by Debra Dunbar
As they made their way back toward the dock and the third and final pier, Raymond said, “Maybe it ain’t here? Coulda gone on south to Poplar or Tilghman.”
Hattie shook her head. The hoboes had painted a colorful picture for her. A boatload of young men picking their way along the Bay, looking to trade tobacco for booze. They dropped the name Doc Freedman once, and the hoboes recognized it. The name was something of a tall tale on the Bay…the hoodoo man with the potion that can cure anything. It sounded like hokum, and she was inclined to agree. Only…she knew there were such things as pinchers. And now that she’d crossed paths with a man from the city who was certain he was real, it made her wonder.
What if Doc Freedman was real, after all?
What if that magic elixir was real?
Hattie had no illusions that this Bianco Fiore would be at Kent Island. This was her way of dragging out the search. And it was plausible. The longer they spent combing the waterways, the longer it would take to stumble across some real information about Doc Freedman, and his location.
Which Hattie already knew.
“Could be,” she answered. “But we can’t very well go skipping the largest wharf this side of the Bay, and not check it out. Can we?”
Hattie continued a couple steps, and Raymond didn’t answer.
She turned to Raymond.
“Eh, boy-o?”
He stood stiff, lifting a hand to the third pier.
Hattie followed his finger to a dull-white fishing trawler. The words “Bianco Fiore” were painted across its transom.
“Well, what d’ya know about that?” she whispered.
This was the last thing she wanted to see. Her best-case scenario would be that these poor saps had chugged on south during the night, never to be seen again. But, here they were. Sitting right on this pier.
Raymond nudged her arm. “So, should we get the goons?”
“No,” she answered. “We can do the heavy lifting, I think.”
The two rounded the dock toward the third pier, approaching with slow steps.
Hattie cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted, “Ahoy?”
Raymond followed suit, bellowing, “Hey, anyone aboard?”
They listened to silence for a long moment before turning to face one another.
Hattie said, “Maybe they’re in the inn?”
Raymond nodded. “Wouldn’t that figure?”
As they turned back to the dock, a gunshot rang out. A tall post near Hattie’s face erupted into splinters. They both simply stood, stricken, for the next second.
A second shot fired. Raymond pawed at his ear, ducking reflexively. Their nerves caught up with the situation, and Raymond reached for Hattie to pull her to the deck.
She tried to focus on their whereabouts…the quality of light, the motion of the boat and the men on board lifting guns at them. Her instincts rammed together. What would she pinch? Disappear? Would that even work?
A shirtless young man hopped up onto the railing of the boat and eyed them with a sick leer. He lifted his revolver, pulled the hammer back with his thumb, then pulled the trigger.
Hattie flinched. When she opened her eyes, she found the tiny slug of lead hanging in the air several inches from her face. It spun slowly, almost imperceptibly, as it crept forward…hair’s breadth by hair’s breadth. The air was thick, and she had to tug on her lungs to inhale. She peered up at the gunman. The muzzle flash spread across the end of the pistol like a bright orange blossom. Then Hattie pulled her head to the side, watching as the bullet eased forward in its straight-line trajectory.
Strange echoing breaths sounded in her ears…but the breaths weren’t hers.
She turned to her left to find Vincent pushing through the frozen air toward the two of them. His motions were odd, jerky. One foot pounded down against the pier, pushing hard like a piston to propel him forward. He was a man running underwater.
His face was flushed, and a stream of red had emerged from his nostril.
Hattie shouted, “Vincent?” but the word came out a garbled mess.
He coughed and pitched forward, releasing a red mist as his face landed against the pier. With flailing arms, he scrambled back to his feet.
She reached for Raymond, still frozen in his protective posture trying to cover the space where Hattie had been. With effort, she rose to her feet.
Vincent, as if a reflection of her motion, dropped to his knees several yards away. His face was clammy, and a stream of blood erupted from his nose. As she took in the distance between the third pier and the dockside inn, she realized he’d extended his power way, way too far.
