by Eoin Colfer
“True enough.” She rattled her manacles in frustration. “I cannot believe any of this is happening. How can I be trapped in the past?” The rattling produced nothing but noise, so Chevie settled down. “Okay, you want to hear about my tattoo?”
Riley’s face was slick with sweat, and his body was rigid as a board. “Please.”
Chevie closed her eyes, trying to imagine herself out of the past, into her own past in the future. “My mom and dad grew up on the Shawnee reservation in Oklahoma. They call it trust land, these days. As soon as my dad could afford a motorbike, my mom hopped on the back and they took off across the country. Got married in Vegas and settled in California. I came along a while later, and Dad told me that things were just about perfect for a couple of years, until Mom was killed by a black bear over in La Verne.” Chevie shook her head as if she still could not accept this fact. “Can you believe that? A Native American on a camping trip killed by a bear. Dad never got over it. Oh, we were happy enough, I guess. But he drank a lot. ‘When love dies,’ he told me, ‘there are no survivors.’”
Chevie was silent for a moment, wishing for the millionth time that she could remember her mother’s face.
“We had ten years together before his motorcycle blew up on the Pacific Coast Highway. Dad had a tattoo just like mine, a Chevron symbol. It’s what I was named for.”
“You were named for a symbol? That is a strange custom.”
Chevie scowled. “You asked for a tale, remember?”
Riley twisted his own arm backward at the elbow. “I apologize, Agent. Please continue.”
“My dad had the same tattoo. Same shoulder. He told me that all the Savano men back to the Shawnee wars have borne this mark. William Savano fought the Long Knives with Tecumseh at Moraviantown. For every officer he killed in battle, William daubed a Chevron on his arm in blood, as this was the sergeant’s symbol. He was a fearsome warrior. So, in memory of William, the Savanos have worn the symbol. I am the last of the Savanos, so I bear the name and the symbol. The first girl to do so.”
“That is indeed a fascinating tale,” said Riley, shrugging off his bonds until only the solid manacles on his wrists remained. “And well told.”
“Yeah, a pity I can’t talk off your handcuffs.”
Riley winked. “These are screw bracelets. The walking dummy what put ’em on botched the job. See these barrels? They should be at the bottom.”
“Because?”
“Because if the barrels are on top, a prisoner can do this . . .”
Riley brought his hands together as close as he could, crossed thumbs, and used the opposable digits to unscrew the handcuffs.
“Hey, presto,” said Riley, taking a deep bow.
A slow handclap echoed across the room, floating down from the top of a rickety stairway.
“Bravo, boy. Well done to you.”
A giant meat cart of a man ambled down the stairs, each step creaking under his weight.
“Otto Malarkey,” whispered Riley. “The big boss himself.”
Malarkey jumped the last three steps, sending the hanging carcasses swinging on their chains. This man would be a character in any age. He wore leather breeches with pirate boots, no shirt covered his barrel chest, and his flowing black locks were barely contained by a shining silk top hat. Two revolvers hung in cowboy holsters on his hips, and in one massive meaty paw he swished a riding crop.
“You show some considerable talent, boy,” he said, his booming voice bouncing off the ceiling. “Of course that glocky tree stump, Jeeves, screwed on yer bracelets rump-ways. I could use you in the Rams. With that clean mush and full set of teeth, you would make a fine burglar boy for the genteel jobs up at Mayfair and the likes, where my oafs attract peelers like horse biscuits attract flies.”
Malarkey stepped forth, emerging from the shadows, and Chevie noticed a ram’s head tattoo on his shoulder and a pricelist on his chest that read:
Punching_2 shillings
Both eyes blacked_4 shillings
Nose and jaw broke_10 shillings
Jacked out (knocked out with a blackjack)_15 shillings
Ear chewed off_same as previous
Leg or arm broke_19 shillings
Shot in leg_25 shillings
Stab_same as previous
Doing the Big Job_3 pounds and up
Malarkey noticed her gaze. “Some of the diverse services offered by the Rams. Of course my prices have elevated with my stature. I’ve been meaning to update the ink since they booted me from Little Saltee prison. I was king of that dung heap.” He spread his muscled arms wide. “Now I am king of the greatest dung heap on earth.”
