Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Afternoon
Wilde needed air, needed it now and needed it bad. He grabbed his hat, cocked it over his left eye and told Alabama he’d be back in ten. Outside, Larimer Street smelled like a bus engine on fire.
He stopped and lit a cigarette next to the water feature, the one with the cherubs that used to spit water into a bowl back when this section of town was the center of the universe.
That was a while back.
The cherubs hadn’t spit for years.
The bowl was still watertight though and had a rancid couple of inches of liquid at the bottom. Floating in that swill were cigarette butts, candy wrappers and at least one broken RC bottle. Wilde tossed the spent match on top of it all and headed down the street.
Secret St. Rain was really Emmanuelle LeFavre.
His first thought was to confront her.
His second thought was to ignore his first thought and not let on that he knew. Whatever it was that she was hiding, he’d be better positioned to figure it out if she didn’t know he was looking.
The Denver sky was crystal blue.
He crossed to the sunny side of the street and let the sun wash over his face.
Five minutes later he had all the air he needed and headed back to the office. He opened the door, took a step inside, got his hat in hand and positioned his body. Then he tossed the hat for the rack.
It swung to the side and went out the window.
He looked at Alabama.
She knew the look.
She wasn’t a fan.
“No way,” she said. “Get it yourself.”
“You never get it for me.”
“I will if you do one little thing for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Be sure your head’s still in it the next time it goes out.”
He smiled.
“Ouch.”
When he came back, Alabama met him at the door, took the hat from his hand and tossed it on the rack, a dead ringer. “Cock it to the left,” she said.
“I try.”
“Try harder.”
The phone rang.
Alabama answered, said “Yeah, that’s him,” and handed the phone to Wilde. “It’s that agent from New York. He wants to know if you’re the same Wilde who just called him about Emmanuelle.”
Wilde lit a cigarette, blew smoke and took the receiver.
Then he hung it up.
“That guy’s an ass,” he said.
Ten seconds later it rang again.