Mongrel

by K. Z. Snow

  Fanule had seen such marks, which were usually on the hands or forehead and even cruder than Mongrels’ tattoos. F for forger, P for pickpocket, that sort of thing. There’d even once been an S for “same-sex,” but the Enforcement Agency rarely bothered rounding up twors anymore. Not only was it difficult to prove people guilty of sins against nature, but the level of official indifference, or persecution, depended largely on which religion had currently captured the public’s imagination. Since the Sensorians were popular now, twors had some breathing room. Hell, Bentcross himself was open about his fondness for men.

  Still, the EA kept a record of men and women who harbored “unnatural urges.” Such knowledge proved valuable when they needed a reason to arrest a particular person or put heat on a defiant tavern-keeper. What’s more, the religious tide could turn at any time. Humans were fickle creatures.

  “There’s nothing else?” Fanule asked. “No other possible fate?”

  Bentcross pulled down his mouth and shrugged. “Death.”

  Fanule sensed he wasn’t lying, wasn’t hiding anything. “Thank you. I won’t take up more of your time.”

  Bentcross hesitated, then extended his hand. Fanule tensed. The gesture was so foreign outside of Taintwell, and his initial contact with Bentcross had been so fraught with hostility, he instantly expected aggression.

  “Well, now we’ve met,” said the hunter, his mouth hinting at a smile.

  Fanule clasped his hand. It felt cool, dry, and dirty. “The next time you apprehend somebody—”

  “I know. And I will.”

  AT THE end of the day, jittery with anticipation, Will jogged from the boardwalk back to the Gutter. That was what Circus workers called the little plat allotted for their living space. Many employees resided in the city, but others preferred the cheaper and more conveniently located accommodations offered by Hunzinger.

  Packed with caravans and campfires, the Gutter was at the far southwestern corner of the Mechanical Circus. To get there, Will had to cut past the Glass Palace at the foot of the boardwalk stairs, then either circle around Wheel of Fortune Avenue or cross it at two points, and then pass over the Grand Promenade that ran between the Sea Creature Carousel and the concert hall called the Strand.

  Although crossing Wheel of Fortune Avenue in the morning saved Will some time and footsteps, the shortcut didn’t have the same advantages at night. He should’ve kept that in mind. The Avenue, which ringed the Mermaid dance pavilion, was lined with booths that offered games of chance: shell games and card games, roulette and dice. Benny Zedd had once told Will that a man would have to be crazy to wager even a frag on one of these games because Hunzinger encouraged vigorous cheating by the booth tenders.

  There must’ve been a good number of madmen in the world, for tonight the Avenue was swarming with visitors.

  Will skipped and dodged and wove through the crowd. A single thought drove him: Simon’s coming; must hurry. Off to his left, he heard the rickety rumble of the Rolling Surf Trackway and the half-delighted, half-terrified screams of its riders. That meant he was almost out of the torrent of gamblers. At one point, he thought he saw a pickpocket reaching toward a man’s sack coat, but it was only a child grabbing for his father’s hand. Thank goodness. The last boy who’d been caught lifting something at the Circus had been whisked away to the Truth and Justice Building. Will had seen him six weeks later on Black Keys Street in the city, an inflamed P carved into his forehead.

  Sickening, to say the least. Although “Hellzinger” was himself a swindler of the highest order, he wouldn’t tolerate thievery in others.

  “Mr. Marchman!”

  Silently cursing, Will turned at the sound of the female voice. Cringed a little, too. He’d just popped free of the bottleneck on Wheel of Fortune Avenue and was ready to sprint toward the Gutter.

  Now, Daisy Purse hurried toward him, her right hand clutching her skirts to lift them, her left clamped to a ridiculously large, flamboyant hat. “Will,” she said more intimately, in a melted-sugar tone, as she stopped in front of him.

  He smiled and tipped his hat. “Daisy. Pleasure to see you.”

  She was a pretty thing, or aspired to be, but in a way that made him think of a doll whose maker had a profane bent. Daisy worked occasionally at the pavilion, where she sold brief, overpriced dances, and more frequently at the concert hall, where she performed in the various entertainments offered there when the orchestra wasn’t playing. It seemed she was able to set her own schedule.

