by Jeffrey Ford
“What did you learn?” I asked.
“Too much.”
We stood around the desk in the candlelight and no one knew where to begin. Finally, Madi asked, “Do you know the Jolly Host?”
“I can’t remember anything I’ve read about them, but I know they’re in the system,” said Mrs. Pease.
“They’re a street gang of sorts,” I told her. “I need any information about crimes they’ve committed west of Broadway, most important, where those crimes took place. I want to compile those locations and plot them on a map like the one you showed me when I was last here.”
Only after saying it out loud did it strike me how inane my scheme was. Things just didn’t add up. I was about to apologize for wasting all our time, when Mrs. Pease looked up, smiling. “I can do that,” she said. She put her specs back on and lifted her candleholder.
Arabella slipped into the desk chair as Mrs. Pease slipped out. I lit a match and by its dim light found two more chairs. A quick search of the desk turned up two more candles, which I lit. And then the waiting began, the minutes growing heavy, inflated like Malbaster’s head. From far off in the dim hallways of the system, I heard filing cabinet drawers opening and closing, and then the faint sounds of a baby crying. I cocked my ear and leaned forward, and from a different direction there came a vague impression of howling. A moment later, I was unsure I’d heard anything other than the three of us breathing.
28
We sat in silence for so long, I nearly fell asleep. After a period, perhaps twenty-five minutes, perhaps an hour—it was hard to tell how long, sitting there in the dark—Madi finally spoke and broke the spell.
“So this place is wall-to-wall file drawers, in which articles from all the papers in the city are catalogued?”
“That’s right.”
“Why is it so damned dark?” asked Arabella.
“That was my question,” I said. “If you look closely at Mrs. Pease, you’ll notice she’s losing the color from her eyes like a fish living in an underground pool.”
“Certainly strange,” she said and shook her head.
“If she does as you’ve asked, she’ll return with a map that notes all the places the Host have been reported disturbing the peace in recent years?” asked Madi.
“I got the idea from you,” I said. “Do you remember mentioning that you wished you could be above the street and see it all laid out below you?”
“Ahhh.”
“There’s only one problem,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“The problem is,” said Arabella, “you’re assuming that wherever they store the opium will be at the center of their operations. There’s a crass old saying about woodland creatures, Harrow—perhaps you don’t know it—but it is, ‘Wild animals don’t shit where they eat.’”
“I take it that’s a metaphor,” I said. “Here’s another one. The opium is the heart of Malbaster’s operation, the center of his power.”
“I like it,” said Madi, “but Miss Dromen is right. Yours seems to be Gorgon’s Mirror–type wishful thinking.”
“We’ll see,” I said. “If it turns out to be as wide of the mark as you suggest, I’ll somehow make it up to you both.”
More time passed, and just when I thought we might have to send a search party after her, I noticed the faint glow of Mrs. Pease’s candle approaching.
We watched the candle flame grow in brightness as it floated through the far-off dark. “Speaking of metaphor,” said Arabella, “I imagine that this is what happens when we conjure a memory. Everybody has a Mrs. Pease behind their eyes.”
“I think of this place as the memory of New York City,” I said.
Mrs. Pease placed her candle on the desk. She laid a large sheet of paper in the pool of brightness. I saw it was a chart of Manhattan Island with streets and some buildings clearly marked as they were on the Mitchell map she’d shown me on my last visit. Arabella vacated the chair and let the librarian sit. We gathered round her as she fished a sharpened pencil from her desk drawer.
In less than two minutes, working, as far as I could tell, solely from memory, she circled about a dozen and a half places on the map, all west of Broadway, south of Franklin Street, and north of Albany.
Madi leaned over Mrs. Pease’s left shoulder and said, “Where’s the center of the activity?”
“Seems to be the very west end of Fulton Street, right down on the Hudson,” said Arabella.
“Have you ever been there?” asked Madi.
“I must have passed it,” she said, “but I don’t recall.”
“Same here,” I said. “Mrs. Pease?”
