American Hippo

by Sarah Gailey

  And she helped herself to whatever she deemed that they didn’t have a use for. Rings, watches, wallets, purses—the peacock feather from the back of a particularly lovely bonnet. They never seemed to suspect that a woman whose dresses were custom-made to fit over her broad body would have nimble fingers. That she would be able to slip past them without drawing attention.

  “Archie! Oh, Archie, you dropped your handkerchief!” A young gentleman in a beautifully felted bowler hat ran after her with a flutter of pink clutched in his outstretched hand.

  “Now, Aaron,” she said, archly but in low enough tones that they would not be overheard. “You know full well that is not my ’andkerchief. I did see one just like it for sale in the general store, though.” Aaron flushed, and he smoothed his downy moustache with a nervous forefinger. Archie stepped with him into the entrance of an alleyway, where they could be away from prying eyes.

  “Well, Archie—that is, Miss Archambault—that is—I just supposed that I might—”

  Archie reached out her hand and took the handkerchief. “Aaron, mon amour—you know we mustn’t let anyone see us together like this. Why, think how they’d talk.” Her fingers rested on his for a moment as she took the little scrap of pink from him.

  He leaned toward her. “Archie, I have to talk to you about our plan. I think my parents suspect something, and I won’t be able to get away tonight after all.”

  His father, the stern patriarch of the wealthiest family in New Orleans, certainly did suspect something—he suspected quite a bit, if he’d read the anonymous letter Archie had sent him. She pressed the pink handkerchief to her lips and summoned tears to her eyes—just enough to brim prettily. “Oh, mon ciel étoilé, but I must go first thing tomorrow! And you must come with me, and we must buy the tickets this evening! I suppose—you’ll just have to give the money for the train tickets to me and I’ll buy them, and I’ll—I’ll ’ide one in the knot in our tree for you to collect when you can join me. You will join me, won’t you, mon amour? You … you remember the tree I’m talking about?” She dabbed delicately at her eyes with the handkerchief and fluttered her lashes at him.

  “Oh, yes, Archie, I—I remember. How could I forget where we—” If he had been any pinker he’d have been a petunia. He pulled an envelope from his vest pocket and pressed it into her hands, looking over both of his shoulders as he did so. “Here’s the money for the train, and … I’ll see you at the station, then?”

  Archie pressed the handkerchief to her eyes again, so he wouldn’t see her roll them at his ham-fisted attempt at stealth. “A kiss, Aaron. For luck.” She kissed him hard—a better kiss than the boy would likely ever get again in his life. She kissed him thoroughly enough that he wouldn’t notice her fingers dancing through his pockets.

  “I’ll see you at the train station in two days, my love.”

  She waved her handkerchief at him as he crept out of the alley, and she tucked the fat envelope of cash into her reticule. The poor little overripe peach of a boy—she marvelled at the way he walked, with the confidence of someone who’s never been hungry or cold or heartbroken before in his life. When he was out of sight, she examined his pocket watch. A fine piece—it would fetch a fine price. Just fine.

  She straightened her wide-brimmed straw hat and left the alley, gathering her skirts around her. She turned down a side street, away from the crowd, and walked to a broad old dirt road. A dog ran between two of the pecan trees ahead of her. Other than him, she was alone, and she walked down the middle of the road, parasol dangling from her wrist, holding her skirts up with one fist and her hat down with the other.

  As she walked through the pecan trees to the marsh dock, the hidden pockets in her overskirt thumped against her leg.

  As she scanned the water for Rosa’s white ears, Archie whistled—a tune she’d heard from a busker in the marketplace. She couldn’t remember the words—something about a hopper and a debutante—but the melody was catchy.

  A stream of bubbles moved across the surface of the water. Aha.

  “Rooo-saaa,” Archie sang in her lilting alto. “I seeee-youuu!”

  A white blur erupted halfway out of the water and rushed the dock. Archie swept her hat off, spread her arms and set her legs in a wide stance as the three-thousand-pound albino hippo splashed toward her at full speed.

  “Bonjour, ma belle fille!” Archie cried. “Mon petit oeuf douce, ’ave you been having fun while maman was at the market?”

  Rosa skidded to a stop a few inches in front of the dock. Archie tapped a long finger against the hippo’s broad white nose.

