by C. S. Poe
“Better.”
Gunner lightly nudged my arm with his elbow, and I couldn’t help but smile.
A referee stood in between Addison and Monster McGrath, gave them a moment to square off on each other, rile the audience, and then he called for the bare-knuckle match to begin. McGrath took an Irish fighting stance—arms out, fists curled, feet firmly planted on the floor. The man really was a behemoth. I had no doubt that one well-timed punch to the kidneys would leave Addison pissing blood for a week and losing the match. Which was well and fine for McGrath. The trouble was, McGrath needed to catch Addison. And when you’re the smaller man, the scrapper up against impossible odds, I knew firsthand that there wasn’t any room for gentlemen’s rules.
Addison bounced on the balls of his feet, moving back and forth around McGrath as he searched for an opening. He tried for a jab at McGrath’s side, but the bigger man’s reach landed first on the counter, his fist slicing a deep cut into Addison’s lower lip. Addison stumbled back a few steps, hand to his mouth as blood oozed from between his fingers.
Some of the audience cheered, others shouted in protest. Before the referee had a chance to intervene, to order McGrath take the ring off his finger, Addison lunged. He gave McGrath a few blows to the gut before taking one himself that threw him off his feet. Addison landed hard, rolled to one side as McGrath ran at him, then stuck his leg out. McGrath flailed his arms for purchase before crashing to the stage, his gigantic frame shaking the structure as if he were testing its stability.
More shouting from the audience. More cheering. More bets being placed and more beer being poured.
McGrath got to his feet and let out a furious roar. Gone was the Irish fighting stance of waiting for an opening and making the hit count. He was blind rage and wounded masculinity—a dangerous combination. McGrath ran at Addison, pulled back his arm, ready to let a punch fly, but Addison slipped past his reach, dealt a blow to the left kidney, the right, kneed McGrath in the groin, then clocked him so hard in the jaw that had McGrath’s head not been attached to his body, it’d have spun like a child’s toy top.
McGrath’s eyes rolled back, he staggered, and then he fell and didn’t get back up.
The referee called the match as he raised Addison’s hand in the air. “You saw it at Pilly’s—Dangerous O’Dea has broken Monster McGrath’s year-long winning streak!”
Addison was breathing hard, and both the blood on his face and sweat on his chest glistened in the glow of the steam-powered lamps. But despite the commotion all around him, I managed to catch his eye while politely clapping for his win. He nodded his head just once, enough to assure me he understood the reasoning of my presence, then climbed off the stage. Addison shook hands with a few patrons as he made for a side door marked Fighters Only. Other men were less subtle in their compliments, patting his bare chest, squeezing a bicep—one appeared to flat-out proposition him. Addison took that man by the nape, drew their foreheads together, said something that made them both smile, then disappeared through the door.
“What an interesting club,” Gunner said at length. He was watching two men on stage help McGrath to his feet.
“You think so?”
“They have certainly simplified the process of meeting men.”
“I suppose they have.”
“Even cater to a very particular interest.”
I cleared my throat. “There’s something to be said for a well-built man.” I looked up at Gunner again. He was staring at me. “You’ve been eyed up and down no fewer than half a dozen times since we entered.”
He nodded a fraction, like he was already quite aware.
“And the man behind me at the bar intends to bring a beer to you.”
Gunner’s gaze flicked in that direction but didn’t linger. “You’re quite observant when the attention isn’t focused on you.”
Sweat prickled under my arms. I shrugged, trying to appear casual, but I’m sure I looked, if anything, manic. “Perhaps… territorial, is more correct.”
That made the corners of Gunner’s eyes crinkle. “It’s rather too fish-in-a-barrel for me. I enjoy making eye contact with a man across a tavern. Getting that swell in your gut, like the ground has fallen out from under you.”
I tried to swallow, but my throat was parched—dry like animal bones bleaching in the desert sun. “Like you’ve been pinned to the wall.”
Gunner took one step closer to me. “And you realize you share a tendency.”
“Now you’ve got to put it into words.”
