took a step to walk past Tannen.
Tannen moved sideways to block his way. “Not yet, Frank. I’ve got more to say.”
A crowd had gathered around them, and Frings, realizing he had to tread carefully, leaned forward so that his mouth was close enough to Tannen’s ear that he did not have to yell to be heard over the din in the big room.
“If you want to talk about this, Erroll, I would be happy to. But not here.” Frings straightened up and began to walk toward the middle of the room where couples briskly polkaed.
“That’s right, Frank. Walk away. What’re you afraid of, Frank? Why don’t you want to talk?”
The crowd parted to let Frings through. He felt their eyes upon him, and it was like being there with Nora, though instead of the adoration she received, he was the object of confusion and even distaste.
Frings let the crowd find something else to take their attention and went to the men’s room. Returning to the floor, he surveyed the crowd to locate Henry. It was amazing that a throng of this size would turn out at an event that had so hastily been arranged. But, then again, what did these people have to do otherwise? The idle rich of the City were in this room. Most of them likely didn’t know what the affair was about.
The band was playing some sort of tuba oompah music. Frings spotted Henry leaning against a brick wall surrounded by maybe a dozen men in a far corner of the room. Oddly, Frings could not identify anyone from the Polish contingent. There was a story there, he thought, but not for him.
Frings was feeling the alcohol a little and went to the bar for a shot of whiskey. For courage. The next few minutes would be crucial. He waded through the crowd, occasionally jarring someone’s drink or brushing an arm. Recognizing him from the incident with Tannen, people exchanged knowing looks with friends. Frings ignored them.
He was within five yards of Henry’s group when the mayor spotted him. Frings nudged his way past the outer ring of the group until he was right in front of Henry, who was staring at him in an unfocused kind of way.
“Get these people the hell out of here,” Frings said. “We need to talk.”
CHAPTER NINETY
Nora lay on the bed in her odd cell, reading Saki. Feral, whose name she still did not know, sat in a chair by the door, silently watching her. He had been there for over an hour. She had initially been self-conscious and had moved around the room, keeping physically active trying to draw him into conversation. But Feral just sat, dressed in slacks and suspenders and a sleeveless undershirt, following her with his eyes, but not his head. Eventually, she realized she had no reason to be self-conscious. This was, in fact, a sign that she had seized the power in their relationship. She was no longer scared and he was—what? Smitten? Infatuated? Obsessed? Whichever most accurately described his mental state, he had no control over it, and while she was his captive physically, emotionally he was hers. In different circumstances, she would have worried about being raped. But this odd little man wanted her on her terms, and his silent, brooding watchfulness was an acknowledgment that if under no terms would she be with him, then he would not have her. Instead, he would watch and brood.
The troubling thought was, how did this end? Did she walk away and continue life as if this had never happened? Were promises made? Or did something worse happen? Was it necessary, in his eyes, for this to end with her death?
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
Van Vossen produced two heavy crystal goblets and poured from a decanter until both were three-quarters full. When Van Vossen walked, Puskis could see just how weak he was, barely able to lift his feet from the ground. Van Vossen lifted his cup to Puskis, who returned the gesture. They drank. It tasted of mint and dandelion and herbs that Puskis could not identify; burned a trail down his throat and sat in his stomach in a concise pool.
“What is this?” he asked.
Van Vossen smiled. “I don’t know if it has a name. It goes back to medieval monks in Hungary. I’ve heard that there was a small war fought over the recipe back in the eleventh century.”
“What are you trying to find in your encyclopedia of criminal activity? Are you searching for a