Read Online Wicked City by Alaya Johnson - Free Book Online Page B

retrieved my bicycle. An affair with the mayor ! Amir would never let me hear the end of it. I’d sooner get head lice. I’d sooner vote for Faust!
    *   *   *
    I skidded to a stop at the corner of Chambers and Elm, digging my heels into the hot tarmac to aid my slowly declining brakes. Amir had offered to get me a new bicycle, but I had decaying for the same reason I refused to ask for a pair of dancing shoes. I was beginning to regret that now, when no fewer than two gear malfunctions had nearly sent me crashing into a streetcar and forced me to waste precious minutes realigning the chain. Despite my best efforts, I had smudged grease on the hem of the dress, and I did not even want to contemplate my fingernails. The street behind City Hall was quiet and strangely empty for a Tuesday afternoon. I muttered a stream of imprecations at bicycle manufacturers, the mayor, and reckless streetcar drivers, in that order, as I checked my watch.
    I hastily locked my bicycle to the tall wrought-iron gates that surround the grounds of City Hall. It occurred to me that this wasn’t strictly legal, but it didn’t seem likely that even the most enterprising police officer would bother with it at nearly the close of business on Tuesday.
    The aldermanic chamber was shuttered this afternoon. In the main lobby, a woman with an armful of leather-bound books hurried up the stairs. I walked past a group of suited men having a quiet conversation. One of them glanced at me, and I increased my pace. I was sure I looked painfully out of place. At least it was blessedly cooler, here among the marble and electric fans. A large hall branched off from the left side of the lobby, blocked by a young lady at a desk.
    â€œCan I help you, miss?” she asked.
    â€œI’m here to see the mayor,” I said.
    â€œOh, you’re Miss Hollis? Mrs. Brandon told me to expect you. Just wait here a moment.”
    I took the opportunity to discreetly straighten my dress and smooth my hair. The group of men went outside just as the secretary returned to her desk, accompanied by another woman. She seemed familiar, and as she drew closer I recognized her as the same woman speaking with Madison and the mayor after the evidentiary hearings yesterday. That implied a level of responsibility and power, which was certainly unusual for a woman in a place like City Hall. She wore a skirt and blouse nearly as conservative as my habitual attire, and despite the boiling weather outside, looked freshly starched and pressed. Her blunt features seemed friendly enough—she smiled when she saw me.
    â€œMiss Hollis,” she said. “We were hoping you would make it. I’m Judith Brandon, one of James’s special advisors. Follow me, please.”
    We headed down a long marble corridor. She stopped in front of a door of inlaid mahogany and rapped three times. No one responded. She knocked again, then shook her head and opened the door a crack.
    â€œJimmy?” she called. “Miss Hollis is here.”
    A muffled shout emanated from somewhere deep inside the room.
    â€œOh,” said Mrs. Brandon, “he must be changing. We might as well wait inside.”
    I wanted to ask what the mayor would think of us watching him undress, but when she opened the door fully I saw no trace of the man I’d come to meet. The mayor’s office was masterfully appointed, with a large oak bureau, a leather couch in one corner, and two chairs facing the desk.
    â€œHe’ll be up in a minute,” Mrs. Brandon said, sitting down. “James must always be impeccable, as I’m sure you know. In the summer, he changes as many as four times a day.”
    I gaped. Even I hadn’t imagined our mayor owning enough custom-tailored suits to change them four times a day! “And how much does this habit cost the city?” I heard myself asking. I winced. I had two police officers who would happily eat me for lunch and a mayor