Chapter 6
With a light hop and a skip, Duck stepped onto the sidewalk from the intersection in front of the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop. Up ahead, Fakir had paused to wait for her before they—side-by-side, as always—walked the last few feet to the door of the shop.
"My agenda's on the light side today," Fakir began, his hands in his jacket pockets. "Assuming I don't get any new cases, we can walk back together this evening." Here the seasoned detective's face flushed involuntarily, drawing a smile onto Duck's face.
Despite having confessed their mutual feelings to each other scarcely two days ago, Duck had already noticed a change in Fakir. He looked happier (or at the very least, less grouchy, given that Fakir's default expression was an indifferent frown) and there was a lightness in his movement, as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders.
For Duck, too, it felt as though a thick shroud of anxiety around her had lifted. Inhaling a breath of fresh morning air, Duck nodded with contentment. "I'd like that," she grinned and the gesture drew out a rare matching smile to Fakir's face.
"I will see you, then." Fakir turned as though he was about to leave, but then stopped.
Duck watched him with puzzlement as his brows knitted together, and he quickly glanced around them. Just as Duck was about to ask him what was wrong, Fakir leaned in—and before Duck had time to blink, planted a feather-light kiss on her cheek.
By the time the kiss had registered in Duck's brain, Fakir—his ears burning—had already absconded down the street.
Left standing there on her own, Duck touched her warm cheek, her fingertips retracing the spot where Fakir's lips had made contact with her skin. A public display of affection was the last thing she expected from such a reserved person like him. But like many of the assumptions she had about Fakir since their initial meeting, she was proven wrong yet again.
Fakir's impulsive act made Duck smile, and she mused how she was still discovering different sides of him, even after having known him all this time.
"Love-love-love-love! Fakir kissed Duck-zura!"
The sudden eruption of a child's sing-song voice accompanied by the loud tapping of drums nearly sent Duck shooting out of her stockings. "Gawh!" She let out a hoarse yelp.
She pivoted around to see Zurab behind her, still beating rhythmically on his toy drum.
"Zurab! What are you doing here?!" Duck gasped as she clutched her shirt, trying to keep her heart from exploding out of her chest. Above her hand, the carnelian pendant from Fakir had slipped out from inside her blouse and was now shining brightly under the sunlight.
"Zurab saw Fakir kiss Duck, zura! Does that mean Fakir and Duck are lovey-dovey—mhmm?" The toddler started to ask, but Duck managed to pick up the little boy and cover his mouth.
"Shh! Zurab, don't say that out loud!" Duck whispered desperately.
But Duck's plea seemed to have come too late, as Lillie's shudderingly saccharine voice erupted, "Oh my goodness gracious, did I just hear what I thought I heard?!"
Before Duck could respond, her two friends were at Duck's shoulders, with giant Cheshire Cat grins on their faces.
"So, it is true, then! You and our Sheik are an item!" Pique exclaimed.
"Oh, you must tell me all the details, Duck!" Lillie, with her hands cupped around Duck's beet red face, pulled the auburn girl forward until Duck could practically see the twinkling stars in Lillie's baby-blue eyes. "Did he carry you off to an exotic abode, perfumed with rose petals and illuminated by candlelight, and profess his eternal love for you?"
"Have you two been petting? Or could it be that you've already been necking and spooning?" Pique wiggled her brows salaciously as she gave Duck a toothy grin.*
Pulling herself away from her friends, Zurab still hanging from her arms, Duck shook her head vehemently. "No! W-We haven't done any petting, necking, or spooning either!" she exclaimed, even though she had no idea exactly what ‛spooning' entailed. "Fakir and I are… we're…!"
Looking back at the pointe shoe shop, Duck tried to divert the topic. "We really ought to get to work! M-Mr. Kotin is going to be here any minute!"
"Oh, don't worry about him!" Lillie waved her hand dismissively. "His attention has been elsewhere these last few weeks!"
"Exactly! Mr. Kotin has barely been in the store lately," Pique echoed as she unlocked the shop door. "I don't think we've seen him for longer than half the day since he started seeing Miss Anna!"
"Still…" Duck responded weakly, walking towards the shop before she remembered she was still holding onto Zurab.
"Oh! Sorry, Zurab!" The flustered shop girl apologized as she set the little boy back down.
Once his feet were on solid ground again, the mint-haired child asked, "Duck says not to say Fakir love-love out loud, zura. But can Zurab tell Dieda, zura?"
"Um…" Duck chewed her lip.
Inside, she was still terribly embarrassed by her friends' reactions. But Duck had known Edel for most of her life, and the only secret Duck had ever kept from the jewelry storekeeper was her involvement in the Corvo case.
Edel had been like a mother to her for so many years, and as embarrassed as she was about this, Duck did want to share her newfound joy with those closest to her. Edel was also a quiet and mindful woman, and Duck knew she would never do anything to make her uncomfortable.
With that thought in mind, she whispered, "Only to Miss Edel, okay, Zurab?"
Zurab gave a firm nod before turning around, tapping on his toy drum, and singing, "Love-love-love-love!" all the way back to the Stein Jewelry Store.
Duck exhaled a breath of relief when Zurab finally disappeared from view. Slipping back into the pointe shoe shop, the red-head looked Pique's way when she called out, "Hey, Duck, Mr. Kotin left a note for us!"
"A note?" Duck asked as Pique handed her a small piece of stationary. On it were two short sentences written in their employer's tidy cursive script:
Miss Pique, Miss Lillie, and Miss Duck,
I will be away for an important appointment all day today. Please watch over the shop in my absence.
Yours truly,
Vaslav Kotin
Looking back at her friends, Duck wondered aloud, "I wonder what his meeting is for…he didn't mention anything about this last week."
"Maybe he's going to ask Miss Anna to marry him! They might even elope!" Lillie quipped as she and Pique giggled.
Duck made a doubtful expression, but before she could ask where Mr. Kotin might elope to, a woman walked into the shop and asked if she could arrange a pointe shoe fitting.
Lillie, who was closest to the door, went to help the customer with her inquiry, leaving Duck and Pique at the counter where their purses still sat on the table. Glancing at her friends' purses, Duck caught sight of a green cloth-back book peeking out from the top of Pique's bag.