“Oh, many years ago, I had a lover over that way. He was delightful. Quite a romantic. We ended up marrying. That would be Mr. Pease, passed on now ten years.”
“Do you recall the area?” I asked.
“No, and after all this time in the dark and living alone, I remember less the face of my husband, although sometimes I feel him trying to reach me from the other side through the system.”
“Lovely, I suppose,” said Arabella.
Mrs. Pease’s reverie waxed bizarre and the further she went with it, the more I doubted my assumptions about the location being represented now by what was on the map. So we took it, thanked her profusely, and made a rapid departure. As we passed through the offices, Garrick spotted me and waved for me to reenter his lair. I waved back and kept walking, too excited to tarry. I wanted to see what was there on Fulton Street.
Back at the coach, Arabella called down from the driver’s seat, “To the Hudson.”
I nodded and Madi and I got in the cab.
Minutes later, we were there on the corner of Fulton and West Streets. We left the coach in an empty lot and walked toward the water, finally stopping beneath the eaves of an empty boathouse. We unfolded the map and held it between us, studying it. None of the buildings that lined the street were big enough to hold what I’d envisioned as a mountain of opium. The surrounding structures were well-to-do residences with hedges and lawns. I couldn’t imagine any one of them harboring a nefarious cargo.
“What’s that?” asked Madi, pointing out toward the river.
Across West Street and down at the end of a long pier was an abandoned oyster barge. It was basically an enormous floating warehouse that could easily accommodate thousands of boxes of tar. The exterior was chipped blue-and-white paint stained with rust, a few of the windows in the pilot’s cabin were smashed, and its wood was barnacled and splintered, but it was most definitely seaworthy.
“Perfect disguise,” said Madi.
It seemed unlikely, and Arabella didn’t think much of the idea. I wanted to get away from my embarrassment of having dragged them over to the Hudson on a wild-goose chase. And then Madi said, “Look, there’s a boat . . .”
We could just make out a small boat carrying two men, one rowing. We kept our eyes on it for quite some time as it pulled up to the barge and, within a matter of minutes, began a return trip. When they reached the shore, they were carrying wooden chests. We could also see at least one man who remained behind to guard the barge. He had a rifle and appeared to be alone. We stood there for an hour while two more dinghies visited the oyster barge, picked up wooden chests, and returned to shore. As we made our way back to the coach, we concurred that the oyster barge must be the hiding place of Astor’s opium hoard.
Back in the coach, we began our return journey from the Hudson docks straight across Manhattan. I was anxious to check in on Misha before doing anything else. All Madi could do was talk about the coming confrontation when we would lay waste to the opium-filled barge and finally destroy Malbaster. “It won’t be long now,” he said, a half-crazed, murderous glint in his eye. “I’m ready.” I looked away.
I was anything but ready. Honestly, if it weren’t for the promise we’d made to help each other, I’d have given Madi the slip. We were going to war with Malbaster on an epic scale, compromising his livelihood and threatening his m
eans of influence over the Host by setting fire to his opium. It was about to get very dangerous and very harrowing for old Harrow. When I’d started the whole danse macabre, my goal was solely to reunite Ahab and his son. That, I’d accomplished. To continue down this road, to risk my life to see the grotesque Malbaster slain, had lost its appeal. Still, I’m a man of my word. And beyond that the story had gotten its hooks in me; I was compelled to see how it would play out.
Arabella pulled the coach-and-four over to the curb in front of my home, and I got out. Not wanting to draw attention to our presence, I suggested she and Madi drive around the streets for a few minutes, and I’d be out presently. By the time I knocked at the front door, the coach had turned onto South Street and disappeared. There was no answer. I knocked again. Nothing. I turned the knob and the door opened.
“No, no, no,” I whispered to myself as I made my way through the foyer to the hallway, my insides churning. How foolish I’d been to leave Misha on her own. What was I thinking? I should have put my foot down and made her go to Long Island. She would have resisted but I could have threatened to terminate her employment. I looked into the writing parlor, which was empty.
