by Paddy Hirsch
“Two weeks? And was that on a trip to Hughson’s?”
“It was.”
He gave Shotwell a long look, and let the silence in the room do its work. The banker’s eyes flicked between him, Lars, and Kerry, who was still leaning on the door, her arms folded now, her eyes like chips of jade.
“Very well, we’ll come back to the watch presently,” Justy said. “Tell me about your child.”
Shotwell twitched. “My what?”
“Your child. Your baby. What’s its name?”
“James.”
“How original. Where did you get it?”
Shotwell’s mouth fell open. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Where did you get it? Not the natural way. You’ve been trying for too long for that. No doubt you assumed it was because your wife is too old, but I’m willing to wager that you’re the problem. But Riker had a solution for you, didn’t he? A supply of clean, healthy white babies for you to shop from.”
“I … ah…” Shotwell was perspiring now, beads of sweat leaping out over his forehead.
Justy leaned in. “I met the mother, you greasy scut. She might have been fourteen years old. They kept her drugged and shut up in a cell, about the size of your desk. But you know that, don’t you? Because you’ve been to Jericho, many times. And you were there on Saturday night, were you not?”
“No! I swear.”
“Riker knew he could trust you. God knows what manner of frauds the two of you have cooked up using this bank over the years, so you were a natural choice to join his tight little crew of rapists. Did you go through the girls in rotation, Shotwell, or did you have favorites?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “But that wasn’t enough variety for you, was it? You fancied yourself something a little darker. But there’s all sorts of risks that come with laying with a cherry-colored cat. She might turn out to be a fire ship, and a married man like yourself doesn’t want to find himself peppered, because how could you explain that? So you asked Umar, and because you’ve been such a good little rapist, and such a good customer, he promised you a clean Negro wench for your pleasure.”
Shotwell’s head was hanging now. His eyes were closed.
Justy stood up and leaned over the banker, white knuckles on the desktop. “Only this one wasn’t drugged to the eyeballs, was she? This one fought back. You were in Umar’s withdrawing room, weren’t you? Umar left you there with her, because the poor lass didn’t have her own cell. You went to grab her, but there was a ruck. You knocked over the table and upset the cutlery box, and she grabbed a knife and took a swipe at your face, and even though it was a poxy table chive, it had a good enough point on it to gouge you. And that made you see red, didn’t it? Goddamned nigger whore going for you with a blade, so you slapped her and snatched the knife, and you pushed her back and you stabbed her. You fucking stabbed her…”
Lars pulled him back, dragging him away from Shotwell, off the desk and into the center of the room. Justy shook him off, his chest heaving, stars bursting in front of his eyes.
Shotwell was crying, snot like a carpet under his nose, his cheeks slick with tears. “It was an accident. An accident. I swear it. The girl—”
“Rumi,” Kerry snapped. “Her name was Rumi.”
Shotwell shook his head. “It was the drug. The charas … I would never…”
Kerry crossed the room in three quick strides. Justy felt her brush past him, and instinctively reached for his pocket, but she had already slit the bottom with the tiny blade she carried, and caught his knife as it fell. The blade clicked out, and she slid hard across the desk, sending papers flying to the floor as she slammed into the banker and put the knife to his throat.
“Rumi,” she hissed. “Say her name.”
Shotwell’s mouth flapped open, like a fish gasping. “Rumi.”
“I should tear your throat out for what you did. But it would be too quick.” She slid the point of the knife down over the bulge of his belly, straining against the waistcoat as his breath came hard and fast. “Perhaps I should do to you what you did to her. Make a little hole in your guts and let your life leak out.” She sneered. “Or maybe I’ll just cut your cock off.”
“No!” Shotwell squeaked. “Please! What do you want?”
“I want you to confess, Shotwell,” Justy said. “I want you to come with me to the Hall, and I want you to write out a full confession. The girl, the scheme, Riker, everything.”
Shotwell was shaking, cringing away from Kerry and the knife in her hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt the girl. I swear. It was an accident. The drug. I wanted to scare her. It was a mistake. I’ll confess.” He swallowed. “But Riker … I can’t … he’ll kill me.”
