“You’re sure?” His new friend’s gaze threatened to bore a hole in him. “Because I’d never forget a nose like that.” He motioned to the bartender. “This one’s on me.”
“Obliged,” Shoe said, trying not to stare too hard at the dagger tattoo on his benefactor’s neck.
“Nah, I got this one,” said the new arrival on the left side.
This guy was equally inked, although Shoe wasn’t sure whether the scar running through the man’s eyebrow was the real deal or lifelike ink. He nodded politely and focused on his drink. “I think he’s got it, but thanks.”
“Well then, drink,” the first one prompted.
Shoe took a swallow and nodded. “Thanks.” His stomach lurched.
“It ain’t tea. Drink!” Mr. Dagger slapped him on the back for emphasis.
Shoe chugged it. It burned going down, and it was a sure thing it would do so coming back up. He slammed his empty glass down and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. A mouthful of shirt would stem his gag reflex. “Thanks,” he said again, wondering how much of the rot-gut it would take to kill him.
“Now it’s my turn,” said Scarface. He ordered another round.
Shoe turned to tell him that having a magical male-bonding experience wasn’t necessary, but somehow his head felt as if it wasn’t connected to his body. It had sailed out into the room somewhere and was having trouble with the return trip. And his bottom lip was sliding off his face. He looked at his glass—which had suddenly become two blurry ones—and the multiple extra fingers he had suddenly grown. How in tarnation had they gotten to him so fast? “I think I need some air,” he said, and as he tried to stand his legs oozed like liquid onto the wide-planked floorboards. He clutched at the bar as all swirled into blackness.
Rudy ducked off the main walk and veered left into the first alleyway. It was stacked head-high with barrels stinking like dead fish. He squeezed by and found his way to the hatch. This would be quick. He could picture in his head exactly where he had put down the emerald: to the right of the hatch, snuggled against the foundation.
He couldn’t find it. After patting the ground left and right of the little door, he dropped to his knees and frantically searched the dirt pathway between the building and the high fence that separated the waterside from the grounds on the far side of the amusement park. He popped his head through the little hinged door too and was left wanting. He mentally retraced his steps: getting stuck, backing out, emptying pockets, carefully wedging the necklace between a sizeable rock and the building. The rock was still there, but not the jewelry.
“Help you find something?” It was Hanner Mackall, standing not more than twenty feet behind him. “Go ahead, take it.” He tossed the green necklace to Rudy.
Rudy snagged the jewelry and took off in the opposite direction. He got about twenty feet before two other rough ones rounded the corner and cut off his escape. He put his hands up. “Look. I have a money clip in my pocket. Not a lot, but you can have all of it. No questions asked. H-h-here’s my watch.” He fumbled with his watchband.
“Big mistake,” Mackall said. He was closer now, several feet away.
Rudy’s hands shot back up in the air again. “Sorry. What else can I do for you gentlemen? I’m afraid I can’t stay and chat. I have an appointment.”
Mackall was right next to him now. “Reschedule.” His eyes were dark and calm, but beneath the cool exterior seethed something revolting.
“Sure, I can do that,” Rudy said, nodding agreeably. “What can I do for you?”
“Absolutely nothing. Just tying up loose ends.”
A switchblade appeared out of nowhere. Rudy flinched as Mackall lunged. The steel got him on the hand.
“Help! Fire! Fire!” Rudy yelled as he bobbed and weaved. It was like Luis Furpo playing chicken with Jack Dempsey, only he wasn’t going to get up again if he went down. He bopped left and so did Mackall. The smuggler got him a second slice—deeper this time—through his sleeve and into his arm.
Mackall was chuckling now. “Where’s Shoemaker?”
“Who?” Rudy took another step back, trying to keep all three of his assailants in view. The other two were hanging back, either enjoying the sport or knowing better than to interfere.
“Hey! You! Rudy Becker!”
Everyone pivoted right towards the newcomers. God Almighty! The bumpkin Clinton boys had found him at last—two creeping up on him from behind and the third hanging back to watch the alleyway! Rudy could have wept for joy. “I know. I’m late,” he said, throwing them a quick glance. “Got to go,” he said, refocusing on Mackall. He began easing away. Up to you, chump. Three more witnesses?
