The Holver Alley Crew

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Which probably meant she was facedown in the creek with a slit throat.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Look, a good joint . . . a profitable, clean joint like I know the Honey Hut can be . . . it needs two things.”

  “Girls and beds.” Helene didn’t need to hear anymore. “Is the circle free for me to dust it?” She walked over to the chalk ring.

  Nange grabbed her shoulder. “Any doxy pit can run on that. I mean to make it nice. Two things.”

  Helene suffered the idea of listening to him while she took off her coat and vest. “Two things, right.”

  “One is a lady—smart lady to keep the girls in line, keep the coins and numbers adding up. Stay on her toes while the rest are on their backs, you know?”

  “You really thought me the type for that, Nange?”

  “Not normally, no. But you’re burned out, you know? Need to be flexible, you do. But there’s the other thing we’d want at the Hut.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Someone who’ll make the clokes think twice about trying anything funny with the girls. Big guy, make the place safe just by being seen, you know. But also a guy we can trust not to do anything funny himself, you know?”

  Her and Julien. Of course. “It’s not a bad package.”

  “Roof and bed and stove for the two of you, easy work.”

  “Hmm.” Helene didn’t like it a damn bit, but there was very little going on that she did like. Even this gig of Asti’s would only get them back on their feet for a couple months. She’d rather get stable, even if it meant getting cozy with the likes of Nange.

  “Just think about it, all right, Hel?”

  “Give it all the thought it’s due.” She handed him her coat and vest. Flipping her coin into the chalk circle, she called out, “Who’s ready to dust with me?”

  Another coin dropped into the circle, and a woman in shirtsleeves, suspenders, and trousers stepped out. Helene recognized her from the neighborhood, but she didn’t know her name. She was tall and blond—Waish or Bardinic heritage, likely—with arms like a blacksmith. She also wore a green fur-lined felt cap.

  Helene planned to walk out of the Shack wearing that cap.

  Chapter 10

  ASTI SLEPT LIGHTLY, he always did, but for once his sleep wasn’t uneasy. No dark dreams, no drenching sweats. It was well into midmorning when he finally rose, dressed, and wandered down to the kitchen of Kimber’s.

  Kimber was working hard at the stove, whistling and stirring. She barely glanced at his entrance. “I thought you were either sleeping all day, or had snuck out before dawn.”

  “It’s usually one or the other with me,” Asti said. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for some tea?”

  “Only tea?” She flashed him a spark of a smile.

  “I wouldn’t hate breakfast.”

  She turned away from the stove to face him, wide smile on her round face. “I can manage oats with cream and honey.”

  Asti chuckled. “I think I would eat that without objection.”

  She moved in a bit closer, lowering her voice. “I might also have some peaches left in my preserves.”

  Asti’s mouth watered despite himself. “If it doesn’t put you out.”

  “Not at all. Get out there to the taproom. I’ll bring it out in a click.”

  Asti went out to the taproom, which was mostly empty, save one table. Win Greenfield stared down at the table, scratching absently at the wood. Asti joined him.

  “You sleep all right, Win?”

  “I sleep,” Win said flatly. “That’s about it.”

  “Good, good. You ate already?”

  Win shook his head. “Was hoping for some beet and carrot soup.”

  “That’d be a good lunch, Win,” Asti said, unsure of what else he could say. Win kept scratching at the table, digging a small trench in the wood. “We could ask Kimber, don’t you think? I bet she’d do that for you, Win, don’t you?”

  “Won’t be the same,” Win said. “You had my wife’s soup that one time, didn’t you, Rynax?”

  “I did.” Asti had no particular recollection, though Missus Greenfield had brought them dinner plenty of times. “Real good soup.”

  Win nodded slowly. “The best.” His voice cracked.

  Kimber came out to the table with Asti’s breakfast.

  “Kimber, Win was wondering if you could make a beet and carrot soup. You can do that, right?”