Justy shrugged. “As you wish. In that case we’ll leave you with her.”
Kerry grinned. She slipped the blade under Shotwell’s waistcoat and slid it upwards. A button popped off and rattled across the desk. And then another.
“Stop.” Shotwell’s face was running with sweat. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything.”
“Now that’s a pity.”
Justy and Lars spun around. Playfair was standing in the doorway. He had a long knife thrust into his belt and a pistol in each hand. One was pointed at Justy’s stomach, the other at Shotwell’s chest. He chuckled at the look on Justy’s face.
“What?” he said. “You didn’t think that soft peg Gorton was the only one on Riker’s roll, did you? A man as fly as Mister Tobias don’t take chances.”
Justy’s chest was tight, his legs like water. He couldn’t stop staring at the small black hole at the end of the pistol barrel. “But Gorton was Umar’s man.”
“Mayhap he thought as much, but it was Riker’s money, and that made him Riker’s man. He’d have twigged in time.” The pistol aimed at Shotwell twitched upwards, to point at Kerry. “Drop the chive now, lass. Nice and easy, on the floor.”
She swung her right hand out slowly, holding the hilt of the knife between her finger and thumb. She let it fall, point down, so that it stuck in the floorboards.
“You braced Shard,” Justy said.
“That I did. Likes a tipple and a wench, does Mister Shard. So I gave him both, and had him tied up, and then we talked. He came around easy enough.”
“He called you a devil.”
“Did he, now?” Playfair grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Is he dead?”
“Not as yet. Word from the Almshouse is we might not have to bother with him, as the good Lord looks set to carry him off for us. But either way, he’ll be stiff before long.”
Justy smiled to himself. The Almshouse was as safe a place as any. A killer would find it hard to get past Sister Marie-Therese. He watched Playfair. The big watchman was trying to come up with a solution to the obvious problem in front of him. He had two pistols, but there were at least three people to kill. Four if he wasn’t under orders to save Shotwell for Riker. The obvious solution was to pot Lars and Justy, then take the knife out of his belt and use it on Kerry. After that, dealing with Shotwell would be easy. Except that Kerry might pick up the knife and put up a fight, and that might give the banker time to run for it.
The other option was to shoot Kerry, because she had a weapon to hand, and Justy because he was closest, then go for Lars with the knife in his belt. But Lars was a big man, bigger than Playfair, and a sailor, which meant he likely knew how to handle himself in a clutch. Neither situation was ideal.
He dealt with the Shotwell problem by stepping into the room and kicking the office door closed behind him. Then he leaned on the door. “Behind the desk, jack,” he said to Lars, keeping the pistol in his right hand on Justy. “Nice and easy. Any malarkey and I’ll give the Marshal here a plump in the breadbasket.”
Lars walked slowly around the table. Playfair was herding them into a single cluster. A good plan, Justy thought, because it made them all easier to watch. And to kill, if it came to that. The desk was a nice touch. If they wanted to atta
ck Playfair, even together, they would all have to navigate the obstacle, and the extra second or two might give him an edge.
The only flaw in the plan was that it would bring Justy closer to his own knife. The big blade was not well balanced for throwing. The handle was too heavy and bulky. But Justy had practiced enough to be lethal over a distance of up to twenty feet.
And Playfair was just ten feet away.
The big watchman grinned. His teeth were ragged and tobacco brown. “You want that chive, don’t you, Marshal? Think you can spear me in the tripe, and mayhap you could, if I let you near it. But I didn’t come up the East River on a fucking banana boat. So get yourself back there beside the tar.”
Justy took a slow step backwards, his eyes on the gun. He had to move slightly left to round the desk, widening the angle between the two points of aim of Playfair’s pistols. The watchman was focused entirely on him, and Justy knew that if Lars was going to move, now was the time.
There was the briefest flicker of light in the corner of his right eye, like the sun reflecting on the window of a carriage. There was no time for his mind to work, but his instinct told him that if he was distracted, then so was Playfair, and he hurled himself to the ground.
Playfair fired both pistols together. There was an enormous bang, and Justy felt something snatch at his side. Just his coat, he thought.