Which meant this wouldn’t last long.
Hattie spun on her heel to face the leering gunman. With the same piston-footed motions, she swam her way through the frozen time until she reached the boat. With a gentle hop, her body rose through the air, if slowly. The speed of everything was diminished, but her weight seemed somehow suspended.
Hattie reached for the man’s gun, her fingers slicing through the muzzle flash with a quick sizzle. A prickle of pain rushed through her fingertips, but she bit down on her tongue to power through it. Her feet landed on the railing, continuing over with an unnatural momentum until she’d slipped into the gunman’s midsection. The air rushed into her lungs in spurts. The muffled sounds washed in and out.
The time bubble was collapsing.
She wrenched the revolver from the man’s grip, hoisting it high over her head. The time bubble popped as she swept it down against the side of his head. Air thinned, and sound resumed its normal timbre, offering a satisfyingly wet THUNK as the gun hammered against the man’s temple.
Voices shouted all around her. Metal clacked. Rifle bolts chambered.
Hattie lifted her eyes to find three men lifting weapons at her.
No time to think, now.
She clamped her eyes shut, then whispered, “Guns down.”
All of the gunmen sucked in heavy breaths, jerking their faces up toward the pier. In the space between her illusion and real life, the added dimension of sound echoed through her ears, and the ears of the gunmen.
What they heard were authoritative voices shouting, “Guns down! Hands in the air!” What they saw was a dozen Treasury Men surrounding the boat.
One of the riflemen dropped his weapon immediately.
The other two retreated a few steps.
The illusion tugged at her guts hard. Just like Vincent, she was over-extending herself. It was a wide radius for a light pinch, and she was adding noise to the package.
Rather than wait to see how the illusion played out, she reached for the dropped rifle, gripping it by the barrel. With a quick slash, she swung the stock against the first thug’s knees.
He released a howl of pain, tumbling to the side as his leg released a sickening crack.
Hattie hoisted the gun, jabbing the butt against his face twice, each making contact before he managed to lift his hands to defend himself. His finger slipped around the edge of the stock, pulling it to the side in a firm grip.
She pulled back on it with a gentle tug, then released it.
The rifle whipped back in his grasp, smacking him one more time in the face, just as she rounded on him to ram her heel into his crotch.
With another yelp of pain, the man doubled over into a ball.
Hattie nodded to him with a smirk, then lifted her gaze to find the third gunman.
He had his rifle trained directly at Hattie.
A shot fired.
The man jerked backward, spinning into the wall of the cabin before slumping to the deck, leaving a red smear behind him.
Hattie turned toward the pier to find Lefty holding a smoking pistol in his hand.
He gave Hattie a nod. “You okay?”
She nodded several times. “I’m intact.”
Lefty threw his pistol hand over the railing, pulling himself aboard with a loud groan. He scooped up the weapon, training the pistol in front of him as he s
talked the rest of the ship.
Jumping back over the side of the boat, Hattie nearly collided with Raymond. His eyes were wild with panic.
“G…girl? You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she urged.
Raymond kept pawing at his ear.
She reached for his arm, easing it down to find his fingers bloodied.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, peering up at his ear. A slow trickle of blood slipped from a neat gash near the top of his ear. “Oh…looks like you took a graze, there.”
He fumbled his fingers around the wound, wincing as they finally made contact with his flesh.
Hattie slapped his shoulder. “You’ve got more luck than sense!”
“Why were they shootin’ at us?” he blurted. “We ain’t done nothin’!”
She shrugged, then caught a glimpse of Vincent lying in a heap several yards away. Slipping around Raymond, she trotted toward the pincher, reaching down to roll him onto his back. He’d vomited, leaving a puddle of blood and sick on the pier. His face was stark white, except for the blood smearing his upper lip.
“Lefty!” she shouted.
The man peeked over the side of the boat, then holstered his gun as Raymond offered a hand back onto the planks. Lefty jogged forward to join her.
