“You,” Nack rasped, and then his forehead thumped down upon the wood.
“Quite taken,” Baiter went on, obviously more stupid than drunk. “With your adventures, I mean. I’ve heard she’s offered you a…what did she call it?…a ‘season pass’?”
The invitation, on elegant stationery, had indeed arrived at Matthew’s office soon after the first chapter was published. He had no intention of redeeming it, but he appreciated the gesture.
“You’ve read about Matthew Corbett, haven’t you, Bonehead? If it wasn’t for him, we couldn’t walk the streets safe at night, could we? Couldn’t even go out for a drink and a poke. Well, Polly talks about him all the time,” said Baiter, with an edge of harshness creeping in. “About what a gentleman he is. How smart, and how noble. As if the rest of us men were just little creatures to be tolerated. Little useless creatures, but oh how that whore can go on about him!”
“I think the whole damned thing was made up, is what I think!” said the blowsy lady, whose sausage-skin was a gown thirty pounds ago. “Ain’t nobody could live, fightin’ fifty men! Ain’t that what I think, George?” When there was no reply, she kicked the chair of one of the unconscious patrons and he answered with a muffled groan.
“Fifty men!” Dippen Nack lifted his head again. The sweat of effort sparkled on his ruddy, cherub-cheeked face. The constable was, in Matthew’s opinion, though, closer to a devil than a cherub. Anybody who stole the gaol keys and went in at night to pee on the prisoners did not rate high in his book of life. “A damned lie! And me, boppin’ that Evans bastard on the bopper and savin’ Corbett’s life, and not even gettin’ my name in that rag! Takin’ a knife in the arm for my trouble, too! It ain’t fair!” Nack made a strangled sound, as if he were about to start crying.
“Sure he’s a liar, Sam,” said Bonehead, with a small sip from his own mug, “but that’s a fine suit he’s wearin’. Fittin’, for such a smart cock to strut around in. How much that suit cost you?” This was spoken as Bonehead stared into the depths of his drink.
Now Matthew began to suspect why Greathouse had brought him here. Of all places, to the tavern where he knew two men had died in brutal fights right on this floor, which looked to him to be more blood-stained than brandy-splashed. Having clerked for Magistrate Nathaniel Powers, Matthew also knew that Lionel Skelly himself was no stranger to violence; the tavern keeper had cut off a man’s hand with an axe he kept behind the bar. It didn’t pay to try to swipe coins from the cashbox in here.
Greathouse spoke up, to parry the question: “Way too much, in my opinion.”
There was a silence.
Bonehead Boskins slowly put his mug on the bar and aimed his eyes at Greathouse. Now he looked every inch a man who was neither too drunk nor too stupid but perhaps just enough of both to light his wick. In fact, he looked supremely confident in his ability to maim. Indeed, eager. “I was speakin’ to the young hero,” he said. “Not to you, old man.”
Yep, Matthew thought as his heartbeat quickened and his guts went squirmy. Sure as rain. The crazed maniac had brought them here to get into a fight. It wasn’t enough that Matthew had been doing very well in his arduous lessons on swordplay, map-making, preparing and firing a flintlock pistol, horsemanship and other such necessities of the trade. No, he wasn’t progressing fast enough in that “fist combat” nonsense that Greathouse imposed upon him. Remember, Greathouse had said many times, you fight with your mind before you use your muscles.
It seemed that Matthew was about to get a demonstration of the great one’s mind. And Heaven help us, he thought.
Greathouse stood up. He was still smiling, though the smile had thinned.
Matthew again counted the heads. The fiddler had stopped his fiddling. Was he a fighter, or a fixture? George and his unconscious companion were still face-down, but they might come to life at the first smack. Who could say what Dippen Nack would do? The blowsy lady was grinning; her front teeth had already been knocked out. Baiter would probably wait for Bonehead to bash a skull before he started nose-chewing. Skelly’s axe was always near at hand. Of the five others, two looked like rough-edged wharfmen who craved a good bustarole. The remaining three, at a back table, were dressed in nice suits that they might not want to disfigure and were puffing on churchwarden pipes, though certainly they were no reverends. A throw of the dice, Matthew thought, but he really hoped Greathouse was not such a careless gamesman.
