the air. She inhaled the powder, had a slight convulsion, as if she were about to cough, then settled back into a deeper sleep. Feral grabbed her under her arms and pulled her to a standing position so that she leaned against him, reached down, put his left arm underneath her knees, and picked her up, his right arm cradling her back. This was the only dangerous time—the only time that Frings could return and he, Feral, would not have control of the circumstances.
He carried her to the door—opening it with his left hand—and then out, closing, but not locking the door behind them. He carried her down the emergency stairwell, beginning to perspire into his suit, his arms straining to hold her. As he descended, he began, dangerously and out of character, to think to the immediate future. Of her waking up and their actually talking. He felt that, in some sense, he knew what she would be like. Her personality seemed so apparent onstage, in the way she moved, the things she said between numbers, her posture as she interacted with others. She embodied certain traits, he thought: grace, humor, a kind of traditional decency that Americans liked to think they had, but which she truly did.
They came to the back utility door, which Feral had unlocked with the key made from his wax impression. His car was waiting a hundred feet away, across the tiny green. This was the other dangerous moment, though the danger did not come from Frings. Feral had a story—he always did—if he was stopped by someone. But while the story would work for most women, it was unlikely to work when the unconscious woman he was carrying was Nora Aspen.
He moved quickly across the green. His arms burned with her weight and he needed to get her to the car before anyone saw them. He held her upright briefly as he opened the rear door to the car. Then he was at the wheel, with Nora sleeping deeply in the backseat. His pulse raced, as it often did, once the danger had passed.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
While Feral drove through the streets of Capitol Heights with Nora unconscious in his backseat, Frings was on the East Side at the Palace, sitting in Floyd Christian’s crimson office, drinking beer from a bottle while Floyd drank scotch. The air was thick with marijuana smoke. Frings could feel his body sag in exhaustion, the reefer giving him a comfortable feeling. He would happily have spent the night there on the leather couch.
“You all right, Frank?” Floyd asked, concern on his face. That bothered Frings because Floyd was not one to let much worry him.
“I’m tired.”
Floyd laughed and pushed Frings a little. “All right. All right. I know it’s more than that, but if you don’t want to say . . .”
Frings sighed. He was high and fatigued and was having a hard time thinking through consequences. It was dangerous to talk about his pact with Bernal, but he knew that telling someone would provide an almost physical release of tension. Floyd was trustworthy, and furthermore, Floyd lived in a different world. The East Side was segregated from the rest of the City, almost a completely separate, self-contained municipality. Floyd would never have any reason to come into contact with anyone who would be interested in the information, much less be able to use it. The bombing, on the other hand, was definitely off-limits.
“I’m working on a story. It’s a little fuzzy right now. Ever hear about somebody getting convicted of murder and then not being put away?”
Floyd gave him a funny look. “All the time, Frank. The hell do you think happens to your fellow ofay when he happens to murder my fellow Negro for looking at a white woman? Happens all the time. No white man has ever been sent to prison for murdering a black man.”
Frings thought that was probably a debatable point, but not what he was talking about in any event. “I’m talking about something different, Floyd. Gang murders. The White Gang and the Bristol Gang.” Frings hesitated for a moment, realizing that as a club owner, Floyd had inevitably dealt with one or both of the gangs at some point. Floyd’s face, though, showed only interest. “I’m talking about gang hits, sometimes on the street with all kinds of witnesses, and then they go to trial and get convicted, and then, nothing. Don’t go to prison. Just kind of disappear.”
Floyd was quiet, concentrating