Riley circled the giant warily. “What is your interest in us, Mr. Malarkey? Why were the Rams keeping eyes on that particular basement?”
Malarkey kicked Riley’s vacated chair, sending it skittering across the floor.
“Cheeky cur, posing questions to me in my own gentlemen’s club. The Rams took a contract to murder anyone who showed up in that lurk. For two years now we’ve been pocketing quite a stipend for doing nothing but keeping an eye, and that’s all the information you’ll be needing on the subject.”
“Of course, sorry, guv’nor. My mistake.”
“Hark at him,” said Malarkey. “All manners and how-doyou-do. I suppose that’ll be the rearing I gave you. You being my kin and everything.” His chuckle was gruff with cigar smoke and whisky. “That’s a smart mouth you have on you, boy, and it kept the both of you alive. You are a deal smarter than the numbskulls who brought you in, saying you appeared in a puff of genie magic. I could have room for you in the Rams. The girl, however, seems less valuable.”
Otto squatted before Chevie, taking a lock of her hair between two fingers and sniffing it. “Mind you, you do have the glossiest hair, miss. How do you make it shine so?”
“Well, Mr. Malarkey,” said Chevie sweetly. “What I do is I slap the hell out of Battering Rams, then wash my silken locks in their tears of shame.”
Taken at face value, these comments would seem unprofessional at best and psychotically foolhardy at worst, but as Cord Vallicose at Quantico had informed his young students in the Negotiating Tactics class, In certain confrontational situations, for example when dealing with a narcissist or psychopath, an aggressive tack can sometimes prove useful, as it will pique your captor’s interest and prompt him to keep you alive a little longer. Chevie had never forgotten this quote and used it to justify her regular outbursts. Riley, of course, had not been to this lecture and could not understand why Chevie repeatedly antagonized their captors.
“She’s a simpleton,” he blurted. “There was an accident with a high wall . . . and some laudanum. Her marbles rolled clean out her earholes.”
Malarkey was nonplussed. He stood and paced awhile, uncertain how to react.
“Well, I never,” he said, rather quaintly. “I ain’t accustomed to vinegar from gents. Now I meet my first Injun lady, and she’s spouting all this color at me. What’s a gang leader to do?”
Malarkey slapped the riding crop against his massive thigh. “Here’s the scoop, folks. My predecessor took a job in good faith to keep eyes on that house in Half Moon Street and slit the neck of anyone who arrived in it. So I find myself in a dilemma. Mine is not to wonder why the man who contracted us would want you two snuffed, but Otto Malarkey don’t like to kill without reason, especially a cove like you, boy, who could be of service. But the brotherhood accepted coin for a job of work, and the Rams be nothing if not reliable.”
Riley had a thought. “But you couldn’t kill another Ram.”
“Quick thinking again, boy. But you ain’t a Ram. A cove’s gotta be born into the brotherhood, or fight his way in. And, with respect, you might be able to climb a drainpipe, but you couldn’t bend one.”
“I might surprise you,” said Riley, and to prove his point, leaped high in the air and smashed the empty chair with a blow from his forearm.
“Not too shabby,” admitted Malarkey
, flicking a splinter from his trouser leg. “But I got a dozen better. I need something with a little theater about it. The men are bored watching dullards pound on each other.”
Riley held out his wrists. “Put manacles on me, and I’ll still whip whoever you nominate.”
“I don’t know. We’ve been paid already.”
“Don’t you want to know why this man needs us dead? Knowledge is power, ain’t that so? And a king can’t have enough of either.”
Malarkey slapped his thigh with the riding crop. “You is a dazzling one, but perhaps too smart with your verbals. I have found in this particular kingdom that it is generally prudent to keep the gob shut, do your business, and ask no questions. I would like to know why such a celebrated man would want to see you in the dirt, but in this game knowing too much can see you dead quicker than knowing too little.”
An idea popped into Chevie’s head. “What if I fight, big man? How would that be?”
Malarkey’s crop froze in mid-swing. “You, fight? We couldn’t abide that here. We only started admitting ladies into the Hidey-Hole recently.”
