The Inside Ring Read Free Page B

becoming predictable in my dotage. I hate that.”
    “The last thing you’ll ever be is predictable, Emma, but what I have to tell you can’t be told in front of the cello player.”
    “I’ll send her shopping. Just be on time, Joe.”

    THE CAFETERIA WAS crowded and a number of spectators were standing, yet Emma sat alone at a table for four. DeMarco could imagine music lovers approaching, asking politely if they might sit, and Emma backing them off with a glance and a growl, like a lioness protecting a bloody haunch from a flock of timid vultures. At present, the lioness was serenely drinking a glass of white wine while tapping a manicured nail in time to the music.
    Emma was tall and slim. Her features were patrician, her complexion flawless. Her hair, cut short and chic, was neither gray nor blond but some mysterious shade in between. She was beautiful in an austere way and with her ice-blue eyes she reminded DeMarco of the actress Charlotte Rampling. He suspected that she was somewhere between fifty and sixty, not because she looked it, but because of what little he knew of her history.
    The operative word with Emma was always “suspected.” She refused to discuss herself, past or present. She would drop hints—tantalizing, inconsistent tidbits—but would never explain when asked to clarify. She admitted to having once worked for the government, but she wouldn’t say in what capacity or for which department. She claimed to be retired but was often out of town for extended periods and never returned with a tan. She lived expensively and owned a home in pricey McLean, Virginia—property that did not seem affordable on a civil servant’s pension. She was gay but something she had once said made DeMarco think she had been married and might have a child. But he wasn’t certain; he was never certain.
    DeMarco knew that Emma was at times enigmatic because she chose to be, because it suited her contrary nature. But he also knew that she was sometimes elusive because she had to be.
    As he walked toward her table, DeMarco glanced over at the musicians and noted, as he had expected, that the cello player was a beauty: a tall, willowy, Viking blonde—with legs to die for, spread erotically for her cello.
    DeMarco pulled back a chair to take a seat next to Emma. She heard the chair scrape the floor and said without looking, “That seat’s taken. So are the other two.”
    “Liar,” DeMarco said.
    “Takes one to know one,” Emma muttered.
    Pointing his chin at the cello player, DeMarco said, “She’s a hottie, all right.”
    “A hottie? God, Joe.”
    As DeMarco listened to the quartet he wondered why all these people were here. Did they really enjoy this music or was it something they forced themselves to endure, a self-prescribed dose of sophistication, the cultural equivalent of swallowing a carrot smoothie for one’s health.
    “When will this end, Emma?” DeMarco said. “I’ll slip into a coma if it goes on much longer.”
    “Sit there and be quiet,” Emma said. “It’s time you learned to appreciate something other than the Dixie Chicks.”
    The quartet finally finished and the cello player handed her instrument to a pimply-faced volunteer. She wagged a finger at him in a stern you-be-careful-with-that gesture, then moved toward Emma’s table, blond mane flying behind her, long thoroughbred legs flashing. Had Emma not been his friend DeMarco would have been jealous. Hell, he was jealous.
    Seeing DeMarco, the cello player hesitated when she reached the table but Emma said, “It’s all right, Christine, sit down. Christine, this is Joe. Joe’s a bagman for a corrupt politician.”
    “Jesus, Emma,” DeMarco said.
    “Which one?” pretty Christine asked.
    Thankfully, Emma ignored her question and said, “Joe, be a good bagman and fetch Christine a glass of white wine.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” DeMarco said.
    DeMarco returned with Christine’s wine and a Pepsi for himself. Emma was complimenting