Page 53 of Once a Rogue
“Why would I?”
“The Hudson Line goes along the river. There are mountains and the fall colors are supposed to be very pretty.”
Wesley didn’t look away from his paper. “Tempting. Oh wait, no it isn’t, because I can do something actually useful with my eyes and read my newspaper.”
Sebastian elbowed him. “It’s autumn in New York. It’s famous.”
The train slowed as it approached the elevated 125th Street station. “Please,” Wesley said with a scoff, pitching his voice low enough it wouldn’t travel to the train car’s other occupants. “The leaves only turn those pretty colors because they’re having one last screaming hurrah before they meet their maker. Probably a metaphor for how pointless life is.”
“Or,” Sebastian said, “the tree survives the winter, and it grows, and the leaves come back in spring, and you get little bird nests and squirrels and chipmunks. Maybe that’s the metaphor.”
“Chipmunks.” Wesley turned a page of his newspaper. “You’re trying to convince me life isn’t shit by using metaphorical rodents?”
“Oh no, life can be pretty shit,” Sebastian agreed. “But sometimes the thingsinlife can be pretty cute.”
Wesley’s gaze darted to Sebastian, and then back to the paper. “Maybe one thing.”
The city gave way to countryside and the wide expanse of the Hudson River on their left, and soon enough, Wesley was disembarking in front of Sebastian onto the Tarrytown platform in front of the new station building. The entire scene was obnoxiously picturesque, the glint of sunlight on tiny waves, the fiery autumn leaves that covered the hills rising from the riverbank.
Sebastian, however, wasn’t actually looking at the scenery, but was pointing off to the side, to a parked car. “Mira la gatita, Wes, look how sweet she is.”
By now, Wesley understoodmira, Wes,along withgatoandgatitoandgatito chiquito, and sure enough, there was a black-and-white kitten under the car. “We’re not stopping to find food for that cat.”
“What if she’s hungry?”
“I’mhungry. Get in the taxi, you soft touch, let’s go.”
The train left behind them as they climbed into the taxi idling at the curb. “The Horseman Inn,” Wesley said to the driver, who nodded with a grunt.
Tarrytown was bigger than Wesley had expected, a proper town and New York satellite, although with none of Manhattan’s new skyscrapers. The main street was a row of three-and four-story buildings with small peaked roofs, a mix of Tudor-styled sidings and redbrick. Smushed in with the pharmacies and delis and boutiques was a church, with a small green yard and a tall, thin steeple that stretched up nearly as tall as the tallest buildings.
The inn was sandwiched between two buildings near the end of the street. It had an arched entrance on the ground floor, under a red awning, and there looked to be a small eatery to one side, its windows lined with tables and people.
The taxi left them on the sidewalk and puttered away. “I suppose we start here,” Wesley said, eying the inn speculatively.
“It doesn’t look like a town hiding bootlegging operations.” Sebastian was looking around. “But it’s got easy access to the river and the city.”
“Well, I’d like to finally get some damn answers,” said Wesley. “But I wouldn’t mind a drink.”
Through the inn’s door was a small lobby with a modest staircase at the back. A wooden counter ran along one side, across from an archway on the other side that lead to the adjacent restaurant. A white woman, perhaps forty or so, was behind the counter, going through a stack of papers. Wesley hung back and let Sebastian approach first, because one of them was far more skilled at being pleasant and getting people to talk, and it sure as hell wasn’t Wesley.
“Good morning,” Sebastian said politely to the woman, as he and Wesley approached the counter and gave their names. “We were supposed to meet a friend of ours here at your inn, but we got our dates mixed up and he may have already left. A tall man, with black hair, his name is Arthur Kenzie?”
“Oh,him, yes, he’s an easy one to remember,” said the woman. “There were four in his party. But they’ve been gone a couple days now.”
“Do you remember what time of day they checked out?” Sebastian asked.
“First thing in the morning.” The woman hesitated. “They didn’t check themselves out, though; Mr. Kenzie sent someone round to handle the bill and collect their things. That was day before yesterday.”
Wesley and Sebastian exchanged a look. “So you haven’t actually seen any of them yourself for three days?” Wesley asked.
“I suppose not.” The woman pointed through the archway, into the restaurant. “They had dinner here that night. I assumed they went back to the city early and arranged for the delivery service to handle the bags.”
Sebastian frowned. “What delivery service?”
“Didn’t catch the name,” the woman said apologetically. “Three men in a company truck.”
Three men. It seemed like a long shot, but Sebastian must have also had the same question about the three men they kept running into, because he pointed at Wesley. “Did any of them sound like him?”
