Touched by Angels

by Alan Watts

  Fifty-seven

  There was a loud scratch as he struck a match on the wood between his legs, before lighting his cigar. It glowed brightly as it took.

  “Been tailin’ you the whole time,” he said. “Now you’ve brought me to her, I don’t need you any more.” He grinned as he flicked the match at him.

  Billy swallowed hard, as it landed with a click beside him. It was a while before he spoke.

  “I was gonna share it, you…” He tailed off, groaning, the pain in his head feeling like an iron spike being banged in with a sledge hammer. “Anyway, it’s not your money.”

  “Nor yours neither,” Quint reminded him. “Nor, I’ll wager, that woman’s. If she’s Lady Emma DeVere, I’m Abe Lincoln.”

  Billy reached up weakly and felt the protuberance poking like a blunt horn from the centre of his skull. He closed his eyes and lay back groaning, not caring less who she was.

  “I’ll bet there’s a dent in that trap,” Quint told him. “But nowhere near as big as the one you’ll have in your neck, when they get you for murder.”

  Billy’s eyes widened as he propped himself up on his elbows. He remembered the Fire Brigade and that Warren had been holding a lit candelabrum when he’d punched him.

  Most of all, he recalled the blood spilling from the bully’s belly.

  “You burned the whole place down. Lots of people dead. There are wanted posters being printed as we speak, dead or alive, nobody cares, so long as they get you. You won’t stand a chance. Course, nobody wants to see a kid having his neck snapped, so I’m going to offer you what I think is a generous deal.”

  Fuming, but scared too, Billy asked sullenly, “What’s that?”

  “You forget what’s in the bag above us, climb the ladder and do a quick disappearing act, while it’s still dark. Do that and I’ll keep my mouth forever shut.”

  Billy swallowed hard. He hadn’t come this far to quit just like that. That money was his, and if he did as Quint told him, he would be in the streets once more, with no home at all and could easily be caught anyway.

  “And if I refuse?”

  Quint shrugged. “Well, you’re a bright kid. You know there’s no option. In any case, I could shoot you dead here and now, and claim the reward for myself, after I’ve collected what’s due to me here. A thousand bucks, that’s what’s on offer for your head, and for a single, five cent bullet, and very little effort, it’s certainly tempting.” He took a final leisurely pull on his cigar, before dropping it to the ground and grinding it under his boot.

  He pulled a fob watch from his waistcoat, flicked it open, and said, “A minute shy of half past four. Sun’ll be up soon.”

  Billy glared at him as he snapped the time piece shut. He looked around the cellar for something, anything, he could throw at him, but knew he was clutching at straws.

  His mind was finally made up, when Quint said, “I’ll count backwards from ten, and by then, you’d better have started climbing.”

  Billy got himself up, seething, as he steadied himself. Excess flour wafted about, making him cough. Another thought struck him. Almost knowing what he was going to find, he thrust his hand into his trouser pocket. It met nothing but the lining. He tried the other with the same result.

  He shook with fury as he saw Quint reach into his hat and pull from it the money he had taken so long to save and for which he committed murder.

  “Looking for this?”

  For a split second, Billy was tempted to rush him. He considered begging for his money, but knew that was the humiliation Quint wanted to see and laugh at.

  Quint said, “Ten,” and yawned theatrically.

  Billy glared at him, and rasped, as he put his foot on the first rung of the ladder, “You’ll not get away with this, you…”

  “Nine.”

  Billy grasped the rung in front of his face and pulled himself up. “I’ll be even with you yet.”

  Brief laughter. “Boy, I really don’t think so. Eight.”

  His temples pounded with rage, as he started climbing. He kept his lips tight shut, so that at least Quint couldn’t taunt him any more. He was determined though, that he wouldn’t get away without at least getting a bloody nose.

  When he reached the top, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes, he pushed the trapdoor up slowly, looking through the crack to see if anybody was watching, and waiting.

