The Dead Gentleman

by Matthew Cody

  And there were other things after me as well. They’d been waiting for me when I returned to my hideout—the small attic of an abandoned tannery near the riverfront. I’d heard their chattering as I perched on the fire ladder that I normally used to come and go. Peeking through the loose slats over the boarded-up window, I made out smallish shapes moving around in the darkened room, but I’d never managed to get a good look—they kept to the shadows, the unused nooks and crannies, the very places where I used to feel safe. I’d heard them several times since then, in back alleys or cellars I’d mistakenly thought empty. Always, I’d be warned just in the nick of time by a low whistle from Merlin. I had to admit, without the bird I’d have been snatched up a long time ago. That clockwork canary had a knack for anticipating trouble, especially trouble of an unusual sort.

  Not that the bird’s gift excused anything. Because of him, I was now reduced to sleeping under an overturned iron bathtub, wrapped in a moldy coat, with the rest of the crazies who squatted beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. The sounds of the East River, the bells of the barges and the swell of lapping waves, mixed with the smells of campfires and the people there. Few voices competed with the river; mostly it was just hushed whispers and sickly coughing, but every now and then someone would break down crying or burst out in hysterical laughter. The bridge folk were nuts, mostly, but at least they didn’t have the wherewithal to chase a bribe, and they were already so far down in the pecking order that you couldn’t really threaten them with less. It seemed that the bridge folk were the only ones not looking for me, and therefore they were my best bet if I wanted to disappear for a while—at least until the saner folks forgot about me and the stupid bird.

  “Hey, you put a deposit on this here tub, or what?”

  My eyes popped open as my hand reached instinctively for my missing razor, which was on the floor of a dead man’s coach somewhere. A shriveled prune of a face was talking to me, flapping lips working on toothless gums. The face belonged to one of the bridge folk, a well-seasoned one judging by the smell.

  Prune-face was tugging hard on my makeshift blanket, trying to get me to move. I tugged back, harder. “Clear off, will you? I’m not looking for any trouble, you crazy old … person.” I honestly couldn’t have told you whether I was talking to a man or a woman. Merlin let out a short whistle that was absolutely no help at all.

  Prune-face let me have the blanket but didn’t quiet down. “Hey, I’m talking at you. You hear? You gotta leave a deposit with the Duke if you want to sleep here in this tub. So’s you don’t ruin it. Maybe you leave me that shiny parrot there and I won’t tell him.”

  I glanced over at Merlin in his cage, then at the cracked, muddy, weed-encircled tub I’d squeezed myself under for shelter. It didn’t seem like much of a trade. “How am I going to ruin rubbish?” I asked. “And who are you talking about? A duke owns this tub? I suppose that makes you some sort of baron? Or maybe you’re the pope himself, right?” I slowly inched my fingers toward the one weapon I did have—a stout ax handle I’d nicked off a lumber cart. So far this crazy seemed harmless enough, but you never knew when they might turn. Then it pays to have a nice piece of hickory at your side.

  “Do I look like the pope? I’m just trying to give you some good advice, friend. That there tub belongs to the Duke Under the Bridge, and you don’t want to be caught sleeping in it without leaving him a little something. Else he’ll take a little something off of you.” With that, Prune-face held up a hand, wriggling the stumps of three missing fingers in my face. “Get my drift?”

  I got it. This “Duke” person must have been one of the bridge folk who thought of himself as a kind of boss. Maybe he was a thug who was slumming it for a while, bullying the crazies for kicks. Whatever the case, the last thing I wanted was a run-in with him.

  “Yeah, well, thanks for the tip,” I said as I began rolling up my things. “Like I said, I don’t want any trouble, so I’ll just be moving on.”

  Prune-face’s face scrunched up even more, if that was possible. “No, you don’t get it, friend. There’s no time for moving on. The Duke’s here now!”

  “What’s this squatter doing here?” asked a voice full of stones. “Lazy sack o’ bones enjoying the luxuries of my home without so much as an apple core left out for the Duke?”

