The Devil Met a Lady Read Online Free Page B

with anything less than a blowtorch.
    The sink in the corner was, as always, filled with dishes. The trash container was, as always, flowing over with unsavory, used cloth pads and cotton swabs.
    I pleaded with my back not to go out on me as I hurried six flights down the stairway of the Farraday. I had no time for the elevator.
    My footsteps echoed, and wordless voices sang, argued, screamed, and guffawed behind each door. The tenants of the Farraday included bookies, alcoholic physicians, baby photographers with astigmatism, a fortune-teller named Juanita, at least three talent agents, and a long list of con artists who were long on con and short on artistry. In the lobby, I was greeted by the satisfying smell of Lysol, which Jeremy and Alice used in bulk vats to hold off the alternative.
    About twenty minutes later I entered Levy’s on Spring at the crack of noon. The tables were full of people on their lunch break, taking advantage of the sixty-five-cent special, eating fast and talking loud.
    Carmen looked up from giving change to a pale man in a three-piece suit whose shoulders swayed as if he were listening to some internal tune. The man looked a little like Donald Meek, the whiskey drummer in Stagecoach .
    “Toby,” she said. “He’s here. Back table near the kitchen.”
    “Farnsworth?” I asked.
    “Yes,” she said with more enthusiasm than I’d heard from her since I took her to see Man Mountain Dean and Ruffy Silverstein wrestle two years before at the Olympic.
    She handed the dancer his change and he bopped out, giving way to a corn-blond couple in their thirties who could have been twins or married. I squinted toward the table near the kitchen. A guy about forty with a round handsome face and straight brown hair was playing with his coffee and looking back at me.
    “Should I know him?” I asked Carmen, nodding at Farnsworth.
    “He’s married to Bette Davis,” she whispered.
    The blond couple adjusted their glasses in unison and turned to look at Arthur Farnsworth, who nervously adjusted his tie.
    “Client,” I said. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
    I moved around the tables, enjoying the smells of Levy’s, and made my way to Farnsworth, who stood up to greet me. He was wearing a leather jacket and blue denim pants, all new. He was also wearing a worried look and the faint smell of Sen-Sen. Standing up, he was shorter than I had expected, and heavier, an ex–college lineman.
    “Peters?” he asked, holding out his hand.
    I took the hand. Grip firm. Face serious. Breath 80 proof beyond the Sen-Sen.
    “Farnsworth,” I said.
    We sat and I motioned for Rusty the waiter. Rusty, so named because he was born ancient and arthritic, creaked his way toward us.
    “Thanks for coming,” Farnsworth said, lighting a cigarette. “I know you’re not really interested, but someone—”
    “Someone?” I asked as Rusty made it to our table. He was short, thin, corroded, and raspy.
    “What’ll it be?” he demanded.
    “American Reuben and a Pepsi for me,” I said, raising an eyebrow at Farnsworth, who glanced at his coffee.
    “Just coffee,” he said.
    Rusty grunted. The trip had hardly been worth the pain. He turned and left us.
    “Someone told you to come to me,” I reminded him.
    “Oh, yes. Let me explain. My wife is—”
    “Bette Davis,” I said casually above a roar of laughter from one of the four men at the table behind us.
    “You do your research,” said Farnsworth.
    “My job,” I said with a shrug.
    “I’ll come to the point,” he said, leaning over the table toward me and lowering his voice, though no one was listening to us and only Carmen across the room at the cash register was glancing our way. “Someone is threatening me, suggesting that he’ll create a scandal, hinting that he’ll kidnap my wife, claiming they have something that will ruin her career.”
    “Go to the police,” I said.
    He shook his head.
    “Then pay him.”
    “No, it’s not like that. And they