Gregg Shorthand, Duck read the title to herself, and then asked her friend, "Pique, what's that book about?"*
Pique looked down at her bag. "Oh, this? Here," she said, handing the book to Duck, who promptly flipped through it.
Instead of being a novel or biography as she had assumed the title to imply, the book was filled with pages and pages of abstract dashes and curves, along with instructions on how to use them.
Seeing Duck's confusion, Pique explained, "Remember that Mrs. Ryan I met a few weeks ago? I leveled with her and told her that being a secretary seemed awfully mundane, and I didn't see why someone would need any sort of special training just to take notes. Mother wasn't so happy with me for being so blunt, but Mrs. Ryan didn't seem to take offense. She said being a successful secretary actually requires several specialized skills, such as the usage of shorthand. I didn't have a good idea of what that was, so she lent me this book she had used when she was a Gibbs girl."
"So it's a manual for dictation?" Duck asked, closing the book and handing it back to Pique, who nodded.
"It's pretty interesting, actually! You know me, I like things that are fun. All this code and shorthand business reminds me of those dime novels about spies and intrigue, and secret diaries that lead to hidden treasure," Pique giggled coyly. "Just reading the text on its own is a bit confusing, but I figure if I practice using the shorthand symbols, it'll all make a little more sense. Since business here has been slow, I thought I might as well bring the book here to review them during our down time."
The upbeat mood on Pique's face contrasted with the solemn expression on Duck's. She watched her friend set the book down on the counter, and then asked quietly, "Are you considering finding another job, then, Pique?"
At this, Pique shrugged. Looking at Duck, the stylish young woman replied, "Not exactly, no. It's grand being here with you and Lillie, but if something real swell turns up…well, I wouldn't mind taking a bat at it."
"I see…that's understandable," Duck murmured.
The idea that Pique might leave one day came as a sudden shock to Duck. Pique and Lillie had started at this pointe shoe shop not long after Duck had started working here. After almost six years together, day in and day out, it was hard—if not impossible—for her to imagine working here without either one of them.
Pique seemed to catch onto Duck's trepidations, and patted the red-head playfully on the back. "Aw, don't worry, Duck! I'm not planning to go anywhere anytime soon!"
Pique eyed the red pendant dangling by Duck's shirt collar, and winked at Duck. "I'll bet that's from Fakir, isn't it? He may not let it on, but I think he's absolutely wild about you! I'll bet before long, the two of you will be raising a flock of ducklings together!"
"P-Pique!" Duck gasped, covering the pendant with her hand, while her violet-haired friend let out another fit of giggles.
Luckily for Duck, Lillie (who was still attending her client) turned to them and asked, "Can one of you help me get two pairs of shoes? One in white and one in pink?"
"Sure! What size do you need, ma'am?" Pique asked while she headed into the back, leaving Duck by the counter to help the customer with her fitting.
The comment from Pique lingered in Duck's mind as she glanced down at the pendant cupped in her hand. It's far too soon to be thinking about children when Fakir and I have only just confessed to one another!
Closing her fingers over the pendant, Duck was about to drop the necklace back underneath her shirt. But the question Zurab asked her earlier came to mind, and Duck's hand stilled. With everyone close to her now aware of her relationship with Fakir, what was the harm in publicly wearing the pendant he gave her?
I like him, and he likes me. That's all there is to it, Duck mused, and allowed the pendant to fall back onto the front of her blouse. As she looked out through the shop windows, Duck sighed contently and headed toward Lillie and the customer to obtain the desired measurements.
It's impossible to say what the future will bring. I just have to take it one step at a time…
Not long after the clock struck five, Duck waved goodbye to Pique and Lillie, who were both still under curfew and had to return home straight away after work. Left on her own, Duck was in the process of locking up the shop when a familiar figure peered around the corner and walked towards her.
"Oh, Fakir, you made it!" Duck smiled when she caught sight of the detective.
"I was lucky today; there were no new cases," Fakir answered, catching sight of the red pendant hanging daintily below Duck's collar. A smile came unwittingly to his lips and he nodded towards home. "Ready?"
With a nod from Duck, the two of them set out towards Lake Avenue. Walking for a time in silence, Duck glanced at Fakir shyly and said, "Um, Zurab saw us this morning when you, well, you know…now everyone at the shop knows about us…"
Fakir, his mouth pulling into a long frown, couldn't stifle a groan. This was the price for being impulsive, he supposed. Yet, in the same measure, Fakir found he felt no regret sneaking in a quick kiss from Duck.
The detective shook his head. It's not like we're Romeo and Juliet! If Duck was still a witness for the Corvo case, that'd be a different matter. But all of that is behind us now, Fakir thought as he turned to face Duck.
"Somehow, I'm not surprised…" The corners of Fakir's lips twitched with annoyance. However, he shrugged and continued, "Still, I guess people are bound to find out at some point or another."
Hearing this, Duck smiled a little, evidently reassured. Stealing another glance at him, she whispered, "Say, Fakir…do you know what 'spooning' means?"
Fakir stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Duck, aghast. "N-No, of course not!" he burst out, even though from the way he was blushing, the truth was obviously to the contrary. "Why are you asking this all of a sudden?"
Duck blushed, making her freckles stand out against the bright pink of her skin. "Pique and Lillie were teasing me earlier, asking if we had been 'spooning'. I didn't know what the word meant…but I thought you might know."
Sighing, Fakir said under his breath, "Maybe it's better if I don't come by the shop in the future…"
"Eh? Why not?" Duck insisted, her small hands balling into fists.
Watching her face, Fakir rubbed the back of his neck and explained, "The way your friends fawn over me reminds me of an old woman who used to live across the street from my aunt and uncle's house in Nordlingen. She would spy on the neighborhood through her draperies, chatting up anyone who passed her way, and always seemed to know what everyone was up to. It just makes me…uncomfortable," he admitted.
Upon hearing this, Duck couldn't help but feel a little offended for her friends; but at the same time, she sympathized with Fakir. The way Pique and Lillie gushed whenever he was around would make anyone who wasn't immune to their antics feel awkward.
"Well, all right then," Duck reluctantly agreed as they continued towards home. "We can meet at Mrs. Ebine's bakery instead. I walk by there all the time, and her breads are the best!"