Riley was thinking three steps ahead. “Mr. Malarkey, this lady has special Injun skills. I seen her punch out a Cossack and his horse. She don’t look it, but she’s a dervish, sir. A foresighted man could make some serious coin betting on Chevie.”
Malarkey rubbed the price list on his chest. “The odds would be long, so the gamble would be small. But one fight for one place. That still leaves you out in the cold, boy.”
“Not a problem,” said Chevie. “You pick your two best bruisers, and I’ll fight both of them.”
Malarkey guffawed in surprise. “Both of ’em? Fight ’em both, you say?” He winked at Riley. “Just how high was this wall she took a tumble from?”
The Red Glove
ORIENT THEATRE. HOLBORN. LONDON. 1898
Albert Garrick had mixed feelings on the subject of the Orient Theatre. On the one hand he was too much in love with his memories of the performer’s life to ever let it go, and on the other it caused him great pain even to gaze on the mechanics of his once-famous illusions.
He trod the boards now, tightening a rope here, adjusting a mirror there. Each contraption brought a rueful smile to his thin features.
Ah, the Chinese water bowls. How the crowd had cheered in Blackpool. Lombardi, they cried. Lombardi, Lombardi.
It occurred to Garrick that with his improved physicality, no illusion would be off-limits to him.
I am more supple now and could escape from a seltzogene if need be. The Great Lombardi could be the most famous illusionist on earth.
It was a tempting notion, to travel the courts of Europe, dazzling tsars and kings. To have jewels strewn on the tail of his velvet cape.
So many possibilities.
Garrick retired to his larder, preparing a simple meal of cheese and meats, which he consumed standing, with a crust of slightly hardened bread and a flagon of watered beer.
Of course I would need an assistant. This time I will choose wisely, and not show so much kindness. It was my own soft hand that spoiled Riley.
Garrick returned to the Orient’s stage, pulling his velvet cape from its peg and wrapping it around his shoulders. Then, as a sentimental comfort, and because he felt somewhat alone, the magician placed the original Lombardi’s silk top hat on his head.
Assistants are troublesome creatures, he admitted, often developing their own personalities. Their own wants and preferences.
Sabine had also caused him considerable pain. Had her treachery not forced him to quit performing altogether?
But she had been so beautiful. So perfect.
Garrick felt a tiredness come over him that he could not ignore, so he settled into an armchair that was positioned on a low circular dais center stage and decided to allow himself a few hours’ sleep before he began the hunt for Riley and Chevron Savano.
And, as they often did, his dreams turned to Sabine. His first, beautiful, perfect assistant. Perfect until . . .
In the beginning it had seemed to young Albert Garrick that his life had entered a new phase, edging away from the horrors of his youth. He was gaining mastery over Lombardi’s works and growing into the Italian’s boots very nicely. Not a single engagement was canceled, and Sabine seemed more than satisfied to renew her contract.
Garrick was besotted, and he showered the girl with tokens of his esteem, which she accepted with squeals and hugs, calling him her Albert and kissing his cheek. Garrick was content for the first time, and even his nightmares of blood and cholera grew infrequent and seemed somehow less potent when they did occur.
Unfortunately for young Garrick, Sabine’s heart was colder than the baubles she loved so much, and her intention had always been to ditch her employer at the first sign of a better prospect.
In the summer of 1880, a young Albert Garrick—the Great Lombardi now—was second on the bill below the wellknown Anglo-Irish dramatist and actor Dion Boucicault at the Adelphi, when Garrick noticed Sabine’s flirtatious manner as she fraternized with young Sandy Morhamilton, one of the lighting boys. This vexed and puzzled Garrick, as generally Sabine had no patience for the crew. But a little investigation revealed that young Morhamilton was no hand-to-mouth pauper; he was, in fact, the heir to a large coffee-trading company and was spending a year at the Adelphi to exorcise the theater from his system.
And if I have uncovered Sandy’s true identity, so too has Sabine , Garrick reasoned. He began to keep watch on the pair, discovering a talent for lurking that would serve him well in later years. Day by day his heart was broken as the woman he had worshipped for years gave her attention to a dolt, a high-born halfwit.
