When I insisted to the bartender that this time I need to meet with Mr. Bonaparte in his private office, he looks at me like I asked for an up-close guillotine demonstration. But remembering who I’m supposed to be (and after I refuse to do a repeat performance for my fans), he leads me to a back office and quickly retreats. Clearly he doesn’t want to be around if Bembe punishes someone for letting me in here.
This office is much nicer than the barroom. Though just as stifling, it’s furnished in dark leathers and old-school paintings of horses. It looks like a smoking room in a Victorian film. Although I doubt much tea and crumpets are served in here.
After only a minute or two Bembe enters, looking surprised to see me again so soon. Fear throbs in my throat as he shuts the door behind him and gives a low chuckle. He stops a few feet from where I’m perched as casual-lethal as I can on the arm of one of the chairs. His hands slip into his pockets, head cocked. “Twice in one day. You miss me already?”
Flirty but deadly. “Perheps,” I say. It’s so hard remembering to pout and intimidate and sound German all at the same time.
He’s studying me. “You come to offer better deal?”
“Perheps,” I say again, eliciting a second chuckle from him. “I vant to give you bonus.”
“For what?”
“Just . . . leetle piece of information.”
“Hmm.” He ambles over to the desk and perches on the edge while he selects a cigar. Offering it to me, he asks, “Smoke?”
“No, thenk you.” I’m still queasy from those secondary whiskey fumes.
I wait while he clips off the end of the cigar—my relief is potent when I realize that little silver contraption is for chopping cigars, not fingers—and lights it. Once he’s drawn a decent vapor cloud around himself, he says, “What information are you wanting? I gave you clear instruction for board the ship, no, mon?”
“You did,” I agree. “But thees is not about our travel.”
He blows out more smoke. “Then, what is it about?”
Now or never.
I give a little smile. “Your boss.”
Bembe’s dark eyes meet mine. He stands, walks around to the back of the desk, and sinks into his chair. He seems to be in no hurry to answer me. Just keeps puffing like a steam engine and watching me through the haze. “You know first rule of this biznass. Never bite feeding hand.”
“I don’t ask you to bite,” I say. “Meybe only . . . neeble a leettle.”
Bembe laughs, but his eyes are stony. “How so, mon?”
Tremulously I spin the lie I practiced on the walk over here. “I hev friend who vould be interested in . . . new management position. Very generous friend of mine. Sure to pay you more than you meke now.”
“How you know what I make? How you know you can give beh-tar?”
“My friend likes to teke care of his employees. And he always geeve, shall we say, sign-on bonus. Nothing less than six figures.”
Bembe whistles at the sum, but still he’s wary. “So to get new managaar, I must do what?”
I lean forward. “Just geeve me your boss. Name, peecture, account number. Enything to point to him.”
He blows out a long stream of smoke. “You want me give mon up?”
“For six figures . . .” I smile. “It only go up from there.”
His alligator-skin shoes are propped on the desk now. “And how I can know you won’t take name and give me nuh-ting?”
Heart hammering, I reach into my jacket pocket and remove the wad of paper bills. It’s not nearly as thick as I’d like. And with the currency conversion I have only the word of the pawnshop owner that he gave me the full amount. But it’s something, at least.
“Just a leetle taste,” I say, sliding the cash across the desk. “For your goot faith.”
Bembe takes the money, feet tapping in the air as he counts it. Finally he looks up. “I will give you something, mon,” he says at last.
Hope rushes into my limbs, making me lightheaded.
“A tip.” Still holding my gaze, he slips the cash into his vest and taps the pocket appreciatively. “Never give money be-far you have product.”
My mouth has gone dry. I can’t even form a question.
“Bembe not stupid,” he says. All warmth has left his face. “I not turn on mon who can bring strike fahrce to my door. If he can grave-dig Russian mob, he can crush Bembe like bug.” He shakes his head. “I not make this mistake.”
When I don’t speak he turns his chair away from me, dragging on his cigar. “I not tell my boss you come back today. What bribes I take are not his business. But you come again, it won’t turn out so good for you, mon.”
Bembe doesn’t address me again, and I take this as a dismissal. Frantically I try to think of another argument, a way to turn this around. He’s letting me go because he still has a chance to make money off a deal with Else and me. But if I press him, he might decide to partner one sister instead of two. He doesn’t need me breathing for that transaction.
Wordlessly I stand and blunder toward the door. I scarcely remember walking through the bar, but suddenly I’m back on the sunbaked sidewalk.
One more chance. Just one more. But it’s all I’ve got.