Hearing this, Fakir couldn't resist teasing her. "Somehow, I'm not surprised you'd choose a bakery."
"It's true, though!" Duck retorted. "They're so tasty, you don't even need to spread butter on them!"
Fakir stifled a laugh, which earned him a dirty look from Duck. But the red-head's ill temper didn't last, as they soon settled back down into a peaceful stroll, their elbows close yet not quite touching.
Her mind at ease in the presence of familiar people and places, Duck thought back to what Fakir had said earlier, and wondered aloud, "Say, Fakir, what's Nordlingen like? It's where you met Mytho, and where you both grew up, right? Is it very different from here?"
Fakir considered this question for a moment. After a short pause, he answered, "Well, it's a much smaller place than New York City, or even the Bronx, that's for sure. But it's not entirely rural either, as there are a few trains that pass through town and there's a decently busy downtown area adjacent to the railroad tracks. There's a lot of fields and trees at the edge of town that give way to farmland. Even the buildings downtown, where my uncle's family lives, are smaller and aren't so closely packed together like they are here."
"You said there are fields. Are there a lot of wildflowers, then? In paintings and postcards, there's always lots of wildflowers in the fields and meadows."
"In the spring, yes, if there's been rain and plenty of sunshine," Fakir's eyes softened as memories of fields studded with yellow Black-eye Susans, white daisies, lilac bluehearts, and blue cornflowers came to mind.
An idea came to him. He turned to Duck and asked, "Do you want to go see it someday…um, Duck?"
Fakir blinked when he realized he was talking to an empty spot on the pavement. Spinning around, he discovered the auburn-haired girl had been sidetracked, and was now standing in the doorway of a small flower shop with the sign "Freya's Flowers" over it.
Sighing, Fakir followed her as he reflected on his earlier idea to bring Duck to Nordlingen. Maybe it's a little early to take her home and introduce her to the people there. There's no need to rush into things…
As Fakir walked closer, he could overhear the conversation between Duck and the blonde proprietor of the flower shop, who was in the middle of saying, "…There should still be anemones in bloom in late October. When would you need them by, dear? And do you only want pink ones?"
"October 24th," Duck answered. "And if at all possible, I'd like to have pink ones, like the ones here," Duck pointed to a bouquet of paper-wrapped pink anemone flowers for sale by the door. "If those aren't available, pink carnations will do."
"Of course! I will make a note of it. Come by a few days before you need them, and I will let you know if the anemones are available."
Fakir watched as Duck thanked the tall shopkeeper and bounded back towards him. "Sorry, Fakir! I saw the shop selling pink anemones, so I stopped to see if they would still have them later in October!"
"What's happening on October 24th?" Fakir wondered aloud as they stopped at the last intersection before Lake Avenue.
Duck's usually bubbly expression sobered, but she managed to answer with a wan smile, "It's the anniversary of Ma's passing. Pink anemone was her favorite flower*, and I try to bring some of them when I visit her. But depending on the weather, they're not always available this late in the year, so I'll ask a couple of different shops in the area to see if one of them can find some for me."
Here, she laughed with embarrassment. "Of course, it doesn't always pan out! I was out of luck last year, so I brought her carnations instead. I want to start asking around earlier this year, though. Hopefully that'll give me a better chance at finding anemones this time around!"
"That's a lot of work for a single bouquet of flowers," Fakir remarked.
"I know…" Duck looked down at her feet, a touch of melancholy entering her voice. "…But even though Ma's gone, I still want to make her happy. Even if it's something as small as bringing along her favorite flowers…"
Duck's eyes darted up when she felt Fakir take her hand. In front of them, the traffic light had turned green and the detective gently led her across the street to the other side.
Once Duck had firmly set foot on the opposite curb, while still holding her hand, Fakir said to her, "I'm sure your mother would be happy no matter what kind of flowers you brought. Just the fact that you still love her and think of her is enough. At least," the detective stopped, then cleared his throat awkwardly, "that's what I think, anyway…"
Despite Fakir's diffidence, a smile returned to Duck's lips. She let out a short laugh and replied, "Actually, I think you're right on the money! If Ma was here, she'd definitely say the type of flower, or for that matter having any sort of flowers, wasn't important."
The corners of Fakir's lips tugged upward into a soft smile. As they walked the remaining short distance to their building, shoulders touching and hand-in-hand, the detective offered, "If you want, I can also ask around at the flower shops around the precinct. The odds should be better if we're both keeping a lookout."
"I'd like that. Thank you, Fakir," Duck smiled at the dark-haired man.
In that moment, the idea seemed to finally sink in. This man—sometimes insufferable, oftentimes stubborn, but always deeply caring—loved her, of all people. Though Duck still could not quite fathom how it had all worked out, his presence made her happy, and despite their constant bantering, she was content.
Watching the sun sink into the horizon, Duck's thoughts returned to her mother. "I wish you could've met Ma…" Duck sighed wistfully. "She would've really liked you, I'm sure!"
"Me as well," Fakir gave Duck's hand a gentle tug, directing her eyes to his. With a playful air, he smirked, "But you look so much like her, I just imagine she's a more mature, refined, and elegant version of you."
This got the reaction Fakir was anticipating from Duck, who lightly boxed him on the arm with her hand. "Jerk!"
She puffed up her cheeks in a pout, but continued holding onto Fakir's hand until they were standing in front of the front entrance to their building.
As a still-smiling Fakir stepped up the short flight of stairs to open the door, the sudden sensation of someone looming up behind her made Duck spin around sharply. As Duck scanned the stream of pedestrians in the evening gloom, though, it was impossible to tell which of the huddled figures had alarmed her.
With the hair on her neck still standing on ends, Duck pursed her lips as she quickly stepped into the building behind Fakir, keeping one eye trained on the street until the door pane closed behind her.
Duck tilted her head up towards Fakir. The detective appeared not to have noticed anything amiss, and his calm mien helped to ease the tension in Duck's stomach. Touching her chest and feeling the cool carnelian pendant under her palm, the shop girl took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
It's just my imagination again… Duck quickly reassured herself and closed her fingers over the red stone.
On a quiet Wednesday afternoon, Fakir's feet stopped in front of the brightly painted sign of Hal's Ballroom. Stepping into the building, Fakir heard the bright sound of a band playing behind a set of double doors at the far end of a swanky lobby area.