“Is he…?” she whispered.
Lefty laid two fingers along his throat, then shook his head. “He’s alive.” He got to his feet and motioned for Raymond. “Hey…driver.”
“Name’s Raymond,” Raymond chided.
“Yeah, okay. Raymond. Give your friend here a hand, will you? Carry him to the inn. Get him sitting upright. It helps.”
Raymond squinted at Hattie. She stared up at Raymond, unsure what to do. Was this her opportunity? If this man died here on the wharf, she’d be free. They’d all be free.
And yet, he’d nearly killed himself to save her from a bullet.
Save her, sure. Saved for the mob, so they could collect her later. Still though, he’d saved her life. Fair was fair.
Hattie looked up at Lefty. “Where are you going?”
The man’s face adopted a grim resolution. “We left two of them alive. One of them’s conscious, more or less. I have questions.”
She nodded. “Fine.”
Hattie pulled one of Vincent’s arms as Raymond took the other. They draped him around their necks at an awkward angle by virtue of the difference in their heights, and hauled him back up the pier. As they took the last corner, Hattie checked on the Bianco Fiore. Lefty’s head disappeared into the cabin. She wasn’t sure what this man’s particular skills were, when it came to “questions,” but he was capable enough with a pistol for only having one arm. She resolved not to underestimate Lefty Mancuso. Ever.
The innkeeper balked as they lugged Vincent into the front shop.
“Hey, now…what’s all this?” he blubbered.
Hattie left Vincent with Raymond, then confronted the innkeeper. “He took a spill, is all. Hit his head on the pier. He’ll be right as rain. We just need to get some water inside him.”
The innkeeper squinted at her, then nodded. “Malloy, isn’t it?”
“Aye.”
“Yeah, okay. Sure. Got some clean water in the back.”
Raymond slipped Vincent onto a wood banquette near one of the bay windows overlooking the dock, propping him up against the window casement. Vincent’s eyes opened and closed, fluttering in addled confusion.
The innkeeper brought a pewter mug of water. Hattie eased it to Vincent’s lips, but it was useless. So, she gave him some time to recover. Finally, with a chest-shaking cough, Vincent pulled in deep breaths.
“Wh…what…” he gurgled.
Hattie tried again with the water. This time, he took to it, taking small, short sips.
“Thank you,” he whispered, opening his eyes. “Ah. Yeah. Thanks.”
She set the mug onto the table nearby, and said, “I suppose it was the least I could do.”
A meager smile crept onto his lips. “Are they dead?”
“One of them,” she whispered, easing a finger onto Vincent’s mouth as she checked whether the innkeeper was within earshot. “Let’s not talk about that sort of thing in mixed company, though.”
Vincent glanced toward the shop front, then chuckled. “Oh. Thought we were on your boat.”
Raymond made an offended noise, then reached for the mug to take a long swallow.
Hattie slapped his hand. “That’s Vincent’s water.”
“Well, he weren’t drinkin’ it,” Raymond groused.
Vincent collected himself enough to sit upright, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to clean his face.
“You gonna make it?” Raymond asked.
“Believe it or not,” Vincent replied, “I’ve had worse. I’m, uh…gonna see if they have a washroom.”
As he disappeared through a door at the far end of the dining room, Raymond hopped up to see what food was available, ordering two bowls of she-crab soup. When he tried to put it on Vincent’s “bill,” the innkeeper simply shook his head so Hattie paid out of her pocket. As Raymond took a seat, she gazed through the windows at the darkened docks outside. What was Lefty doing on that boat?
Vincent reemerged from the washroom, his hair wet and slicked back over his head. He set his hat on the table, and Raymond reached for the second bowl of soup to pull it away.
“That’s Hattie’s,” he grumbled.
Vincent shrugged. “Not hungry.”
“You should eat something. All of that had to suck the wind out of you,” Hattie scolded.
He stepped over to join her at the window. “Is Lefty out there?”
She nodded.