  Rumor had it she was Hunzinger’s mistress, although Will could’ve sworn she quite fancied him. Of course, the feeling didn’t flow both ways.

  “I’m having a little soiree at my rooms in Cakeside this evening,” she said breathlessly, her painted eyes fixed on Will’s face, “and I’d adore it if you came. There’ll only be a select few people from the Circus. Most of my friends live in the city. They’re quite lively and interesting. We’ve been exploring the new Sensorian religion.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, Daisy.”

  She pulled a pout. “Big Mister won’t be there, if that’s what concerns you.”

  “No, that’s not it. I just have a previous engagement, is all.”

  “I swear,” Daisy said in exasperation, “one would think you were either a pauper or a prince, as much as you shy away from social intercourse.” She leaned into Will, her ample bosom nudging his arm. “I hope you don’t shy away from the other kind.”

  Will’s face felt on fire. “I don’t shy away from anything. I’m just… busy. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Oh Grenda, now I’ve frightened you away.”

  “No. No, really,” Will said, inching around her and ready to resume his dash, “I must get back to my wagon. Thank you for the invitation, though.” He fell into a slow jog before calling over his shoulder, “It was very kind of you.”

  Finally, Will passed through the gate to the Gutter, which was walled on the two sides that faced the Circus and fenced on the two sides that didn’t. Once back at his wagon, he first made sure he had Simon’s favorite beverage on hand—Diller’s Rye and Ramsberry Whiskey. Yes, two bottles. He then shaved his face clean and plucked out the hair that had grown back around his nipples, which was the only hair his chest ever sprouted. Simon often crooned over Will’s “smoothness.” And indeed he must have liked it, for his cock certainly sprang to attention when they were together.

  As he undressed, Will spotted Fanule Perfidor’s calling card on the floor. He’d pulled it out of his vest pocket and tossed it carelessly toward his two-seat table last night, but it must have skidded off.

  Well, this won’t do, he thought, bending over to snatch it up. Sure enough, the title Eminence of Taintwell was centered just below Perfidor’s name. An image of the magisterial Mongrel flitted through his mind and set off a tiny burst of fireworks in his stomach.

  No, this won’t do.

  Will reached for his collar box, on a narrow wall shelf with a turned railing, and put the card inside.

  Switching his thoughts to another track, he showered in one of the outdoor stalls. Loud conversation and laughter drifted from the central tent where most Gutter residents dined and drank and socialized, but Will wouldn’t be joining them tonight. He again thought of Simon as he scrubbed at himself, his sea sponge lathered by a lump of hand-milled soap. The air’s chill nipped at his skin and shrank his prick, but he wanted to be clean from head to heels.

  “You needn’t dress for company.”

  The echoing words gave Will another kind of shiver. He thought of Simon’s cock, thick as a piston, pounding into the center of him. The exquisite fullness. The repeated flirtation with that demure gland, hiding behind its wall, waiting for just the right persuasion. It certainly appreciated persistence.

  Distracted by his thoughts, Will started dressing, paused, stopped dressing. He smoothed lanolin cream scented with juniper over his upper arms and chest, his flat belly and round rear. Naked, he climbed up to his bed. In
the style of gypsy caravans, the bed was at the end of the wagon opposite the door and sat atop a storage compartment.

  All was ready. The wagon’s short blue curtains were drawn. A candle burned on the small dining table between two squat glasses. A coldbox, concealed by a gaily patterned shawl that had once been his mother’s, kept a block of ice solid; from this, Simon could knock off chips to put in his whiskey.

  Outside, to the south of the grounds, the plant that produced electricity for Hunzinger’s Circus made the earth tremble and the air buzz. Or maybe, Will thought, it was his own nerves vibrating. But the world certainly continued to turn beyond his cozy nest. Waves foamed into the shallows, music played, and the wind buffeted scores of voices, some close and some far. People ate, drank, kissed, quarreled, laughed, danced, gambled, spat, and pissed. At the moment, Will wasn’t a part of it. Any of it. He was perched on a point of stasis, waiting for Simon to arrive.

  Then he’d dive off that aloof point and back into life. When the concert was over and the dance pavilion closed, the second and last fireworks display of the night would begin. Will hoped they would coincide with his own finale. He expected it to be a ripsnorter.