“Shove off,” Mackall said to the brothers.
“No, you shove off,” said the biggest. “You can take it up later. Our business can’t wait.”
There was fire in the big hulk’s eyes and each of the brothers was carrying a walking stick. Rudy doubted there would be a second round with anybody. If Mackall was as smart as he and Shoe supposed, he’d let the Clintonites do his dirty work for him.
“Coppers!” yelled one of the Clinton boys.
The switchblade disappeared, the boys backed off, and Mackall’s group retreated a few paces in the opposite direction, leaving Rudy in a sort of no man’s land between them.
The tension in Mackall’s face eased and he assumed a slightly more civil look. Something upspoken passed between him and his followers. He tipped his flat cap to the boys as if to wish them a good day and walked away. “Later,” he whispered to Rudy as he brushed past.
Rudy’s legs were shaking too hard to attempt a second dash for freedom. He whispered a silent prayer to Mena and gave in to fate. “So,” he said, walking toward the trio. It wasn’t so much bravado as the realization that the closer he was to the alley, the more likely someone would hear his screams for help. And God bless everyone, there would be many. “This is a big misunderstanding. I’ve never met your sister, and I have no wish to quarrel with you.”
“Save it,” said the tallest. He grabbed Rudy by the upper arm and they forced him out into the alley.
It didn’t make a whole lot of sense. A public beatdown? Rudy picked up the pace, and when they reached the open wharf, he began struggling wildly. He’d save the screaming until he was sure they wouldn’t stick a blade in him.
The biggest rube yanked him to a halt and pulled him up on his tiptoes and close to his face. “I don’t understand you people. As I see it, you got two choices, city fella. Either you come back to Clinton with us and marry our pregnant sister or we let that Jack the Ripper take a few chunks out of you.” He set him back down on his feet. “I’ll give you a minute.”
“P-p-pregnant?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever known the heartache of watching your dear, sweet, unmarried sister grow fatter every day, have you? But that’s all right. You can do the stand-up thing. You can fix it today.” He began yanking him forward again. “Come on.”
Rudy’s thoughts skipped back to the angel with the dumpling figure. Had the clever little vixen created her own escape from the two-bit crossroads? “Wait!” he said, trying to free himself. “I swear I didn’t behave improperly with your sister. She did sneak into my room and sleep on the floor, but honestly, that was it. Besides, how could what you’re saying possibly be true? I was in Clinton less than a week ago. Women don’t show that fast. Who else might she have spent time with?”
The first blink might have been a coincidence. The second and third indicated that all unessential body energy had been diverted to support the Big Boys’ limited brain functions as they addressed the contradiction. There was a throat-clearing, and then the brother released Rudy’s arm. “There may be a misunderstanding on our part,” he finally said. “Our most humble apologies, sir.” He made an awkward attempt at straightening Rudy’s cockeyed jacket.
The other two likewise mumbled something of an apology. That little tramp was the last thing Rudy heard before they disappeared.
The area was full of flatfoots boarding a deadrise. It looked as if the whole Nevis police force had been mobilized. “Raid?” Rudy asked the workman next to him, who had set down his bushel of oysters to watch.
“Nah, dead body down at the cliffs,” the man said, too engrossed to look away. “Take care of what ’cha got to do. They’ll be back soon enough.” He suddenly turned and squinted up at Rudy. “Need some oysters? Cheap.”
Rudy looked at the man’s bucket and shook his head. He’d pass on the questionable oysters. Yeah, they’d be back soon enough, and looking for two fellas that bore a striking resemblance to yours truly.
Mackall and crew had wisely made themselves scarce, although Rudy suspected they were hiding nearby, raring to have a second go at him. He melted into the crowd and scooted toward the Scuttlebutt, scanning faces as he darted in and out of clusters of workmen and fisherman. Mackall wouldn’t dare attack him here, but they could force him into any number of dark places and alleys. In spite of a steadily increasing limp, he picked up his speed, knocking down a man carrying a crate and attracting a brown mongrel dog who matched him step-for-step as he tore at his coat sleeve. Maybe the more chaos, the better. Would Mackall really carve him up in such a public space? Rudy pushed harder.