  He was at least as tall as an elephant, nearly as broad and fat. A patchwork robe of stitched-together blankets strained to cover his layers of girth. And atop his square, lumpy head, resting crookedly on two pitted black horns—horns—was a dull, dented crown of gold. The Duke Under the Bridge.

  He upended the cast-iron tub like it was made from so much newsprint. For once, Merlin had the good sense to remain quiet. As my gaze drifted, very much against my will, up to the pointed teeth that grew crookedly in all directions out of his wide mouth, I had the instant, sinking certainty that Prune-face hadn’t lost those fingers to anyone’s blade.

  The Duke grinned, showing even more twisted teeth. “What’s the matter, sport? Cat make off with your tongue?”

  Somehow, I managed to find my voice. “Uh, no sir. I … I didn’t realize that this tub was taken.”

  “This whole patch of turf is taken. This here bridge and its surrounding parts is mine. And nothing happens here without my say-so, so you’d better pony up tribute to the Duke.”

  I doubted that the traffic of carriages and carts going to and fro up top had ever even heard of this Duke, much less paid him any sort of tribute. My first guess was right, more or less—the Duke was only a thug, playing big man with the crazies. He was just a particularly nasty, and sort of inhuman, thug. But I had been dealing with thugs all my life.

  This insight gave me a scrap of confidence despite the Duke’s size and considerable appearance—enough so that my knees stopped shaking, at least. “Well, that might’ve been my oversight, eh … Your Highness,” I said, searching my pockets. “Let’s see, I’ve a fine hickory ax handle here, barely a spot of blood on it … a nice fur-trimmed coat that would make a grand gift for a lady friend. Just needs a little darning for the holes. Here’s a few buttons, some string and a fishing lure …” As the Duke scooped up the ax handle and the woman’s coat, I subtly put my body between the Duke and Merlin. The big oaf was making small growls of pleasure as he fondled the coat, and I dared to hope that I might just make it out of there if I could keep the beast’s attention off the bird.

  “Ask him about his shiny parrot, Your Majesty!” shouted a voice from nearby. Cursing under my breath, I spotted Prune-face, looking innocently at the sky.

  “Eh?” said the Duke, looking down. “What’s this? You holding out on me, son?”

  “What? No sir. Of course not. You’ve got all my best loot right there in front of you.”

  “That so? I was thinking that I’d take this here fancy coat and maybe just a pinky finger. But if you’re holding out on me …,” said the Duke, letting the coat fall to the ground. “Step aside.”

  I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry as sand. My alternate plan, which was mostly a lot of running, was looking better by the second. “Sir, I know a very nice scrivener’s shop that’s an easy mark. Maybe I could get you a few—oof!”

  The Duke had heard enough. He poked me in the chest with one thick-clawed finger, which knocked me flat on my back. I landed next to the cage wherein sat the shiny “parrot.”

  Merlin squeaked with panic, but I couldn’t tell whether the concern was for me or for the bird’s own well-being. The Duke bent over to inspect the cage, one eye squinting to get a better look, but he seemed to be having difficulty making out such a small thing in the dark. Despite his manhandling of my other goods, the Duke was being surprisingly delicate now, almost cautious.

  “Oh, that little thing,” I said, rubbing at my sore chest. “That’s nothing of interest. Just a bit of junk. A child’s toy, is all.” If the Duke decided to take Merlin now, there was really nothing I could do about it. And it wouldn’t solve my other problems, either. I’d sti
ll be hunted. No one would believe that the bird had been re-stolen by some monster living among the bridge folk. They’d assume that I’d hidden it in a safe place, and they would hurt me to make me talk. They would hurt me bad.

  As the Duke examined the cage, Merlin suddenly burst into song, flying and fluttering around the bars. It was amazing—I’d never seen the bird do that, and I was pretty sure a creature made up of metal and gears shouldn’t be able to do that. Merlin’s little show had a different effect on the Duke, though, as he got a good look at the bird at last.

  “Eh? What’s that? Why, it looks like …” In a moment, the Duke’s pitted and pockmarked face went from drooling greed to confusion to something like fear, then worse, anger. He was working out something in the slow train of his thoughts. When a creature that big has to think about something that hard, the outcome can never be good. I began to back away, doing a slow crab walk on my hands and feet.