  Chapter Four

  AFTER making a decoction of Lizabetta’s coarse powder, Fanule drank the exact amount she specified and prepared to venture into the city. He felt good, better than he had in weeks or even months, and finding a man with whom to share his health would be the perfect ending to the day.

  There were public houses in Taintwell, but Purinton offered more variety. Fanule freshened up and once more wedged himself into his OMT. Happily expectant, he steamed to the northeast, swerving on dirt roads, bouncing down cobblestone avenues, spitting up dirt and traffic-shredded trash in lanes where most respectable Purintonians feared to tread. Vapor plumed behind him.

  He was in the City Center district, where tangled streets narrowed and widened without logic and seedy neighborhoods bled into and out of factory blocks. Purinton had grown out from this core.

  Fanule turned right onto Black Keys. A building of chipped red brick where umbrellas were made faced a building of pitted concrete where typewriters were made. Morning would see vendors on the corners, hawking meat pies and music stands, meerschaum pipes and jars of mastic gum. Boys would be selling newspapers. Religious fanatics would be handing out tracts. Now, though, the street was deserted. Nobody had much reason to be there. The throaty sound of the OMT’s little engine bounced between the buildings.

  A trolley, going in the other direction, rolled past Fanule. Two phaetons followed. As echoes of their movement clotted the street, Fanule made a left turn.

  It brought him into a neighborhood crammed with leaning flats and squat, single dwellings that all seemed built of old pasteboard. Firelight from garbage burning in steel drums chewed holes in the darkness. Fetid smoke drifting over dirt yards partially obscured the adults who congregated on sagging porches while their children played in the roadway. A tinker trundled along the gutter, pushing a small, clanking cart. Tattered curtains fluttering out of an open window shook quarrelsome voices into the air. Two listlessly thrown rocks bounced off the shell of Fanule’s vehicle.

  Another left turn, onto a gaslit byway where small businesses reigned. Chandler and confectioner, tailor and milliner. A butcher. A chophouse. More drifting smoke and tumbling refuse, more foul smells tincturing the salty breath that occasionally blew in from the sea. Druggist and pawnbroker, bookseller and stationer. Two opium fiends lolling unfiendishly in a doorway, a man in a woman’s dress bending over them. Smeared windows and frayed awnings and brightly painted doors vying for attention. Tent signs flattened on splintery plank sidewalks.

  The wheels of the OMT clattered over a manhole cover, then spun through a slick of oily water. Fanule felt fortunate that he managed to keep his vehicle upright. He didn’t want to be sprawled on this pavement.

  After passing down Hell’s Gullet—a grimy, clangorous string of streets lined with foundries and machine shops that operated round the clock—Fanule finally reached the alley that ran behind Skipskin Mews. He was headed for one end of it, could already see the silhouettes of men and women moving within pools of light outside the Boar Tusk Inn. The wind shifted, funneling down the narrow passageway. For a very unpleasant moment, the thick, rotten reek from a tannery several blocks to the west filled Fanule’s vehicle. He cursed in disgust.

  Suddenly a beggar dashed in front of the OMT, excelsior trailing from his ankles. Fanule braked hard. The man must’ve been concealed by the teetering stacks of barrels, boxes, and crates that ran the length of the alley on both sides and made perfect bunkers for people as well as pests.

  “Sir, sir,” the man said desperately, clutching the open window of the OMT, “are you the one-winged, two-faced angel?”

  Fanule stared at his earnest face and chuckled—a bemused, uncertain sound. “Maybe.” He fished in his trouser pocket for a coin, then curled the man’s fingers around it. “Go there,” he said, pointing at the scarred rear door of a café. “Ask for their best meal.”

  Wide-eyed, the man nodded and backed away. Fanule followed the carpet made by the headlight of his vehicle. He tried not to look back.

  It was always a relief to walk into the Boar’s Tusk. Three similar taverns were on Skipskin, and Fanule would visit them all if he had to. He was determined to leave the city sated. A hotel in the middle of the block offered surprisingly clean rooms and indoor plumbing.