  He heard Quint say, “Four,” as he pushed it all the way, careful this time not to allow the heavy wooden square to thud down on the surrounding ground. He could see a patch of blood in the middle and it infuriated him all the more.

  It was getting light. As he clambered out, the crisp air struck him, invigorating and fuelling him, not just with hate, but positive resolution too.

  He knew his life had reached a pivotal point, where it would go one way or the other and it was up to him which.

  By now, there were a few people about. He looked at his shirt sleeves, and trousers and was struck by how white they still were from the flour that had covered him. He looked like a ghost. He would never mingle into a crowd looking like this, so he ran to the end of the street, patting himself all over, leaving a white cloud.

  He wondered how long it would be before the wanted posters were pasted up. He hid himself in the doorway of a cigar shop as he pounded himself more vigorously. He ruffled his hair too, to get rid of as much of the white powder as possible. His brain was in overdrive as he watched the dusty street getting lighter and more populated by the minute.

  Soon, there was only one way out he could see.

  ***

  Quint knew he had to move fast too, for it was gone five. The hotel would come to life very soon, if it hadn’t already.

  There was a flight of stone steps leading up to another door, though he wasn’t sure what lay ahead of it. He took the candle and held it side on while he dripped wax onto a piece of broken tile. He pressed the candle onto it, climbed as quietly as he could and slowly turned the knob when he reached the top.

  It was locked. He closed his eyes in frustration.

  Then something happened so suddenly, he nearly tumbled back down. The door was opened from the other side.

  Fifty-eight

  Billy Tweed felt as though he shone as people walked past. Not daring to show his face, he had turned to look at the door, but there was still enough flour on his rear to mark him out.

  The glass of the door was half covered with a large poster advertising Havana cigars. Other smaller advertisements spoke of cheaper brands.

  He knew that when the door opened, he would have to be very quick with his plan. It was crude to the point of recklessness, but he had no other choice. He was damned if he was going to kowtow and let this gangster rob him of his future. With this in mind, he was counting on some shrivelled old timer owning the establishment, with terrible eyesight and restricted movement.

  When he saw what could only be described as a shaved bear appear the other side, he wondered if his luck could get any worse. Knowing he had no alternative than to stay where he was, he watched as the giant turned a key in the lock, before pulling the door towards him, where it flicked a brass bell.

  He just stood there, staring at him, not saying anything, completely blocking the entrance. The next emotion Billy felt was not fear, but puzzlement.

  A smaller hand appeared from behind, took the giant’s forearm and gently pulled him backwards, though his eyes never moved. An older man of about fifty appeared, with a bushy moustache, wearing spectacles, below a head of curly smarmed-down dark hair.

  He waved his fist at the younger man, as he growled, “God damn you, Sylvester! How many times do I have to tell you to let customers pass yonder, ’stead of terrifyin’ ’em?” He indicated the inner sanctum of the store.

  Billy made his way in quickly, glad to be off the street, and away from all those eyes. The store smelt sweetly of tobacco and was stacked with every variety imaginable, from short thin cigars, in side-on tin-plate drums, of about two
hundred, to great individually wrapped specimens, eight inches long, with price tags of three dollars or more.

  Three square pillars stood at equal distance from each other, from floor to ceiling, with shelves at waist height, circling them. They were stacked with packs of cigarettes, and yet more cigars. Huge glass containers stood on the counter, filled to varying levels with pipe tobacco, depending on their popularity.

  The man was looking up at the giant, with not a trace of fear, leaving Billy wondering if he had something wrong with his mind. The younger man could kill him with a single punch if he wanted to, for he must outweigh him by at least six stone.

  As tough as he appeared though, he looked close to tears.

  “It’s all right,” the older man said kindly, looking up at the blank face, and patting his arm. “Everything will be fine. You go out back now and fetch a broom and do some sweepin’, do y’hear?”

  The man shambled off without saying a word.