Another step. “When it’s right, you don’t need words.”
Carefully preserved memories of Arizona began to come to life, like viewing still images through a zoetrope. But instead of a galloping horse, it was Gunner leaning over me, pressing me against the door. It was me kissing Gunner behind the saloon on Applejack Row. It was opening the folded receipt from Bartholomew Industries for the first time and realizing the gravity of his trust in me.
I needed to trust Gunner in return. No matter how small the gesture, I felt anything would help to convey how thankful I was for his brief presence in my life again. How happy he’d made me tonight, despite our intimate holiday having been turned upside down like a Gugelhupf cake on its head. And how… I wished that this night would lead to something more. Something official. God, call it what it was—a courtship.
I took the final step to close the space between us. My hands shook as I grabbed Gunner by the hips, a brazenly intimate gesture in a public place, the welcoming setting being beside the point, mind you. I had refused his touch on an empty street before and needed to make that right.
Gunner took off his hat, leaned down, and kissed my mouth. He was warm and alive and left a bite of licorice on my lips as he drew back. “What about these one million residents?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You needn’t apologize for them.”
I fiddled with the button holding one of his braces in place. “We’re relegated to locked gazes across a room and kisses behind saloons and touches only in a club like this because of society.” I drew my hand up, thumb stuttering along the buttons of Gunner’s waistcoat. “Someone ought to apologize for what they’ve done, since I see no indication they plan to make amends.”
“I see.”
“Besides,” I added after a moment, trying desperately to sound casual, “I needed the man at the bar to take his interest elsewhere.”
Gunner looked in that direction before saying, “I’m not so certain you’ve convinced him.”
“Really?” I turned, but Gunner took my hand, spun me around, and held my face as he kissed me again. And this was one of those kisses where he pressed his tongue into my mouth—so explicit, we should have been arrested on the spot.
Gunner gently let go of me and, while putting his bowler on, always at an angle, asked, “Where are you supposed to meet O’Dea?”
“Sorry?”
“Addison.”
I blinked a few times and remembered myself. “Oh. Right.” I glanced toward the Fighters Only room—door still closed—then motioned Gunner to follow me back out to the sidewalk. “Side exit.”
Dandy stood at the open door, still hocking, although his angle had changed since the fight’s conclusion. “Dangerous O’Dea knocks out Monster McGrath! That’s right, you heard it here—sir, care to step aside—five cents, thank you. A scrappy Irish lad breaks the Monster’s unbeatable streak just before the stroke of midnight!”
Gunner pulled his silver pocket watch from his waistcoat and consulted the time.
“Sir, care to meet the man who put the Monster on his backside? Freckles, yes, O’Dea—five cents. Thank you, sir.”
I moved away from Pilly’s entrance and rounded the corner on my left. Addison leaned against the brick wall of the club, the door to his left propped open by an empty brown bottle wedged into the crack. He wore a threadbare winter coat over his bare chest, sucked on the end of a cigarette, and absently massaged under the split in his
lip.
“You need stitches,” I said.
Addison glanced toward us before pushing off the wall. “Oy. What the fuck, Hamilton?”
“Here we go.”
“I knocked the last bit of brain the Monster had right out of his skull.”
“Hm-hm.”
“You see it?”
“Yes.”
“You hear that crowd?” he continued, jerking his head back to indicate the door left ajar.
“I do.”
“They’re wild for me. I’m going on a brannigan and getting properly fucked tonight.”
I sighed.
Addison took a final drag from his cigarette before flicking the butt into a pool of slush at my feet. “I want my asshole to hurt more than my fucking face.”
“Are you finished?”
“Just because you’re more high-strung than the saints of Erin—”
“Blasphemy and poetics?”
“Go hifreann leat.”
“I don’t speak Irish.” I put my goggles on, raised a hand, and cast an aether spell, the glow of magic causing Addison to wince. “And neither do you, beyond a few colorful phrases picked up in saloons.” I took his chin with my free hand, gave Addison a not-so-gentle yank closer, and pressed the aether against the deep gash that was still bleeding.
