by Debra Dunbar
He held up his hands. “Sorry, Miss. I’m told I have a quiet step. Cat’s feet.”
“Aye,” she replied, shaking off her temper. “I get that, too.”
He took a final step forward to join her at the railing. She swallowed a few times and sucked in a deep breath. “Been wanting to offer you an apology for what I said last time. It was right unkind of me. You weren’t deserving that sort of thing at all and I regret it.”
He was silent for a minute. Uncertain of his reaction, she took a peek up at him from under her bangs and saw him regarding her with a quizzical expression. “Said some things I regret as well,” he told her.
“Well then, all’s good between us?”
He gave her a short nod, that odd look still on his face. “All’s good.”
Hattie turned to look back over the railing, very aware that he remained beside her. Fighting a twinge of panic, she asked, “Did you need anything?”
He shifted his weight, bending to lean on the railing with his forearms. “I was wondering how long you’ve been working out here on the Bay.”
“Long enough.” She wondered what he was getting at.
“Then you know your way in and out of most of these rivers?”
She cocked her head, glancing over at him. “More than a couple, any rate. You have a look about you.”
“I do? What kind of look?”
“Like you’re trying to butter me up before you sell me a bridge.”
He chuckled, the expression on his face alarmingly endearing. “Reading my mind?” he quipped. “You oughta put in for a position with my boss.”
“Your boss likes mind readers, then?”
“Well, he’s taken a particular shine to magic, so he’ll take what he can get.”
Hattie held her tongue for a moment. Either this man was baiting her into discussing magic on purpose and was a natural at making it seem casual, or he was terrible at small talk.
“Is that you?” she asked. “Magic man? Mind reader?”
He offered a tight-lipped smile. “A little of both, maybe.”
“I suppose you can you read my mind?” she nudged, unable to help herself from continuing the conversation.
“If I’ve learned anything this week,” he confessed with a sheepish grin, “it’s that I have no idea what’s going on inside a woman’s head. So, I better stop trying.”
Hattie could tell there was a story behind that comment, as he stared off into the distance for a moment, seemingly forgetting that she was there—which she found highly irritating. Honestly it didn’t matter whether he could read minds or not, the man could stop time, for cryin’ out loud.
“Whatever it was you did,” she said, her voice soft, warm, and full of honesty, “with time the other night…I’ve got to say that was right impressive.”
Vincent cleared his throat and slid his fingers along his forehead to slip a few loose bangs back underneath his hat. Good Lord, she thought, he’s blushing again.
“It’s what I do,” he confessed with that humble tone she’d once thought was affected. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this was who he really was under all the cockiness.
“How do you do’t?” she pressed.
“People ask me that question more than you realize,” he said. “I never figured out a good answer.”
She turned away and waved a hand. “Well, it’s none of my business, anyhow. Don’t mind me. I stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. As far as vices go, it’s not so bad.”
He released a single snicker. “Okay, okay. So, it’s like a reflex. Like when someone throws a rock at your head, and you duck without thinking about it?”
“People throw rocks at your head on a regular basis, do they?” she teased. It was a heady feeling conversing like this with him. What had happened to the girl who hid in the corner of a jazz club, who used illusions so people wouldn’t notice her? Singing in front of strangers, playfully conversing with a man who could end her freedom in a second if he knew what she was. When had she become so bold?
Vincent waved off her comment. “Only, you decide that you’re going to duck outta the way long before they even throw the rock. It’s that moment when everything feels like the world’s stopping moving—everyone except you. And you do what you need to do. They call us pinchers. It’s a stupid word, but it works for what people like me do. We twist things. Grab them. Manipulate and control them. For me, I pinch time.”
She nodded. “But there’s others like you that pinch other things?”
He choked back a laugh and looked away.
Hattie snorted. “You’re blushing, aren’t you? Saints preserve me, I’ve embarrassed the man!”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
She reached for his jacket and gave it a playful tug. “What, talking about pinching things doesn’t make you feel uncomfortable? Pinching people’s bits…”
He stepped away from her with a chuckle. “Hey, you’re crowdin’ me.”
“Alright, I’ll stop. I just had you figured for a lady’s man.”
“Oh, hell,” he barked. “That…that is not what I am.”
Hattie put a hand to her face. “Ohh, I see. You like the fellas?”
“No!” he sputtered. “I just… I don’t have a lotta time for dames, is all. I…I work a lot.”
She decided to cut him off the hook. “Aye. I understand that.”
“So, by that, I’m assuming there’s no Mister, uh…”
Hattie jabbed him in the ribs. “Mister what?”
Vincent winced. “Confession? I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Oh, well,” she groused with extra drama. “Vincent. I suppose, Vincent, that I’ll forgive you for that, Vincent.”
“Alright, alright.”
“It’s Hattie. Hattie Malloy.”
Even as she said it, she regretted it. What was she doing? The last thing she wanted was to make herself more memorable to this man, and here she was nearly flirting with him. This pincher was in the employ of the mob. He was a one-way ticket to a life of servitude, and she’d just reminded him what her name was. She could’ve said anything and he would have never known the difference.