  “You, ma cherie, need to get sneakier. You’re too easy to spot!”

  Rosa shoved her snout against Archie’s drooping skirts. “Yes, fine, ʼere—” Archie unclasped her skirts and pulled them off, revealing close-fitting red pinstriped riding breeches underneath. “—I got you a pastry, cherie. I know that cruel veterinarian says you shouldn’t, but we don’t ʼave to tell ʼim about this, do we?”

  Archie pulled a slightly squashed turnover from the pocket of her skirt and held it out to Rosa’s nose. The hippo’s pink eyes remained unfocused, but she turned unhesitatingly toward the smell of the tart. Her mouth swung open, and Archie dropped the turnover onto her tongue.

  “Aren’t you scared she’ll bite you?”

  Archie whipped around, startling the sallow, bone-thin boy behind her so much he nearly fell off the dock. She grabbed his arm and hauled him away from the edge of the planks.

  “Of course I’m not scared,” she said, still gripping the boy’s arm. “I’ve ’ad Rosa since she was just a petit ’op. She would no sooner bite me than she would join the Paris Opera. Sneaky little urchins who follow me, on the other ’and—” She smiled and brought her face close to the boy’s face, close enough that she could have bitten the brim of his cap. “She eats them up without a thought.”

  The boy swallowed hard but was not foolish enough to wriggle out of her grip. “Please, ma’am, you are Miss Regina Archambault, aren’t you? They told me to look for the, uh, the—”

  “The fat Frenchwoman with the albino ’ippopotamus?” Archie deadpanned.

  “Uh, yes, miss. I—I have a letter for you. Please don’t feed me to your hippo, ma’am, I didn’t mean to sneak—”

  He raised a trembling hand with an envelope in it. Her name was written on the outside in familiar, spiky lettering. Archie released his arm.

  “Well, then, that is something else altogether.” She grabbed the letter. “Would you like to pet a ʼippo, boy?” He looked nervously at Rosa’s tusks. “She will not eat you. Not unless I tell ʼer to. Just make a lot of noise as you walk up, so you don’t startle ʼer—ʼer eyes, they are not so good.”

  The boy glanced between Archie and the pink-eyed hippo. “I’ve never heard of a blind white hippo before.”

  “Well,” Archie said, “the ʼopper that bred ʼer was going to kill ʼer when ʼe saw. ‘What use is a blind ʼippo?’ ʼe said. But I knew better—she is the finest ʼippo in all the world.”

  The boy stared at Rosa, awe plain on his face. “Her name’s Rosa?”

  Archie ran her thumb under the seal on the envelope. “Oui. Let ʼer smell your ʼand, then you can scratch behind ʼer ears.”

  As the boy approached the beast, tentatively placing a small hand against her snout, Archie read through the letter.

  “Well, well,” she whispered to herself. “Winslow, you old connard,” she said, not looking up from the letter. She murmured to herself as she read it through again. “Ferals … eight thousand … a full year? Non, that can’t be—oh, oui, I see now…” She turned to the boy, who was staring at Rosa’s tusks with rapt fascination as he rubbed her nose. She looked him over, taking in his dull, patchy hair and his anemic complexion. She wondered if he slept in the streets, or if he hadn’t escaped the orphanage yet.

  “Miss Archa-Archim—”

  “Call me Archie.”

  “Miss Archie? You said you had her since she was
just a hop, right?”

  “Oui,” Archie replied. The boy was looking up at her with shining eyes, one hand resting on Rosa’s nose. Archie lowered her voice conspiratorially, just to watch his face light up. “Hoppers, you see, we apprentice for years—then we choose a hop, when the time comes. We sleep beside them, we feed them, we sing to them. We’re with them every moment of their lives, from the time the cord is cut to the moment they’re fitted with a harness.”

  The boy’s eyes were wide. “So that’s why you’re not scared of her?”

  Archie laughed so heartily that the boy began to look sheepish. “I’m sorry, boy, it’s just—I couldn’t imagine being less frightened of sweet Rosa.” Rosa, hearing her name, yawned wide, showing off her teeth. The boy stared into Rosa’s massive mouth, his face aglow with awe.

  “How do you get her teeth so white?”