He watched as another patron walked up to a counter next to the double doors and placed a half dollar down on the wood countertop. The coin was quickly shuttled away by the bored-looking cashier, who handed the man five tickets printed with the dance hall's name.
Once the patron had shuffled away, Fakir walked up to the counter and asked, "Do you know if an Annie Grant is working today?"
The cashier shrugged. "The name sounds familiar. But my job only involves handling money and counting tickets. I don't keep track of the comings and goings of anyone here." Looking pointedly at Fakir, he said, "But you're more than welcome to find out. Just a dime will get you in."
The corners of Fakir's mouth ticked in annoyance. As he reached into his pocket, the detective thought it over for a second before emptying his wallet, which included a five-dollar bill and a few scattered coins, on the counter.
The cashier gave Fakir a cockeyed look from behind his round glasses, before turning to the side and laboriously counting out exactly fifty-seven tickets.
"There you are. Enjoy your dances, sir."
Fakir picked up the tickets, and ignoring the cashier's prying eyes, reached for the double doors.
As soon as the ballroom doors opened, the detective was assailed by the simultaneous bombardment of loud music and the odor of dozens of warm bodies crammed into an enclosed space. After depositing his hat and coat at the cloakroom, Fakir loitered on the edge of the dance floor where—despite it being a weekday afternoon—dozens of couples were swaying to the music.
"Looking for a partner, Partner?" a flirtatious female voice asked beside him and Fakir found an attractive young blonde smiling at him.
Straightening his back, Fakir said coolly, "I was referred here to see a specific instructor named Annie Grant for dance lessons. Could you point her out to me?" he asked, and at the same time held out a dance ticket to the eager taxi dancer.
The woman raised a neatly trimmed brow, but said nothing as she casually accepted the ticket. Motioning towards the rows of chairs a few feet away, the blonde taxi dancer said, "The gal you want is the brunette sitting at the end there, the one in the blue dress."
"Thank you," Fakir said briskly, and threaded his way through the rows of chairs toward the aforementioned lone woman, who was sitting and smoking a cigarette.
As he stopped next to the woman in the blue dress, she looked up. She was a tall woman about Fakir's height, with wavy chestnut brown hair and a beautifully well-proportioned face. It was easy to see why Autor's coworker would have found her attractive.
For Fakir, on the other hand, the bigger question was how much she would talk about the person who had threatened to kill him and Duck. Luckily, Annie had no idea those were his true intentions, and so she pushed a well-practiced smile to her painted red lips as their eyes met.
"Hello there! Just let me finish this and I'll be right with you," Annie said smoothly.
"Of course," Fakir nodded. "You are Miss Grant, I presume?"
This question drew a curious and wary glance from Annie, who took one last puff on her cigarette before rubbing out the stub in the ashtray next to her chair. "I am. May I ask whom do I have the honor of dancing with today, and how did you hear about me?" she asked. She extended a manicured hand toward Fakir to accept the dance ticket he was holding out to her, and they walked in tandem onto the dance floor.
Given the circumstances, Fakir had decided in advance it would be unwise to give his real name. As he held Annie's silky-smooth hand, the detective answered, "My name is Frank. I'm interested in getting some dance lessons before an event I will be attending. A friend of a friend recommended you as an instructor, so I thought I'd swing by and have a go."
"What kind of event, if you don't mind me asking?" Annie smiled as she draped her other hand over Fakir's shoulder. Her smile curled a little higher when Fakir's hand lightly touched her shoulder blade as the band began to play the next tune.
"A wedding," Fakir answered, going by the mental script he had prepared ahead of time.
"A friend's wedding or a family member's," she inquired as they began a casual dance in time to the music.
"A friend's."
"A good friend's?"
"More of an acquaintance, actually."
"Oh? Must be a very good acquaintance, then, for him to invite you to his wedding," Annie teased, but Fakir's face remained cool and unreadable.
Shifting topics, she let their feet take them around the dance floor as she asked lightly, "For someone looking for lessons, you are actually quite a good dancer. I'm not sure if there is much I can teach an advanced student like you."
"I'm familiar with the waltz, but not so much with the more popular dance steps nowadays," Fakir confessed as the brief song drew to a close, and he let go of Annie's hand and shoulder.
"I'm fairly confident in my ability to dance a good foxtrot," the taxi dancer responded coquettishly. "Shall we have a go?"
Fakir responded with a short nod, and Annie drew herself close to him as another upbeat tune was belted out by the band.
"The difference between a waltz and foxtrot is simple, really," Annie explained, glancing down at their feet. "Waltz is smooth, gliding across the floor like a bird in flight. Foxtrot is quick and eager. You take two slow steps, then two quick steps, like so. That's it—you're a fast learner, Frank! See, it's a casual and fun type of dance." Annie's eyes twinkled mischievously. "It's good for dances between acquaintances and lovers alike."
But this bit of teasing once again failed to get a reaction out of the stone-faced Fakir. Sensing her dance partner's stoicism, Annie exhaled softly. "Say, Frank, are you spoken for?"
This unexpected and blunt question made Fakir jerk, and his eyes briefly met Annie's before he looked away.
But Annie had gotten what she was looking for, and her thin brows furrowed even as she continued to smile. "You're not the first visitor I know of who came here, claiming to be practicing for one event or another, but most of the people who give that explanation end up coming back again and again. Those are usually lonely men, either seeking companionship or poor souls stuck in loveless marriages.
"On the other hand, you're the first who's been so—how shall I say it? Detached? For a man to be this removed when he dances with a woman can only mean his heart belongs to someone other than his dance partner."
Annie scrutinized Fakir's face as she whispered, "So why are you here, Frank? What are we really dancing around for?"
As the music swelled to a climax, Fakir knew his ruse was up. He replied obliquely, "I'm here for business."
But this last word fully raised Annie's hackles and she stopped mid-step. "By 'business' I don't suppose you mean professional business?"*
Around them, other couples shuffled about as the song ended. Partners were exchanged and tired dancers moved off the dance floor. Walking off towards the sideline, Fakir said to Annie, "I believe I owe you a ticket?"
Hearing his non-answer, Annie crossed her arms and the two of them stopped behind a post, away from the eyes and ears of the other dancers and patrons in the dance hall.