Shoe wasn’t where he said he’d be. Had the fool actually ventured inside the Scuttlebutt? Ahead, Rudy spotted someone who looked a lot like Shoe, but he was staggering in the opposite direction and he was not alone. Two men had ahold of him on either side as they half assisted, half dragged him deeper into the bowels of the roughest section of town.
Rudy let out a loud shrill whistle. “Hey! You there!” he yelled in his best Irish cop voice. “What you boys be up to?”
The men let go of the drunk. He dropped like a rag doll and they bolted.
Sure enough, it was Shoe heaped in the middle of the walkway. Rudy pulled him up by the front of his coat into a sitting position and shook him. Shoe moaned and his head lolled to one side. The safety of the Captain’s boat was a mere forty feet away, but they’d have to pass Mackall’s. Seeing no other option, Rudy grabbed Shoe under his arms and yanked. Shoe remained firmly rooted to the ground, hopeless dead weight, and the cuts Mackall had inflicted on Rudy were dribbling blood. This was useless.
“Sir, a helping hand,” he called out to the workmen passing by. They ignored his entreaties, kept their heads down, and navigated a wide berth.
“Come on, options are limited here,” Rudy whispered, patting Shoe’s face to wake him up. Shoe didn’t respond. Rudy yanked on him a second time and failed again. And when he released him, Shoe hit the ground hard and cracked his head.
Criminy. I’m going to kill him. Mena, he thought, if you’re out there . . . And suddenly, his guardian angel heard his plea, or they just plain got lucky. He had caught a curious eye. “Wait,” he said, before the waterman could look away. “My friend here seems to have fainted. Can you help me get him out of the way before he gets run over?”
There was a subtle nod and the waterman grabbed Shoe by the arm. “Where to?” he asked in a soft Scottish brogue.
“To the Captain,” Rudy said, gesturing over his shoulder. He saw sudden movement to his free side. It was as if he had broken through a barrier of mistrust into acceptance. Before he could turn to acknowledge his second benefactor, a blow to the back of his head sent him staggering. His knees hit the ground and he watched helplessly as the stick came around a second time.
Chapter Thirty-Four
An Innocent Blunder
Shoe ran a cold, wet hand across his face and sat up with a start, icy water swirling around his dangling legs. His mouth felt like cotton, his head throbbed, and he smelled of vomit. It was too dark to see much, but he felt closed in, a roof above and walls to the right and left of him. He’d not dreamed this one before. The water receded, tugging on him, and then came at him again, rising up higher over his legs. Tidal water! This was no dream. He scrambled backward, clambering up onto one of the wood beams supporting the roof of this dark place.
And then details began trickling back: Scuttlebutt, awful whiskey, two new “friends”. He reckoned he should consider himself lucky. He could have taken a leisurely, tragic saunter off one of the piers. Why hadn’t they killed him outright? He felt for his wallet and found it missing. They had robbed him, but if they had expected a big score, they didn’t get much. He wasn’t foolish enough to carry a lot—just enough to flash around.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he took stock. He was indeed in a small room that was dimly lit by light filtering in from some sort of overhead hatch. At his feet, a water channel wide enough to store a rowboat had been cut into the deck floor, splitting the room in half. He surmised there were doors at the far end that allowed passage out to the bay. Various bobbers, floats, and netting hung from one of the two walls that ran parallel to the channel. Tarps, wooden fish baskets, and crates sat stacked against the other one—most likely contraband liquor, by the looks of the heavy crates.
And then he saw Rudy, supine on the floor near the water’s edge, looking as if the slightest movement would send him tumbling into the deep. Fear rolled over Shoe like a flash of fire. He launched himself off the beam and pulled Rudy’s cold, wet body away from the water. “Rudy! Wake up, Rudy,” he said. He slapped Rudy’s face a couple of times.
Rudy’s eyes fluttered open and he immediately propelled Shoe tumbling backwards into the crates. He scrambled to his feet and backed away, fists raised in a defiant stance.
