Gibson came to one cabinet door and offered Garvey a small jar of perfumed salve. “Here you go,” he said.
“I don’t need it.”
He chuckled. “You will.”
Garvey looked at it, then at the wall of small metal doors. “You got a ripe one?”
“Riper than a homegrown tomato,” Gibson said cheerfully.
“Then yeah. Yeah, I do.”
He laughed again and tossed it to him. “Smart boy.”
Garvey opened it and smeared a thumbful of the salve across his upper lip. Then he took a chair, put it next to the table, opened up the report, and began to write. Gibson and his attendant glanced at each other and Gibson smirked and shook his head. Then they opened the door, reached in, and pulled out the tray carrying the morning’s load.
His color and thickness had changed slightly, but that was all. His face had drained off some water and perhaps he had lost more of what little blood he had left. But overall it was the same. Garvey looked at his thin, intelligent face, his retreating hairline. Strong, worn hands, scarred lower arms. Genitals shrunken against the inside of his thigh. A man like any other, washed up on cement shores.
“Well,” Garvey said. “At least we know he wasn’t killed by denners.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Gibson.
“He’s still got a face, doesn’t he?”
Gibson chuckled and then began his inspection, chanting his litany of facts as he went along. Cause of death, estimation of age, summary description of wounds. The Latin terms for each body part formed some strange incantation in Garvey’s head. He and Gibson’s attendant wrote as fast as they could.
Garvey did this with nearly every homicide he caught. No other detective did, choosing instead to rely upon Gibson’s reports. Gibson was a fine doctor and did his job well, and Gibson knew that it wasn’t a sign of Garvey’s doubt that he was down here whenever he could be, watching their grim procedure. He knew it was something else.
Garvey did not know the word “vigil,” but he didn’t need to. This was a ritual for him, even though it had no name. It was a process of documentation, of marking the passage of the dead and the beginning of Garvey’s attempt to exact some sort of justice. And that was what their job was, at heart. They were men who noted deaths and attempted to change the world because of them. To put their killers to justice, perhaps, but what was that beyond a way of saying that this man mattered, that his life was important, and so his death should affect his killer’s life in turn?
And so he listened. And wrote.
He was considering the official phrasing of one of his sentences when he heard Gibson say, “Did you hear that, Detective?”
“Hear what?”
“Tattoo. On the inside of his bicep. It’s real faded. Hidden close to the armpit, probably so that you couldn’t see it.”
“What’s it of?” he asked, and stood.
“Looks like a bell and a hammer.”
“You mind?” Garvey asked, reaching for the corpse.
“I’m not married to him. Go on ahead.”
Garvey took the flesh of the man’s arm with his thumb and pushed it up. On the inside was a small black bell with a white hammer inside, acting as the clapper. It looked medieval. Some badge of brotherhood, almost.
“Ever seen it before?” asked Garvey.
“No,” said Gibson, frowning. “Well, I’m not sure. Maybe.”
“I haven’t. You?” Garvey asked the attendant.
The boy shook his head.
“Hm,” said Garvey. He looked at it a while, then picked up his file and sketched out the tattoo.
“Amateur stuff,” said Gibson. He flicked the dead man’s arm, the flesh as solid as rubber. “He didn’t know what he was doing at all. Probably just got some ink and a pin, maybe a razor, and went to it.”
“It’s the only identifying mark we have, though, right?”
“That’s true.”
Garvey sat back down, made sure to carefully notate the details of the tattoo, and then said, “Okay. Let’s continue on, then.”