Instead of advancing on Bonehead, Greathouse casually removed his cap and cloak and hung them on wallpegs. “We just came in to spend a little time. As I said, we’re expecting someone. Neither Mr. Corbett nor I want any trouble.”
Expecting someone? Matthew had no idea what the man was talking about.
“Who’re you expectin’?” Bonehead leaned against the bar and crossed his thick arms. A seam at the shoulder was threatening to burst. “Your lady friend, Lord Cornhole?” Beside him, Baiter sniggered.
“No,” Greathouse replied, “we’re expecting a man I might hire to join our agency. I thought this would be an interesting place to meet.” At that moment, the door opened, Matthew saw a shadow on the threshold, heard the clump of boots, and Greathouse said, “Here he is now!”
Zed the slave walked in, wearing a black suit, white stockings and a white silk cravat.
As the place went quiet except for an inrush of breath and Matthew’s eyes bulged in their sockets, Matthew looked at Greathouse with an effort that almost broke his neck and managed to say, “Have you gone mad?”
Two
MAD or not, Greathouse had a gleam in his eye and a measure of pride in his voice when he next addressed the slave: “Well! Don’t you look upright!”
How much of this praise Zed understood was unknown. The slave stood with his back against the door, his wide shoulders slightly bowed as if he feared disturbing the tavern’s precarious peace. His black, fathomless eyes moved from Greathouse to take in the other patrons and then back again, in what was almost to Matthew’s viewpoint a gaze of supplication. Zed didn’t want to be here, no more than he was wanted.
“That’s the coroner’s crow!” came a shrill cry from the lady. “I seen him carryin’ a dead man easy as a sack a’ feathers!”
This was no exaggeration. Zed’s tasks in service to Ashton McCaggers included the cartage of bodies from the streets. Matthew had also witnessed the slave’s formidable feats of strength, down in the cold room in City Hall’s cellar.
Zed was bald and massive, nearly the same height as Hudson Greathouse but broader across the back, shoulders and chest. To look upon him was to view in its full and mysterious force all the power of the dark continent, and so black was he that his flesh seemed to radiate a blue glow under the yellow lamps. Upon his face—cheeks, forehead and chin—were tribal scars that lay upraised on the skin, and in these were the stylized Z, E, and D by which McCaggers had named him. McCaggers had evidently taught him some rudimentary English to perform his job but, alas, could not teach him to speak, for Zed’s tongue had been severed from its root long before the slaveship made fast to the Great Dock.
Speaking of tongues, Skelly found his. It threw forth a croaking blast from Hell: “Get that crow out of here!”
“It’s against the law!” shouted Baiter, just as soon as Skelly’s voice finished shaking sawdust from the rafters. His face, mottled with crimson, wore the rage of insult. “Get him out or we’ll throw him out! Won’t we, Bonehead?”
“Law? ’Gainst what law? I’m a constable, by God!” Nack had begun to stir himself once more, but in his condition stirring was a far stretch from standing.
Bonehead had not responded to the threat his companion had just unsheathed; it appeared to Matthew that Bonehead was taking in the size of the new arrival, and Bonehead was not so thick-skulled as to wish to batter himself against that particular ram. Still, being as men are men and men who drink potent liquor become more mettlesome as the mug is drained, Bonehead took a slug of valor and said, though nearly speaking into his d
rink, “Damn right.”
“Oh, gentlemen, let’s not go down that path!” Greathouse offered his palms to the bar, affording Matthew a view of the small scars and knots on the man’s well-used knuckles. “And surely, sir,” he said, addressing Baiter, “you don’t really respect any decree Lord Cornbury might have pulled from under his gown, do you?”
“I said,” came the tavern-keeper’s voice, now not so much a croak as the metallic rasp of a pistol being cocked, “get that beast out of my sight!”
“And out of our noses, too,” said one of the gentlemen at the rear, which told Matthew that they had no friends in this particular house.
“Very well, then.” Greathouse shrugged, as if it was all done and sealed. “Just one drink for him, and we’ll be gone.”