“Sh-Shoe?” he asked, peering through the dark light. He dropped his fists and offered his brother a hand up. “Where . . .?”
“Dunno. Beneath the boardwalk, I guess. You all right?”
Rudy’s hand went to the back of his head. “Yes and no. You? I thought you were smart enough not to have a drink down here. You don’t fool with Mickey Finn.”
“Yeah, well, the liquor was rotten, too,” Shoe said. “The only relevant question now is: how do we get out of here? See stairs or a ladder?” He moved to the wall behind Rudy—no doubt west and landward—where a small ledge connected the two sides of the room. He began walking the perimeter of their prison, feeling his way along the wall. When he got to the doors at the bay side, he slid into the water, tested its depth, and found he could stand on his tiptoes. The double doors were iron, the latch on the outside. He pulled himself out of the water on the other side and continued his reconnaissance. He found nothing useful.
“That only leaves up,” Rudy said, staring at the trap door in the ceiling. “We could stack crates.” He looked back and forth between the door and the crates, shivering in his wet clothes in the cool December air. “Three or four would probably do it.”
The ceiling suddenly creaked and the shafts of light above their heads shifted. They scrambled to opposite corners. Rudy picked up a paddle from the floor and Shoe slid a lid off one of the crates as the door opened and daylight lit their space.
“Shoemaker?” It was a woman’s voice, hoarse and whispery, but oh, the lovely sound of it. “Shoemaker? Can you hear me? They’re gone, but not for long. We have a rope. Be quick.”
A thick line of bull rope bounced and jangled through the opening. Rudy motioned Shoe up first. Hand over fist, Shoe worked his way up the knotted line, teetering a moment on his stomach against the hatch frame before heaving himself out. Two women pulled him to his feet and a third threw a blanket over his shoulders.
So they had been in the cellar of a house, he thought, taking in the simple bed, nightstand, and wardrobe. The only remarkable feature in the room was the classical painting above the bed, depicting a naked man and woman in the midst of coital delight. Correction, the cellar of a whore house.
He assessed the women in a new light. The tallest and most forward was a bit haggard and hard-looking—a night worker if he ever saw one and no doubt the madame. The others could have been any of Fannie’s friends.
“Is this your place, Miss . . .” he asked, his teeth now c
hattering in spite of the blanket.
“Ophelia Shakespeare,” she said, “but Ophelia will do.”
By the glint in her eyes, Shoe reckoned she had read quite a bit of the Bard. He took an immediate liking to her. “Saying thank you isn’t enough. How did you know we were down there?”
“We don’t miss much. Contrary to what you might think of me, I like a good chat and I love a good story, but this isn’t the place or time. I’ve already done more than I should have. Upstairs with you. Pull out dry clothes from the wardrobe. Don’t want ’em back. And don’t want to see either of you again. ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’ doesn’t apply here. Up you go.”
“Mackall coming right back?” It was a shot in the dark, but Ophelia’s startled look told him it was a bull’s-eye.
She ignored the question and turned back to the cellar hatch. “Upstairs.”
The others swept him out the door and up a set of narrow winding stairs to yet another bedroom. Once there, one thrust a mug of hot coffee into his hands while another drew clothes out of the chifforobe and threw them on the bed.
It was then he realized Rudy wasn’t behind him. “Where’s my brother?” he asked, trying to give the cup back.
“He’s coming. Stay here.” They were gone in a rush, leaving the door open behind them.
He took a sip of the joe. It was heavily fortified and felt like heaven as heat coursed out into his cold extremities. The furnishings here were much more elaborate than the downstairs bedroom. Frilly white dressed the bed and window, and close by, a writing table sat tidily with a blotter and a handsome gold-capped pen resting on an ornate brass inkwell. No working girl’s bedroom, it was the madam’s personal domain. He saw nothing that he could use as a weapon if things got precarious.
A minute later, Ophelia stepped into the room—several of her girls crowding the door behind her—and produced a small black pistol from the folds of her skirt. “Just so no one makes a mistake, give me your full name,” she demanded.
The Dame on the Dock Page 21
