Chapter Fourteen
We left Billy O’ Geech outside the club. I promised I’d call him, which I knew I would. Then Bert and I did find a Pakistani cab driver who was looking for a morning fare into the city, and we settled down into the back seat. He pulled me over to him. “You had me worried,” he said in a low voice, close to my ear. “No one called or came by about the killing at the Raleigh House, but I was sure that something awful had happened to you.”
“How did you know that?” I asked. “And how did you know where I was? I didn’t even try to contact you.”
“An old friend from our past told me,” Bert said, smirking.
“Who?”
“Neatsfoot. The dark, beautiful, guileful Neatsfoot.”
“Are you still jealous—that happened almost a thousand years ago.”
“I am. But I know Neatsfoot basically has you