  Kimber’s eyes went wide and she turned to Win, who did not look up. “Of course I would. That sounds perfect.” She gingerly reached out, almost touching him on the shoulder before he flinched away.

  “Thank you, dear. I’ll . . . I think I’ll go up to my room.” Win got up from the table and shuffled off to the stairs.

  Asti watched him go. “I’m beginning to wonder if I didn’t do him a favor.”

  “Don’t you dare say that.” Kimber took the seat opposite him. “You saved a life, that is . . . it’s a sacred thing.”

  “Saved him, not his family.” Asti dug into his breakfast. Excellent, as always.

  “Could you have?” She looked at him pointedly. “Honestly, did you even have a chance?”

  “No. I was going to try, but . . . Verci held me back. And he was right. By the time we were pulling Win out, there was no chance.”

  “Then you did what you could, and God didn’t mean for you to do anything else.”

  Asti sipped his tea to cover his smirk. “I never liked trying to blame God or any saint for my failures.”

  “It’s not about blame. Or failures. It’s about accepting our limitations. And our blessings.”

  “I think we’re pretty short of blessings here, Kimber.”

  She shrugged. “Blessings aren’t always obvious.”

  Asti took another bite of his breakfast and deliberately steered the conversation away from religion. “Fewer people staying here now. Have most of them found somewhere else to go since the fire?”

  “I hope so. A lot of them just left. Some bloke in a suit came around here—”

  “From Colevar and Associates?”

  “I think so. Who are they?”

  “They’re lawyers,” Asti said. “Question is, who are they buying up Holver Alley lots for?”

  “Don’t know. Does it matter? People have a chance to move on with their lives.”

  “A fire is set—and it was set by someone, Kimber, I know this—and some mysterious person has lawyers buy land that’s now freed up?” The look on Kimber’s face was blank. Either she didn’t get it, or she just plain didn’t care. “That’s suspicious. That isn’t even pretending to not be suspicious.”

  “Maybe so, Asti,” Kimber said, patting him on the shoulder as she stood. “But what’re people like us going to do about it?”

  “If it isn’t us, then who’s it gonna be?”

  Tonight was the gig. Everything was set—primary plan, secondary plans, emergency backup plan, and a safe place to run to if things turned left. Despite that, Asti had an urge to do another walkaround by the customhouse, and check the routes one more time. He tamped it down. No need to do anything to spook the target at this point. Nothing good would come from it.

  Stewing in Kimber’s taproom until it was time to meet at the stable wouldn’t do. He was too restless, he needed to keep himself busy or he’d lose it. He had to at least get out on the street.

  Helene and Julien were sitting out on the stoop in front of Kimber’s, talking in low voices. Helene was wearing a ridiculous felt cap. They both hushed up when he came out.

  Asti pointed to the cap. “You buy that with the crown I lent you?”

  “Something like that,” Helene said, giving him a sly grin. She pulled a crown out of her pocket and flipped it up to him. Scrapes and bruises on her hands. “Where you headed?
”

  “Clear my head, look around the neighborhood.”

  “Keep yourself out of trouble until tonight?”

  “Something like that. You should do the same.”

  “Always do,” Helene said. Her mood was definitely improved. Probably because she went to the Elk Road Shack and dusted her knuckles in the basement. If that kept her happy, and she could still make her shot, then Asti didn’t care what she did. He knew not to say anything, though. All it would do was start a fight between her and Julien, and that was the last thing he needed tonight. He gave them a curt wave and walked off.

  The newsboy shouted out from the corner. “Southwest Council meeting tomorrow!”

  “What’s the word, boy?” Asti asked. “Anything on Holver Alley?”

  “Pay me the ticks and read it yourself,” the boy said. “I’m wise to you.”

  “You’ve got a ways to go before you hit wise,” Asti said, handing over the coins. The boy threw a newssheet at him and went back to his cry.

