress, starting about six inches below her shoulder blades and ending below the pretty curve at the base of her spine. I take my time with it, let my fingers glide along her skin as I slowly slide the zipper down, stretching out time and titillation. The dress falls to the floor. The graceful, seductive way she steps out of it would make a stripper faint with envy.

  She doesn’t speak, doesn’t turn around to face me, just waits for me to unhook her brassiere, a lacy black strapless bit of fluff that slides off her body and joins the dress on the floor.