more and more drugs.” He sighed. “I just have no idea. None at all.”
“Have you been back to All Souls’ or have you seen any of these women again?”
Vesterhue’s eyes were back to focusing on Poole. “No. I have not left this building in three years. My quarters are in the basement. The City has given up on this place, on these people. No one comes here anymore. I have nowhere to go. So here I am. Me, the lunatics, and those lovely girls with their singing. Are you familiar with eschatology, Mr. Prosnicki?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
In the back room of Lentini’s, a bar in Capitol Heights and a meeting place for Red Henry and his cronies, Ian Block was breathing hard, cigar smoke flaring his asthma. Henry himself sat across the round table from Block and blew plumes of smoke at him. Also around the table were Bernal, who was drinking from a tall glass of whiskey on the rocks, and Altabelli, who had a beer and a cigar. They were discussing the bombings and Bernal’s good fortune, to date, in not being a victim.
“Curious, Roderigo, that you should be spared the bombs so far. Very curious. You must feel very fortunate.” Altabelli had a thick Italian accent, and Bernal had difficulty figuring whether this comment was meant as a joke or not. He became defensive.
“They have only bombed twice. One of us would have to be left out. So it is me? So what? Now I must wait until my house is attacked. I moved my wife and children to the country until this thing is finished. Besides, there is me and there is the mayor. He has not yet been bombed.”
Altabelli reacted with either false or sincere shock. “You would accuse our mayor, our good friend Mr. Red Henry, of turning on his good friends and putting them in, ah, mortal danger?”
Bernal had not meant this at all, and he looked nervously at Henry, who was relaxed and smiling. This came as some relief to Bernal, who did not want to upset the mayor during the best of times. Leaking to Frings had his paranoia spiking. Any undue attention, he knew, was an invitation for trouble.
“No, no,” he protested. “You misunderstand the intentions of my comments. I mention the mayor only to show that because one has not been bombed does not necessarily make one the bomber.”
The familiar pattern of two knocks, a pause, and then a third signaled that the visitor had official business with the mayor.
“Come in,” Henry roared, the cigar still in the side of his mouth.
It was Peja, looking as if he had eaten something rotten. The three men at the table looked to Henry. The look on Peja’s face turned Henry’s mood ugly.
“What is it?”
Peja was used to speaking in front of these men. “It’s the Poles, sir. They sent word. They are close to signing, but they caught wind of the strike and they’re concerned. They’re worried about having to deal with the unions.”
Henry snarled at Bernal, who went pale. Then Henry, maintaining his calm, said, “Didn’t they hear that the strike was taken care of? Order has been restored without any concessions.”
Peja nodded. “They do know that. We made sure to tell them. But . . .”
“But what?”
“They think that might have been done for their benefit. They think that maybe you wouldn’t normally come down so hard on the unions.”
Henry’s bald scalp was turning a peculiar red. “From your conversation with them, what do you think needs to be done?”
“I think that it would help for you to show them that the unions aren’t a problem.”
Henry nodded.
“In a clear and personal way,” Peja continued.
“I understand what you mean.” Henry looked toward Bernal now. “Who’s that little spic leading the strike?”
“Enrique Dotel. Him and that woman.” Bernal was glad to be offering something positive.
“Dotel.” Henry looked back at Peja, eyes blazing. “Get Dotel and get the Poles and have them at my office tomorrow morning at ten. They’ll see what happens when people push me.”
Peja nodded and hustled out the door. Henry leaned back in his chair and rediscovered the cigar protruding from the corner of his mouth. He sucked on it and held the smoke in his partially open mouth, wisps of smoke rising like steam from a cauldron. Then he blew out the smoke in a long, steady stream toward Block, who started coughing again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Frings was exhausted and anticipated a long night ahead. Panos unlocked the night editor’s empty