Part I Part 169 (2/2)

I picked up the puppy and scanned the darkness, but saw nothing. ”Discretion is the better part of not getting exsanguinated,” I said. ”Let's go.”

Chapter Four [image]

Thomas and I went into the apartment building, and found the guard who should have been in the booth outside drinking a cup of coffee with a second man behind a desk. We took the elevator to the top floor. There were only two doors in the hall, and Thomas knocked on the nearest. Music rolled and thumped inside while we waited, and the spotless carpet had been cleaned with something that smelled like snapdragons. Thomas had to knock twice more before the door finally opened.

A pretty woman somewhere around her mid-forties answered Thomas's knock, and a tide of loud music came with her. She was maybe five-foot-six and had her dark brown hair held up with a couple of chopsticks. She held a pile of discarded paper plates in one hand and a couple of empty plastic cups in the other and wore an emerald knee-length knit dress that showed off the curves of a WWII pinup girl.

Her face lit with an immediate smile. ”Thomas, how wonderful to see you. Justine said you'd be coming by.”

Thomas stepped forward with his own brilliant smile and kissed the woman on either cheek. ”Madge,” he said. ”You look great. What are you doing here?”

”It's my apartment,” Madge replied, her tone dry.

Thomas laughed. ”You're kidding me. Why?”

”The old fool talked me into investing in his company. I need to make sure he doesn't throw the money away. I'm keeping an eye on him.”

”I see,” Thomas said.

”Did he finally talk you into acting?”

Thomas put a hand on his chest. ”A modest schoolboy like me? I blush to think.”

Madge laughed, a touch of wickedness to it, resting her hand lightly on Thomas's biceps as she did. Either she liked speaking with Thomas or the hallway was colder than I thought. ”Who is your friend?”

”Madge Sh.e.l.ly, this is Harry Dresden. I brought him by to talk business with Arturo. Harry's a friend of mine.”

”I wouldn't go that far.” I smiled a bit and offered my hand.

She fumbled with plates and cups for a moment, and then laughed. ”I'll have to give you a rain check. Are you an actor?” Madge asked, her expression speculative.

”To be or not to be,” I said. ”How now brown cow.”

She smiled and nodded at the puppy, who was riding in the curl of my left arm. ”And who is your friend?”

”He's the dog with no name. Like Clint Eastwood, but fuzzier.”

She laughed again, and said to Thomas, ”I see why you like him.”

”He's mildly amusing,” Thomas agreed.

”He's up past his bedtime,” I said. ”Don't mean to be rude, but I need to talk to Arturo before I fall asleep on my feet.”

”I understand,” Madge said. ”The music's a little loud in the living room. Thomas, why don't I show you both to the study, and I'll bring Arturo to you.”

”Is Justine here?” Thomas asked. His voice held a note of quiet tension to it that I doubted Madge noticed.

”Somewhere,” she said vaguely. ”I'll tell her you've arrived.”

”Thank you.”

We followed Madge inside the apartment suite. The living room was fairly dim, but I saw maybe twenty people there, men and women, some of them dancing, others standing and drinking or laughing or talking, like most parties. There was a haze of smoke, and only some of it was from cigarettes. Colored lights s.h.i.+fted and changed in time with the music.

I watched Thomas as we walked through the room. His manner changed subtly, something I could sense without being able to define. He didn't move any more quickly, but his steps became more fluid somehow. He looked around the room as we went through, his eyelids a little heavy, and he started drawing the eyes of every woman we walked past.

I drew no such looks, even with the grey puppy sleeping in the crook of my arm. It's not like I'm Quasimodo or anything, but with Thomas walking through the room like a predator angel, it was tough to compete.

Madge led us past the party room and into a small room with bookshelves and a desk with a computer. ”Have a seat and I'll go find him,” she said.

”Thank you,” I said, and settled down onto the chair at the desk. She left, her eyes lingering on Thomas for a moment before she did. He perched on a corner of the desk, his expression pensive. ”You look thoughtful,” I said, ”which seems wrong somehow. What is it?”

”I'm hungry,” Thomas said. ”And thinking. Madge is Arturo's first ex-wife.”

”And she's hosting a party for him?” I asked.

”Yeah. I never thought she liked the guy much.”

”What did she mean about investing?”

Thomas shrugged. ”Arturo broke off from a larger studio on the West Coast to found his own. Madge is real practical. She's the kind of person who could despise someone while still being professional and working with him. Acknowledging his talents. If she thought it was a winning bet, she wouldn't be worried that she didn't like the person in charge. It wouldn't be out of character for her to have invested money in Arturo's new company.”

”What kind of money are we talking about?”

”Not sure,” Thomas said. ”Seven figures, maybe more. I'd have to get someone to look.”

I whistled. ”Lot of money.”

”I guess,” Thomas said. Thomas was rich enough that he probably didn't have much perspective on the value of a buck.

I started to ask him more questions, but the door opened, and a tall and vigorous man in his fifties entered, wearing dark slacks and a grey silk s.h.i.+rt rolled up over his forearms. He had a head of magnificent silver locks framing a strong face with a dark, short beard. He had a boater's tan, pale smile lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and large, intelligent dark eyes.

”Tommy!” the man boomed, and strode to Thomas. ”Hey, I was hoping I would see you tonight.” His voice had a thick accent, definitely Greek. He clapped both hands on Thomas's shoulders and kissed him on either cheek. ”You're looking good, Tommy boy, real good. You should come work with me, huh?”

”I don't look good on camera,” Thomas said. ”But it's good to see you, too. Arturo Genosa, this is Harry Dresden, the man I told you about.”

Arturo looked me up and down. ”Tall son of a b.i.t.c.h, huh?”

”I ate my Wheaties,” I said.

”Hey, pooch,” Arturo said. He scratched the grey puppy behind the ear. The little dog yawned, licked Arturo's hand once, and promptly went back to sleep. ”Your dog?”

”Temporarily,” I said. ”Recovered him for a client.”

Arturo nodded, his expression calculating. ”You know what a strega strega is, Mr. Dresden?” is, Mr. Dresden?”

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