Alien Eyes (20 page)

“Detective?”

David looked back to Angel. “I'm sorry?”

“I just said … do you think we might talk over a meal? Have you eaten?”

“No,” David lied. He was grateful he'd left Mel and String behind. Angel would best be handled gently.

“I know of a favorite place—”

“Angel?” Stephen Arnold caught sight of David and froze. “Hello, Detective.” He turned to one side, standing slightly in front of David. “Angel, the kids.” He inclined his head toward a knot of Elaki and humans, Donovan and Dreamer included. Weid stood to one side, close to the students, but separate. They were all watching. David wondered if he was imagining the hostility.

Could be the cop thing. Harassing the idol. Though in his opinion she hadn't seemed harassed until Arnold showed up.

“The kids asked me to use my influence.” Arnold was smiling, but he looked exhausted. The skin on his face looked tight, and there were bags beneath his eyes. His shoulders were rounded, slumped over. “They're going over to Brownie's again tonight. They want to buy you a beer if you'll come. And, of course, they loved the lecture.”

“Ah, Stephen.” Angel sounded tired. Maybe, David thought, even annoyed. “I think
not
tonight.” She waved a fin, almost touching Arnold, but not quite. “Why do you not go with them?”

“Maybe I will.” Arnold's back was straight and stiff. He turned to David. “Anything to report, Detective?”

“Not just yet,” David said. “Have you been all right?”

“My daughter freshly murdered and tortured, Detective? No. I haven't been all right. Do you know, Angel? That the police suspect
me
of having something to do with her killing?”

“But no, Stephen.” Angel's voice softened as she turned an eye stalk to David. “I must be sure you are mistaken on this.”

“My main concern is for
your
safety, Dr. Arnold. I think you're wrong not to accept our protection. Unless you know something I don't?”

“I
know
that I'd be damn glad for whoever murdered my baby to come after me. I can handle myself. I'd just like a chance to handle them.”

“
No
, Stephen.” Angel turned to David. “Detective Silver is most correct. You should be careful. We could not afford to lose you now.”

Arnold put a hand on her back scales, just where her body flared. David noticed the quiver, quickly suppressed, before Angel moved almost imperceptibly, just out of reach.

She doesn't like to be touched, David thought.

“Not to worry, Angel. Everything I have is backed up. All my notes, everything. The study's complete. The conclusion—first draft is done, and I'm revising. The gist of it's there.” Arnold nodded curtly at David. “I'll leave you to your interrogation.”

“Actually,” David said, “we're just having dinner.”

Arnold narrowed his eyes, then turned and walked away. David wondered why he had said what he did.

THIRTY-THREE

Angel had folded in the middle and tucked herself into his car without hesitation.

“I like this, David.” She peered at the lights and dials on his dashboard. “I have had the secret desire to ride in the police car. Much is the gadgetry.”

“You need to ride in a cruiser.”

“You have pouchlings, David?”

“Three.”

“So many.” She sounded wistful. “Are they the golden hair blue eyes?”

“What, with me for a father?” David shook his head. The car took a turn he did not expect, and his hands slid on the steering wheel. “My wife is dark, too. Brown-eyed, curly-haired brunettes. All three.”

“Is your wife also the police officer?”

“No.” David frowned, wondering how best to describe Rose. As always, she defied description.

“What does she do? She is like Elaki Mother-One, then? All time for the children.”

“Nooo. Rose is a sort of free-lance troubleshooter. She works with animals a lot.”

“I see. If you have animal misbehavior, she will train.”

David turned left onto Merton Avenue. Angel had programmed the car. He didn't like the section they were heading into.

“No, she doesn't train animals,” David said. “She protects them.”

Angel was quiet and David glanced sideways. The Elaki's belly rippled—a genuine Elaki laugh.

David cocked his head sideways. “Why is that funny?”

Angel turned to him, and leaned back into the seat.

Caught you, David thought.

“Please excuse,” she said. “It just seem to be the funny. Animals call you wife for help. But how?”

“You should answer our phone for a week.” David laughed, but felt a little bit traitorous. He glanced out the rearview mirror. Where
was
this place?

Angel leaned close, pointing out the windshield. “It is there, see? Is Café Pierre.”

