The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1)

by Gregory Ashe

  When she looked up, her dark eyes reminded Cian of Corinne.

  Cian stepped into the store and pushed Corinne and the dark haired girl to the back of his mind. He passed the bins of flour and the sacks of sugar, passed the jugs of molasses and oil and a thousand other things. David sat behind the counter, a short man with his hair clipped above the ears and eyes that had seen too much of Kerry Patch. He looked up, saw Cian, and said, “Nothing today, Cian.”

  “Lot of folks outside waiting, David.”

  “I told them the same thing.”

  “Nothing? Not even for me?”

  David snorted.

  Cian turned back to leave the store, but stopped when he saw the girl again. A slender little thing, like a twig wrapped up in a sheet of cotton. Corinne hadn’t been thin like that. She’d had all the right curves, all the right lines, and dark eyes. She had spoken with a lisp, and he’d only understood one word in ten, and once they had made love in a patch of strawberries, and the smell of it had followed Cian all the way back to winter in St. Louis. Mostly, though, he remembered the screams from the last night he had seen her.

  “David.”

  The short man glanced up, not willing to meet Cian’s eyes.

  “Got a coat?”

  David disappeared into the back and came out with a bulky wool coat.

  “How much?”

  “Two dollars.”

  Cian pulled the handful of coins from his pocket and spilled them onto the counter. David sorted them.

  “Dollar seventy three.”

  “I’ll owe you the rest.”

  David nodded and passed over the coat.

  The cold hit Cian when he stepped out onto the street. He walked over to the girl, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, “Here you are, doll.” He dropped the coat into her lap.

  Then he started walking. The girl shouted something after him. Cian didn’t look back.

  He’d learned—he’d learned it in France, in fucking France—that it was better to keep walking.

  But that didn’t mean he didn’t still hear her screams.

  The clay mines of Cheltenham were another dead end.

  The copper-coin-sun glinted almost halfway across the sky when Cian reached the first mine.

  “No work,” the supervisor said when he saw Cian.

  Cian glanced at the line of men filing into the mines. “Looks like you’ve got plenty of work.”

  “Not for you. Last time you finished a shift, you got piss drunk, broke two of my boys’ arms, and disappeared for a month.”

  Cian tried two other mines, but word had spread, and so he started back to the Patch. When he passed David Fitzgerald’s, a dozen people still clustered outside, ghosts who refused to be driven off. The girl with the dark eyes was gone. Cian hoped she’d gotten a bit of work.

  Read any newspaper, and it told you things were good and getting better—unless you were a Bolshevik or an anarchist. Read any newspaper, and it told you about the rich getting richer. It told you about the parties and the champagne. It told you about new factories and new jobs.

  It didn’t tell you that if you were a mick deserter, if you were Cian Shea, you were going to have shit luck finding any of those new jobs. There wasn’t anyone to blame. Cian had made his bed. He’d made his bed in France, with a bullet to the back of a bastard’s head, and he’d never looked back.

  But it made it hard to pay the rent sometimes.

  And that was how, with the afternoon light glinting off the hard crusts of snow, Cian Shea found himself in front of Seamus’s. The rambling structure was purportedly a private residence owned by Seamus Daniels. Anyone who had spent more than five minutes in the Patch, though, knew better. Seamus’s had enough bedrooms, and more than enough girls, to be a brothel. It had enough thugs, and more than enough guns, to be a fortress. It had the slunk-down, broke-back look of a mangy dog. But most importantly, it had a steady stream of Canadian booze—the good stuff—and the men who could provide it to you.

  Cian went inside. The front room was large and drafty and cold. The smell of a fire and damp wood mixed with the harsher smell of spilled spirits. Tables and chairs clustered around an iron stove at the center of the room, but the coals had gone out, and the men and women who sat playing cards and talking looked almost as miserable as Cian. A few of them glanced up when he entered; most of them didn’t. At the bar stood a bull of man whose neck had long since been swallowed by his massive beard.

  The man had his hands under the bar, which meant he was holding a gun.

  The Colt poked into Cian’s back with every step as he crossed the room. The Colt was a good gun. A solid gun.

  Like any gun, it wasn’t going to do him a whole lot of good if this guy shot him dead first.

  Buried somewhere underneath the man’s beard was a mouth, and it said, “Yes?” The voice was soft, almost polite, and lacked any of the rough mick edges that most of Kerry Patch wore.

  “I’m here to see Bobby Flynn. Molly Doyle sent me.”

  For a minute, there was no response, and then an earthquake happened underneath the placid surface of the beard. The man’s face shifted, his mouth emerged from the tangle of hair.

  And he started laughing.

  “I’m Bobby Flynn,” he said, stretching a hand across the bar. Cian shook it. “Why’d my auntie send you here?”

  “She said you were a drunk and a wastrel and that we’d get along just fine.”

  Another mountainous laugh. “That sounds like Auntie Mol. Who are you?”

  “Cian Shea.”

  “I’ve heard of you.”

  “Been going through a bit of a rough patch.”

  “Heard you kicked down a god-damned door at the Pink Pony looking for a girl.”

  “Two.”