Garrick’s love curdled into a hate that turned inward, souring his very soul. The entire affair blossomed tragically on the third Sunday of June, during the matinee. As he was preparing to insert the steel blades into their slots for the Divide the Lady trick, he noticed that Sabine’s gaze was directed to the gantry above the stage. To his amazement, the trollop actually blew a kiss skyward. Garrick leaned close to issue a stern admonition and, almost incredibly, he saw his rival reflected in his beloved’s eyes.
An irrepressible fury consumed the young Garrick and he slammed the center blade into the slot without reversing the handle, which meant that Sabine had no chance of avoiding the sharp steel when it eventually fell.
Garrick’s fury was replaced by cold satisfaction and, with a shake of his bloodied glove toward the young Morhamilton, he fled through the stage door and into the night, never to return to the Adelphi, though superstitious theater folk swear that the Red Glove still haunts the stalls, searching for the man who cuckolded him.
Albert Garrick was never prosecuted for his crime because, ironically, he was found guilty of a lesser one. Two days later the destitute magician attacked a sandy-haired youth outside the Covent Garden Theatre and beat him half to death. His sentence gave him the choice of a fair stretch in Newgate or a spot in the Queen’s army, on a train leaving for Afghanistan that very evening. Garrick chose the latter, and by nightfall he was squeezed into a troop carriage on his way to Dover, without anyone ever realizing that Albert Garrick’s hat fitted snugly on the Great Lombardi’s head. He arrived among the Afghans just in time for the great battle of Kandahar and covered himself in bloody glory. Garrick was offered a commission and could have made a career for himself in the army, but he reckoned there was more coin to be made if he struck out as an independent.
“Sabine,” Garrick muttered to himself, half in slumber. “Riley.” Garrick was not alone in the Orient. In fact, a band of dyed-in-the-wool knaves had been lodged there for the past couple of days, waiting for Garrick to return from his mission in Bedford Square. These were no ordinary kidnappers, but a trio of superior punishers handpicked for the grisly mission. Their boss reckoned them the bloodiest in his stable and trusted them with this contract, which was bringing in a considerable pocket of chink for the brotherhood.
“One
body only?” Mr. Percival had asked, the most experienced of the three, a man who often boasted of having performed at least one killing on a different continent for every decade of his life.
“Yes, but an exceptional body,” his boss had assured him, “and worthy of your combined talents. Take no half measures with this cove, lads, or you will find yourself looking down Old Nick’s throat. When he returns from his own bloody work, just wait for him to bed down, then do the business. You wait as long as it takes. Got it?”
The men nodded with feigned sincerity and pocketed their advance guineas; but once the big man was gone, they congratulated each other for landing such a soft job.
“We are the luckiest of beggars,” Percival had confided in his confederates. “This Garrick mug will have his entrails on the boards by dusk, and we will be scoffing mutton stew for supper.”
So now Percival and his two mates roused themselves from behind Row F of the Orient stalls and walked crabwise to the aisles. One took the left, the second went right, and Percival himself advanced straight down the center. Apart from the delay, events could hardly have turned out peachier for the intruders. This cove Garrick, far from being a specter of death, as advertised, had actually plonked himself center stage for a wee nod. The brave trio intended to flank their mark, then close in with diverse blades.
Percival hefted a short-handled chopping ax that he’d purchased in a supply store in California and later used to punish a teenage boy for pointing a finger at him. The second man, known simply as Turk, wielded a curved scimitar that had been in someone’s family for generations until Turk nicked it. And the third man, a Scot with unusually short legs, had a baling hook slotted between his fingers that had seen more eyeballs dangling off its tip than hay bales. The Scot, Pound, also carried a pistol, but bullets were costly and a wide shot could startle their mark into action, so best to do the job quietly with blades.
These men had worked together before and had developed a system of nods, whistles, and signals that precluded any chatter on the job. Chatty assassins did not last long in London. Percival was the captain, so the others looked to him for their lead. With two jabs of his ax, he directed them to the wings. Garrick would undoubtedly fly to one side or another should he somehow detect Percival’s approach. This was unlikely in any case, as Percival made about as much noise as a leaf floating across Hyde Park. Turk and Pound resigned themselves to the fact that the kill itself would be Percival’s, as it generally was.