CHAPTER SIX
Nights in Evesden were unlike nights anywhere else. As soon as the blue drained out of the sky all the cradle spotlights would come on at once across the city, shafts of hazy, dreamlike light stabbing up into the darkening atmosphere. They grew in clusters, positioned around each district’s cradle. If the angle was right one could look up and see a forest of soft white trunks swaying back and forth, moving so slowly and with borders so faint it was hard to tell if they were moving at all, unless they happened to fall across an airship, in which case a bright, burnished gold star would suddenly light up above. Newcomers found it hard to sleep in the more exposed neighborhoods, as they were unused to the tides of porcelain light that came washing across their walls or ceilings, but veteran Evesdeners hardly paid attention. They scarcely noticed the strange waltzes that moved back and forth across the city as overnight traffic poured in from the skies.
It was generally acknowledged that the farther you were from them the more spectacular the view was, and in that case Dockland, which would not tolerate a cradle or indeed any real sign of modern civilization, offered one of the best vistas possible, although probably one of the most dangerous ones as well. The entire neighborhood was almost a sea of gloom buried among mountains of sparkling light.
Deep in the twisting bowels of Dockland the city did not sleep. As the distant spotlights flickered on the markets stirred and came to life, gathering in dimly lit rooms and doorways and alley entrances. Smoke tumbled across the tent covers and turned the voices of the barkers and the tradesmen into coarse growls, barely human over the din and clatter of trade. Whores grouped in well-lit spots and flashed mangled grins at passersby. In other places men positioned themselves around the entryways of inconspicuous shops, signaling to one another and screening visitors for whatever business happened within.
Hayes moved among them all like a ghost, weaving through the weak points of the crowds. He was riding a mean drunk and he had forgotten his coat somewhere and his scarf was stuffed down the front of his shirt, which was only half-buttoned. He tried to keep his senses about him. Dockland was probably the most treacherous part of Evesden except for some sections of Construct, where hobos and vagrants had holed up in the half-finished sites and lived in medieval savagery. He was familiar with Dockland, though, and its denizens were familiar with him.
Magic, he thought to himself as he walked. They need the old magic back in action, wheeling and dealing. Like always.
He knew he shouldn’t feel angry at Evans. He wasn’t the one who’d given the order to cut him off. The board, yes. Brightly, yes. But still, they had no issue dumping him off at the drop of a hat, and no issue calling him back just the same.
He shouldn’t have come back. He should have just cut tether and run. He’d done it before. He’d done it overseas, in worse conditions than this. He was a consummate survivor. He could wander anywhere and find a future, should he want to.
Hayes scratched at his arm and realized he was shivering again. His nerves jangled with the needling tension that always took him at this hour. Cho Lun’s Carpentry was only a block away but here in this loud, chattering chaos it seemed miles. He picked up his pace and skipped through a gap in the groups of people. As he did someone shouted, “Princeling! Hey, Princeling! Princeling’s here!” but he did not respond.
He reached into his pocket to touch his savings. It was more of a wad of small bills, kept together by his sweat. He wondered how much time that would buy him. An hour. Maybe less. When he had first started coming to the dens he had bought out booths for the entire night, sprawled out on the cushions and teasing the girls for favors. Now it was utilitarian. Medicinal. He came to get his regular dose, and then he could make it through the next day.
He counted his cash again. It wasn’t enough. Not for what he needed.
Hayes scanned the crowd and wandered for a bit before he found what he was lookin
g for. In front of a closed warehouse a group of youths had set up a table game, the usual find-the-jack switch. They weren’t working in shifts, which was lucky. Just one frontman and the rest of the gang organizing. It would be far easier to get a bead on things that way.
Hayes took up a station just down the alley from them and leaned up against the brick wall and waited. He listened to the leader’s chatter, to his cajoling and wheedling. Watched the movements of his hands and the blur of the cards.
Then he took a breath, let it out, and tried to pay attention.
It took about an hour for Hayes to start getting it. It helped that all the boys were watching the game at once. Soon the sensations started leaking in, the joy of the con and the careful attention of the bait and hook. Let them win a little, let them lose more. The greed burned inside Hayes and he began to hold the pattern in his mind, the way one thought and feeling segued into another, the way the night was supposed to work for these young men. It was faint and not much to work with, but Hayes didn’t have much time.