  “My apologies, boy.” He stuck out his hand.

  Surprised, Billy shook it.

  “Samuel Sullivan,” he said. “Proprietor of the United Ceegar Stores Company. Just call me Sam. That there’s m’son.” He jerked his head as the giant came back through, plying a broom here and there.

  Billy was about to introduce himself, but thinking of the wanted posters, his mouth stopped, half open.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  “No, I er…”

  “You in some kinda trouble?”

  Sullivan removed his spectacles and regarded him suspiciously. Billy knew he was cornered.

  “I guess so.” He hung his head.

  “Thought as much.” Sullivan shook his head and laughed. “Look at you, barely off yer momma’s tit and up to your asshole in the mire, or should I say the flour. What’d you do, rob a baker’s?”

  Billy blushed through the white, as he mumbled, “No, I… er…”

  “Save it! Don’t wanna hear. But just remember,” he wagged a solemn finger, “cross me in the same way, an’ yer ear’ll be smartin’ ’til hell freezes over, understand?”

  Billy nodded.

  “Here about the job?”

  Startled, Billy took a step back, as next door, Jack Quint finished tying his belt around a sixteen-year-old girl’s ankles.

  Fifty-nine

  He had fastened her wrists with his boot lace tie, and warned her at the point of his gun not to scream. She had been so frightened anyway, it was probably unnecessary. In the candle light of the cellar, she looked up through wide eyes.

  “Now you listen to me, missy, and listen good. I’m not gonna hurt you, ’less you refuse to co-operate. Make one sound out of place, I’ll decorate the wall with your brains, get me?”

  She nodded quickly.

  “You have a woman and a kid staying here. She’s very attractive, carries herself well, late twenties, early thirties; the kid, a boy, nine or ten. They’re English. She might be going under the name of Lady Emma DeVere…”

  “Yes,” she gasped, feeling a little less nervous, knowing for sure now that he meant her no harm.

  She remembered their strange accents, though the name DeVere was unfamiliar. She was almost sure the woman had used the name Brookes, but it was her all right.

  “Which room are they staying in?”

  “Number seven.”

  He stuffed his handkerchief in her mouth and she tried to scream through it.

  “For your own good,” he told her, pushing back his hat. “In case you be telling’ lies, ’cos if you are, I’ll just have to come back down here, and…”

  He spun the chamber on his gun. It clicked madly as it turned until he stopped it with his thumb. He slipped it back under his jacket, and gave her a last warning glance before heading again for the door. He climbed the steps, and opened the door very carefully. He had reached the lobby.

  He could see a Union flag hanging like a tired hand over the portal to the back and a dried-out musket next to it. He saw a row of hooks with keys next to it and that the one for number seven was missing.

  ***

  “Yeah, my pa told me that unless I find a proper job, I could go and live in the street with the rats,” said Billy Tweed.

  Sullivan nodded and eyed him warily. He pulled a couple of cheap cigars from one of the metal drums. He pulled a match from his shirt pocket, struck it on the pillar and lit the tip of Billy’s cigar.

  Billy inhaled and was on the floor instantly, hacking, choking and going red in the face. The cigar tumbled end over end, landing on its tip in a shower of sparks.

  Sullivan put his shoe down to extinguish it and slowly moved behind Billy, hauling him up and pounding him between the shoulder blades.

  Tears poured down Billy’s face, as he heaved for breath.

  “Holy Moses!” Sullivan said as his breathing slowly evened out. “You ain’t no use to no one, dead as a door nail. You OK?”

  Billy nodded and smiled a ghastly smile. A long dribble hung from his lower lip. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

  “Sylvester, fetch some water.”

  Sylvester shook his shiny head and Sullivan smacked himself on the forehead as he remembered the tap had ceased up.

  “Lemonade, then.” He tossed him a dime.

  Sylvester disappeared through the door, but was back inside a minute, with a sheet of paper rolled up in his hand.

