by Alex P. Berg
He stood and looped the tape measure around my midsection. “Thirty-six inch waist.”
“You sure about that?” I said. “I think I’m a thirty-four. Maybe you should remeasure.”
The tailor stepped back and twirled a corner of his handlebar moustache. “Do you know how long I’ve been crafting suits, sir?”
The emphasis he placed on sir didn’t pass me by, and while I could admit to being less than helpful, it seemed uncalled for. “Don’t take it personally. I’m like this to everyone. But I have lost weight recently. Can you tell?”
The tailor responded by clearing his throat and getting back to work. He pressed the tape measure against the length of my arm.
The door chimes sounded, and I turned my head. Steele entered through the shop’s front door, still clad in the shearling jacket and pleated brown pants from before. Her arms were empty.
“No luck?” I said.
“On the contrary,” she said. “I found a number of gorgeous gowns. Far too many, actually. It’s a shame the cruise isn’t longer.”
“So where are they?” I asked.
“The seamstress is making alterations to make sure they fit me properly. With luck, they’ll be ready in time. How are things going here?”
“Beats me,” I said. “Ask the bespoke one.”
The tailor stretched his tape measure across my shoulders. “Nineteen inches. Well, Mr. Daggers, it would appear you’re fairly normally proportioned for your size. I should have some stock that fits you, with minor modifications of course, at least for the suits. The key will be picking a proper tuxedo. Tell me, do you prefer single-breasted or double-breasted?”
“Suits or partners?”
“Pardon, sir?”
My wit was wasted. I furrowed my brow. “Uh…double-breasted is where you have two sets of buttons in front?”
The tailor sighed, but Steele stepped forth before he was forced to explain. “Let’s try Daggers in a single-breasted, two-button suit. One with a notched lapel, neither too long nor too short. To about here.” Steele gestured to a point on her own sternum.
The tailor was only too happy not to deal with me anymore. “Certainly, miss. Necktie, bowtie, or ascot?”
“Bowtie.”
The tailor disappeared behind a curtain leading into the back of his shop. I stepped off the platform and joined Steele by the seating area: a cluster of four leather-upholstered sofa chairs set around a polished oaken coffee table. Mannequins clad in fancy duds dotted the room, displaying the tailor’s wares, while cabinets set high in the walls overflowed with bolts of colorful, expensive fabrics, everything from linen to silk to cashmere. Spools of thread packed the space closer to the floor, enough to patch and darn ten thousand holes. The only thing missing was the sewing tables, but I assumed those were kept in back out of the view of discerning eyes.
Steele crossed to one of the sofa chairs and picked up my leather jacket, which I’d draped over the back prior to having my measurements taken. She sniffed. “Fine leather…”
I crossed my arms. “Don’t for a minute think I’m retiring that. As soon as we finish our stint on the Prodigious, I’ll be slipping right back into Darla’s arms.”
“Darla? You gave your jacket a name, too?”
“It’s the first thing that came to mind,” I said. “But since we’re on the subject of Daisy, that’s another point in favor of my leather coverall. Where in the world am I going to store my nightstick in a dinner jacket? Even if Jerrold McThimblefingers in back did have time to sew a secret compartment into my suit jackets, I’m pretty sure Daisy’s steely frame would poke through.”
Shay set the jacket back down on the chair. “You’re not really planning on bringing your truncheon with you on the cruise, are you?”
“Are you suggesting I travel without her? Might as well ask me to go naked.”
Shay gave me a double eyebrow raise. “Why are you being so difficult? You act as if being forced to acquire a new wardrobe is torture. I might understand if it were coming out of your pocket, but the department’s footing the bill. And since they’re tailored suits, you’ll get to keep them.”
“Well, I’ll have to store them, at the very least,” I said.
“I’ve been to your apartment. Your closet’s not that small.”
I snorted.
“Really,” said Steele. “What’s bugging you? Is it the comfort angle? Or are you afraid you’ll like the way you look and won’t want to go back to your old style?”
“Pshtt. I am not afraid of that.”