He stepped out from the shadows of the alley and got in line for the game. When he stepped up the young man grinned and said, “Up to try your luck, try and get the jack to bleed green?”
“I am indeed,” Hayes said.
“All right then, sir, let’s see the wager you’re willing to put on his crown. Hopefully your bundle’ll stay put and not topple, eh?”
“Hopefully,” he said, and put down his money.
The young man looked at it. “That’s an awful lot.”
“I’m awful lucky.”
The boy frowned, judging him. He nodded. “Fair enough.”
Hayes felt the pattern change in the boy. Change tempo and direction, almost. Hayes struggled to keep his attention and watched the cards. Lose once, win twice, and walk, he said to himself.
The boy turned the cards up, showing him the jack. Hayes barely looked. Then the boy flipped them over and began smoothly swerving them in and out, chanting quietly as they moved. Hayes anticipated the turn and felt the boys burn white-hot with anxiety. When the cards stopped moving Hayes pointed to the wrong card and the lead boy smiled and flipped it over.
The boy grinned. Already he had the gray teeth of an old man. “Sorry, sir. You’re not lucky today, it seems.”
“Imagine that,” said Hayes. “Try again?”
The boy began laying cards down again. But Hayes knew the game now. On the second try he won his money back handily. On the third he placed his money down and made a triple bet and watched the jack spin by, the boy desperately maneuvering it through the other cards. Hayes almost missed it. When they came to a stop he took out a finger, waved it along the line of cards, listening carefully. The boys watched and as his finger passed by the third card he felt a whine of fear ring out in all of them like a chorus.
Hayes tapped the card. “That one.”
The boy stared at him, then flipped it over. The jack looked up at them both. The boy leaned close and said, “What the fuck you doing here?”
“Taking my winnings.”
“What’d you do? What’d you do to the game?”
“Nothing,” said Hayes. “I just won it.”
Spectators around them started to applaud. The boy looked up and suddenly remembered himself.
“Here,” he said. “Here. Take your goddamn money and go.”
Hayes counted it carefully, then tipped an imaginary hat and walked away, the crowd still applauding. As he turned the corner a faint headache started to pound. He silently cursed himself. There had been too many people there and he had stayed far too long.
No, this was not magic, he thought to himself as he walked. He didn’t know what it was. It was just his. Brightly called it his “talent” or his “knack.” Evans preferred not to speak about it at all. And Hayes needed no word for it. It was just something that happened.
Sometimes when the wind was right and everything was still, Hayes could feel ripples running through him. Echoes from the minds of those around him. Most of the time they were deathly faint, but they were there. And sometimes he could learn things from them, or even mimic them.
It had taken him a long while to realize he could do it at all. To him it felt natural, like breathing. Like seeing patterns in mathematics and solving them, or sitting down with a pencil and knowing how to sketch a tree. It was just something his mind did without asking.
The boys at McNaughton had quizzed him about it at great length when Brightly had first hauled him in. Physicists and biologists and psychologists. Only a few, as Brightly wanted to keep any information about Hayes as restricted as possible. Hayes always told them it was like listening to music you had never heard before being played over and over again in the next room: you could hear something in the background but you weren’t really sure what it was, but if you stayed there long enough eventually you could pick out the trumpets and the bass line, and if you stayed even longer you’d be able to complete the melody in your head without trying. Pretty soon you’d be humming along.
Much of it seemed to be based on time and proximity. After five minutes Hayes could sense when people were around him, within ten or twenty feet or so. After eight he would have a pretty good idea of where they were in relation to him. After thirty minutes he would get “the pangs,” occasional flashes of how they were feeling, but unless they were having extreme emotions those were always difficult to determine. After two hours he would have a reasonably decent idea of their level of anxiety, depression, stress, or whatever else. After four he would begin to form a concept of how they felt about various things, some of them minutiae, others possibly important. And then, after spending six hours of close contact with a person with no other individuals around to interfere, Hayes could have a good sense of personality and some strong ideas about the problems that loomed particularly large in their mind, along with some habits unique to that person alone.