As I approached the entrance to the kitchen, I saw something that staggered me. There, sitting at the kitchen table, was Bartleby. The near-skeletal ghoul, face partially blasted off by Arabella’s pistol shot, was dressed in a black short coat and was slowly bringing a steaming cup of something to his lips. I stood in the hallway stunned, horrified, fascinated. I was shaken from my paralysis by Misha’s voice, which called out, “George Harrow, is that you?”
I stepped tentatively into the kitchen, and sitting across from Bartleby was Misha, also holding a steaming mug of something. “What’s going on here?” I asked, my glance shifting back and forth from Bartleby to my housekeeper.
“Well, this old bag of bones came by to make a stab at me today. Look at the face on him, like he’s caught between a shit and a sweat.”
“He attacked you?”
“If you can call it that. He had a knife but all’s he could manage was like a blind newborn pup searching for its mother’s teat.”
I grimaced at the metaphor.
“In any event,” she said. “I heard a noise, turned around, and there the pathetic creature was—arm upraised, holding a knife. Took a swing—missed me completely, dropped the blade, and sort of fell into me. So I smacked him hard and shoved him into that chair. Then I gave him a talking to and reminded him of his manners and the basics of gentlemanly conduct.” She sniffed as if in disapproval.
“Misha, he’s a killer.”
“He’s a hellish mess. There’s not much left of him. He’s been sorely abused. Looks like someone used his hatchet face for target practice. Once I started telling him off, I didn’t give him a chance to get a word in edgewise. I harangued him for an hour straight and then gave him a nice cup of hot coffee. The only peep out of him was a quiet, ‘I’d prefer not to,’ when I asked him if he liked being one of Malbaster’s thugs.”
“What are we going to do with him?” I asked her.
“We’re not going to do anything with him.” She leaned close to me as if sharing a secret and whispered in my ear, “He’s spent. He’s had the spirit beaten, stabbed, and shot out of him. All there’s room left for in him now is a kindness and a hot coffee.”
I shook my head to clear it. Misha had subdued the persistent revenant with a lecture on etiquette and an offer of hospitality. Why hadn’t we thought of that? I considered Bartleby as he sat there, staring out of his one good eye left in that ruined face and drinking his coffee. For a moment, I saw him as Misha did: a poor, abused fellow, roped into nefarious service against his will. “Okay,” I said, “get rid of him.”
She stood up and walked around the table to stand next to him. When she lifted her hand to touch his ragged cheek, he flinched and cowered away as if she were about to strike him. “There, there, now,” said Misha. “Here’s what you need to do. Finish your drink straightaway. Then, I want you to walk down to the East River, jump in, and when you touch the bottom, walk to Japan.”
The entire scene was so ridiculous. I couldn’t help but give a snort of laughter, which drew a disapproving glare from Misha. She shooed me away with a wave of her hand. Meanwhile, Bartleby slowly lifted his cup and drained off what was left, losing much of it through the gash in his throat in the process.
His good eye was so devoid of glimmer or gleam that it was very much like a blue-and-white pebble set into an ivory skull. White hairs that had once sprouted on his chin and head had turned to salt and fallen away. Malbaster had made a mockery of poor Bartleby, robbed him of any self. Finally, he pushed back his chair and rose. I heard the hinges of his joints squealing. He made a feeble genuflection toward Misha and staggered out of the kitchen and down the hall. Of course, we followed.
Bartleby left by way of the front door, shambled down the walkway to the street, and headed for the East River. Without thinking, I followed, keeping five to ten paces behind him as he made his slow way toward the river. As we crossed South Street, I became aware of a carriage following our strange parade. Turning, I saw Arabella atop the coach-and-four, glaring at the pitiful husk of a man stumbling along.