I was much more afraid Shay would like the way I looked.
Shay brushed off my shoulders and straightened my shirt. “Well, whatever it is, let’s get your mind off it. Tell me about the prime suspects in the gambling case.”
“You want to test me?” I said. “Okay. I’m game. Johann Preiss. Sixty-three years of age. Owns a half-dozen textile mills. Runs a fairly clean business, but has been accused of unfair labor practices in the past. When his employees went on strike in protest of sub-standard wages, he brought in scabs to take their places, and when the scabs started defecting he sicced his pinks on the lot of them. Roughed a lot of people up. Kept his wages low for years, which meant more earnings for Preiss, but it didn’t make him many friends. To this day, he keeps his skullcrackers near him at all times for fear of retribution.
“Orrin Wyvernjaw, thirty-three, dwarven, is your more traditional thug. Has been indicted multiple times on money laundering and racketeering charges, but somehow none of them have ever stuck. According to Steck, he’s a major player in the underground poker circuit, and he wins more often than he loses. Nobody’s ever caught him cheating, but given his day job, nobody would put it past him either. Not sure if anyone would call him out on it if they did notice. He has a reputation for short-temperedness and violence.”
“And Ghorza Skeez?” asked Steele.
“I was getting to her. Late thirties. A full blooded orc. Old money, though I’m still not sure how an orc family gets to that status. Maybe her ancestors had a thriving business selling the blanched bones of their enemies. Regardless, she’s the one we know the least about. She’s a gambling fanatic, having taken part in numerous poker tournaments overseas and often doing quite well, but to our knowledge she’s never been tempted by New Welwic’s underground scene. Purely on the straight and narrow, in that regard. She’s got an elven manservant by the name of Vlad who accompanies her just about anywhere she goes, and she has a bit of a drinking problem, though she tries to abstain during tournaments.”
Shay nodded. “Very nice. I’m impressed.”
“You shouldn’t be,” I said. “I’m as sharp as a steel tack. A new one. Not one of those old blunted ones we can barely get into the corkboard at the precinct anymore. Now let’s see if you’ve been studying. What’s higher? A full house or a flush?”
Shay snorted. “Come on. I didn’t insult your intelligence, so don’t insult mine. The hand order goes high card, one pair, two pair, three of a kind, straight, flush, full house, four of a kind, straight flush, royal flush.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I apologize. That was trivial, so let’s talk strategy. We’ll be playing no-limit hold’em, and with us included, we’ll have a total of nine players. Let’s say we’re in the pre-flop betting round. You’re in the fifth position, and the first two players didn’t raise above the blind. The third player folded and the fourth raised. You’ve got a jack ten, suited. What do you do?”
Shay started doing the math based on the simple betting strategy Steck had related to us. “Jack ten, suited. That would give me eight points for the jack and ten, and another twelve for being the same suit. It has straight potential on four different straights, so add another thirteen points for a total of thirty-three. I’m in a middle position on the table, so I don’t add anything to the score, and with a thirty-three, I should call but not raise.”
“Nicely done. But from now on you’ll have to d
o all the summations up here.” I tapped my head.
“As opposed to doing them in my gall bladder, which is what I did this time,” said Steele.
“You know what I mean. No counting out loud. Remember, we’re pros. We’ve been doing this for years.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Steele. “I know how to play a role. I’ve still got most of the precinct convinced I can pull clues from the threads of time, remember?”
The clack of a heeled shoe made me turn. McThimblefingers stood behind me holding a trio of glossy black jackets over one arm, a piece of chalk in his hand and a number of pins pressed between his lips.
“Mr. Daggers,” he mumbled. “Are you ready to begin the fittings?”
I sighed. “Sure. Might as well get this over with.”
5
The barber jacked up my chair and tilted it back to ninety degrees before placing a small hand mirror before me. “What do you think, Mr. Daggers?”