The Café Pierre occupied the bottom half of an old, white brick building built into the jutting triangle of the street corner. It was one of those odd places of peculiar and definite ambiance that seemed to attract Elaki.

The shutters were freshly lacquered in black, and there were lush red geraniums in the window boxes on the second floor. David would have expected tables outside. There were none. But then, Elaki would not care to dine al fresco. Not when a good strong wind could blow them next door.

“Okay.” David told the car to park. He crossed the street beside Angel, watching for traffic. She seemed oblivious to cars, preoccupied. She swarmed gracefully up the front stoop of the restaurant.

“Is charming place,” she told him.

A huge glass window on the side wall was dust-streaked and cracked in the top left corner. BAR was stenciled in large white letters. A red-checked curtain, thin and dusty, hung in the bottom third of the window. The door was two-thirds glass, with a wood bottom panel.
RESTAURANT
was stenciled across the top of the door, with
PIERRE
a few inches down in ornate script.

David followed Angel in. He looked around and blinked. An odd place. A period place.

The floor was ancient patterned linoleum, none too clean. A mahogany wood bar ran the length of the back wall, and on the shelf behind it were glass bottles of liquor. David looked closely. They were filled to varying degrees with amber and clear liquid, but they had to be fake. Liquor hadn't been available in bottles for years.

There were fresh flowers behind the bar—black roses. Another vase sat on the wood ledge that separated the dining room.

“Good evening,” a man said, his voice low, depressed.

David gave him a second look. He stood beside the bar, arm resting on the surface. His trousers were loose cotton, black, banded tightly at the ankles over large, oversize leather work shoes. His pullover sweater was hunter-green, old and nubby, and the shirt beneath was black like the pants, and buttoned all the way up to a tight collar. He wore a shabby black blazer, the lapels wide.

His face was harsh and hawk-nosed, and he didn't smile. His hair was dark, short, and greased back over a round skull. His eyebrows were dark. He looked past David and Angel Eyes, into the night.

“What do you think?” Angel said.

“Smells good,” David said. It did. Garlic, gravy, wine.

The man looked at David, eyes flat and uninterested. “Order the beef bourguignonne.” His voice was rough, accented. David couldn't place it.

“My table open?” Angel asked.

The man nodded, but did not look their way.

“
Who
is that?” David asked, voice low.

“That is Pierre,” Angel said, moving quickly away. David followed her to the back of the café.

The tables were mahogany, solid and round, perched on pedestals, so there was plenty of room for legs. The tabletops were high, like bar tables, able to accommodate Elaki, who would stand, and people, who could sit on tall, slat-back chairs with wide, padded armrests. Elaki and human could dine eye to eye prong.

The tablecloths were thin, striped, some of them had holes. They reminded David of dish towels his mother had used in their kitchen, before his father disappeared. Died.

He glanced up at the ceiling. Plaster? It was cracked from one corner all the way to the center, where a globe light hung from a nest of red ceramic flowers. Why did it make him think of genitals? From somewhere came a burst of music. Country blues.

“Ah,” Angel said. “The classic. Patseeee Cline.”

“Who?” David said.

“She was singer. Before you time, David.”

“How do you know her?”

“I know the
music
, David.”

David glanced over his shoulder. “I'd have expected something classical. Or jazz, maybe.”

“Pierre play what he like. What he like different, no pattern type. Most of it very good, but not my personal taste the calliope music.”

“Mine either,” David said. But it might be kind of fun if the kids were along. Then it would be legal to enjoy it.

He looked around the room. The clientele was about half and half—Elaki and human, but no mixing between tables. He and Angel attracted stares. Some of the people were dressed up, others, nearly threadbare. They were no more than two miles from the disadvantaged area of Little Saigo.

The menu cards were old, well fingered, and David had doubts that their choices would register. There were three entrees—boeuf bourguignonne, brochettes de moules, and larves de hanneton en papillote.

Angel glanced at him. “Difficult to decide, yes, David?”

“Ummm.” He pressed for the beef.

Angel looked up. “Did you order as he say?”

David nodded. He didn't recognize anything else. He watched as she bent down and made her choice. Larves de hanneton en papillotte. He wondered what it was. Larves—did that mean snail? He'd had snails and liked them okay.

Pierre had said the beef. David looked at the back of the menu.

