A giggle escaped her. She turned toward him, tilting her head to one side to better observe him. “Do you remember anythin’ about England?”
He paused. “No. Not really.”
“Ah, you’re better off, I say. You’re cursed enough. Now. How about you drink up a good tin of whiskey? It’ll help you sleep.”
He shook his head. “No. I would rather not. My mind is muddled enough without—”
A resounding thud hit the adjoining wall, sending a tremor throughout the room.
He rose to his feet. “What was that?”
She winced and waved toward the main wall opposite them. “Never you mind John Andrew Malloy over there. He feels the need to entertain the masses every now and then. Just ignore it.”
“You mean he’s hosting a formal gathering? At this hour?”
She pursed her lips as if he were a complete dolt. “Not quite.”
Steady, rhythmic thuds grew more and more pronounced as muffled moans filtered through the wall. “That’s it, Georgia. Come on. Let me hear it.”
A woman cried out, mingling with those thrusting grunts.
His brows rose as his face and skin prickled with astounded heat. He glanced over at Georgia and gestured toward the wall. “By God. Did he just…say your name? Or did I imagine that?”
She turned and quickly headed over to the cupboard and commenced arranging and rearranging all of her plates, even though they were already arranged.
Apparently, he hadn’t imagined it at all.
Rapid, feverish thumps rattled the plates Georgia tried to reorganize. “Take it, Georgia. Take every last—”
A woman gasped against a massive thud that vibrated the floor beneath Robinson’s boots. “Now, now, not so hard, John! I’m not running a charity here.”
Georgia cringed and swung away, slapping a hand over her mouth.
Robinson’s throat tightened as the need to protect her honor descended upon him like a massive wave crashing to the shore. She didn’t like it. And neither did he.
Stalking over to the wall, he banged his fist against the plaster, causing it to tremor beneath each hit. “John Andrew Malloy!” he boomed, leaning toward the wall and pounding it again. “Unless you want a fist to find its way through this wall and into your skull, I demand you desist using the name of a woman you aren’t even with!”
She choked on a laugh, dropping her hand to her side, and swung toward him. “Shush! He’ll hear you.”
He stepped away from the wall and adjusted his coat in riled agitation. “I hope to God he does. That is vile. You shouldn’t have to listen to that. And neither should I.”
She groaned and yanked her apron up over her face and head, burying herself in it. “If John comes over here, I’ll up and die.”
“If John comes over here, he is going to up and die.”
An anguished moan and one last “Georgia” ripped through the air. Everything soon lulled itself back into silence.
Georgia quietly lingered before the doorless cupboard, her head still buried in her apron. “I’m never comin’ out knowin’ you heard that.” She suffocated a giggle. “Not ever, ever, ever.”
At least she had a sense of humor about it. “You have to come out sometime.”
“No, I don’t.”
Knowing she was being silly, he edged toward the bolted door and, despite hearing nothing, said in a taunting voice, “I hear footsteps.”
She whipped her apron down from her face and gawked at him in exasperation. “You do not.”
“No. But I got you out, did I not?” He leaned against the bolted door and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to appear indifferent even though he was thoroughly agitated to know some man was yelling out her name in the throes of passion. “How often does he do that to you? And why?”
She rolled her eyes, her smooth cheeks flushing. “He has a bit of a fancy for me.”
“A bit? He was saying your name.”
“Oh, all right, more than a fancy.” She glanced toward the wall and lowered her voice, pointing at him. “This doesn’t leave the room.”
Now, this he had to hear. “I won’t say a word.”
She heaved out a breath and waved toward the wall. “John Andrew and this redhead from over on Anthony Street started seein’ each other about a month ago. I thought it was movin’ toward matrimony and was actually quite happy for him. Then I ran into the woman one mornin’ whilst gettin’ my yams, and she thanked me for the business I was givin’ her. I told her I most certainly didn’t know what she was talkin’ about, and that’s when she laughed and told me all about how John Andrew Malloy pays her fifty cents to ride her up the hole he shouldn’t, all whilst callin’ her Georgia.” She snorted. “I about fainted. But better her than me, I say.”