  You could almost hear the clank as something fell into place inside the Duke’s ugly head. “Spy!” he shouted. “You ain’t no street trash! You’re working for them! They sent you here to put the squeeze on the Duke.” He rose up to his full height and took a giant step toward me. “Well, you can give them this message for me, will you?”

  The Duke brought his meaty foot down just inches from my head. If I hadn’t rolled at the last minute, my brains would have become so much toe jam. This was obviously my cue. Still on four legs, I scurried underneath the Duke’s other foot and made for Merlin’s cage. It was ridiculous and very unlike me to be risking my own neck for Merlin a second time. But then again, if you look at the bird as my property rather than, say, my only companion, then it made perfect sense. I always say you need to protect the things that you have rightfully stolen in this world.

  The Duke roared in outrage over his inability to squash me into paste. By this time I’d gotten to my feet, birdcage in hand. The Duke gave pursuit.

  “I’ll have you,” he shouted. “And I won’t stop with your little finger, either!” He practically chewed the slobbery threat, but I knew that in an open footrace, I had the advantage. The Duke was all girth, much of it sagging around his middle, and those tree-trunk legs just weren’t made for sprinting. I’d already put distance between him and me. I even felt cocky enough to wave my intact pinky finger back at him.

  Then a voice came out of nowhere. “Not with my shiny parrot you don’t!” it said.

  I never even saw Prune-face coming, but the wrinkled bridge dweller blindsided me. As I was crushed to the ground, something in Merlin’s cage broke with a sharp snap, but I didn’t have time to check on the bird’s condition. Filthy hands grabbed my arms and legs as more bridge folk, seeing which way the tide was turning, rushed to join the winning side. It didn’t take long before I was right and truly pinned.

  The Duke came jogging up in a puff—the exercise seemed to have made his mood even crueler, if such a thing was possible. He looked to Prune-face and between gasping breaths said, “Nice … tackle, Meg.”

  Meg. I’d been taken down by an old woman.

  “Now … then,” continued the Duke, his ugly mug leering just inches away. A big, dirty drop of sweat trickled down his brow and off the tip of his twisted, corkscrew nose, splashing against my cheek. I tried pulling away, to put even a few inches between me and that gaping mouth, but the bridge folk held me fast. The Duke grinned, showing teeth. “Now, where’s that little finger again?”

  I kicked and cursed and fought against my captors, but I was stuck. In my years of thieving, I’d imagined a number of grisly ends. I’d played these scenes out in my head time and time again. Worst I figured, I’d be knifed in a back alley, while the best I could hope for was three squares in a cell somewhere until I was old and gray and useless. But I’d never imagined this kind of death—as a monster’s breakfast under the Brooklyn Bridge.

  In the distance, I heard Merlin singing like mad. The bird sounded agitated, almost hysterical. In some small way, beneath my own panic, this pleased me. It was nice that there would be someone to mourn my passing, even if it was an addle-brained windup toy.

  But I didn’t see, at first, the shining flash of metal swooping and diving at the Duke’s face. I didn’t see the tiny creature valiantly pecking away at the great brute’s eyes, heedless of its own safety. I didn’t see any of this until, his blood rising in a red-hot and overexerted rage, the Duke swatted at the bird with a reckless, overreaching left hook that missed Merlin and connected, instead, with poor Prune-face’s jaw. The shriveled old woman went out like a candle in a gale, spitting out her few remaining teeth on the way down.

  After seeing Prune-face’s sad end, the remaining stragglers holding on to my arms were only too happy to put some distance between themselves and the Duke’s anger, so I had little trouble kicking them off. Meanwhile, Merlin kept up his assault, weaving and dodging between blows and landing several good pecks on the Duke’s already pockmarked face, buying me time.