“How many were there?” he asked.
“Three that we saw. There’s two left.”
“You took one out?” he asked.
She chuckled. “Your friend did. But I appreciate you giving me the credit.”
“I should go see what he’s up to.”
“I wouldn’t,” Hattie said. “I think he’s plying them for information. If you take my meaning.”
“I do,” Vincent said. “And he might need help.” He took a step for the door, then reached for the wall to steady himself.
“Sure you shouldn’t just sit for a while?” Hattie eyed him with concern. “Get some food in you?”
Vincent gathered himself, then returned to the table to grab his hat. “We don’t know who these people are or why they fired on you. If it has anything to do with Doc Freedman, then I should be there.”
“Then I’m coming with you,” she stated.
Raymond lifted his brow, staring at the two bowls of soup in panic.
Hattie lifted a hand to him. “Stay here. Eat your soup.”
He mumbled with a mouthful of soup and crackers, “I ain’t leavin’ you alone with these people.”
Vincent lifted a brow. “I’m no threat to either of you. Especially right now.”
Hattie released a dry laugh, then told Raymond, “I’m fine. We’ll be back shortly.”
She and Vincent stepped into the night, easing their way along the piers. An occasional oil lamp hung on a post alongside one of the moored boats offered scant illumination as they made their way to pier three. When they reached the Bianco Fiore, they found Lefty looming inside its cabin, a silhouette within a halo of flickering orange light.
Hattie jumped aboard, offering a hand to Vincent as he pulled himself carefully over the rail. Lefty turned to face them and Hattie held a breath as she spotted a blade in his hand, dripping with blood.
“What’ve you done?” she whispered.
Lefty’s face was stony. He blinked at the question, and with a tiny shake seemed to return from whatever nightmare he had fallen into. “Asking questions.”
Vincent stepped around Hattie to inspect the scene behind Lefty. He winced at what he saw, and Hattie was grateful to be outside the cabin.
“I recognize this one,” Vincent muttered. “From the other night.”
“What other night?” Hattie asked.
“The night we met. This mook and this one.” Vincent added pointing to the thug Lefty had shot. “They were on the boat I scuttled.”
Lefty nodded, crouching next to a dead man to wipe the blood off his hand. “They’re from Richmond.”
“Richmond?” Hattie spat. “These are the Citizens?”
“Not exactly,” Lefty replied. “They hang back behind you boat-leggers, like tigers in tall grass.” He nodded for the dock. “Where’s your driver?”
“At the inn,” Hattie said. “Why?”
“Because these idiots weren’t after your rum. Or your whisky. Or your boat.” Lefty stepped out of the cabin to take in a deep breath. “They’re after your friend.”
“Why him?” she pressed.
Lefty answered, “His complexion.”
Hattie lifted a hand over her mouth, then balled that hand into a fist. “They’re a lynching party?”
“In so many words, yes. Bianco Fiore isn’t just the name of the boat. It’s the name of their group. These people take issue with coloreds on the water and have decided to do something about it. From what I could get out of them, there are more of their number. Enough to be a real problem for any waterman on the Bay.”
Hattie turned toward the cabin, spying the red smear on the inside wall. “Then I’m glad you asked your questions the way you did.” She glanced at Vincent, who made eye contact, then nodded thoughtfully.
Lefty ventured off for the inn, while Vincent policed the bodies. Hattie left the other pincher to the work, standing on the pier as he bundled the three corpses. It seemed Lefty’s interrogation skills had proven fatal for the two survivors. After about fifteen minutes, and three splashes in the water, Vincent emerged from the cabin with the oil lamp in one hand, and Lefty’s jacket draped over the other.
Hattie reached for Vincent’s hand, but he managed to hop off the boat without too much embarrassment.
“You’re on the mend,” she said as they started back for the inn.
“I told you I’ve had worse. Got laid up bad a week or so ago. Never really get used to it.”
She nodded. “If only you had some magic potion to patch you up again.”