Addison grumbled from the corner of his mouth not receiving treatment, “And whose fucking fault is it?”
“I don’t want to have another discussion about your mother, Addison.”
“My máthair,” he said with a hint of a sneer.
I gave his chin another firm shake before pulling my magic away. The tear of his flesh that would have undoubtedly scarred was nothing more than an irritated-looking paper cut now. The spell dissolved in my palm but still managed to rub the nerves the wrong way, and I hissed under my breath as my fingers involuntarily curled. Addison stepped around me in that split-second of preoccupation, and when I turned while tugging my goggles down, he’d broached Gunner’s personal space in all the ways that made my blood boil.
“Aren’t you a sweet thing,” Addison said. “You Hamilton’s partner? I thought the saint worked alone.”
Gunner’s face was as placid as ever. “No professional association.”
“What about a private one?”
“Addison,” I said sternly.
“Tell me your name,” Addison continued without missing a beat.
“John Gaylord.”
“Addison O’Dea. Dangerous O’Dea, they call me.”
“I heard.”
“But did you see?”
“For the love of—Addison,” I tried again.
Gunner’s mouth twitched. “I did see.”
“And are you going to give me a story full of blarney, John? Like Hamilton does? Or you going to tell me you liked what you saw?” He pushed his open coat back, soliciting more than just appreciation from Gunner.
“Goddamn lobcock,” I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Mind your fuckin’ tongue,” Addison snapped, but he was grinning as he took a step away from Gunner. “Hamilton’s a small, ornery bastard. Repressed, I say. That’s why he wears them high collars.” He put a hand to his throat to imitate my dress choice, as if his decision to be half naked outside in December was more reasonable.
“I need everything you’ve got on Fishback,” I said with contrived patience.
“Fat Frank?”
“For a fellow who was likely to disappear in the event that he turned sideways,” Gunner said thoughtfully, “you New Yorkers really need to choose your monikers better.”
Addison jutted a thumb at Gunner but asked me, “Who the fuck’s this guy, throwing his fancy fifty-cent word around?”
“It’s irony,” I said to Gunner, ignoring Addison.
“I know what it is,” he answered. “It’s just very heavy-handed.”
“You prefer obvious.”
“No one can mistake your intentions with a clear and concise alias.”
Addison had been looking between us, much like a shuttlecock punted back and forth across a badminton court. “It don’t get better than Dangerous O’Dea,” he proclaimed, trying to worm his way back into the conversation, before he caught sight of Gunner’s holstered Waterbury when he reached into his coat for more Black Jack. “Oy. Hamilton wants gossip on Fishback—what he’s hustling—and you got the nerve to carry a fuckin’ Waterbury in his company?” Addison returned to Gunner and gave him a firm shove to the chest.
I tried to protest, but I hadn’t even the chance to formulate a proper word of warning before Gunner had grabbed Addison’s coat collar, slammed him against the opposite wall, and put the triple barrels of his pistol under the redhead’s chin.
“What the fu—”
“How’s Gunner the Deadly for concise?”
Addison’s eyes were as big as saucers, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he stuttered, “Y-you’re Gunner the Deadly?”
“That’s what I said.”
“But Gunner the Deadly ain’t been seen in a city since ’75.”
“Is that so?” Gunner asked, voice still that husky-calm.
“Dangerous ain’t enough for you, eh?” Addison asked, shooting me a quick glance. “I can punch harder… make it deadly—oy! It was a fuckin’ joke!” he protested when Gunner dug the Waterbury into his throat.
“You have no sense of decorum,” Gunner stated. He stepped back, spun the Waterbury, and holstered it in one fluid motion.
Addison huffed loudly as he adjusted the collar of his coat. “I ought to report you to the coppers. Hamilton, hear that? Gunner the Deadly used excessive force against me, an upstandin’ citizen of this city.”
“I’m not a copper, you can’t file a formal complaint against an outlaw, and you are absolutely not an upstanding citizen. Tell me about Frank Fishback before I ask Gunner to shoot you instead.”
