and she was bringing coffee to the two homeless men. But that still didn’t explain why he’d left it. Or what they were supposed to do with it.
She started to toss the card back where she’d found it, then stuck it in her pocket instead.
“Well,” she said. She leaned back into her seat and buckled up her seat-belt. “It’s still cold as hell out there and people need our help. The mystery of this card’s just going to have to wait.”
Tommy nodded. He put the van in gear, checked for traffic, then pulled away from the curb.
“Little mysteries,” he said. “They’re good for the soul.”
“How so?”
“They keep us guessing.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“Well, sure. Mysteries break the patterns we impose upon the world—or maybe let us see them more clearly for a change.”
“One of your aunts tell you that?”
“I think it was Aunt Serendipity.”
“Of course.”
Ellie wasn’t particularly fond of mysteries or puzzles herself. She always liked to know where she stood, how things fit. The fact that the universe wasn’t always so obliging never stopped her from trying to keep everything in its place, lined up, just the way it was supposed to be.
“And speaking of mysteries,” Tommy went on, “here’s another one for you.”
She turned to look at him.
“What’s a quick way to tell if you’re dealing with a transvestite or a real woman?”
Ellie shook her head. “I give up,” she said, and waited for the punchline.
“You check for an Adam’s apple,” Tommy said.
“I don’t get the joke.”
“It’s not a joke,” Tommy told her. “That guy you were talking to …”
The niggling feeling she’d had earlier returned, then vanished with a snap of understanding.
“He didn’t have one,” she said.
Tommy nodded. “In fact,
he’s
a rather mannish
she.
I was surprised that you hadn’t noticed.”
“So why do you think she’s walking around at this time of night, pretending to be a man?”
Tommy shrugged. “Why not?”
Ellie nodded slowly. Sure. Why not, indeed? On a one-to-ten scale of strangeness, it barely registered as a one. What a city this was.
2
W EDNESDAY MORNING , J ANUARY 14
Hunter Cole stood at the cash in Gypsy Records. Leaning on the counter amid a clutter of invoices and record company catalogs, he stared out the big front window, only half-listening to the music playing on the store’s sound system: a solo album by Karan Casey, the singer from Solas. He should have been enjoying the CD, but it could barely keep his attention today, little say engage it.
He couldn’t fault the music; the trouble lay with him and nothing seemed to help. Not the music. And certainly not the weather.
Early this morning the latest cold snap had broken, but now it was snowing again. Big lazy flakes drifted by the display window, blurring the view he had of Williamson Street. For the way he was feeling, it should have been raining. A steady, depressing downpour—the kind of relentless precipitation that eventually overwhelmed even the most cheerful soul with its sheer volume and persistence. The snow was too postcard-pretty. It hid the ugliness, rounding off all the sharp edges until even a heartless behemoth like this city could seem to hold something good in it. But the softness, the prettiness … it was all a lie. Maybe you couldn’t see them, but the sharp edges remained under the snow nevertheless, waiting to catch you unawares and cut you where it hurt.
Ria had still moved out. Four weeks and counting. He had a Christmas present for her, wrapped up and sitting on a shelf in his office at the back of the store, that he doubted he’d ever give to her now.
He was still in a rut—the same one he’d been in before he’d even thought of buying the store a few years ago—only now it ran deeper.
Buying the store. That had been a mistake.
Gypsy Records got its name from John Butler, a short barrel of a man without even a pretense of Romany blood
She started to toss the card back where she’d found it, then stuck it in her pocket instead.
“Well,” she said. She leaned back into her seat and buckled up her seat-belt. “It’s still cold as hell out there and people need our help. The mystery of this card’s just going to have to wait.”
Tommy nodded. He put the van in gear, checked for traffic, then pulled away from the curb.
“Little mysteries,” he said. “They’re good for the soul.”
“How so?”
“They keep us guessing.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“Well, sure. Mysteries break the patterns we impose upon the world—or maybe let us see them more clearly for a change.”
“One of your aunts tell you that?”
“I think it was Aunt Serendipity.”
“Of course.”
Ellie wasn’t particularly fond of mysteries or puzzles herself. She always liked to know where she stood, how things fit. The fact that the universe wasn’t always so obliging never stopped her from trying to keep everything in its place, lined up, just the way it was supposed to be.
“And speaking of mysteries,” Tommy went on, “here’s another one for you.”
She turned to look at him.
“What’s a quick way to tell if you’re dealing with a transvestite or a real woman?”
Ellie shook her head. “I give up,” she said, and waited for the punchline.
“You check for an Adam’s apple,” Tommy said.
“I don’t get the joke.”
“It’s not a joke,” Tommy told her. “That guy you were talking to …”
The niggling feeling she’d had earlier returned, then vanished with a snap of understanding.
“He didn’t have one,” she said.
Tommy nodded. “In fact,
he’s
a rather mannish
she.
I was surprised that you hadn’t noticed.”
“So why do you think she’s walking around at this time of night, pretending to be a man?”
Tommy shrugged. “Why not?”
Ellie nodded slowly. Sure. Why not, indeed? On a one-to-ten scale of strangeness, it barely registered as a one. What a city this was.
2
W EDNESDAY MORNING , J ANUARY 14
Hunter Cole stood at the cash in Gypsy Records. Leaning on the counter amid a clutter of invoices and record company catalogs, he stared out the big front window, only half-listening to the music playing on the store’s sound system: a solo album by Karan Casey, the singer from Solas. He should have been enjoying the CD, but it could barely keep his attention today, little say engage it.
He couldn’t fault the music; the trouble lay with him and nothing seemed to help. Not the music. And certainly not the weather.
Early this morning the latest cold snap had broken, but now it was snowing again. Big lazy flakes drifted by the display window, blurring the view he had of Williamson Street. For the way he was feeling, it should have been raining. A steady, depressing downpour—the kind of relentless precipitation that eventually overwhelmed even the most cheerful soul with its sheer volume and persistence. The snow was too postcard-pretty. It hid the ugliness, rounding off all the sharp edges until even a heartless behemoth like this city could seem to hold something good in it. But the softness, the prettiness … it was all a lie. Maybe you couldn’t see them, but the sharp edges remained under the snow nevertheless, waiting to catch you unawares and cut you where it hurt.
Ria had still moved out. Four weeks and counting. He had a Christmas present for her, wrapped up and sitting on a shelf in his office at the back of the store, that he doubted he’d ever give to her now.
He was still in a rut—the same one he’d been in before he’d even thought of buying the store a few years ago—only now it ran deeper.
Buying the store. That had been a mistake.
Gypsy Records got its name from John Butler, a short barrel of a man without even a pretense of Romany blood
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