Mrs. Grabowski folded the bills into her fist, then hit Igor with her closed hand. “Don’t talk like that! This is more money than your father gave me in years.”
Igor ignored the attack and her words. “You know it’s true,” he said, grinning at Apollo. “And I know it’s true.”
Apollo tucked both books under his arm. Mrs. Grabowski walked him back toward the front door, Igor trailing behind them.
Apollo crossed the threshold and walked down to the sidewalk. He turned back to find Igor in the doorway. Behind him Mrs. Grabowski counted the money in her hand. Apollo couldn’t tell if she looked satisfied or suspicious.
“It’s business,” Apollo said. “I’m just doing business here.”
“The devil likes to hide behind a cross,” Igor said, then shut the front door.
ENTERING BOULEY RESTAURANT felt like stepping inside a gingerbread house. Outside he’d been on Duane Street, a tony block in Manhattan but still just downtown NYC. The exterior of the building, an understated apricot, and a simple wooden door with glass panels suggested Nichelle had picked a pleasant enough place. But when he opened the door and stepped into the foyer, he found himself surrounded by apples. Shelves had been built into the wall, running as high as the ceiling; rows of fresh red apples and their scent enveloped him. The door to Duane Street shut behind him, and Apollo felt as if he’d stumbled into a small cottage off an overgrown path in a dark wood. He stayed there in the perfume of the apple room inhaling the scent. If he’d brought the stain of his interaction with Mrs. Grabowski downtown with him, then this room made him feel cleansed.
Another door led from the foyer into a waiting room, a long narrow hall with padded chairs and tiny tables. Six small chandeliers hung from the wooden rafters but offered little light. The curtains covering the windows looked as lush as bridal gowns. The waiting room sat shrouded in an elegant gloom like the little parlor of a storied mansion.
Immediately, instinctively, Apollo checked to see if he was wearing sneakers or shoes. He shifted his messenger bag so it hung behind him. A few people were waiting to be seated, but Emma and Nichelle weren’t among them. There was a dark wooden station, and behind it the ma?tre d’—a tall man in a tailored blue suit—gazed down into a screen that lit his sharp face strangely. When he looked up to greet Apollo, the man’s eyes were lost in a shadow. Since his mouth stayed shrouded in darkness too, it was impossible to see his lips. He looked more ghoulish than gallant.
“Forty regular?”
Not what Apollo expected. He set his bag down and presented his empty hands. If they were turning him away, this had to be the strangest rejection he’d ever heard.
“Nichelle Murray?” Apollo replied.
The ma?tre d’ nodded quickly and stepped away from his station, then retreated to a door behind him. Apollo looked at the guests in the waiting room—mere silhouettes in leather chairs. In a moment the ma?tre d’ reappeared with a sport coat. He helped Apollo slip it on.
He waved Apollo forward, a menu under one arm, led him through the waiting room and past the other customers. The dining room’s vaulted ceilings had been laid with eighteen-karat gold leaf sheets, and on top of that a twelve-karat white gold varnish, so the ceiling seemed as supple as suede. The floors were Burgundy stone, overlaid by Persian rugs. If the foyer felt like a woodland cottage and the waiting area a haunted parlor, the dining room became an ancient castle’s great hall. This only added to the fantastical atmosphere of the restaurant. Apollo felt as if he was trekking through realms rather than rooms. If there had been men in full armor posted as sentries, it wouldn’t have surprised him. And in fact, when the ma?tre d’ reached the right table, there was a queen waiting there. Emma Valentine, too pregnant to stand. Apollo leaned close and kissed her.
Nichelle rose from her seat and hugged Apollo. “Here he is then,” she said. “Father of the bride.”
Emma grinned, she rocked forward in her seat. “You’re a mess, Nichelle.”
Nichelle still hadn’t let go of Apollo, clinging to his left arm, and he realized it was because Nichelle was drunk. Zooted. An open bottle of white wine stood on the table, half done. Another bottle of Perrier stood before Emma’s plate, two-thirds down. Three small plates of appetizers were laid out: oysters, mushrooms, and a third thing he couldn’t recognize. The tablecloth looked as mussed as a slept-in bed.
“Am I that late?” Apollo asked.
“We got here early,” Emma told him.
Nichelle pointed at Emma. “Best way to get seated fast is bring a woman who’s nine months pregnant.”
“Thirty-eight weeks!” Emma said.
Nichelle waved one hand dismissively. “That math doesn’t mean anything to normal people. You are nine months pregnant.”
Apollo sat across from Nichelle and next to Emma. Even before he’d settled into the chair, a waiter came to the table and poured some of the wine into his glass, topped Nichelle’s glass off, then refilled Emma’s cup of sparkling water. He didn’t ask if they wanted another bottle of wine, merely raised the empty one slightly, and Nichelle pointed at him.
Apollo set the messenger bag between the legs of his and Emma’s chairs. She’d set herself down at an angle so her belly wouldn’t bump the table and she could stretch her legs out. She looked down at the bag quickly, then up at Apollo.
“Ridgewood,” Apollo said. “Nothing great.”
Emma patted his leg. “Good to try.”
Thirty-eight weeks pregnant, and she looked like a hummingbird that had swallowed an emu egg. And yet she moved in this body with a kind of exhausted authority. She seemed to take some pleasure in being, temporarily, larger. When the waiter arrived with the new bottle of white wine, she had her legs extended, feet out, and ankles crossed. Any other time in her life, even an earlier stage of the pregnancy, she would’ve tucked her feet in to accommodate the waiter. But not now. Let the world accommodate her a little. Her feet stayed stuck out, and the waiter went around them.
The waiter poured another round for Nichelle, then topped Apollo off though he’d only taken two sips. The diners at the other tables gave off a distinctly different air from theirs. The median age of these customers was billionaire. Even the busboys in this place were white.
“How is Los Angeles treating you?” Apollo said. “Does that town ever change?”
“Time goes slower when you’re happy,” Nichelle said. “And I’m happy there.”
Emma stabbed at an empty oyster on the table, then moved on to forage the last mushroom from another plate. “She writes for The Witching Hour,” she said, pride playing in her voice like a musical note.
“Hey, we watch that show,” Apollo said. He pulled at the wine and felt himself relaxing into the seat, the conversation.
“Why do you think we started?” Emma asked, leaning into his arm. “Got to support my girl!”
“Long way from Boones Mill,” Apollo said, raising his glass.