  Stumbling to my feet, I made a dash for it. Unfortunately, I was still a bit dizzied, and I didn’t have the slightest idea where I’d come from or where I should be going—nothing but piles of junk, campfires and bridge folk in every direction. Luckily, Merlin appeared again. The bird left off its attack on the Duke and soared past my head, circling twice and whistling an urgent tune. I followed the bird at a full run, dodging groups of crazies as we went. I could hear the giant footsteps of the Duke not far behind, his voice bellowing further outrage at being forced into even more exercise.

  Together Merlin and I fled through the bridge folks’ shantytown, until we reached the wooden pilings that marked the edge of the East River. The water was a quiet, bottomless black slab in the dark. There was nowhere else to go.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TOMMY

  NEW YORK, 1900

  “Now what?” I shouted. “You’ve led us to a dead end!”

  Still, the bird hooted and squawked and flew out in looping circles over the dark water, urging me to follow.

  “That’s all fine and good for you,” I said. “But I can’t swim!”

  An exhausted, gasping roar signaled that the Duke was getting close.

  Teeth chattering with more than just cold, I waded into the oily river. In just a few feet I was in over my head and chilled down to my bones. Merlin flew excitedly overhead as I struggled to keep afloat with a kind of made-up dog paddle.

  I was trapped between the Duke on land and the deep river all around. There was no way I’d survive a swim to the distant far shore, I was sure of that. I’d already swallowed a load of water and my nose was barely above the waves. But just when I thought I was done for, something happened. The water started to bubble and froth all around me, and I cried out as I spotted lights drifting toward the surface like the great, glowing eyes of some beast rising from the depths of the East River to swallow me whole.

  An enormous hulk of slime and seaweed broke the surface, lifting me high into the air. Clinging to the top, I barely kept a grip on its slippery, cold surface. Two bright lanterns shone from its front, bathing the shore in electric light. A series of hissing jets vented from the sides, righting it on the churning waves. I hung there for a few terrified moments, clinging to this metal giant, unsure what to do. There was a dull clank, followed by the sound of something twisting, unscrewing—metal grinding against metal. Then the top, just inches away from my fingers, popped open, revealing a hatch filled with warm yellow light.

  A man poked his head out of the opening—a big, mustached fellow wearing a strange-looking set of goggles over his eyes. His nose was overly large and red and made him look a bit clownish. But he carried a long whaler’s harpoon in his hands with the confidence of someone who knew how to use it.

  With a series of nearly gleeful whistles, Merlin landed on the man’s shoulder. He gave the bird a smile and a playful scratch under its chin.

  “Nice to see you, Herodotus,” he said. He had the crisp accent of a Londoner, but it sounded posh and well
-to-do, not like the cockney seamen and deckhands I’d encountered before.

  He turned to me. “So you’re the one to thank for getting our little friend back, eh? Quite a feat, stealing him right out from under the nose of the Gentleman himself!”

  I managed to pry my frozen fingers from the hull of the ship, for apparently that’s what the thing was—a kind of ship that traveled under the water—and stood up. The slick footing was uneven at best and I was afraid I’d tumble back into the river, plus it looked a lot more inviting inside that hatchway, certainly more inviting than my alternatives. I decided to be on my best behavior.

  “Uh, yes sir. I suppose so, sir,” I said, assuming he meant the dead man in the carriage, though how he knew about that was a mystery. “Though I wouldn’t call that fiend a gentleman.”

  He gave a sour laugh. “Yes, you’re right. It’s a name he hardly deserves, but the Dead Gentleman didn’t earn the name; he took it.”

  Merlin, or Herodotus, or whatever the bird’s name was, sang a little song and the man paused. He seemed to be listening to the bird, though it was all chimes and tin whistles to my ear.

  “Herodotus tells me you’ve got a special gift for getting out of danger. That you’re fast on your feet as well as with your wits.”

  “Oh, well, that’s kind of him, sir,” I lied. I didn’t believe that this man could somehow understand all that ruckus.

  “He also tells me that you’re an untrustworthy thief and a sewer rat, and you’d partner up with the devil himself if you thought you could make a profit.”

  Blast! He could understand it!

  “Well, we’ll have to work on smoothing out those rougher edges, won’t we?”

  I blinked, not sure what he was getting at.