  “Huh?”

  “Two doors. The second one wasn’t locked, but I was in the kicking mood.”

  “And the girl?”

  “She was in the kicking mood too. Left me on the ground with my head ringing.”

  Bobby’s mouth twitched, sending ripples through the cascade of facial hair, but he just nodded. He produced a pair of tumblers and poured them each a finger of whiskey, then slid a glass towards Cian. Bobby tossed his drink back. Cian held his by the rim, swirling the drink, scenting the air.

  “What about the fellow who was with her?” Bobby asked as he set his glass down.

  Cian drank the whiskey and said, “That’s one of the reasons I can’t find a job.”

  “Sit here a minute,” Bobby said, pointing to an empty table near the edge of the room. “Let me see.”

  The big, bearded man disappeared into the back. Cian took his seat and realized why the table had been empty: it was set next to a chink in the mortar of the log structure, and an icy knife of wind cut the air near Cian’s feet. One of the women near the cold stove stood up and shrugged out of a wool coat, revealing a faded pink dress that left her shoulders bare. A frayed pink ribbon tugged the front of her dress down, revealing an impressive pair of business assets. She walked over and sat down at Cian’s table, leaning forward to give him a view, and smiled. She had a nice smile, and nice eyes, and she quivered a little, like the end of a rabbit’s nose.

  “Morning,” she said.

  “Morning.”

  “Don’t suppose you’re looking for company?”

  Cian gave her a grin, and the woman’s smile broadened. “Not right now, lady,” he said. “I’m here for business.”

  Her smile faded slightly, the edges sharpening, and her voice eased like a piece of over-stretched leather. “Me too,” she said, settling back into her seat. “But business is a bitch in winter.”

  “Your friends are waiting for you,” Cian said, glancing over at the table she had left.

  The woman snorted, chafing her shoulders, and said, “Friends. Not a single man over there is playing with a full deck of cards, if you know what I mean. Half the girls are just as bad. You don’t mind if I sit here a moment, do you?”
>
  Cian shook his head. He stood up, retrieved her coat from where she had left it, and settled it around her shoulders before taking his seat. She cocked an eyebrow. “A gentleman.”

  “I already gave away one coat today,” Cian said. “I need the one I have.”

  “I’m Eileen.”

  “Cian.”

  “Why are you here? You owe them money?”

  Cian shook his head.

  “What then? Extra muscle? You look like you’re built for it.”

  “Just looking for a job.”

  “Want my advice?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Walk on out of here right now. You’re not cut out for this.”

  “And how do you know I’m not cut out for this?”

  She smiled, and suddenly she looked nineteen and full of spring, and she propped her chin on her hand. “Your eyes, baby boy. You’ve got eyes like a man who’s hurting close to dying. Nobody here has eyes like that.” She sounded a little sad at the end.

  The door opened at the back of the room, and Bobby waved for Cian. Cian stood up, looked at Eileen one last time, and said, “I think you’ve got nice eyes too.”

  Her smile shrank. “That’s not what I said, baby boy. Good luck.”

  Cian joined Bobby by the door. The bearded man said, “She bothering you?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, then.”

  Bobby led Cian back along a cramped hallway. Barrels crowded one side of the passageway, with crates stacked on top, glass winking from between the packing. The air was slightly warmer here, with a hint of coal smoke, perfume, and too many bodies pressed close together. It was enough to make Cian breathe through his mouth and wipe his eyes. The hall turned twice before it ended at a plain door, the bottom scuffed from where it dragged. A massive man—big enough that he made Bobby look small—sat on a chair, reading a book. He glanced at Bobby and held up a finger.

  They came to a standstill outside the door. The sound of raised voices filtered through the wood. Shouts punctuated by the bark of something heavy and wooden coming down. The big man shifted, his chair creaking a warning, but then the door flew open. A straw-haired man, short of middle-age and with a face red as a furnace, burst out of the room and pushed past Bobby and Cian. He gave them a look, and then a second glance at Cian before he stormed down the hallway.

  “Hugh O’Morain,” Bobby said. “He’s the second, and you’ll want to—”

  But before Bobby could finish, the big man settled back into his chair and waved them forward. Bobby led Cian into the far room. A potbellied stove warmed the room, and Cian felt the tips of his nose and ears begin to thaw. A rumpled bed took up one corner of the room, with a pair of stockings draped over the footboard. A dresser, with a basin full of scummy water and an open razor sitting on top. One narrow window, boarded shut, to judge by the nails sticking out of the frame. And then a heavy table and chairs finished everything out.

  An old man sat at the table, spinning a pistol across the wood with one hand, tugging a blanket tighter around his shoulders with the other. One eye twitched frantically, as though trying to blink something away. A longer look told Cian that the man wasn’t as old as he seemed—although his hair was white, there were only the first signs of lines around the man’s mouth and eyes, and the hand that played with the pistol looked strong still.

  “Boss,” Bobby said. “This is the fellow I was talking to you about.” Then Bobby looked at Cian. “Cian, this is Seamus Daniels.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Get out,” Seamus snapped. The pistol came to a rest, and Seamus’s fingers closed around the grip.