But then again, he’d probably forget her name by tonight. An arrogant guy like this, bragging over his powers as a time pincher, wouldn’t remember her name now any more than he had the last time they’d met. But, was he really bragging? Now that she thought it through, it seemed more like all he was doing was making conversation.
And trying to sell her a bridge.
“So, Vincent the Time Pincher,” she said. “Why do you want my credentials? Do I know the rivers and back bays? Aye. What’s it to you?”
“I’m looking for someone,” he replied. “Someone who lives out here.”
“Is this a special someone?”
“You could say that,” he answered. “And if you and your pilot back there were so inclined, I could make it worth your time to help me sniff him out.”
Hattie squinted at Vincent with a half-smirk. “Is this some sort of side business?”
“Business is business, Hattie Malloy. And I have an extra century note for the both of you, if you’re willing to lend me a day or two.”
She withdrew a step.
“A hundred?” she whispered.
“That’s right. I’m motivated. And I need discretion. I know from experience that comes at a premium.”
She wrinkled her nose. “What’re your plans for this man? Once you find him?”
He crossed his arms. “That’s outside the scope of my proposal.”
“So, this is officially a proposition?”
“I’ve stated my offer,” Vincent replied. “Two days. You, me.” He nodded to the rear. “Your pilot, and my friend. Give me two days and as much of your navigational knowledge as you can offer, and you’ll come out one hundred dollars richer.” He added with a whisper, “I don’t care how you split that with your driver. If at all.”
Hattie cast a quick glance back to Raymond,
who was watching them with amusement. As if she’d ever stiff him his share. Looking out over the Bay, she searched the surface of the water for a downside to this arrangement. The obvious downside was spending more time with a dangerous man like Vincent. The less obvious downside would be the fate of whatever poor bastard was in this man’s sights.
In truth, that was the poor bastard’s problem, not Hattie’s.
“I suppose that’s simple enough,” she declared.
Vincent offered a hand.
She reached out and shook it with a firm grip. “You have a boat, Mister…”
He lifted a brow.
Hattie bit down on her lip.
“What, you forgot my last name? You did, didn’t you?” He laughed.
She bore down on his hand, and he winced.
“It’s Calendo,” he offered, pulling his hand away and giving it a quick shake.
“One hundred dollars. Up front, Mr. Calendo.”
He shook his head. “You’re hanging one on. I’m not ponying up a C-note while we’re out here, all alone where you can dump two bodies nice and casual.”
“Like you did to those gunmen the other night?”
He grinned. “Right.”
“Fine. After. But you’ll keep your hands where I can see them. And no monkey business pinching time and taking a look where you’re not welcome.” She reached for her collar and tented her shirt away from her chest.
“Hey,” he grumbled. “That’s not the sort of person I am, so you can just apologize now.”
“What, I’ve offended you?”
He scowled. “Yes!”
“Good to know.” She let him seethe for a moment before asking, “So, do you have a name or a location? Somewhere to start?”
“I have a name.”
She gestured for him to offer it.
Vincent turned and asked, “Have you ever heard of someone by the name of Doc Freedman?”
Hattie stared at Vincent, solid as stone.
He added, “He’s supposed to be some mystic from the West Indies. Makes a magical elixir everyone just sorta whispers about. He’s supposed to live on an island somewhere in the Bay, probably down by… Are you okay?”
She blinked. “Hmm?”
“You look a little green around the gills.”
Hattie cleared her throat. “Doc Freedman, you said?”
“Right. You’ve heard that name before?”
As Hattie’s stomach continued to plummet toward the center of the earth, she responded, “Never. But, we can give it a go.”
Chapter 18
“What’s the word?” Lefty asked as Vincent returned to the bench seat behind the boat pilot.
“We have a boat,” Vincent answered.
“How much?”
“Think we can part with a C-note?”
Lefty groaned. “You’re shit at haggling.”
“Do we have it, or not? Because I get the feeling that girl up there will pull a knife on us and dump our bodies in the Bay if we welsh.”
Lefty sighed. “I have it. What’s our first stop?”
Vincent nodded at Hattie, who remained at the bow. “Mouth of the Chester River. Just across the Bay from Annapolis. She says there’s a hobo colony there who like to keep their ears open. Might could get some leather outta them.”
“What’s this mystery man you’re looking for?”
Vincent leaned back, pulling off his hat to run his hands through his hair. “Capstein gave me the skinny on this fella. Supposed to be a water pincher, lives by himself ’round the Bay somewhere.”
“Why hasn’t Capstein scooped him up for the Richmond boys?” Lefty asked.
“I got the feeling he doesn’t fully believe he exists. Has him chalked up as a yarn the local fishers spun up.”
“And you’re sure enough that he’s not some tall tale that you’re throwing down a C-note on it?”
Vincent shrugged and replaced his hat. “It’s a start.”
“Not much of a start.”
“I don’t know, Lefty. I just got a feeling. Like there’s a pincher on the Bay. I feel it. Ever since Deltaville I felt it.”
Lefty shook his head. “Whatever that was that happened there, it wasn’t one of you.”