I wasn’t sure I needed the mirror. I’d already taken a look after he’d trimmed my hair, and he’d done an excellent job, so I couldn’t imagine he’d do any worse on the shave. Besides, the tingling warmth from the hot towels he’d applied to my cheeks and the sharp, lemony scent of the aftershave gave me a good idea of the end result. Nonetheless, I looked.
“Excellent job, my man.” I tilted my head back and forth and ran a finger across my cheek. Smooth as a baby’s bottom. “Not sure I can remember the last time I didn’t have even an ounce of stubble.”
“You’re probably using a dull blade,” said the barber. “Although it could be your shaving soap isn’t lathering sufficiently.”
I kept looking into the mirror.
“You do use a shaving soap, don’t you?”
“What? Yes, of course,” I said. “I’m not a barbarian.”
The barber kept whatever thoughts he had about that to himself as he whipped the protective cape off me.
I stood and dusted off the few hairs that remained stuck to me. “What do I owe you?”
The door chimes sounded.
“Daggers. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.” Steck backed in through the front door, a garment bag slung over his arm and a duffel bag clutched in his hand.
I accepted the bag as he approached. “I assume this is what I’m wearing tonight?”
Steck nodded, breathing heavily as he reached for his coin purse.
“You doing alright?” I asked.
He nodded again. “Oh, yeah. Fine. Peachy. Just tired is all. Stressed. And excited. But mostly stressed. I’ve been running all over town trying to get everything ready. Well, taking rickshaws, mostly, but you get my drift. First to the seamstress’s, then the tailor’s, back to the precinct, then the seamstress’s again, and the tailor’s again. It’s been nuts.”
I glanced through the shop’s front windows. Based on the light, I’d wager it was midafternoon. “Tell me you at least got some lunch.”
“I ate a meat, potato, and onion knish while I was in one of the rickshaws. It’s the most I could afford. Time-wise, I mean. We’re running out of it.” He handed the barber some coppers to cover the cost of my haircut and shave. “And speaking of running, I can’t stay. I’ve picked up the rest of your garments, as well as Detective Steele’s dresses and coats, and I need to deliver them to the Prodigious. Meanwhile, you need to get dressed. Detective Steele should be here in—” He glanced at a clock against the far wall. “—five minutes, give or take. So get cracking. See you tonight.”
Steck rushed out the front door, and the barber showed me to a private room in back where I could change. Once he left, I unzipped the bag and looked inside. No tuxedo, thankfully, but the suit inside was almost as swanky—a cool gray affair with prominent black stitching and a black silk border along the edge of the lapel. In addition to the suit, the bag held a crisp starched shirt, glossy black shoes, socks, a thin leather belt, and an elegant black tie.
I sighed. What a mess.
Piece by piece, I stripped off my clothes and replaced them with the new ones. When finished, I returned to the front of the barber’s, the garment bag, now stuffed full of my casual attire, in hand.
The barber shot me a thumbs up. “Looking good, Mr. Daggers. But I don’t think I’m the one whose approval you’ll be seeking.”
He gestured out the windows. Steele stood at the edge of the street, waiting for me beside a rickshaw.
“Thanks.” I took a deep breath. “Wish me luck.”
“With you looking like that?” said the barber. “You won’t need it.”
“Oh, I’ll need it.”
The barber gave me a curious look as I exited through the front, but I didn’t expect him to get it.
Steele stepped forward to greet me. A heavy fur coat draped her shoulders, and her hair had been loosely curled. Diamond stud earrings sparkled, though not as brightly as did her eyes. “Well. Hi there, stranger.”
“You already used that line today,” I said.
“Yeah, but this time I mean it. Who are you and what did you do to Daggers?”
I glanced down at my myself, crisp and clean and looking like a thousand crowns. “I know. I look ridiculous.”
“You’re not serious, are you?” said Steele.
“Maybe. I’m not sure. I can’t even tell when I’m joking sometimes.” I gave her a nod. “You look nice, though I didn’t realize you were into lemming genocide.”
Steele glanced at her coat, a plush light brown fur that swathed her from neck to ankles. Pointy heels poked out from underneath the hem, but I couldn’t spot even a speck of fabric from her dress. I assumed she was, in fact, wearing one.