  Archie smiled. “I brush them. Would you like to see?”

  The boy nodded, reaching out a now-fearless finger to touch one of Rosa’s gleaming tusks.

  “I’ll show you, if you run a little errand for me. I need a telegram sent to a Mr. Winslow Houndstooth. Can you remember that?” She told him the message she wanted sent to Houndstooth, and she gave him a coin to get her a map of the Mississippi River.

  “Be back here in two hours, and I will show you ʼow I brush her teeth. Hell, I’ll even let you ʼelp me pack up ʼer saddlebags.”

  The boy put a hand on top of his cap, as though afraid it would fly off in the wake of his excitement. “Oh, boy, Miss Archie, I’ll be back faster’n you can spit!”

  He ran down the dock, his feet flying up behind him. Archie smiled, and turned back to Rosa, who was waiting patiently to see if another turnover would be forthcoming.

  “Well, cherie,” Archie said, folding her laden skirts over her arm. “It would appear that Winslow is calling in our old debt. I suppose I could argue that I owe ʼim nothing after what ʼappened in Atlanta—but what’s a favor between friends, oui? ʼE’s got a job for us, my Rosa. How would you like to be a rich ʼippo?”

  Rosa grunted, lowering herself farther into the marsh. Archie pushed her skirts into a half-full saddlebag, then slipped off her shoes and sat on the dock, dangling her feet in the water. She rubbed a wet foot over Rosa’s half-submerged nose. “Eight thousand dollars. Just think, Rosa. Think of the pastries I’ll buy for you.”

  Chapter 3

  Hero Shackleby did not read the letter when it arrived.

  They didn’t read the second letter either.

  They read the third, but only because it was hand-delivered.

  Hero sat in their rocking chair, watching the tar-black hippo with the gold-plated tusks amble up the road. It would stop in front of their house, to be sure. Hero didn’t look up from the sweet tea they were stirring as the hippo came to a stop at the bottom of the front steps.

  “You can pop her in the pond with Abigail. Gate’s around the side there.”

  The man on top of the hippo didn’t respond, but dismounted and walked around the side of the house. Hero listened as Abigail greeted her new pondmate, as the man in the peacock-blue cravat cooed to—ah, yes. “Ruby,” he called her. Abigail was a Standard Grey—not too far off from a meat hippo, but considerably smarter. She would be friendly to Ruby. She was friendly to everyone. Hospitable, Hero thought.

  Hero stirred the iced tea, tasted it. Not quite there yet.

  Ruby’s rider came back around to the bottom of the front steps. He put his boot on the first step, then stopped, his chin tilted toward Hero’s face. “Might I join you?”

  “S’why I’ve got a second rocking chair,” Hero said, assessing the man out of the corner of their eye. He was tall, immaculately dressed. He had cheekbones that sliced right through the thick, golden afternoon sunlight. He walked up the steps deliberately, watching Hero. Watching Hero’s pistols.

  “Don’t worry,” Hero said. “I won’t shoot you. Sweet tea?”

  “You haven’t been reading my letters,” the man said.

  “You’re English. Lancaster?”

  “Blackpool. You haven’t been reading my letters.”

  “And you haven’t accepted my hospitality,” Hero said, gesturing to the unoccupied rocking chair and the sweet tea sweating on the porch rail in front of it. “Please, won’t you sit?”

  The man sat. He looked like he wanted to sit on the edge of the rocking chair, but it was canted so that he had to sit all the way back. He held his hat in his hands. “My name is Winslow Houndstooth. I got your name from the federal agent who gave me this.” He dug into his pocket and held out a thick gold coin with an eagle on it. “He said you’d want this job.”

  Hero sipped at their sweet tea, ignoring the proffered coin. “Hot this summer. They said it would be cooler, but I’d say it’s a sight hotter than it was this time last year.”

  Houndstooth tapped the coin against the arm of his rocking chair. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to this part of Louisiana before. Rode here all the way from New Orleans. And that after the steamship ride along the Gulf.”

  “Your Ruby must be tired as a hog after a boil.”

  “She seemed happy to get into the water. Your Abigail looked damn bored in that pond, though. I bet she’d like the work.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Hero.