“He’ll drink my piss ’fore he gets a drop of my liquor!” hollered Skelly, and above Matthew the lanterns swayed on their chains. Skelly’s eyes were wide and wild. His red beard, matted with the thousand-and-one grimes of New York, quivered like a viper’s tail. Matthew heard the wind howl outside. Heard it shriek and whistle through chinks between the boards, as if trying to gnaw the place to splinters. The two wharfmen were on their feet, and one was cracking his knuckles. Why did men do that? Matthew wondered. To make their fists bigger?
Greathouse never lost his smile. “Tell you what. I’ll buy a drink for myself. Then we’ll leave everyone in peace. That suit you?” To Matthew’s horror, the great man—the great fool!—was already walking to the bar, right up to where Bonehead and Baiter obviously longed to bash him down. Skelly stood where he was without moving, his mouth curled in a sneer, and when Matthew glanced at Zed he saw again that the slave had no interest in taking another step nearer destruction, much less getting a dirty mugful of it.
“He’s gonna give it to the crow, is what he’s thinkin’!” the lady protested, but it was already a thought in Matthew’s mind.
We’re expecting a man I might hire to join our agency, Greathouse had said.
Matthew had heard nothing of this. Hiring Zed? A slave who understood limited English and could speak not a word of it? Greathouse obviously needed no drink here, for he had ample supply of brain-killing liquor in his quarters at Mary Belovaire’s boarding house.
As Greathouse approached the bar, Bonehead and Baiter moved away from him like cautious wolves. Matthew stood up, fearing a sudden burst of violence. “Don’t you think we ought to—”
“Sit down,” Greathouse answered firmly, with a quick glance back that had some warning in it. “Mind your manners, now, we’re among good company.”
Good company my assbone, Matthew thought. And, hesitantly, he sat down upon it.
The two wharfmen were edging nearer. Greathouse took no notice of them. Nack was rubbing his eyes, blinking at the huge black figure against the door.
“One drink,” Greathouse said to Skelly. “Your best, if you please.”
Skelly didn’t move.
“I’m paying,” said Greathouse, in a cool, calm voice, “for one drink.” He reached into a pocket, brought out a coin and dropped it into the cashbox that sat atop the bar.
“Go ahead,” Baiter spoke up, scowling. “Let him drink and get that black beast out of here, and to Hell with all of ’em.”
Greathouse’s eyes never left those of the sullen tavern-keeper. “As the gentleman proposes,” he said.
Suddenly Skelly smiled, but it was not a pretty sight. It revealed the broken black teeth in the front of his mouth, and showed that some faces wore a smile like the devil trying on a halo. It was just wrong. Because of that hideous smile, Matthew felt the danger in the room rachet up, like a bowstring tightening to loose an evil arrow.
“For sure, sir, for sure!” said Skelly, who then turned away to fetch a mug from a shelf and uncork a bottle of the usual nasty brandy. With a flourish, he poured into the mug a coin’s worth. He thumped the mug down in front of Greathouse. “There you are, sir. Drink up!”
Greathouse paused, measuring the distance of Bonehead, Baiter and the two slowly approaching wharfmen. Now the three well-dressed gentlemen were on their feet, puffing their pipes and watching intently. Matthew stood up again, no matter what Greathouse had told him; he glanced at Zed and saw that even the slave was crouched in a position of readiness, but for what Matthew did not know.
Greathouse reached out and put his hand on the mug.
“One minute, sir,” said Skelly. “You did say you wanted the best, didn’t you? Well, lemme sweeten it for you.” And, so saying, he leaned his head forward and drooled vile brown spittle into the drink. “There you are, sir,” he said, again with that devil’s smile, when he’d finished. “Now either you drink it, or let’s see you give it to the crow.”
Greathouse stared at the mug. “Hm,” he said. His left eyebrow, the one with the teacup scar across it, began twitching. He said nothing more for a space of time. Bonehead began chuckling, and the lady just plain cackled. Dippen Nack gripped his constable’s lantern and his black billyclub and began to try to stand up, but without a third arm he was having no luck at the task.
“Hm,” Greathouse said again, inspecting the froth that bubbled atop the liquid.
“Drink up, then,” Skelly offered. “Goes down smooth as shit, don’t it, boys?”
To the credit of their good sense, no one answered.