  There was a story on the alley fire, finally, but it might as well have been nothing. “Fire damages several homes and shops along Holver Alley, leaving several dead and more displaced. Donations for help can be given at Saint Bridget’s Church.” Pointless. There was more space devoted to the series of tetchball matches. Today’s game was Bricklayer’s Guild against the South Kitchen Scullers.

  That was as good a way as any to while away a few hours.

  There was a decent crowd at the tetch pitch, though Asti recognized a lot of old Holver Alley residents hanging about. Some still dirty and singed. A couple with several kids sat on the outskirts, shaking their hats with half-hearted resignation. Kilmen? Kinsten? Asti couldn’t remember. Dry goods store, two down from Greenfield. He threw the crown Helene gave him into their hat.

  The match was in full swing, Scullers on the field. A burly Bricklayer was in place at the rail, tetchbat raised high. The arm tossed low, forcing the batter to flip under to knock the ball. He hit it weakly; it didn’t even clear the jack line. Despite that, he ran out into the field, hoping to score at least one point. The bumpers were on him before he got five steps in. The bumpers piled onto him, but they only slowed him down, and he kept driving for the jack line. The arm rushed to the ball, and tossed it to the rail for the restore. The watcher didn’t call the restore.

  The Bricklayer kept charging forward, despite having two bumpers hanging on him. The jack warder tackled the Bricklayer’s legs just before he reached the line. All four of them fell forward, the Bricklayer’s hand stretching out over the jack line.

  “Point, Bricklayer!” the watcher called out.

  Half the crowd erupted in screams. The call was blatantly unfair; that could hardly be considered crossing the line, and the bowler had restored the rail long before.

  Then Asti realized the watcher was Ren Poller. Nange’s man.

  And there was Nange, standing near the Bricklayers, tapping the side of his nose. He had a sizable crowd at his shoulders now, at least five.

  Before Asti could move, Nange spotted him.

  “Blazes,” Asti muttered. Nange approached, three of his entourage with him. One was a tall blond woman, built like a draft horse. She had a pretty face, save the busted lip and black eye.

  “Enjoying the match, pirie?”

  “Trying to,” Asti said. “You’re tweaking tetchball games, now?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Asti,” Nange said. “Blazes of a point they scored there, wasn’t it? Real screamer.”

  “Right,” Asti said. Another glance at the crowd, where he saw a handful of young punks—including the ones from Almer’s shop the other night—slipping through the crowd, picking the pockets of people too focused on their own outrage to notice it. “You’ve got fingers in every pie, don’t you, Nange?”

  “You’ve got to eat the pie when it’s warm. You know that, pirie.”

  “Some pies should be left on the sill.”

  Nange moved in closer, running a finger on the seam of Asti’s vest. “Listen, pirie. I know you’ve got something in the oven right now. You and your brother, and likely the Kessers as well.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Asti cursed himself. They had been too sloppy, clearly, if Nange knew anything at all.

  “Sure, sure,” Nange said. “It’s all just fine. That’s just what we want to see.”

  “He’s working with Kesser?” the blonde asked. Nange just gave a shrug. She sneered. “Tell that piece of skirt I want my hat back.”

  “Leave it,” Nange said. “She’s got a rage about the hat, you see. Hel won it fair.”

  “Why don’t you go back to watching the match, Nange?” Asti said. “I don’t think we need to say any more, do we?”

  “No, we don’t,” Nange said. He ran a finger up Asti’s vest, and then patted him on the cheek. “I can wait to see what you and yours put out on the sill.” With that, he went back over to the rest of his goons.

  “He can’t seriously expect a piece of action on this, can he?” Verci asked. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or worry.

  “Apparently he does,” Asti said. Asti’s brow was sweating. He actually looked nervous. Or sick. He waved over to Kimber to bring him another cider.

  “We’re not going to give him any, though.”

  “Blazes, no,” Asti said. “At least, I have no intention to.”