The room was full of smoke. He was lying on his back, thinking that he had to get up and close with Playfair, but his arms and legs, even his head, seemed to be fixed to the floor. There was a blur of movement. He could hear a choking, rattling sound, and then Kerry’s face was floating above him. Her hand was cool on his cheek. He could feel someone tugging at his clothes. Kerry was talking to him, but he couldn’t hear anything over a rushing sound in his ears. Her hat was off, and her hair was hanging over her shoulder. Like a waterfall at night, he thought, with the moonlight reflecting on it. Her eyes were wet and the rushing in his ears became a roar and she seemed to shrink away from him, all the way down to the end of a long tunnel. And then, darkness.
FORTY-SIX
Saturday
He knew he was alive, because he could smell bacon. He had the feeling he had been wrapped in it and was being basted in fat. He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t even move his face. The flesh felt heavy on his bones, smeared into place. Perhaps someone had put bacon on his face, too. Heavy slabs of ham, laid over his mouth and nose and eyes.
“How much did you give him?”
Lars’ voice. His old friend. Lars liked bacon. He had seen him eat an entire piglet once. They had stolen it from a farm near Naas when they were on the run from the redcoats. How many years ago was that? Lars was wounded, so Justy had left him in the woods and hopped into the sty and chased the little bastard around in the mud for ten minutes before getting a grip on it and cutting its throat. The piglet’s blood had sprayed into his face, warm and salty. The farmer had come after him, but the sight of Justy, covered in mud and blood and pig shit might have made the farmer think he was a sluagh, an evil fairy, and not a human being. So he let him go, and Justy and Lars lit a low fire and cooked the pig, and Lars devoured the whole thing, except the head, which Justy ate.
Maybe he had a pig’s face, then. Maybe that was what the bacon smell was all about.
“How much?” Lars asked again.
“It was a mistake,” a woman said. “He was given a dose when he came in, but it wasn’t recorded, and so he was dosed again. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? That much opium could kill him!”
Calm down, Lars, he wanted to say. Calm down, my old friend, and have some bacon. But his lips wouldn’t work, and the words wouldn’t come and he felt himself drifting away, like a boat being pulled towards a waterfall. And then he tipped over.
* * *
He knew he was alive because he was vomiting, and dead men didn’t shoot the cat. Although he might be dead, a small voice inside him noted, if he kept on spewing in the same manner for long. He felt as though the Devil had thrust a gnarly hand down his gullet and was pulling his entrails out.
There was a hand rubbing his back. “Get it all out, now,” a soft voice said, and he wanted to scream that there was no more to come out, that he was retching dry, but at that very moment, the Devil gave one final tug, and a stream of black bile spilled out of his mouth, burning his tongue and his gums as it spattered into the wooden bowl that was being held under his face.
He spat, tears in his eyes, and rolled onto his back. He was naked under a sheet and a blanket, with a wide bandage wrapped around his middle. Lars and Kerry were standing over him. Kerry was dressed in her teacher’s clothes. Her hair was up and her arms were folded. Her lips were pursed and her eyes were the color of fresh-cut grass. Lars was dressed for the sea, his head freshly shaven, and his tricorn hat under his arm. He grinned. “There he is, the man himself. I knew a wee drop of the poppy wouldn’t hurt you.”
Justy’s mouth tasted like the inside of a rat’s nest. “What time is it?”
“Five o’clock of a Saturday evening, or thereabouts. You’ve been away with the fairies a whole day. How was your trip?”
Justy shook his head. He tried to sit up, but pain shot through his groin. He gasped, and lay back, sweat cooling on his face.
“You caught a ball in the hip,” Lars said. “The nimgimmer says you were lucky. It chipped off a chunk of the bone and bounced out. The bone with it. He says you’ll mend in a few weeks, if you take it slow.”
“It hurts like the Devil’s peg.” His voice was a rasp. “And what’s that bacon smell?”
“Lard.” A nun was standing beside him holding the wooden bowl. “We use it in the poultice. It holds the herbs together.”
“I thought I was being roasted.” He tried to sit up again, and the nun stepped forward to help. She thrust a pillow under his back, and then another, and propped him up. He blinked and looked around. He was in the long ward at the Almshouse, in the same bed Lars had been.
