Free The Night Mayor by Kim Newman Page B

diner. I prayed that Kelly’s wasn’t a popular cop hang-out.
    For a few minutes, I was almost at peace. I sort of nodded into a half-sleep sitting up at the counter. The idea of a bed was appealing. I rolled it around my mind, imagining pillows rejected by princesses as too soft, a closetload of blankets, silk sheets, an acre or more of mattress… I snapped awake, and looked down at my fish-eye-lens reflection in the coffee. I was beat, but I couldn’t risk a motel or even a flophouse. Word was out on me. I shouldn’t be in Kelly’s. But it was warm here, and there was soothing music.
    I had some puzzles to think out. Who really killed Truro Daine? What did this man Tunney – I knew Tunney was a man – have to do with the case? He must look like me. That kind of doppelganger effect was common in the City. And why was I having this trouble with people?
    I had noticed it several times since I left the Monogram Building. I felt as if I were moving just a beat faster than everyone else. I could tell what people were going to do or say – trivial things like lighting a cigarette or commenting on the rain, important things like committing murder or founding a dynasty – and it disturbed me. I felt that I had seen this movie before.
    Thelma, haggard and overly lipsticked, gave me a refill. I drank again, scalding my throat to shock me awake.
    ‘Mister…’
    I supposed I was lucky. It was a chippie, not a cop. Natural, really. Statistics show that there are more women in the world than anything, except insects. I half turned on the stool. She was a blonde in a black dress, wearing a tiny hat with a visor of veil. The dress was tight in the right places, and shiny where it shouldn’t have been. She was going to ask me for money, I thought.
    ‘Mister. Do you have a dime for the jukebox?’
    Knowing I’d regret it, I gave her a handful.
    ‘Thanks, mister.’ She had a high voice, almost squeaky like Mickey Mouse’s. ‘My name’s Glory. Gloria, that is. Gloria Grahame. Look at my monogram.’ She dangled a handkerchief from her glove; black, embroidered with white letters. ‘G.G. Like a horse. Gee-gee, get it?’ She laughed, an artificial, almost grating squeal. I liked her.
    ‘Richard.’
    I held out a hand, and she pinched it with tiny, black-gloved fingers. The hamburger-flipper at the other end of the joint looked unhappily at us. He must get his heart dented every hour on the hour. Just like me. He adjusted his paper hat and turned back to his stove.
    The door opened, and someone came in from the night. I was expecting death in a uniform, but it was just Frank McHugh, a beef-faced truck driver in a cloth cap. He went into some comedy patter, bouncing lines off Thelma. I could afford to miss that part of the picture, and turned back to Gloria. She had a cigarette – one of mine, I realised – in her mouth, and was waiting, expectantly. She coughed a little.
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    I took my lighter out, and she held my hand again, tighter this time, guiding the flame. She sucked, and the cigarette end glowed.
    She gave me my hand back, but let her velveted fingers play with it for a second or two. She smiled, showing off her plump, tight little mouth, and blew a failed smoke ring. She didn’t make a move for the jukebox, but the coins had disappeared.
    ‘You have an interesting face, mister.’
    ‘It’s been around.’
    ‘Yeahhh. Around.’ Her fingers touched my face, feeling for the painful spots. She found them. ‘You look like you’ve had a rough night.’
    ‘You could say that.’
    ‘Cops?’
    ‘Priests. Bing Crosby and Barry Fitzgerald got me drunk and stole my wallet. Then Ingrid Bergman knocked me around, just for the fun of it. I guess I should have paid attention in Sunday school.’
    She looked hurt. ‘No need to fun me, mister. I was just concerned.’
    She tried very, very hard not to say ‘concoined’ and only just missed.
    ‘Us night people gotta look out for each other.’
    ‘Night