Greathouse took his hand from the mug. He stared into Skelly’s eyes. “I fear, sir, that I’ve lost my thirst. I beg your pardon for this intrusion, and I ask only that I might retrieve my coin, since my lips have not tasted of your…best.”
“No, sir!” The smile disappeared as if slapped away. “You bought the drink! The coin stays!”
“But I have no doubt you can pour the liquor back into the bottle. As I’m sure you often do, when patrons are…unable to finish their portions. Now…I’ll just take my coin and we’ll be on our way.” He began reaching toward the coinbox, and Matthew saw Skelly’s right shoulder give a jerk. The bastard’s hand had found that axe behind the bar.
“Hudson!” Matthew shouted, the blood pounding at his temples.
But the great man’s hand would not be stopped. Greathouse and Skelly still stared at each other, locked in a silent test of wills, as one hand extended and another prepared to chop it off at the wrist.
In no particular hurry, Greathouse reached into the coinbox and let his fingers touch copper.
It was hard to tell exactly what happened next, for it happened with such ferocity and speed that Matthew thought everything was blurred and dreamlike, as if the mere scent of the brandy was enough to give a man the staggers.
He saw the axe come up, clenched hard in Skelly’s hand. Saw the glint of lamplight on its business edge, and had the sure thought that Greathouse was going to miss tomorrow’s rapier lesson. The axe rose up to its zenith and hung there for a second, as Skelly gritted his teeth and tensed to bring it crashing down through flesh, sinew and bone.
But here was the blurred part, for the axeblow was never delivered.
There came from the direction of the door a sound of Satan’s minions thrashing in their chains, and Matthew turned his head fast enough to see Zed whipping out with the chain he’d just leaped up and wrenched off its hook from an overhead rafter. The chain still had a firelit lamp attached on the end Zed had thrown, and when it snapped across the room the chain not only wound itself around Skelly’s upraised forearm, but the lamp hit Skelly midsection in the beard hard enough to shatter its glass sides. It was apparent in an instant that a blue flicker on a lump of wax might enjoy a feast of New York dirt and a week’s drippings of apple brandy, for in a burst of eye-popping fire it consumed Skelly’s beard like a wild dog would eat a muttonchop. As a thousand sparks flew around Skelly’s face, Zed planted his boots and with one solid wrench of the chain pulled the old rapscallion over the bar as easily as hauling a catfish over the side of a skiff, the only difference being that a catfish still had whiskers.
Skelly hit the floor on his teeth, wh
ich perhaps was an improvement to the beauty of his dentals. Even with a mouthful of blood, he held firm to the axe. Zed began to haul him across the floor hand-over-hand, and with a tremendous ripping noise the back of the slave’s suit coat split wide open as his back swelled. When Skelly was at his feet, Zed bent down, tore the axe loose and with an ease that looked like a child throwing jackstones he imbedded the axeblade in the nearest wall.
Some people, it seemed to Matthew, are born stupid. Which could be the only reason that, despite this display of fighting force, the two wharfmen jumped Greathouse from behind.
There was a flurry of fists and a barrage of cursing from the wharfmen, but then Greathouse had thrown them off with a shrug of disdain. Instead of smacking them both flat, as Matthew expected, he backed away from them. They made the supreme miscalculation of rushing after him, their teeth bared and their eyes drink-shiny.
They got perhaps two steps when a flying table hit them in their faces. The sound of noses breaking was not unmusical. As they went down writhing upon the planks, Matthew shuddered because he’d felt the wind of motion from Zed on the back of his neck, and he would not wish to be on the receiving end of that storm.
Skelly was spitting blood and croaking oaths on the floor, Baiter was backed up against a wall and looking for a way to squeeze through a crack, Bonehead drank down another swig of his brandy and watched things unfold with slitted eyes, and the blowsy lady was on her feet hollering names at Zed that made the very air blue with shame. At the same time, Greathouse and Matthew saw one of the gentlemen at the rear of the place—the one who’d remarked on the supposed offense done to his nose—slide a short sword from his cloak that hung on a wallpeg.
“If no one else will get that black bastard out,” he announced with a thrust of his chin, “then allow me to run him through!”
Mister Slaughter Page 2