City of Dragons by null

Author:null [null]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Minotaur Books A Thomas Dunne Book
Published: 2011-03-21T23:52:03+00:00

Seventeen

The Pig n’ Whistle was packed with shoppers and teenagers. Miranda checked her watch for the fifth time. 3:22.

She scanned the tables, her eyes lingering on well-dressed girls of the right age. None showed any interest in her, and none were there by themselves. The Pig was a place for boisterous groups of high school kids and matrons with tired feet, who could just manage the walk down from the shopping district at Magnin’s or The White House or City of Paris to refuel on Black Forest Cake, blueberry pie, or an ice cream sundae.

Afterward, buoyed with cream and sugar, they’d stop across the street at the Emporium, before heading back home to the Peninsula or across the Bay or to Forest Hill, where they’d climb the steps and walk through a wide, imposing door, throwing the packages at their maid before settling down on a settee with a Manhattan. Martinis were so terribly ’39.

A harried waiter hurried up to find what she wanted. Did Madame prefer a table, a booth, a counter seat and soda at the fountain? Apple pie à la mode, strawberry shortcake, hot fudge sundae, a sugar doughnut?

She winced at “Madame.” Hurt worse than the swollen cheek. Mademoiselle would like a goddamn table, please, in a dark corner facing the door, and a piece of Boston cream pie with black coffee. And never mind the fucking bruises, buddy, just shut up and serve. She slipped him a dollar, which accelerated the appearance of a table against the back wall, facing the door, not dark enough, but what the hell. It was a bakery, not a bar, and bakeries weren’t built for hiding the bruised faces of women.

Miranda hoped Ruth Landis wasn’t the late type. She had too much to do, too much to think about, too much to figure out, and too much to plan. Laughing girls only reminded her of the two she needed to find. And somehow, she didn’t think either one was laughing.

The coffee arrived quickly, sloppily poured by a waitress with one eye on the clock and the other on the beat cop at the soda fountain. Miranda wiped up the spilled brown liquid with a napkin. The cop wasn’t one she knew or recognized, and as soon as he picked up his cinnamon roll, he waved good-bye at the waitress over the tumult, who nervously cleaned her hands on her apron, running them down her stomach under her breasts, unconscious of her own desperation.

Hell, aren’t we all? Miranda thought. The pie arrived. 3:30 on the mark.

She started to eat.

She was on her third cup of coffee fifteen minutes later when a plump brunette in glasses walked in, holding a City of Paris shopping bag and trying to look mysterious.

Miranda lifted her hand up to catch the girl’s attention. Ruth blushed, looked around, and scurried toward the table.

Her voice was breathless. “I’m so sorry, Miss Corbie, I had to tell my mother that I was taking the ferry over to San Francisco because of a new hat.

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