At the river’s edge, Bartleby walked along a pier that jutted out over the water. When he came to the end of the dock, he stood at the edge, the soles of his shoes half on and half off the wooden planks. For the first time since I’d laid eyes on him, he achieved a perfect stillness, as if he were grasping at a memory of a memory. Then he grunted and raised his hand in either self-astonishment or witless chance.
Arabella stepped up behind him and pulled the trigger. The blast tore off the short coat and ripped away whatever meat had been left on his back. The oddest thing was that there was no blood at all. For the briefest moment, I could see into him, and it was all bone, ribs like the shattered rafters of a fallen cathedral. Then he was gone, blown out over the water. I watched him fall, and then I watched the green river swallow him.
I turned and stared at Arabella. “Why?” I finally managed to ask.
“It was something I really wanted to do,” she said and gave me that disarming smile.
“Out of revenge?” I asked.
“No. But when this story is finished, I want it to remain that way. Each, in turn, is due his offing.”
Who knew what she meant by that? There was nothing more to say. We turned and left whatever remained of poor Bartleby, scuttling across the ocean floor toward Japan, and headed back to Arabella’s place on the park to plan for the final siege of our war on Malbaster.
29
It wasn’t long before the conversation turned to fire. We were sitting in Arabella’s parlor: Arabella, Madi, Ahab, Gabriel, Mavis, and me. All of us, except for Mavis, who quietly shook her head at the proclamations of so many armchair generals, expounded our plans to attack the oyster barge and flush Malbaster out into the open.
Ahab called for a headlong charge and said he could see himself swinging the boarding ax over his head. Arabella said, “We need bullwhips and poison gas.” Madi called for a stealthy, late-night strike. Gabriel said, “I can’t wait till they light that cargo on fire.” Personally, I was making the case for drilling a hole in the bottom of the barge and sinking it all, lock, stock, and opium chests.
Eventually Mavis got up from where she sat on the floor next to Gabriel. She stood in the middle of the room, and said, “You people don’t know what you’re doing. Let me tell you what our plan is going to be.” Since we’d all seen the accuracy with which she threw a knife, we shut up and listened.
She began by saying, “Why don’t we use a bit of each of these plans? Put them together and make them work. I agree with Madi that we should approach our mission with the utmost care. In other words, we want to get on the barge, light the fire, and get off the barge. Our plan is simple: threaten the Pale Toad King’s most precious asset and draw him out into the open where we might have a fighting
chance against him.”
Ahab spoke up. “All right. Who will volunteer to sneak on board and light the fires?”
“Forget volunteers,” said Mavis. “Here’s who’s going. It’ll be me, Arabella, and Harrow. Madi, Ahab, and Gabriel will wait in the shadows across the street from the pier for Malbaster to show. He’ll be in a carriage or coach. You’ll have to be prepared to ambush him. Then we kill him quick and get out of there.” She turned to Gabriel. “How many of the Host will come running if they see the barge on fire?”
“Not many. A dozen perhaps. He didn’t trust the location of the hoard to more than a few. Mainly his older, longtime henchmen,” said the young man.
I thought about what Gabriel said earlier and said, “When that cargo starts to burn, the entire West Side is going to be inebriated.”
“There’s nothing to be done for that,” said Mavis. “At least the opium will be destroyed when we’re done.”
I couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Gabriel. His expression was wistful; no doubt he was picturing the sinking stash.
Mavis continued. “The timing is going to be everything. We want to start out late enough that we can move under cover of darkness, but not so late that the fire will burn itself out before an alarm is raised.”
“Spermaceti oil,” declared the captain. “That’s the ticket. It’ll burn long and clean and bright.”
“Oil, yes,” said Mavis. “And to add to it, 100-proof booze and turpentine, just to be sure. We soak as many crates as possible and then torch them.”
“How are you getting aboard?” asked Madi.
“We’ll borrow one of the skiffs left down by the piers and row out to the barge. There’s only one guard as far as we can tell, so we’ll climb aboard the stern, make our way into the storage area, do our work, and retreat. Back into the dinghy, then to shore to help you three with Malbaster.”
