Emily Kimelman - Sydney Rye 04 - Strings of Glass by Emily Kimelman

Anita said.
    “You’re
British?” I asked.
    She
shook her head. “No, but I was educated in England.”
    “Terrible
weather,” I said.
    She
smiled. “Yes, but much better justice.”
    “Justice?”
    Blue
came over from his bed bringing his bone with him. He sat next to Anita and
rested it on her thigh, looking up at her. “And who is this?” she
asked.
    “That’s
Blue,” Dan answered. “He’s friendly, trying to make you feel better
by offering a bone.”
    “What
a thoughtful fellow,” she said, the whisky helping her smile come easier
now.
    “You
can pet him,” I said.
    Resting
her glass on the bedside table, she reached out with her free hand and patted
his head. He scooted closer, leaning against her, still holding onto his bone.
    “What
did you mean about justice?” I asked.
    Anita
sighed and lowered the ice from her face. “I guess I should start from the
beginning. I’m an investigative reporter on assignment with a French magazine, Something .”
    Dan
nodded. “I know it.”
    I’d
never heard of it but I didn’t like the sound of it. I liked my privacy and
here I was face-to-face
with a professional storyteller.
    “What
was the article?” I asked.
    “I’m
working on a book.” She shook her head. “I’m
sorry, this is coming out as a jumble.”
    “It’s
OK,”
I assured her. “Take your time.”
    Placing
the ice pack on the bedside table she picked up her whisky again and sipped
from it. “You wouldn’t have a smoke, would
you?”
    “Sure,”
Dan said. “Tobacco or other?”
    She
smiled and I saw her shoulders relax. “Both would be lovely.”
    “No
problem,” Dan said moving toward the desk. I shifted out of his way. Dan
opened a drawer and pulled out a cigarette, leaned over and handed it to Anita.
“Do you mind smoking it outside?” he asked.
    “Of
course not,” she said rising.
    “I’d
keep that ice on a little longer,” I said. “I don’t know how many
times you’ve had your ass kicked,
but without that ice pack it’s going to be a lot worse in the morning.”
    Anita
turned back to the washcloth and picked it up. “Thanks again,” she
said,
turning to me. Anita stared at me for a long moment and then asked, “Who
are you?”
    “I
told you,” I said, feeling uncomfortable. “My
name is Sydney Rye.”
    “Yes,
but you are not just some tourist. You’re-” Her voice faltered. “I
don’t know. You’re not police,” she said, her intelligent eyes roving over
my face, down to my hands which lightly held my almost empty glass. “But
you’re something,” she said.
    “That
she is,” Dan said, not raising his head from the joint he was rolling.
    “I’ve
had some training,” I said. “But I’m retired.”
    “Retired
from what?”
    Anita
looked like a reporter now; even with the ice pack
pressed over her left eye, I could see the unquenchable curiosity coursing
through her. The smell of hash floated through the room as Dan heated it up,
crumbling it into the tobacco.
    I smiled
at Anita. “Let’s go outside so you can smoke that cigarette.” She
opened her mouth to speak but I hardened my eyes. “Don’t push it,” I
said quietly.
    She
swallowed, blood draining from her face. “I’m sorry, of course, I owe you
my life. Please forgive me.”
    “Sure.
I don’t think you need to tell anyone about me though, do you?”
    Her
mouth gaped. I opened the door and stepped out on the veranda. She followed
silently taking a seat on the bench by the door while I sat on the wooden
swing. A cool breeze came off the water and I was happy for my leather jacket.
    Anita
leaned forward and lit her cigarette off a candle burning on the coffee table.
She leaned back and exhaled a plume of
smoke with a throaty sigh. “I gave these up, you know?” she said,
turning to me.
    “Doesn’t
look like it to me,” I said.
    She
laughed and finished off the last of her drink. “Tonight the chances of
dying of lung cancer seem far off.”
    “Will
they come after