Robinson drew in a ragged breath and let it out. He was going to slaughter this John Andrew Malloy.
A door slammed in the distance beyond, making them both pause. Steady footfalls headed toward them from next door, followed by a knock that vibrated the bolted door he was still leaning against.
“Ey, Georgia!” a man called from the other side. “Open up.”
Her eyes widened as she slammed down a reprimanding foot. “Drat you and that mouth, Robinson!” She hurried toward him, shaking her head, and waved him away with both hands. “Step aside before he chews my door to bits.”
“I intend to chew him to bits. Pardon me.” He whipped toward the door, his chest tightening as he undid the bolts. He was going to scatter the bastard’s innards across the entire length of the corridor.
“No.” Georgia shoved him away from the door and swung a finger toward the shadowed wall where the lamp didn’t reach. “Step into the shadows and put your back against the wall. I don’t want him seein’ your face.”
He squinted at her. “Are you defending this man?”
“No. I’m defendin’ you.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “John happens to be one of the boys. And the rule around here is not to stir the pot before you’ve had a chance to put anythin’ in it. You don’t want him spreadin’ rumors and havin’ people hunt you down. He’s known for it. Now get in the shadows.”
He threw up both hands in exasperation and fell against the wall behind him with a thud.
“Don’t say a word until I get rid of him.” She pointed at him one last time as if that were going to keep him in place, then unbolted the door and swung it open.
His brows rose a fraction at what came into view in the dim light just outside his shadowy hiding spot.
A tall, shirtless youth who looked barely old enough to shave casually leaned against the doorway outside, his smooth, muscled chest and face glistening from the sheen of sex-induced sweat. Wool trousers were crookedly affixed on those narrow hips and his two large feet were as bare as the day he was born. He edged in toward Georgia, long strands of blond hair falling into his eyes. “I’ve had a long day, Georgia. Don’t make it longer by telling me what I can and can’t do in me own low closet.”
“You’re touched in the head, John. Touched.” She tapped her forehead with a finger. “I couldn’t care less about what you do in your low closet. I just don’t want to hear it. You’re bein’ overly stupid and loud.”
The edge of John’s mouth lifted. “Just imagine how overly stupid and loud it’d be if it were happening in your low closet?”
Georgia set her hands on her hips. “You’d only snap at the first thrust, John. There’s barely enough of you as it is.”
Robinson bit back an exasperated laugh and shifted against the wall. She certainly knew how to serve up a good tongue.
John paused. “Is that Matthew? Was he the one up and banging on the wall like Fecky the Ninth?” He pushed past Georgia, striding into the room, and jerked to a halt, scanning Robinson. His eyes widened as his sweat-sleeked face flushed all the more. He glanced back over at Georgia. “Who’s this prick? And what’s he doing in your room?”
Robinson narrowed his gaze and pushed away from t
he wall, ready to fist the runt back out into the corridor where he belonged.
“Back against the wall, Robinson,” Georgia warned, pointing at him. “And don’t say a word.”
Gritting his teeth, Robinson fell back against the wall, but held the youth’s gaze, challenging him to come at him.
John swiped his hair out of his eyes and leaned toward her, his bare chest rising and falling more steadily. “Christ, Georgia. You can’t be trusting men you don’t know. Get rid of him. Before I do.”
“Don’t be playin’ all high and mighty, John, whilst you’re playin’ with your whores loud enough for the whole buildin’ to hear.” Georgia grabbed the youth by the arm, directing him to the open door. “I’ve been behind on the rent by a whole dollar forty-five since my reticule was swiped and I’m boardin’ him to make up for it, is all. So you needn’t be jerkin’ your chin at me. I know what I’m doin’.” She tried shoving him into the corridor.
John yanked his arm away from her and spun back. “You’re doing more than boarding him.” He swiped a hand over his face. “You’re fecking him for extra money to move west, aren’t you?”
She gasped. “I’m not feckin’ him!”