  Bobby started backwards, and Cian moved with him.

  “Not you,” Seamus said, raising the pistol and pointing it at Cian. Then he shifted the gun, aiming it at Bobby. “You.”

  Bobby disappeared. The door swung shut behind him. The pistol levitated in the air a moment longer. And then Cian noticed the palsy in Seamus’s hand. The boss lowered the pistol to the table and gave it a push, sending it spinning again.

  The only sound was the scrape of the pistol, and then a quiet pop from the furnace. And then a softer sound, barely noticeable over the rattle of the gun.

  Seamus Daniels was crying.

  Not huge, racking sobs. Just sniffles and breaths. His cheeks were wet, though, and his eyes stared openly at nothing.

  Then, with a start, Seamus gave a cracking laugh, wiped his face with his sleeve, and clutched the pistol.

  “I can’t trust them,” he said. “Not a single fucking one of them.”

  Cian was silent. It was the only good card in a bad hand.

  Seamus looked over at him, then gestured with the pistol. “Come over here. We’ve got to settle this up.”

  Keeping both eyes on the pistol, Cian moved across the room. Seamus looked up at him. He had watery blue eyes, red-rimmed and puffy. He reeked of alcohol. The twitch played along one side of his face, making the corner of his mouth leap and jerk.

  “Bobby said you’re Cian Shea.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I knew your father. Did you know that?”

  “Lots of people knew him.”

  “That sounds like Niall’s boy. No shit from anybody. Your mother was older than him. Almost ten years.”

  “They’re both dead.”

  “She was a pretty girl. She never looked twice at me, did you know that?” Seamus waited a moment, and then went on. “Your father, he kept his word. He did what he said he’d do. Are you like that?”

  Cian thought of Corinne. Of her dark hair across the side of her face, of her skirts hiked up above her waist, of her cheek pressed into the corner of the wall. She had been crying after she had run out of screams. Cian thought of the weight of the Colt, and the slow give of the trigger, and then the recoil.

  He thought Niall Shea was better off dead and not knowing what became of his son.

  “I’ll do the job and make sure it’s done,” Cian said.

  “No shit,” Seamus said. “No shit from anybody. Just like Niall.” He bent down and lifted a wooden box from beside his chair and slid it across the table. The box looked new, the edges still sharp, with the smell of fresh-cut wood clinging to it. It took Cian a moment to realize that there was no obvious way to open the box—no hinges, no clasp, no lid. “You take this and deliver it. No questions. No fooling around. You leave here, you go straight there, and come right back. There’s a hundred dollars in it for you.”

  A hundred dollars. More than Cian had made in the last year. More than he would have made working for a month at the clay mines. That meant that the deal was sour; it was too good to be true.

  “What kind of trouble is there going to be?”

  Seamus stared at him for a moment. The twitch left his face, and he was as still as a corpse. And then he shrieked with laughter. He clasped both hands over his mouth, trying to stifle the sound, and slowly he sank back into his seat. The shrill laughter sounded painful, and it took him several minutes to get it under control.

  That was when Cian knew he was dealing with a madman.

  Wiping his eyes, Seamus said, “I’m sorry. Truly. I don’t . . . I don’t sleep well anymore. Any trouble,” a nervous giggle pressed its way out before Seamus got control of himself again, “any trouble, I’m sure you can handle. Bobby says you can carry yourself.”

  Cian looked at the madman, and he looked at the box, no more than a foot long and six inches wide, and he thought about a hundred dollars in his pocket.

  “What’s the address?”

  Since coming back to St. Louis, time had become a series of unfortunate commitments for Irene Lovell. Three months had passed since she had dragged her suitcases through the wide, double doors, up the sweeping staircase, down the long, Turkish rug, and into her pink-and-white confection of a room that she had grown up in. Three months of soirees and dinners and fetes and dinners and masques and dinners. So many dinners. Everything schedule
d in advance. An outing with the Andersons. Tea with Mary Jones and her daughters. A weekend at the lake with the King family.

  Three months, in other words, of hell.

  Irene had her suitcase on the bed. It was open, a hungry mouth waiting for its first bite, and it gave off the smell of leather and dirt and travel. Irene met the suitcase’s gaze, stare for stare, and held her favorite blue dress in both hands. For a moment, neither woman nor suitcase dared to move.

  And then, with a flap of finality, Irene folded the dress and laid it in the waiting suitcase.

  The zippered teeth gave back an eager grin.

  She moved more quickly after this. All her best dresses, of course. Her corselettes, her stockings, two pairs of sensible shoes, a heavy scarf, a shawl. Her hat she would have to wear, but she could have others made when she found somewhere to settle down.

  San Francisco, perhaps. Or New Orleans. The east coast was out of Or Paris.

  Irene smoothed a wrinkle from the blouse she was folding, straightened a crease, and thought about the City of Lights. La belle Paris. A croissant, a cup of coffee, a handsome French man who would whisper Baudelaire to her, or Valery, or—to be honest—anything at all. Irene would have found a whispered version of the wine list to be romantic. It would have been a step up from anything an American man could offer.

  Someone was pounding on the front doors.