  Men and women and men who looked like women greeted Fanule as soon as he walked through the door. A player piano tinkled cheerily at the far end of the room, five singing patrons clustered around it. A woman, sitting on a man’s lap with her skirts hiked up, was probably exchanging a bit of hard for soft. Two men kissed passionately in a dim corner beyond the reach of the ceiling fixtures’ wavering light.

  As Fanule scanned the interior, one face suddenly leapt out at him. Robin Thornwood, a meticulously groomed, ginger-haired young man with short beard and mustache, stood near the tavern’s side entrance. Although one would never guess from looking at him, Robin craved rough play with men of considerable endowment. Since Fanule could play rough and his size exceeded most men’s expectations, he and Robin had enjoyed many stimulating hours together.

  Still exchanging greetings with other patrons, Fanule sidled toward him. “Robin,” he said, trying to make his voice seductive, trying to make it flow over his occasional partner like warm oil.

  Thornwood was startled to see him. His mouth jumped into and out of a smile. “Fan. I was just about to leave.”

  “Must you?”

  For some reason, Robin glanced over his shoulder at a man who wasn’t at all the type he preferred. “Yes. I’m sorry. Will you… be here tomorrow night? Or somewhere else I can meet you?”

  The other man, short and fair with a drooping mustache and pockmarked cheeks, kept sliding furtive glances at Fanule. His eyelids were heavy, with a bluish cast. He wasn’t grubby, but he had that air. No, not the kind of man Thornwood fancied. Not at all.

  “Yes, I can be here,” Fanule said.

  “Good.” Another tense smile.

  The slightly-built stranger who’d been standing behind Robin slipped out the door.

  “Good.” Another glance over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, then.” With that, Thornwood exited the Boar’s Tusk.

  Fanule sighed. He turned, spotted an empty table, and made his way toward it. The lovers who’d been kissing when he’d walked in were still locked in an embrace.

  Just the sight of those men filled Fanule with envy. He flung off his cloak, took a seat at the small, round table, and rested the sole of one boot on an empty chair. When his bottle of wine and glass arrived, for he always ordered the same refreshment, he poured and sipped.

  He had dressed both for comfort and appeal, in a draped white shirt with no collar and modest pleating at the shoulders and cuffs. It was made of the softest cotton money could buy, and he liked the way the fabric fell on his body�
� and felt against it. The buttons were open to the middle of his breastbone. Shameless, yes, but in certain parts of the city, modesty and temperance did not work to a person’s advantage.

  As proof of that, several men cast interested looks his way. For the time being, Fanule remained indifferent. Whetting other men’s desires was integral to the process of whetting his own.

  He glanced casually around the room, certain he could find an adequate substitute for Thornwood sooner or later.

  “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Fanule abruptly turned his head to the right, toward the voice that had sounded close to his ear and the warm breath that smelled of rye and ramsberry whiskey.

  Smiling, Simon Bentcross straightened. “Out for some fun, Mr. Perfidor?”

  “One can only hope.” Fanule’s pulse accelerated.

  “Mind if I keep you company?”

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  Bentcross grabbed a chair from another table and swung it beside Fanule’s. He straddled it, folding his arms over the bentwood backrest. His gaze moved over the exposed V of Fanule’s chest, along his upraised leg, back to his face. Along the way, it made a stop at Fanule’s hips.

  “You’re a fine-looking man,” he said, his voice graveled around the edges. “I don’t give a damn what your ratio is. I don’t suppose other Pures care much either.”

  “Not around here, Mr. Bentcross.”

  “Call me Simon.” He drank from his tumbler of whiskey. “I’d like to hear you say it.”

  “Why?” The man was already tipsy, but that didn’t entirely deter Fanule. The fact he was a bounty hunter did. At least for the time being.

  “You heat my blood, Perfidor. You warmed it the first time I saw you, even though we were nowhere near each other. Tell me, do you take cock or give it?”

  Fanule’s prick twitched at the question. “Aren’t you being rather presumptuous?”

  “No. You’re a twor. I’d stake my life on it. And you’re anything but chaste.” He suddenly reached over and boldly cupped Fanule’s crotch. “By the gods,” he whispered as Fanule struggled not to push into his hand, “that’s quite the bag of tricks you have there. Care to dab it up with me, Fanule?” His voice was thickened with lust now, his eyelids heavy. “May I call you that? Or do you prefer Fan?”