Addison reached into his coat and retrieved another hand-rolled cigarette. “First, tell me why you’re cheating on me,” he countered, walking toward me. He shoved the cigarette between his lips and leaned down with a sort of expectancy about his person. “Is it because his picture is in the rogues’ gallery?”
“You’re in the rogues’ gallery, Addison,” I countered, snapping my fingers and bringing a flickering flame to the paper and tobacco. “Although for not nearly as notorious a reason. Gunner has had… a prior run-in with the situation here in New York. So we’ve agreed upon a truce while he aids my office.”
Addison straightened and sucked in a lungful of smoke. He appeared to contemplate that half-truth for a moment, finally nodded, and said, “Fine. But he still roughed me up some.”
“You liked it,” Gunner answered a bit absently.
Addison smirked and reached down to cup himself through his trousers. “Aye, that’s true.” He took another drag before continuing. “Fat Frank was contracting his strong hands to the Whyos.”
“Yes, until a few weeks ago.”
“And the Whyos are mighty angry.”
“Tell me why.”
“Frank made them a good penny, you can imagine. All these lads runnin’ amok—half of ’em ain’t even Whyos. Just sucking the teat of Driscoll’s name and his organization, yeah? And the rest—stealin’ a drunkard’s pocket watch or stabbing a pretty girl? Come on. But Frank made them good money. Money keeps them in power.”
“Frank killed honest coppers walking the beat. Let’s not forget that.”
Addison held up both hands in defense. “I didn’t say I liked what he did, Hamilton. Just that he made the Whyos money doing it. So then the bastard ups and leaves sometime in November. Some of the lads who come by Pilly’s for fun, when Driscoll ain’t watchin’, I get them good and drunk and they tell me their troubles.”
“And what are those troubles?” I prompted.
Addison raised his head and blew smoke into the cold night air. “A new gangster—goes by Tick Tock.”
“Where’s he located?”
“Five Points?”
“Aye. Somewhere around the Bend, I suspect.”
His statement was confirmation that backed up my initial assessment of the fire magic I’d felt just outside The Buchanan—that the origin, although muddied and not exact, was somewhere in the Five Points. The worst of New York City’s slums. The most dangerous neighborhood in all of Manhattan and operated by the Whyos.
“This Tick Tock,” I began, “did he pay a fee to the Whyos—for setting up shop on their turf?”
“No, don’t believe he has,” Addison answered.
“What do you know about Black Bart?” Gunner asked suddenly. He made a point of taking his time while drawing out his gum package again and giving Addison another eyeful of his weapon.
“Who’s that?” Addison asked.
“A thief,” I answered. “Out in the territories. Robs Wells Fargo—airships.” I said that last word slowly, as I digested my own statement.
Gunner made a sound under his breath.
“Friend of yours?” I continued.
He opened the package once or twice, then put it away without removing a stick of gum. “I robbed one of Wells Fargo’s first airships, back in ’73. There was twelve dollars and some legal documents for Montana’s territorial governor, Benjamin Potts, in the strongbox.”
Addison laughed and scuffed the cobblestone under his feet. “Tough luck.”
“The second airship I robbed had a hundred pounds of gold bars destined for Denver.” Gunner now had Addison’s undivided attention. “By ’75 I’d amassed something like ten thousand dollars.”
Addison dropped his cigarette and moved toward Gunner. “You’re rich?”
“He gives it all away, Addison. Don’t try to slip a hand in his pockets,” I said around a suppressed sigh.
“Give it away?” Addison echoed. “You fuckin’ daft?”
Gunner’s eyes narrowed. “My point is, an outlaw can’t keep a lucrative territory to themselves for long, and neither can an urban gangster. The difference being that Black Bart has the decency to be a gentleman about it. He keeps to the California routes, never shoots teamsters, and never robs passengers. I don’t believe the same can be said in this situation. Tick Tock has moved into the heart of the Whyos’ neighborhood, hijacked one of their best men for his own purposes, and already sounds more organized in his money-making methods than these hoodlums.”