  Billy knew, even before Sullivan unrolled it, what it was…

  Sixty

  Billy Tweed felt both his legs go soft under him. He was telling them to run, yet his brain was warning him that to do so was the surest route to the grave. He had the impression Sullivan could easily take care of himself.

  He was wiry beneath the face that was only lined because he seen more in his fifty odd years than God might have thought good for him. He was holding the wanted poster top and bottom, between fingers and thumbs, as he took in the words ‘DEAD or ALIVE $1000’.

  It would take three months of good trade to earn that.

  The sheet carried other information too, including the crime he was accused of.

  Sylvester was getting animated about the front and profile photographs and Billy knew in an instant that if a simpleton like this could recognise him , anybody could.

  Sullivan snapped, “You hush now, ’less you want to forfeit yer supper!” He rolled the document up, sighing and shaking his head. He didn’t speak for a full minute as he regarded Billy evenly.

  Billy was willing him to say something, anything.

  At last he said to Sylvester, “Son, carry on with your sweepin’, and if anybody comes here, you keep your lip buttoned up, understand?” Then he inclined his head at Billy, to indicate he should follow.

  They walked through into a kitchen, where there was a massive sink piled either side with crockery. Billy followed Sullivan up some stairs, already guessing he wasn’t about to turn him in.

  At last, they were in a small parlour. The first thing Sullivan did was pick up a silver-framed photograph from the top of an upright piano. He stared at it silently for a few reflective moments, before saying, “That’s my Ruth.” He passed it over. “She was murdered by a kid who broke in one night and cut her throat for a ten-dollar gold ring.” His eyes began to well up. He took the picture back and rubbed it gently with the sleeve of his shirt, before replacing it.

  “I tried my damnedest to stop the bleedin’, but the angels took her. I caught the kid myself. No older than you, maybe younger, but, by sweet Jesus, I made him talk. He was sent here by no other than Porky Warren himself, from the same place you’re on the run from now, and now he’s finally got the justice he deserved.”

  Billy felt such a lightness of heart he could have cried. “So you’re not going to turn me in?”

  “I guess not, for the time bein’, but I ain’t no soft touch either, and I ain’t stupid. Common knowledge, it was a bad place, but you got a full belly and a bed of a night. The streets are hell by comparison, so why d’you run?”


  Billy knew he’d reached a dead end. Certain he wouldn’t see a cent of that money without Sullivan’s help, he told the whole story, while close by, Jack Quint made his way along a landing with a sash window at the far end.

  ***

  As Quint stood opposite room seven, he was aware too that other guests would be coming out of their rooms soon, so he would have to be quick.

  First, he put his ear to it, but could hear nothing. He tried the brass knob. The door was locked, so he kicked it as hard as he could. The door flew back on its hinges with a juddering bang. He walked in, with his gun held at the hip, certain the entire fortune was there for the taking.

  But the room was empty.

  He cussed in frustration and smashed his left fist through the worm-eaten wardrobe door. He heard the sound of voices from somewhere downstairs; probably the police. Seeing no other way out, but the way he had come, he tried to lift the sash window to escape that way.

  It was jammed shut.

  Near to panic, he drew his gun, intending to fight his way out, but then noticed a trapdoor in the ceiling.

  After re-holstering his gun, he drew out a chair from the dressing table, climbed up, and pushed the trap door open. It was hinged, and he squirmed as it made a bang as it fell onto the rafters.

  He coughed as he batted away some dust that came down.

  He pulled himself up, and hearing the pounding of feet up the stairs, was about to close the trap, when he remembered the chair.

  It would give him away in an instant, left where it was; but it was too big to fit through the hole.

  Then he had a flash of inspiration.

  Lying on his belly, he was just able to reach it.

  He lifted it up, and swung it as hard as he could through the window.

  Not only did that get rid of it, he thought, but they would also think he had escaped that way.