“There is nothing else to order,” Angel said. “Pierre decides side dishes and drinks.” She swiveled an eye stalk in his direction. “He has the good instinct. You can trust.”

“Interesting attitude,” David said.

“Pierre is most unusual human. Not”—Angel tilted sideways—“that I am the perfect judge. He like to cook and feed, and like to sell to Elaki because Elaki have no taste prejudice. Will eat any nutritious, well-prepared meal. Pierre is true gourmet.”

David looked at the front of the small café. Pierre still stood beside the bar, unsmiling.

“You are flattered, David,” Angel said. “Pierre does not speak to many.”

David smiled. “He spoke to you.”

“But yes.”

It snagged him, for a moment, the way she said it. It wasn't conceit, he decided, so much as admitting reality. She was Angel. Angel Eyes. Of course Pierre talked to her.

Angel waved a fin. “Do you believe that SSStephen Arnold is in danger from Izicho?”

David sat back in his chair. “I think he's in danger, yes.”

“Most careful, you,” Angel Eyes said.

Their food came—brought by a thin girl with short, lank blond hair and large brown eyes. She wore blue jeans that sagged over her bony hips, and a black sweater with holes in the sleeve. A dirty apron was tied around her waist. She wore long earrings, but no makeup, gave David a hesitant smile, but flinched when Angel looked her way. The boeuf bourguignonne, smelling like heaven, came in a brown tureen accompanied by a plate of noodles. Beside the beef were spears of fresh asparagus. David wished he hadn't already had dinner.

David glanced across the table at Angel's plate. “What is that?”

“Larves de hanneton en papillote,” the girl said.

Yes, David thought. But what was it?

“How do you prepare it?” he asked.

The girl put a cutting board on the table and set a long crusty baguette on top.

“Salt and pepper them,” the girl said, wiping her hands on the apron. “Roll them in flour and bread crumbs, wrap them, buttered. He bakes them in ashes.”

David sighed. “What are
them
?”

“Grubs.”

“Grubs of what?”

“Beetles,” Angel told him. “Want to try?”

“No,” David said. “But thanks.” It was good Pierre liked cooking for Elaki. Someone should.

The beef was the best—and the richest—he had ever tasted. Tender brown chunks in red Burgundy gravy. The asparagus was pickled and tangy. He ate it with his fingers, and tore off hunks of bread, and was well on the way to finishing his second big meal of the evening.

David took a large swallow of wine. Angel did not seem affected by the alcohol. A shame it didn't work on her like it did on String.

David chewed a noodle. Slowly. Shoving food in was beginning to hurt. He would definitely call a halt to the bread. He raised his wine glass, then put it down.

Angel ate slowly but steadily, one fin splayed into fingerlike extrusions. Silverware was one human habit she had not acquired.

“Suppose the Izicho aren't responsible for these cho murders, Angel.” David opened his hands. “I don't mean
believe
it. Just suppose it, for the sake of argument. If they weren't responsible, who would be?”

Angel waved a fin, dropping a buttered crumb onto the striped tablecloth. “Is no one else, David Detective Silver. Talk frankly?”

He nodded.

She glanced sideways, then back to his face. Her eye stalks were rigid. “No other grouping has the reason to hurt. No other grouping the power of position.”

“Why?” David said. “Why concentrate their efforts here and now? What's the catalyst?”

Angel leaned sideways. “I must tell you now is the very critical moment. Mainline Elaki, mainline Izicho—go together, you see? And they feel the threat of the Earth habit. Here …” She snagged a wrapped beetle grub and ate it. “Here there is not the habit of social force. The pressure of the others, the social group, the community of peers that regulate the society. Yes, some places, we have found like things. Some of the oriental groupings, and in—I believe it is Haiti? The smaller places. But not to the extent of home. And this give Elaki much freedom and little structure. The Elaki who are coming in—they are the creators. And the criminals, yes, I do admit this. And because of the one, the Izicho answer is to suppress the other. Suppress all. This work against philosophy of Guardian. Guardian feel the society pressure not worth the squelch of us. Too much oneness in Elaki, can you understand this? Face Elaki with problem—will go stand in a bog all night. Become one?” Angel waved a fin, and went rigid. “This mean
do nothing
, accept a what you call, oh, status quo. Stagnant, David, still waters of sludge. This is Elaki mental state, so too often.”