Float by Joeann Hart

black pants and a blue silk cardigan with buttons in the form of seashells, clothes meant to attract attention to the body, so very different from how Cora dressed, in a style that could best be described as mismatched. Sneakers with skirts, sweaters with shorts, reds with oranges, and plaids with anything at all. Hats with everything. And yet, the package as a whole worked, even at her office, where she threw a thin shawl over her shoulders and looked like the wise and patient therapist she was known to be.
    Duncan stood up uneasily, causing his fetid soup to slosh out of its bowl and onto the table. He threw a few paper napkins on the spill. Densch, pushed by Slocum from behind, came running over with another chair for Syrie, and they all sat down. Osbert returned to his lunch.
    “Eel pie?” asked Duncan, edging his plate toward her.
    “Thank you, no,” she said, leaning away, clutching her dog to her bosom. “I don’t eat parasites.”
    Duncan stared at his plate. The eel stared back at him, with its round human mouth, so he picked it up to turn its face away, but when he saw that the neck was a hollow socket, he could not resist. He forced it over his right index finger, then began to speak in an eely voice as he flexed his finger. “Help! Help! Global warming is making me ill!”
    Osbert stared at him for a moment with what Duncan thought was a glimmer of a smile, but no. Osbert suddenly leaned over and yanked the head off Duncan’s finger and flicked it across the room, where it skidded to a dark corner. If people hadn’t been watching them before, they certainly were now. “Don’t play with your food, Leland.”
    Duncan stared at him. If he let him get away with this bullying now, it would never end. He was still the boss—Osbert was only a potential investor. “Don’t tell me what to do,” said Duncan, and he reached over to Osbert’s plate and took his eel head and put it on his finger.
    “You must behave like a man of business, Leland,” said Osbert, barely moving his lips when he talked. “Or you are wasting everyone’s time.”
    “The oceans are heating up! Eels are dying, I’m dying … ” said Duncan, letting his voice trail off as the eel head drooped on his finger. He smiled at Osbert as he removed his finger puppet and put it in his jacket pocket to keep him from taking it back.
    “I’ll wait next door at the coffee shop,” said Syrie, standing. “It doesn’t seem like you two are finished with your discussion.”
    “It’s quite all right, my sweet,” said Osbert, reaching for her elbow to pull her back down to her seat. “As Churchill said, ‘I like a man who grins when he fights.’” Then he returned to eating as if nothing had happened, but Duncan knew that blood would stay in the water.
    “What are you doing here?” he asked Syrie.
    “Osbert is financing my expansion.” She used her wrist to push back a wisp of blonde hair.
    He wondered why Syrie had warned him about Osbert if she was ready to do business with him herself, but that was not something they could talk about in front of him. “Osbert certainly has his finger in quite a few pies,” said Duncan.
    Osbert turned to Syrie. “The Seacrest’s pie, too,” he said. “We’ve just agreed in principle.” He went back to eating without even looking at Duncan, and in the following silence the deal was done. Duncan had neither agreed nor disagreed but had let the deal wash over him.
    “I was just talking to Chief Lovasco,” said Syrie, stretching her feet under the table, causing Duncan to twist his body away. “He says they’ve confirmed that the foot the racers found on Saturday belongs to Marsilio.”
    “Belonged,” corrected Duncan, and he looked over at the kitchen. Slocum would shed no tears for the man, who was known to be unfaithful to his sister.
    “DNA come in?” asked Osbert, finally moving his plate aside and wiping his lips with his napkin.
    “No,” she said, pausing to scrunch her face