Yet even then, after slogging it out with that person for a quarter of a day in a tiny room, he still might not come up with anything too helpful. Just a handful of useless moments, skating across the edges of his thoughts.
It also meant he couldn’t be in a crowd for more than an hour, as the noise would be unbearable. How it worked was a mystery to him and everyone else. It was just there. Always muttering and eating into him and burning him up. Drink or the pipe were the only things that killed it. Those, and work. The thrill of hunting through the city helped him forget it, or perhaps it drowned out whatever part of his mind could listen. But he’d take whatever was available. Whether it was a drug or a chase, he needed to keep a little flame burning in his head to beat back the murmurings that always followed him.
Cho Lun’s was just ahead. Hayes spotted the three lookouts casually dawdling down the street by the door. He walked up and entered, the darkness and the aroma of the den closing in on him like a curtain. Half-finished legs of stools and chairs made a tangled forest around him in the dark, and a single candle burned on the front desk. Above it Hayes could make out the eyes of Chinese Charlie watching him calmly. Two other men moved somewhere in the room to stand somewhere behind Hayes, but it was Charlie who ran the place. Hayes could only assume his name was meant to be humorous, as Charlie was well over six and a half feet tall and about as red-haired and blue-eyed as they came.
“Hello, Princeling,” said Charlie quietly. He threaded his fingers together on the table.
“Evening, Charles. How are you today?”
“The Princeling’s back quite early today, isn’t he,” said Charlie. “Usually the Princeling doesn’t show his face until midnight. It’s only ten. Isn’t it?”
“It is. I missed the ambience. Didn’t realize we needed a reservation.”
“We don’t. Not usually. It’s just that when little Princelings start coming back more and more their money starts getting smaller and smaller. Ain’t that right?”
Hayes reached into his pocket and took out his winnings. He held them out and one of Charlie’s boys
snatched the money away and showed it to Charlie, who looked without touching. He nodded.
“All right, then,” said Charlie, and he stood and crooked a finger and led Hayes to the back, candlestick in hand.
They went down a small wooden hallway. The ceiling got low and the air grew humid and smoky. There was laughter somewhere and moaning and someone kicked at a wall and wept. They emerged into a low, thin room with curtains and veils hanging from every corner, some silk, some no more than rags. Small girls in robes wove and dodged through the silken jungle, trays in their hands and long, curving pipes resting on their shoulders. They walked to nearby booths and swiveled the pipes around like brightly-colored insects maneuvering their antennae, sensing profit.
Charlie called to one in Mandarin, belittling and cursing her. She scurried over and he continued his tirade as she set up Hayes’s booth. Hayes could catch only a few words of it. Chastising her for her laziness. Reprimanding her for her impish whorishness. Not this time, he told her. Not with this one.
Hayes lay down in the booth and the girl set up the pipe. Charlie stood over him, frowning grimly with his arms crossed.
“You don’t like me much, do you, Charlie?” asked Hayes.
“I like your money just fine,” said Charlie.
“Then you must like me very much, as I bring so much here.”
“I like you just as much as you can afford.”
The little girl held his pipe still and Hayes suckled at it as she held the flame to its end. He drew in once, twice, fumes enveloping his head, then filling his lungs. It was just a taste, but its soft, stinging breeze was already wiping the day away. He leaned back, smiling.
“Tell me, Charlie,” he said softly.
“Tell you what, Princeling?”
“What do you know about unions?”
“Unions?” Charlie’s brow wrinkled. His sweat shone and in the dim light he looked like a man made of fatty wax.
“Yes.”
“Which unions?”
“Any unions. Trade unions. The ones they’re trying to make at McNaughton, for instance.”
The Company Man Page 6