  “I’m retired.” They considered Houndstooth over the rim of their glass. “But I’m glad you came to tell me about this ‘job’ in person. Like a gentleman.”

  Houndstooth’s eyes found Hero’s. “Shackleby. That’s an honest name. Are you an honest person?”

  Hero smiled, close-lipped. “I’m not a liar. Ask me anything and I’ll tell you the truth.”

  “Is that sweet tea poisoned?”

  Hero’s smile broke into a broad grin. “I thought you’d never ask.” They picked up the second glass of sweet tea from the porch rail, took a sip, and set it back down. “See? I’m just fine.”

  Houndstooth didn’t touch the glass.

  “Abigail is bored,” Hero said after a moment. “She’s not used to living in one place, to having her own pond all to herself. She loves it. Has her own little dentist-bird.” Hero leaned their head back against the rocking chair and fanned themself with the letter. “But she’s bored. I haven’t saddled her up in months. It’s just been the two of us, all alone, plus the milkman once a week. And I don’t even drink milk.”

  “Hero.” He seemed to be rolling their name across his tongue. Hero caught themself staring and looked away. “Hero, I’m supposed to get you to accept this job. I accepted this job with the understanding that I would have a demolitions expert on board.”

  Hero sipped their sweet tea and watched Houndstooth fiddle with his hat. “I’ll need some convincing. So. Convince me.” They tried not to blink while they said it, knowing that it sounded for all the world like a line. Houndstooth’s eyes snapped up, and he swallowed hard. Hero rubbed a tapered forefinger through the condensation on the outside of the pitcher of sweet tea.

  “Well,” Houndstooth said in a low voice. “There’s the money. Eight thousand dollars. Gold, not bonds.”

  “Hmm.” Hero ran their finger down the side of their throat, letting the cool water cut through the heat of the afternoon.

  “Then there’s the job itself,” Houndstooth said. “Clearing the feral hippos out of the Mississippi. You’d live up to your name, if we managed it. We’d be heroes, Hero.”

  “Mmmhm.” Hero leaned back in the rocking chair and crossed their legs, right over left. It would be something, to be a hero. A decent way to end a career that had gone on too long. Better than simply fading off the scene, like they’d planned. They tapped their nails on the arm of the rocking chair, one-two-three-four.

  “And then, of course, there’s the team. It would be you and me—” He paused for a moment. “—Archie the Con, Cal Hotchkiss, and Adelia Reyes.”

  Hero sat forward at this last name. “Adelia Reyes? I thought I heard she was—”r />
  “Yes,” Houndstooth interrupted. “But she’ll still do the job. She never turns down a job.”

  “Well.” Hero sat back, folding their hands in their lap. “It sounds like you’ve got quite a team already. Without me. So why would you need me, Winslow Houndstooth? Why do you want to pull me out of the retirement I’ve been so thoroughly enjoying?”

  Houndstooth stood and turned on his heel, leaning his back against the porch rail. His hand rested next to the untouched sweet tea, which had begun foaming softly. He looked down at Hero, his gaze unwavering.

  “Because,” he murmured. “I think you want it.”

  Hero was thankful that their skin was dark enough to conceal the hot flush that was climbing their neck.

  “I think you’ve only been retired for a year, and already, you’d poison a stranger just to break up the monotony.” Houndstooth knocked the sweet tea off the porch rail. It hissed as it ate through a rosebush. He leaned forward, still holding the porch rail. “I think you’d enjoy working this job a lot more thoroughly than you’ve enjoyed sitting in that rocking chair.”

  Hero looked at Houndstooth’s burning eyes. “Is that what you think?” they asked, and sipped their sweet tea to relieve their suddenly dry mouth.

  “Yes. That’s what I think. That,” he said, tilting his head to one side, “and I’ve got some things I need blown up. From what I hear, you’re the one to do it.”

  Hero set their glass down and stood, clapping their hands decisively. “Well, then.” They walked inside, and emerged a few moments later wearing a battered leather Stetson and clutching a large, bulging duffel.

  Houndstooth laughed. “I thought it would take more convincing than that!”

  Hero walked toward Houndstooth until their boots touched. The laughter on Houndstooth’s lips died. They were nearly the same height, and their noses were less than an inch apart. Hero could smell the sweet iced tea on their own breath.