Reaching into his pocket, Fakir held out the remaining tickets he had purchased to the tall brunette, whose eyes opened wide at the thick bundle of dance tickets being offered to her.
"There's at least fifty of these and should be worth about a typical day's worth of dances for you. They're all yours if you can tell me about a death threat to the local police force that you overheard a few weeks ago. Who was the person who made the threat, and what exactly did that person say to you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Annie answered quickly. But Fakir was not so easily dissuaded, as this was the typical type of response he got in his line of work.
Thumbing through the dance tickets in his hand, the detective noticed Annie glancing at them. Thinking quickly, he said, "Well, that's too bad, then. I'll go refund these." So saying, he began to put the tickets back in his pocket.
But before he could turn away, Annie let out a fake little laugh, "Oh, you mean that business! I recall now! There was a fella who was being a monkey-chaser* one day, trying to ask for my number even after I told him I didn't have one, and he wouldn't take no for an answer. So I made up a little bit of a scary story about knowing a man who wanted to torpedo the police, and that scared him enough to send him on his way. I never thought the little story I cooked up would be taken so seriously!" she concluded with a brittle smile.
But the detective was not buying any of it. Quietly, he said, "That's fine, but you mentioned some very specific names when you told this fella your story. Names that only people in the know are privy to. How do you explain that?"
As Annie had been caught in her own lie, her smile vanished, and Fakir could see the agitation in her body language as she chewed on her lips and refused to meet his gaze.
After a moment, she wordlessly stalked towards a closed side door at the other end of the dance hall. Fakir followed her, and they exited into a quiet fenced-in alley between the dance hall and the next building over. Once the door had closed behind them, Annie pulled out a cigarette and began lighting and puffing on it.
Not bothering with her sweet hostess façade, Annie gave Fakir a hard sideways glare as she snapped, "You coppers are such a tiresome bunch, Frank. Fine, I'll tell you what I know, but only if you promise my name won't get dragged into all this."
"Of course," Fakir agreed quickly. "You have my word."
Taking a long draft on her cigarette, Annie began, "The man who made the threat…his real name is Tony, but on the streets, he goes by Worm Tongue."
"Worm Tongue?" the detective echoed this strange nickname.
"He got that name because he has a bad lisp. It makes him sound like a snake when he talks," Annie explained impatiently.
He had a lisp… The voice of Eddie Corioli suddenly echoed in Fakir's head.
Fakir frowned and asked, "A lisp? Is he tall by any chance?"
"Very. I'd say he's at least 6'7" to 6'9" or so. I'm 5'7" and one of the few girls who can dance with him and not make it look like a vaudeville act. He has a long, narrow face, and it looked like God put too small of a head on too big of a body. That's probably one of the reasons why he used to come here; we will dance with any fella as long as they've got a ticket on 'em. Speaking of which," Annie stuck out her hand to Fakir, "I've done my part of the deal. It's time for you to hold up your end of the bargain."
Keeping his excitement at this bombshell information in check, Fakir reached his hand into his pocket but did not take the tickets out. "You haven't told me what exactly he said to you yet. Also, what do you know about his connections to the Corvos? You've been using past tense when talking about him. When was the last time you saw him, and do you know where I might be able to find him?"
Annie groaned and took another long draft on her cigarette. Exhaling a cloud of gray smoke, she exclaimed, "Oh, God! I give you an answer, and you give me four more questions! You are a real damned prick, you know that, Frank?"
For the first time since he set foot inside the dance hall, Fakir smiled. "I've been told that, yes."
Seeing that Fakir wasn't going to budge, Annie's voice dipped even lower, so much so that he had to step towards her to hear what she had to say. "Yes, he used to work for the Corvos. He was just a lowly lackey, but he took it all real seriously. He used to come by here at least once a week to dance, but after the whole Corvo business blew up, he stopped coming. Then, about two months ago, he suddenly showed up again, out of the blue…"
Here, Annie gulped. "…I thought he came to dance, as usual, but right away I knew something wasn't right. He was furious. Not just a little angry, but in a real rage.
"Now, I've had plenty of other fellas empty their hearts on me over a dance. 'It comes with the ticket', as we say around here. So I asked him what was wrong. He began ranting about how the police set up his boss, how he was gonna get back at them, especially the one police fella named Fakia or some-such, as well as the witness who set his boss up. He was gonna find a torpedo to help him get revenge on them.* I tried acting sweet towards him to calm him down and lighten the mood, but then Tony started cursing at me, saying a dumb broad like me didn't know anything."
Annie inhaled deeply on her cigarette, her thin brows drew together as she recalled the incident. "He grabbed me by the arm and I thought he was going to hit me. By then, he was screaming and making a huge scene. Lucky for me, a couple of our boys stepped in before things got out of hand. They escorted him out, and I haven't seen him since."
"Did Tony say what the witness's name was?" Fakir asked urgently, but to his relief, Annie shook her head.
Lowering her cigarette, she implored, "You need to understand, Frank, me and the other girls here, all we do is dance and listen to whatever spiel our guests want to say. We don't ask them hard or probing questions. So, no, I don't know where he is, or where you might find him. Heck, if that nasty lowlife disappeared off the face of this Earth, all the better!"
"I understand," Fakir acknowledged. Much as he wanted to keep pressing her for information, Annie had told him more than enough for the time being. The possibility that the prime suspect in the Corioli case and Worm Tongue might be one and the same got Fakir's heart racing, and he knew he wanted to speak to Charon right away about this new finding .
Fakir duly handed the tickets to Annie. As she closed her hand over the stack of dance tickets, another question came to Fakir's mind and he asked, "Before you go, why did he tell you all this?"
Snatching the tickets away, Annie whipped her head around toward the door, sending chestnut-colored curls swaying with her movement. She took one last draft on the cigarette before dropping it to the ground and rubbed it out with her heel. Despite her crossed arms, Annie's vulnerable posture made Fakir feel a pang of concern for the smooth-talking taxi dancer who might have found herself caught up in a nefarious plot.
"God knows! I suppose he was rather taken by me. I'm close to his height, and I willingly danced with and talked with him. But that's just part of my job. And even then, no one gave him leave to treat me the way he did!" Annie pressed her hand tensely to her chest.
