“N—no. M—maybe. A—a l-little.” Christ. She had slurred every word.
“Sit down before you fall.” He guided her to a chair at the table.
She sat in the seat, her elbows landing on the table with a soft thud. “Why are you asking me about the Dreamland Cafe?”
“Would you recognize the man who shot Houdini if you saw him again?”
Oh God. “I’m not feeling well.”
“I’ve got no time for cat and mouse, Honoree. Did you see him or not?”
She placed a hand on her stomach.
“Stop asking me questions I can’t answer.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
She picked at the splinters on the kitchen table. “Nonsense. I had an audition for the chorus at the Dreamland Cafe.” She added a small smile. “I got the job, too.”
“God, Honoree. Two dozen girls showed up for that audition.”
“I told you what you wanted to know. Are we done?”
He sat in the chair opposite her. “We have to be straight with each other. I can only help you if you tell me the truth.”
What a foolish thing for him to say. “What do you mean, straight with each other? I don’t need your help.”
“You don’t trust me, and I understand. But you stumbled into something that could get you hurt. I don’t want anything to happen to you. But I need you to trust me.”
“I’m not going to trust you just because you say so.”
He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. “Honoree, we’re wasting time.”
She stood up and paced, her feet smaller, her legs shorter, her circle tighter and faster. Why keep lying? He knew.
“Pack some clothes.” Ezekiel rose. “Whatever you can fit into a shopping bag. I’ll take you to Union Station. In an hour, you can be on the next train to anywhere. It doesn’t matter where.”
“Leave town? Why?”
“You witnessed Houdini’s murder and can recognize the man who shot him.”
“I didn’t see—”
He slammed his fist on the table. “Enough lies! Pack your clothes. Let’s go.”
“The man who killed Houdini didn’t see me—I have no reason to leave.”
“Good God, Honoree. Don’t be naive. If my man saw you, they probably did, too.”
“Leaving town seems to be the only way you know how to deal with trouble. I’m not leaving.”
He removed a Chesterfield from his pack. “You want a smoke?”
“No.”
He lit up and reached for the tin ashtray on the counter next to the sink. Then he sat across from where she stood and took a long drag of his smoke. “If you’re not leaving, I need something from you.”
“And what would that be?”