  “Good.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Asti said. “Nange has all of a sudden gotten his hands on several people, working several angles. All right after the fire. He was ready for it.”

  “You think he had a hand in the fire,” Verci said, though even as he spoke, he didn’t really believe what he was saying.

  “It’s what it looks like to me.”

  “Let me be the sinner on your shoulder here,” Verci said.

  “That’s a switch,” Kimber said as she brought over two ciders. “I thought you were the sensible one.”

  “I am,” Verci said. Kimber laughed and walked off. Asti took his cider and gulped it down with abandon. Verci leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Let’s just say that Nange was involved. He’s got to be at the bottom of it. Someone paid off Yenner. Someone is using the lawyers. That’s someone with money. That ain’t Nange.”

  “You’ve got a point, but . . .”

  “I’ll also point out, we’ve not had our ear to the ground for some time. Nange could have been building his pots for a while and we never knew.”

  “Fair point,” Asti said. “So there’s the guy at the top, and that ain’t Nange. But I bet you my left foot Nange is directly connected to whoever actually sparked the fires. He may have even lit them himself.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised on that. But we only have your gut on this.”

  “My gut is blazing good with these things.”

  “True,” Verci said. “But I don’t want to start a war with Nange over it, you hear? Not yet.”

  “And he’s not getting a piece of anything. Not of our shares.”

  Verci nodded and sipped his cider. “And he knows Helene and Julien are in? We should warn them.”

  “Probably,” Asti said. “Unless they tipped them off. Helene apparently lined up with him and his while she was knuckle-dusting last night.”

  “Blazes,” Verci said. Helene shouldn’t be knuckle-dusting, not when they were counting on her to make such a hard shot. Broken hand or swollen eye would ruin the whole gig. After a moment of stewing silence, he said, “We can’t dwell on this. We’ve got to get to the stable. Gig is in a few hours.”

  “Right,” Asti said. He put on a weak grin. “Saints know you need your gig night ritual.”

  Chapter 11

  ASTI WAS NEVER MUCH of one for gig night rituals. Every gig he’d done, every crew he’d worked on, there was always someone
who had their thing. Even in Druth Intelligence, doing a hot run of some sort, there would be other agents who wouldn’t go out unless they kissed both rings or spun three times.

  He glanced over to his brother, getting ready at the worktable. Verci was a man with a ritual, but Asti acknowledged it was one that made sense. His was all about packing equipment. He had already dressed for the action, save three items: his belt, his vest, and his bandolier. Those three items lay on the worktable, as well as two dozen different gadgets, devices, and God and the saints knew what else. Those he was moving around, looking at, moving around again, contemplating more, moving them around again.

  “What are you doing with those?” Helene finally asked. She dropped her crossbow down on the other side of the workbench, grabbed a tool from Verci, and started making minute adjustments to her weapon.

  “Just trying to decide what to bring,” Verci said. He moved a gear-and-clamp device from one pile to the other.

  “Bring what you need to do the job.”

  “Need is a tricky thing.” Verci pointed to the pile on the right. “Right there is what I know I need. The question is what else I might need.”

  Helene picked up a vise-like device. “Why might you need this?”

  Verci snatched it from her, put it back in the pile in the center. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “Nothing else,” Asti said. “Go light, go fast.”

  “Might need a drill,” Verci said, moving the small drill over to the pile on the right.

  “It’s not a safe-crack,” Asti said.

  “Isn’t it?” Verci asked. “When it comes down to it, that’s what we got—a hit-and-grab safe-crack, with the safe on wheels.”

  “Safe on wheels,” Kennith echoed. He laughed broadly. “Yeah, that’s what it is.”

  “With guards,” Helene said. “You need weapons.”

  “Darts on the bandolier,” Verci said offhandedly. “Two knives, inside pocket of the vest. Another in the boot.”

  “Dad’s first rule,” Asti said with a smirk. “No matter what the job—”