Catching Fakir's gaze, the taxi dancer entreated, "You mustn't let my name get out there, Frank! I don't know if what he said to me was only crazy-talk; he might've been fried on hooch that day, for all I could see!
"Just take it from me: Tony is a vicious man. He might've been just a lackey, but he was damn good at what he did, and that was making people regret ever crossing the Corvos. Wherever he is, Worm Tongue is still around somewhere, and I don't want to be on the receiving end of his wrath."
"Rest assured, protecting your identity will be a top priority for us during this investigation," Fakir reassured Annie. Thinking back to Duck, and all of the dangers and threats she had to endure, he said earnestly, "I will not let any harm come to you as a result of this."
After leaving Hal's Ballroom, Fakir made a beeline back to the precinct and immediately reported the information he had gleaned from Annie to Charon.
"Worm Tongue? That name sounds familiar…" Charon said through pursed lips, brows knitted together in thought. Fakir sat across from the captain, watching him expectantly. "I seem to recall a suspect in a robbery case a few years ago with that odd-sounding nickname, but what was his last name again? Oh, I must be getting old. Let's ask Johnny; he ought to remember."
A few minutes later, the short figure of Johnny from the Robbery division poked his head into the captain's office.
"You were looking for me, Captain?"
"Yes. Fakir and I were wondering, does the name 'Worm Tongue' ring a bell to you?"
"Oh! Does it ever!" the short man yipped. "There was an armed robbery case from five years ago. One of the neighbors reported the break-in, and we managed to surround the robbers before they could get away; Worm Tongue was one of them. He put up quite a fight and nearly knocked one of the boys' heads open before we finally managed to get cuffs on him!"
"We believe his first name is Tony. Do you by any chance know what his last name is?" Fakir inquired.
"Sure do!" Johnny grinned confidently. "I was the one who took his statement after he was brought in five years ago. Real unpleasant fella, by the way. As for his last name, it's Vermi. If you don't mind me asking, how did his name turn up in your neck of the woods, Fakir?"
After several more hours of discussions with Johnny and Charon, Fakir was beginning to paint a better picture of his prime suspect. As the clock on the wall ticked towards nine in the evening, Fakir at last gathered his belongings to go home, but not before scanning the notes he'd taken one last time.
Anthony "Worm Tongue" Vermi. 36 years old. He had multiple convictions for assault, robbery, attempted robbery, theft, and bootlegging, and had been in and out of prison for much of his adult life. It was believed many of his crimes were jobs carried out on behalf of the Corvos.
His last known address was several years old, but everyone had agreed it was worth checking if Worm Tongue still resided there, and if he had moved, to locate the new residence. Copies of Worm Tongue's mugshot would be produced in hopes that residents and patrol officers in the areas Worm Tongue was known to frequent could identify him so he could be brought in for questioning.
Having read the last line of his notes, Fakir closed the notepad, but his hand lingered over the front cover. Taking a deep breath, Fakir told himself this was as much as he could do for today. A part of him wanted to keep going, keep riding the wave of adrenaline and excitement that a breakthrough in a case always brought him, but Fakir knew if he allowed himself to do that, he would end up running himself into the ground.
Worm Tongue may have been a Corvo man, but I will not make the same mistakes I did with that case, Fakir reminded himself, turning away from his desk. After bidding goodnight to the night shift officers, Fakir stepped down the stairs of the precinct entrance.
Though it was past closing time for most shops, Fakir's eyes lingered on the various flower shops on his way home, keeping a mental tally of the ones he had or hadn't visited in their quest for pink anemones. Before long, he found himself back on the corner of Lake Avenue, and his tired feet carried him up the steps to the floor he shared with Duck.
In front of his apartment door, Fakir was fishing about for the keys in his pocket when Duck's door creaked open. "You're back, Fakir!"
At the sound of her voice, Fakir turned sharply. "Is something wrong?" But the red-head quickly shook her head.
"Oh, everything's fine! It's just that I was waiting by Mrs. Ebine's like we had agreed on, but you didn't come by today, so I assumed you must've been busy."
"Ah, I see…" Fakir scratched the back of his head. He had completely forgotten about meeting up with Duck today, having been so absorbed in the investigation on Worm Tongue. Apologetically, he said, "I hope you didn't wait too long? Next time, if I'm not there by 5:30, just go home without me."
Duck nodded quietly as Fakir returned to the task of unlocking his door. Watching him, her hands resting over her doorknob, Duck said, "I hope everything's okay at the precinct? You haven't been back this late in a while."
"Everything was fine…well, better than fine, as far as police work can go, I suppose," Fakir said as he finished unlocking his door and walked into his apartment. Stretching his stiff neck and feeling the pinch in his tired feet, he glanced at Duck and confided, "There was a bit more running around than usual today, and even some dancing thrown in for good measure as well."
"Dancing?" Duck followed him into the hallway and watched from the front doorway as the detective removed his jacket. "Was it related to a case?"
Marching toward his bedroom, Fakir's feet paused. The tall, faceless figure of Worm Tongue loomed large in Fakir's mind. Fakir recalled the frightened expression on Annie's face as she implored him to keep her identity a secret. The detective had seen Duck in the same situation before, and he questioned if it was worth making her constantly look over her shoulders when he didn't even have a picture to tell her who to look out for.
Iggy is making copies of Worm Tongue's mugshots, and we'll know what he looks like soon enough. Also, Annie may have mentioned my name, but it seems Worm Tongue doesn't know who exactly the "witness" is. This means Duck should be safe for now, Fakir reasoned to himself as his feet continued to carry him to his bedroom. "…Um, yeah, it was. It was a bit of an unusual case," Fakir said awkwardly.
Looking for something to do, he walked up to his Victrola and thumbed through the boxed stack of records he kept next to the phonograph. With thoughts of dancing and the echoes of big band music still on his mind, Fakir closed his fingers onto a mint-condition jazz record, its brown paper sleeve still crisp and smooth.
Placing the record on the Victrola, he waited until the first cord of lively jazz music reached his ears before turning to find Duck still standing quietly by his door, her head leaning in curiously to hear the music.
"You can come in to listen, you know." Fakir said, then remembering they were alone and he was inviting an unmarried young woman into his home, added sheepishly, "Um, that is, if you want to, of course."