“Like hell you aren’t.”
Robinson shook his head from side to side. “Have a little more respect for the woman,” he called out from up against the wall he was still sentenced to. “And while you’re at it, sir, put on a shirt lest you blind us all with your lack of refinement.”
John’s eyes widened. “Smite me. He’s a fobbing Brit. Sir and all!” Shoving past Georgia, John veered toward him and said through clenched teeth, “You’d best leave lest I bloody you up well enough for your whore of a mother in England to feel it.”
Robinson pushed away from the wall, straightening to his full height of six feet four inches, towering well above the boy by a whole head and a half. “I’d like to see you try, little John.”
“Get out!” Lunging, John snapped out a clenched fist up toward his face.
Robinson vaulted aside as John’s white-knuckled fist smashed into the wall behind him, denting the plaster with a muffled thud that resounded within the room.
“John!” Georgia grabbed John by the waist and dragged him back toward her. “Enough. Enough!”
Robinson held out a strained hand in warning, even though what he really wanted to do was smash the boy’s skull into pieces.
John swatted away Georgia’s hands from around his waist and veered back toward him, his lean chest rising and falling against impassioned breaths. “No one makes a whore out of Georgia. No one. Especially not some prick of a Brit.”
Holding the youth’s gaze, Robinson removed his coat and tossed it toward the chair, readying himself for whatever was about to happen. “The only one making a whore out of Georgia right now is you, John. I suggest you leave. Before she has to witness something she oughtn’t.”
Georgia grabbed the youth by the arm with both hands and yanked him back, using her own body to maneuver his. “As you can see, John, despite him bein’ a Brit, he’s a gent who knows how to control his own two fists. Unlike you.” Turning him back toward the door, she shoved him out into the corridor. “Now get back to your girl.”
“She’s not me girl,” he tossed back, turning back toward her. “I’m only fecking her to keep meself sane, because living next to you on the hour is like living next to the Garden of Eden. Snakes and all!”
“Don’t you worry, this Eve is movin’ the entire garden west and soon. Good night…Adam.” Slamming the door, she bolted all three locks.
“Georgia!” The door rattled. “Georgia, please don’t do this. I’ve got two dollars and thirty-four cents saved up. ’Tis yours if you need it and I sure as hell won’t ask for spit, in turn. Just don’t…don’t feck him.”
Georgia hit the door with a hard, fast fist, rattling the door. “Is that all you think I’m good for? A bloody feck? Off with you, you knacker, before I tell Matthew to slice you up like custard pie and serve you to the locals!”
There was a mutter as footfalls faded. A door slammed.
“What a vile little maggot,” Robinson drawled. “Is feck what I think it is?”
Georgia turned and glared at him. “If that were Matthew or any other man, you would have been dead by now. Don’t think that because you stand well over six feet that you can talk back to these men. This isn’t Broadway where people settle things with a bit of conversation. People here settle for blood. I want you to remember that the next time you mouth off.”
He shifted his jaw. “He was disrespecting you and he was disrespecting me.”
“Get used to it. It’s called life. Sometimes, you’ve got to swallow your pride to ensure you don’t die.” She snatched up the lamp from off the table and disappeared into the adjoining room, momentarily leaving him in shadows.
Robinson swiped an exhausted hand across his face and winced as his fingers scraped against his scab. Seething out a breath, he leaned against the wall. “How old was that bastard, anyway? He looked rather young to be carrying on the way he did.”
“He’s one and twenty,” she called out from within the low closet. She unfolded yellowing linen and spread it onto the straw mattress, smoothing it out. “Not nearly as young as you think. I was eighteen when I became a wife.”
He stared at her. “You were rather young.”
“Young? Don’t be silly. Most girls marry younger to avoid fallin’ into the hands of a brothel, and unlike them, I actually married for love. And a fine love it was.” She half nodded and turned away, her voice fading as she breathed out, “Even if it didn’t last.”
Leaning over, she quietly arranged and rearranged the linen on the bed as if not at all pleased with the way it was laying. He sensed she was actually doing it to avoid any further discussion pertaining to her marriage.