“What happened?”
“You don’t remember anything?” Lars asked.
“Not much.”
“Kerry here pinked that hackum with her wee chive.”
Justy remembered the flash of light that had made him drop to the ground. “You threw it?”
Kerry said nothing.
Lars laughed. “Well, if you won’t tell the tale, I shall. She was quick as a snake. Caught him right in the glimm. He fired both his barkers and we went for him at the same time, as soon as we realized we weren’t plugged. He was clutching his eye with one paw, but had that toaster of his out with the other.” He glanced at Kerry. “So I had to stick him with your knife.”
“He’s dead?”
“As good Queen Bess.”
He took something out of his pocket and tossed it onto the bed. Justy looked down and saw his knife on the sheet, cleaned and oiled, the blade folded away, the brass fittings gleaming.
“And Shotwell?”
Lars shrugged. “He caught the other ball. Plumb in the fizz. Made a right hairy mess of him.”
Justy’s temples were throbbing, a pulse like a bullet ricocheting inside his skull. He closed his eyes, but it only made it worse. “That’s it, then.”
“What?”
“Without Shotwell, we can’t get Riker. The bastard’s going to get away clean.”
“I thought you struck a deal.”
“We did. But without Shotwell it won’t hold. The only evidence against Riker’s the paperwork, which can be interpreted any way he likes. Hardly enough to create a scandal.”
“What about the lawyer?”
“Jesus!” Justy sat up, ignoring the pain in his side. “I’d forgotten about him. Is he here?”
“He is. They have him upstairs, isn’t that right, Sister?”
The nun nodded. “Someone came and paid for him to be placed in a private room.”
“Riker.” Justy’s mind ground into motion, like a rusty gearwheel. “Is there a guard on
the door?”
Lars looked at the nun. She shook her head.
“We need to tell Hays,” Justy said. “He needs to get a man up here now. Riker wants Shard on his own. He’s easier to get to that way. And Riker will want to get to him.”
“But you said he’s likely never even met the man.”
“No, but he has met Playfair. You heard Playfair admit he braced Shard and he worked for Riker. If we can get Shard to identify Playfair, then it puts Riker in the box. And Riker’s sharp enough to know it.”
“Right you are then,” Lars said. “I’ll send word down to the Hall. And I’ll keep watch myself until a man comes.” He strode away.
Kerry was still watching Justy, arms folded, an amused look on her face. She glanced at the bowl of vomit in the young nun’s hands. “Shouldn’t you empty that?”
The nun opened her mouth to reply, but Kerry’s eyes flashed, and the nun hurried off.
“That blade of yours came in useful,” Justy said.
“It was a lucky toss. I saw what you were up to, and figured we’d have no better time to rush him. I only wanted to put him off kilter.”
“You saved us. He would have put a hole in the two of us and gone to skewer the third. Thanks.”
She said nothing, but her eyes gleamed.
“Would you sit down, instead of looming over me like a schoolmarm?” Justy asked.
She gave him a cool look. “I would, but you might think I cared about you.”
She sat down. Through the high Almshouse window, a long bank of cloud was turning several shades of orange and red as the sun set.
“We got him, then,” she said.
“I’d have preferred to have him in front of a beak, but yes. We got him. Thanks to you buzzing that driver’s sack.”
She was almost smiling. “How did you know it was Shotwell’s montra?”
“I didn’t for sure, not until I saw the initials. But both times I met him, I saw him check his watch, then ask someone else for the time. I figured it was just broken, but when I saw the driver fish that onion out of the cab, I got the idea that maybe Shotwell was a twin-chain man, that he’d lost the working watch and the one he kept checking was the dummy. Once I had that in my head, and put him in Riker’s carriage, everything else fell into place. His miracle baby, his position at the bank. And then I remembered what Sahar said, that someone told her that Rumi stabbed the man he was with. I thought maybe he wasn’t stabbed so much as cut. And I remembered that cut on Shotwell’s face was fresh and deep the first time I met him. Nothing that would stand up in court, mind you.”