Duck shrank back. "Are you sure? I mean, you must be tired and should get some rest…"
"I'm fine, don't worry about me," Fakir reassured her, and after giving him a small nod, Duck gingerly walked in.
Pulling over a chair from the dining table, she sat down and rested her arms on the back of the chair while Fakir walked into his bedroom, out of view. Listening contently, Duck asked, "Which song is this? I haven't heard this one before."
"It's 'I'll See You in My Dreams', by Fletcher Henderson's Orchestra.* I heard it on the radio by chance and thought it sounded pretty swell, so I bought the record," Fakir responded as he put his jacket inside his dresser.
"Oh!" Duck blinked in surprise. "I didn't know you liked jazz."
"It's alright as far as music goes," Fakir shrugged as he walked back to the bedroom door where Duck could see him. "I know some folks are up in arms over it, but I think it sounds fine, just something a little different."
Hearing this, Duck smiled. She had assumed his taste in the arts was limited only to classical music and the occasional opera that his cousin Rachel goaded him into attending. But it seemed Fakir's skills and interest in the performing arts were far more extensive than she had initially assumed.
Wanting to know more, she said, "Say, what kind of dances do you know, Fakir? You never did ballet like Mytho did, did you?"
Fakir huffed and looked over his shoulder at the red-head. "No, ballet was Mytho's province! I know the waltz," he said, thinking back to Annie's compliment and a small grin appearing on his lips, "and supposedly, I'm pretty competent at the foxtrot as well."
Duck rested her chin on her folded arms across the chair back and said sheepishly, "I've tried foxtrot before. Pique, Lillie and I have been to a few public dance halls, and they tried to teach me how to do the foxtrot and the tango, but I was terrible at it! I always ended up stepping on my partner's toes. It was really embarrassing!"
Duck remembered her imagined pas de deux with Fakir, and she fancied an idea. Her face glowing with excitement, Duck announced it to the dark-haired detective. "Fakir…can you teach me how to dance the foxtrot?"
Hearing this unexpected request, Fakir glanced at the clock, which was edging close to ten. "Right now?"
"Oh!" Duck gasped, her eyes flying to the clock. "Obviously, it's too late for that today! But maybe this weekend when you're free? I promise I'll try not to step on your feet!" she insisted.
Watching Duck flush with excited energy, the corner of Fakir's mouth curved into a smile. With one hand resting on his waist, he said gamely, "Actually, I think I have enough energy for a quick lesson tonight."
He stepped up to the Victrola and cranked up the gramophone before setting the needle back at the beginning of the record. As the music began to play anew, he extended a hand to Duck.
Seeing his outstretched hand, the eager enthusiasm from Duck suddenly faltered. She had not expected Fakir to follow through with her request so quickly, and so easily.
With the face of the clock on the wall now staring down at her judgmentally, Duck back-peddled, "Are you sure though? I-I was just thinking aloud, that's all," she murmured, her hands hovering close to her chest. "It really doesn't have to be tonight!"
"I don't mind," Fakir responded offhandedly, then stepped forward and gently took Duck's hand before guiding her from the chair to an open area of the dining room. "Shall we?" he asked, cradling her hand in the air.
"Um, alright, then," Duck placed her hand gingerly on Fakir's shoulder. Her breath hitched a little as she felt his hand pressed against her back.
Being so close together, she caught a whiff of the piquant odor of cigarettes lingering on his clothes, but also a deep, familiar aroma laying just beneath it. It took Duck a few seconds, but she recognized it as Fakir's unique scent. The realization sent a rush of heat into Duck's cheeks, but she inhaled deeply as she let herself settle into closed position.
"Let's go through the basics. First, I'll step forward with my left foot, and you'll step back with your right foot," Fakir explained as Duck slowly followed suit, her brows furrowed in concentration as she stared down at her feet. "Good. Step back with your left foot, yes, just like that. Now, step to the side with your right foot, and close with your left—Ow!"
Nervously, Duck had instead stepped forward with her left foot, and landed it squarely on her partner's toes. Hearing Fakir's yelp, she quickly let go of his hand and cupped her hand to her mouth.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Oh drat—and to think, I just said I would try not to step on your feet! Are you alright?"
Waving his hand reassuringly, Fakir picked up Duck's hand and said, "I'm fine. Let's try this again."
As they began their second attempt, Fakir kept an eye on Duck as she tried to follow his instructions. But scarcely a few steps into their dance, Duck's heel once again landed on top of Fakir's foot, bringing their dance to a grinding halt.
"Let's just forget about it! It was a silly idea to begin with," Duck protested, backing away.
I was never meant to be a dancer, after all… It seemed to Duck more than ever that her imaginary pas de deux would remain just that: a daydream.
Fakir sighed, and willfully ignored the throbbing of his battered feet, said, "Honestly, I think the problem is that you're so focused on trying to get the technical aspect of the dance right it makes you nervous and anxious. Just…try to relax."
By now, the needle was scratching noisily at the end of the record. Re-cranking the Victrola, Fakir placed the stylus back at the beginning of the record. He held out his hand once again to Duck, who took it reluctantly.
Drawing the red-head close to his chest, Fakir could sense the tension in her body radiating through his hands. He whispered into Duck's auburn hair, "Don't worry about the steps. Listen to the music and follow my lead."
Duck nodded mutely and took a deep breath.
Without Fakir to tell her what to do, she at first reverted to old habits and tried to look at his feet for guidance. But she realized that, rather than staring down at their feet, she could also feel the direction Fakir was leading her through a gentle pull of his hand or a slight push from his frame against her body. I see…that's what Fakir meant, Duck thought.
Partially closing her eyes to better focus on the music's tempo and her partner's subtle guidance, Duck stepped lightly in time with Fakir's footsteps. Though their movements were small and light, they moved in sync with one another as they circled the humble little dining area.
The dramatic change in Duck's behavior surprised Fakir, who had not expected her to be able to apply his advice so quickly. But the surprise soon translated into a smile. Idiot, and she's claiming she can't dance…
With jazz music drifting through the small apartment, Fakir also closed his eyes and rested his chin lightly against the top of Duck's head. Their gently swaying figures cast silhouettes that glided across the floor, mind and soul content in each other's arms. As the last note of the song faded into the quiet crackle of the gramophone, Fakir opened his eyes once again.