He trailed a hand against the uneven plastered wall as he made his way toward her. “So John is one of the boys?”
“That he is. He can read and write now because of them.”
“Little good reading and writing has done him. He appears to be deranged.”
She glanced back toward him, straightening. “He serves his purpose, pays out his quota from his own weekly earnin’s and works on command durin’ political campaigns. That’s all the boys want and need. And though John sure as hell doesn’t show it, for fear other men would snicker, he has a rather soft heart and is always helpin’ others. He was initiated into the group barely a year ago, after one of our boys was stabbed to death over at the docks.” She huffed out a breath. “What a mess that was.”
His brows rose. “So you mean when one of them dies, they up and replace him with another? Don’t you find that infinitely disturbing?”
“’Tis no different than a gent’s club over on Broadway losin’ a member and needin’ a new one. I’ll have you know there’s actually a sizable waitin’ list. Half the ward is forever complainin’ to Matthew and Coleman that they ought to make the group accommodate more men. Those two thievin’ banshees, however, consider any number beyond forty not only financially unmanageable, but unlucky.”
“And why is that?”
“Because they’re known as the Forty Thieves. Not the fifty-six or the eighty-two thieves.”
A sensation of odd familiarity trickled through him. He blinked, wondering why he already knew something about these men.
Let us now leave Ali Baba to enjoy the commencement of his good fortune and return to the forty thieves.
Wait.
Wasn’t that a story?
One he knew and had read in youth?
In a certain town of Persia lived two brothers, one of whom was named Cassim, the other Ali Baba. As their father, at his death, left them but little property, which they divided equally between them, it might have been expected that their fortunes would be the same; chance, however, ordered it otherwise.
By God. It was indeed a story. Just as Robinson Crusoe had been. What the hell was wrong with him?
“The Forty Thieves? As in…Ali Baba and the forty thieves?”
Her face brightened. “Yes. Do you know of it?”
“Oddly enough, I do. ’Tis known as The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. I must have read it. Because I know of it. The moment you mentioned the Forty Thieves, almost the entire story placed itself into my head.”
She paused. “It did?”
He nodded. “This sort of thing happened to me at the hospital, too.”
She searched his face for a long moment. “Robinson Crusoe is a book. So is The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. How very…odd. You appear to remember books. If you can remember some of the books you’ve read, I imagine you’d be able to remember other things, too. Don’t you think?”
He paused. “I suppose.”
“Dr. Carter mentioned you were confusin’ fiction for fact, which may mean that everythin’ you know about yourself isn’t necessarily missin’. It may be buried, is all.”
“Buried?” he drawled. “Where?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Isn’t it odd you keep rememberin’ things that weren’t there before? I recommend you spend a bit more time diggin’ around in that head of yours. You might be able to remember somethin’ of worth.”
He leaned forward. “I have been digging, Georgia. Believe me, I have been digging for nine whole days, trying to make sense of it, but the shovel isn’t large enough and the dirt is piled rather high. I have no understanding as to why my mind can’t remember certain things.”
He drifted closer toward the doorway, blocking the entrance of the small room she was in. “Let us set aside this talk. It only agitates me. I do, however, want to know more about these men who call themselves the Forty Thieves. Are they dangerous? Do they quarter people and deliver them into a cave full of treasure after a bit of ‘Open, sesame’?”
She gave him a withered look. “There’s all sorts of black talk about who and what they are, and the boys merrily feed off it, but they’re not murderers, Brit. They’re rebels of a low status lookin’ to lead a better life by providin’ one another the sort of things our government has failed to provide, given they’re nothin’ but Irish and Negro men. When Matthew and Raymond first came to Orange Street, they were set about creatin’ a group to shake a fist at the government and reorganize the chaos on the street. Though Raymond died before the group was fully established, Matthew and the boys have been shakin’ their fists in his honor ever since. They’re all daft, if you ask me. Matthew thinks he can change the world, though he can barely feed himself.”
Forever and a Day Page 7