“This?” said Steele. “It’s mink. And I’m not. Into small animal murder, that is.”
“Your attire says otherwise.”
“Not really,” said Steele. “The coat isn’t custom, and considering how much it costs, the department is forcing me to return it after the poker tournament. So I’m not actually funneling any crowns into the extinction of our country’s natural wildlife. Besides, it’s a necessary evil. I’ve got to look the part, you know?” She shimmied and snuggled further into the depths of the fur, a smile spreading across her face.
“Yeah, I can see you’re making a huge sacrifice.” I hefted the garment bag. “Any idea what I should do with this?”
“Your old clothes? Pitch them into the back of the rickshaw. The driver can deposit them back at the precinct after he drops us off. Speaking of which, we should be going. I think we’ve only got a couple hours until the Prodigious departs.”
I gestured toward the handcart. “Well, in that case. After you, my lady.”
I offered my hand. Steele took it and climbed into the rickshaw, and I followed her in. As soon as we’d seated ourselves, our driver took off at a run, propelling us down the streets of New Welwic with a vigor born either from a desire for riches or from an attempt to stay warm. My money was on the latter. A bitter wind blew as we headed east over the bridge spanning the river Earl, carrying with it hints of salt and a cold spray carried from the depths of the Wel Sea, and I started to envy Steele her thick fur coat. As comfortable as my suit was—a fact I would admit to no one, ever, under any circumstances—it failed in its ability to guard against a stiff breeze. Had Steck packed me a topcoat? I’d have to check once we arrived at our quarters.
Thankfully, we weren’t exposed to the elements for long. The bridge’s bascule portion was down, and traffic was light—at least until we approached the dock district. Then the streets swelled with pedestrians, and not thick-set, lunch pail-carrying, wool cap and sweater-wearing dock hand types either. Rather men in thick, black overcoats, some with fedoras and bowlers and top hats, and women in stylish, fitted jackets that reached to their knees. Rickshaws clattered along the streets, too, but laden with clientele of an even higher class, dressed in suits and furs as Shay and I were. Then, as we crossed out of the shadow of several huge Cornwal
l Heavy Industries warehouses, I spotted it.
The Prodigious.
She was everything her name implied. Massive. Gargantuan. Enormous. At least six or seven hundred feet long and as tall as a five story building, even after accounting for whatever portion of her lurked below water and before adding the protrusion of her smokestacks. I counted three rows of at least fifty portholes in her side, as well as another row of similar size in the above deck portions, and yet, despite her enormity, she was an elegant beast. A jet black coat covered her hull, while everything above deck except for the tips of the smokestacks sparkled a pristine white. The overall effect was to dress the Prodigious in her own tuxedo, adding one more reminder of sophistication and elegance to a ship already in possession of an abundance of both.
“She’s a marvel, isn’t she?” said Steele. “Hard to believe something that big can stay afloat, much less move. And before you throw it in my face, I’m well aware of buoyancy and thrust and all the other factors that make it possible, but it’s still hard to wrap your head around.”
I forced my jaw shut with an idle hand. “No kidding.”
Our rickshaw driver snaked his way around the crowds before stopping near the ship’s gangplank. A line wove around the base of it, herded to and fro by a red rope held between gilded posts.
I spotted a uniformed individual armed with a steel hole punch at the head of the line. “Uh oh.”
“What is it?” asked Steele.
“Tickets,” I said. “Steck never gave them to me.”
“Did you check your suit pockets?”
I batted the exterior ones. Nothing there, so I moved to the interior. My fingers met resistance in the pocket over my heart. When I pulled them out, I found between them two index card-sized tickets featuring bold print and embossed with gold leaf.
I smiled at my partner. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Sure you’re ready for this? Mr. Waters isn’t supposed to get flustered.”
“And I won’t,” I said. “I’m leaving all that on land. As soon as the soles of my shoes meet the deck, I’ll be smooth, suave, and sophisticated. At least in public.”