Duck's eyes were now closed, and the side of her face was resting against his chest. The warmth from her cheek made Fakir hold her a little closer even though their feet had already stilled. At last, Duck's eyelashes fluttered open, as though awakening from a spell.
Not wanting the enchantment to break just yet, Fakir held onto Duck's left hand and raised it to his lips. Unlike Annie's manicured and silky-smooth hands, Duck's hands were dry and cracked from work and the cold autumn winds. But to Fakir, this work-worn hand he held in his own was dearly precious. With the reverence reserved for a princess, he lightly kissed her knuckles and was rewarded with the sight of a pair of flustered blue eyes looking back at him.
"Um, th-thank you, Fakir," Duck blushed and adverted her eyes. Embarrassed as she was, Duck made no attempt to move away, even after Fakir's hands dropped to his sides.
Teasingly, he grinned, "I think you've got it backwards, silly. It should be the male dancer who thanks his partner for the dance."
"I-I was thanking you for the lesson!" Duck retorted, but her lips soon melted back into a smile. "Maybe next time we can go to a dance hall together? It'll be livelier, and we'll have live music so you wouldn't have to keep re-cranking the phonograph."
Fakir shrugged unenthusiastically. "I think dancing here is better, honestly. It's less crowded, it's quieter, and you're not smelling the collective odors of everyone crammed into a single room."
Duck could not help but let out a hearty laugh. Covering her mouth with a hand, she agreed gleefully, "It does get smelly in there sometimes, especially during the summer!"
As Fakir returned to his room to change the record, Duck exhaled. "Whenever I go to a dance hall, I feel like everyone's watching me. It's nerve-wracking, having so many pairs of eyes on you. I can't help but feel like everyone there can see how terrible of a dancer I am."
"You say that, but you actually did quite well," Fakir rejoined, walking back into the dining room accompanied by a new jaunty tune. "You're just nervous when you dance. Once you let go of your nerves, you are a perfectly competent dancer."
"Oh, stop! I can't believe you of all people would try to flatter me!" Duck exclaimed, sitting back down in the chair she'd pulled out earlier.
But Fakir's emerald gaze softened and he looked at her earnestly. "Duck, I'm serious. If you'd just practice more, and have more confidence in yourself, you could be a good dancer."
Duck blushed again at this unexpected source of praise, from the last person she'd ever expect to receive any from. Seeing her diffidence, Fakir added more quietly, "If you ever want to practice, just ask. I'm here."
"But…" Duck twiddled her thumbs, "it's not fair of me to ask for your time when you work late so often. In fact, I've already cut into your rest tonight…"
"I don't mind if it means being with you. If anything, being with you helps me relax," Fakir answered, and now it was his turn to blush at those sincere words. Reaching for her hand, he gave her fingers a light squeeze. "I've put on a new song. Do you want to do one more dance?"
This drew a warm smile to Duck's face as she nodded and rose from her seat. Walking with Fakir back to the center of the room, Duck placed her hand back on his shoulder and wondered aloud, "Say, Fakir, who taught you how to dance?"
"Rachel did," Fakir answered. "When she was younger, she was one of the most popular girls in town. During church events and holiday celebrations, all of the boys would want to dance with her, but when the attention got to be too much, she'd rope me into dancing with her instead, to get them off her back."
"I can see that," Duck giggled. Fakir's older cousin was an exceptionally beautiful woman, and it was not hard to see why boys would be fawning over her.
But before Duck could give the subject any more thought, Fakir remembered the message entrusted to him by his cousin. "Speaking of Rachel, she wanted me to let you know that she will be coming by on the 27th. She wants to do an early birthday celebration for me and will be bringing a cake. She's asked you to come, if you can."
Thinking Duck would be excited by the prospect of more baked goods, Fakir was surprised when she looked at him with wide-eyed dismay, her feet becoming still. "Wait, your birthday is approaching? You never mentioned anything about it before!"
At her strong reaction, Fakir rolled his eyes and groaned. "Honestly, I hate making a fuss over it every year! I tried to talk Rachel out of it this year, but she wouldn't budge."
"But Rachel's right: birthdays are important! I mean, yes, they can be a bit of a bother at times," Duck admitted, recalling her own recent haphazard birthday arrangements, "but it's worth it, because you get to have fun with those close to you!"
"You just repeated exactly what Rachel said to me over the phone." Fakir sighed, seeing that Duck was taking Rachel's side. "I guess there's no getting out of it this year."
"But Fakir—!" Duck began, though she fell silent once Fakir pulled her in close.
Duck let her words go and nestled her head onto his chest, a relaxed smile now on her lips. With the upbeat jazz music playing in the background, Fakir mirrored her smile.
Being close to you like this is a gift in and of itself, the detective thought, breathing in the scent of Duck's hair, which smelt faintly of jasmine flower. There's nothing more I could ask for…
A/N
*Petting is Jazz Age slang for cuddling, while necking is…well, pretty much what it sounds like (i.e. two people making out). Like Duck, I had no idea what spooning meant when I first came across the term, but apparently it denotes the rather innocuous act of someone laying down while holding their sweetheart's back to their chest, such that the couple resembled a pair of spoons fitted together (though to be honest, it sounded a lot more salacious in my head than what it actually meant).
*Shorthand writing systems are used by journalists and secretaries as a way to quickly and accurately transcribe spoken words into written texts. Several shorthand systems exist for the English language, but Gregg shorthand—first established in the late 19th century—has continued to be popular to this day.
*Anemone, in the language of flowers, symbolizes death of a loved one, forsaken love, but also undying love.
*In Jazz Age taxi dancer jargon, "professional business" is a term that insinuates police or law enforcement work, while "monkey-chaser" is a man who's romantically pursuing a taxi dancer. Also, Fakir having all of about $5 in his wallet may seem like pocket change in today's terms. But back in 1925, $5.00 had the same purchasing power as $73.53 in 2019.
*Torpedo in 1920's slang means a hitman.
*The Fletcher Henderson Orchestra was a popular and highly influential African-American band led by James Fletcher Hamilton Henderson. His orchestra featured, at one time or another, a number of influential Harlem Renaissance artists—including Duke Ellington, Louise Armstrong, Buster Bailey, and Coleman Hawkins.
As always, thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for proofreading!