“You’re gonna have to tell me what all you know about pinchers, sometime.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
Vincent scowled at him. “Like, knowing there’s no such animal as a fire pincher. Stuff like that, like you’re some kind of expert.”
Lefty turned to Vincent and smiled. The expression on his face put a chill through Vincent’s guts. “You’ll live with the suspense.”
“You know what a horse’s ass you are?”
They rode in silence until a strip of land came into view that had snaked its way into the Bay, separating the Chesapeake from the mouth of the Chester River. It was more swamp than dry land. The boat driver eased the craft alongside a straight patch of muddy coast, brushing aside cattails as they swung around to present the side of the boat to the land.
Vincent adjusted his hat and stepped up to the railing, offering a hand to Hattie.
The girl eyed him with a smirk, then hopped up to the side of the boat and leaped out, landing firmly on solid ground. She beckoned for him to join her.
Vincent rounded a leg over the side of the railing and stepped off. Both shoes sunk into thick, dark mud. He pulled one foot out of the mire, but the second stuck a little more than he’d expected, sending him staggering forward, flailing to catch his balance. Hattie snickered and reached out to grab his arm, steadying Vincent enough for him to gaze morosely at his Italian leather wingtips. Lefty landed beside Vincent with a hefty thump.
Vincent eyed Lefty over his shoulder. “Just another beachhead for you, huh?”
Without reply, Lefty tossed an elbow into Vincent’s side, sending him sprawling onto a thicket of reeds.
Once Raymond had tied the boat to an enormous felled tree trunk bleached white from years in the sunlight, the group formed a line and ventured inland. Hattie led the way, angling them along the shoreline once the ground was solid enough. Before long, he could smell a campfire and over-boiled coffee as well as hear a tortured refrain from a mouth organ.
Hattie held up a hand for them to hold position, then ventured farther into a copse of trees. She traced her fingers along one of the thick white oak trunks, a freshly-carved symbol beneath her fingertips. Then she turned back to the group with a satisfied nod.
“What was that?” Vincent asked, nodding at the symbol.
“Survival language,” she replied. “It’s how hoboes get the word out.”
“So, what did that mean?”
She smiled. “It means this is a good place to camp. Listen, I want all of you to stay here while I work it out. I know some of these men. They don’t take to strangers, so it’s best if you—”
Vincent lifted a hand. “That’s fine. We’re looking for Doc Freedman. See if they’ve heard of anyone passing through by that moniker.”
She nodded. “I’ll be quick. Make yourselves at home. I hear it’s a good place to camp.” With a wink and a smirk, she turned to Raymond.
“You okay going up there by yo’self?” he grunted.
“I’ll be fine. These fellas never give me any grief.”
He shrugged, and Hattie turned to march on up a path. Lefty searched around the area, then whistled for Vincent. The two stepped down toward the water’s edge, and a flat of surf-polished stones.
“Gimme a hand with this,” Lefty urged.
Vincent grabbed the other end of a driftwood log to help the man carry it to the center of the space. They continued gathering smaller bits of wood, and Raymond took up the cause by arranging the kindling into a tiny pyre. Lefty loomed over the stack of wood and reached into his pants pocket to produce a shiny metal square.
“What’s that?” Vincent asked.
“Old flip lighter. Won it off some RAF jackass outside of Reims.” He lit a clutch
of marsh grass and settled it beneath the wood. Soon they had their own campfire and Lefty took a seat alongside Vincent atop the log, pocketing the lighter.
Vincent lifted his chin to Raymond. “How long’ve you been working with Hattie?”
“Hmm. Better part of three years, now,” Raymond answered.
Vincent asked, “She your sister, or something? The resemblance is uncanny.”
Raymond smiled, then laughed. The sound was like a freight train horn.
Vincent prodded, “No, seriously. Looks like you do the driving. Most of the lifting. What is it she does for your outfit?”
Raymond thought the question over for a moment. “I suppose she keeps me outta trouble.”
Lefty remarked, “She’s not very good at that.”
Another laugh from Raymond. “You want her job? Naw, she’s got a brain on her for sure. She reads the Bay like a book. Maybe she’s got waterman blood in her.”
“Doesn’t hurt that she has a white face,” Lefty added.
Raymond nodded. “That does help, especially when we head south.”
Vincent said, “Well, for what it’s worth we got no beef with Negroes.”
Raymond shook his head with a beleaguered grin. “I guess I’ll be happy about that.”
Lefty fished for his lighter as the flames threatened to die down. “God damned wet lumber.” As he fumbled with his pocket, a rosary fell into the grass.
Raymond scooped it up for Lefty, admiring it in the sunlight. “You a Godly man?”
Lefty took it with a lift of his brow. “I like to think there’s something more to this life than eating and sleeping.”
“And dyin’,” Raymond added.
“Are you a man of faith?” Lefty asked.
Raymond nodded. “Every Sunday, anyways. The Good Lord blessed me with a baby boy just a couple weeks ago, so I’m prayin’ double-time.”
Vincent smiled. “Hey, congratulations.”
Raymond nodded then shrugged. “Not a Catholic, though.”
“Ah,” Lefty said with a smirk. “I knew there’d be a catch.”
