Franco turned a skewer, scrutinizing to see if it was ready yet in the light of the fire. Disappointed, he set it back.
‘Cards?’ Pappy offered to pass the time, producing a well-worn pack from a satchel.
‘I’ve never learnt.’
Old features compressed in confusion. ‘Not a single game?’
‘Not a one.’ Franco looked blankly, feeling as though he had committed some grand crime. For all intents he may as well have. To his grandfather, cards were a rite of passage for any young man, as much as their first drink and taste of a woman.
‘How have you lived this long and not learnt how to play a few hands? Next you’ll be telling me that you get drunk from a single bottle.’
‘Big talk from an antique who has never used a razor. I have never seen you without a beard. Bet you were born with it. The agony that your poor mother endured …’
‘It’s better than the scrappy thing that you call facial hair. I bet it’s taken you years just to get it that far.’
Franco snorted, conceding. ‘All right, all right, just cut the deck, old man, and teach me how to take your money.’
After ten hands, the rules were finally beginning to settle, as was Franco’s luck. When the last of the pocket change was used, the pair resorted to the carcass bones of their now spent meal to settle hands. The gruesome pile of makeshift chips was stacked greatly in Franco’s favour.
Pappy swore, stating that the concept of beginner’s luck might actually be accurate. Begrudgingly he dealt the next hand.
‘Spill a story about the old days,’ Franco said. ‘You’ve never actually told me about when you worked on the tracks. Sort of kept that one secret from me growing up.’
‘Not deliberately, you understand. You never wanted to listen so I never took the time to tell. It worked out fine.’
‘I’m listening now. You spent days out in the desert, right?’
The cards were turned and scrutinized. This time the old-timer avoided a bad hand from the outset.
‘It was difficult, for sure. The firm would scoop up anybody to take to the trains, burn them out and then send them out the door. You needed grits to hold out against what they put you through. There was five of us contracted, taking us from the east mining routes to the mills that were springing up down south. It was relentless. Dragging tonnes of ore day and night normally resulted in us in sleeping in the cab to take shifts. Brothers were we, tight as tight we could become. They were blood and there were times when that fact kept us alive. We looked after one another. We were family.’
‘So it was all good?’ Franco drew from the deck.
Pappy wiped spilt water from his steely whiskers, laughing at Franco’s words, taking another card and raising the ante by a pair of rib bones.
‘Oh no. I said we were family. Have you ever seen a family that didn’t argue, or have one who didn’t want to kill another?’
It was a fair point and one Franco dwelled upon for a moment whilst watching the old codger ramble on. He had been a thorn in his side since he was a youngster, stopping him from doing this, doing that, but these were actions always undertaken out of love in lieu of absent parents.
‘We ate, we slept, we argued. It was not unusual to find the cab filled with cards, a veritable gambling den it were. Money changed quickly, from one hand to the next. It was all we could do to be entertained when left out here. I was young, stupid – not too much older than you are now. Those days they got anybody with a back to break to build what you see now, and plenty got broken in the process. Fat lot of good it did. This region is still a dustbowl. Plenty die out here without a coin, without a hope, and without a measure of enjoyment in their lives. And let me tell you something …’
Pappy folded his hand without warning. He slapped his cards down and beckoned Franco to claim the pot. That he did, with the grandest of smiles, unaware that the cards may have been something quite different than what he had been told.
‘… nothing soothes the soul quite like them.’
* * *
The dawn chorus of birds was soon joined with the sharp scraping of metal. Over and over the spade bit into a mass of coal, transferring it from its place on the adjoining tender to the locomotive itself. Franco grunted with every scoop that was fed into the train’s gut.
‘Okay, pile it in; it’s doing good,’ Pappy crooned, checking dials and easing valves with precise turns.
Coal clattered by the spadeful, tossed into the hellish heat of the firebox. The coals burnt white-hot, brilliant in their illumination, coupled with a swirling wash of tempered flame. It was quite incredible and mesmerizing to behold. Franco had heard stories of such fires turning metal into raining slag, where it could bend like rubber or drip like water. But to see it was quite extraordinary. To feel it was akin to standing at the precipice of the end of all things.
Over and over the shovel worked, scooping from the tender behind, where scant measures of coal sat where it would have previously been filled to a height that dwarfed both men.
‘What are we up to?’
‘Pressure is at one-seventy. Keep it going,’ Pappy encouraged, making his adjustments.
Another few heaps were tossed into the train’s stomach, which it consumed in delight. Finally Pappy signalled to stop with a wave of his hand.
‘That should be enough; close her up.’
With a heave of a latch the firebox door was brought shut, two slides of metal scissoring together and sealing the blaze inside. Finally Franco could take his first breaths without his throat being scorched by the hot air. Sweat soaked his face. His skin itched and was reddened.
He recalled an old children’s story about a creature that lived out in the dunes, swimming under the desert like a fish. When it breathed, it was as if the sun itself resided in its core. It was a fable for sure, but oddly poignant and Franco assumed that if it was a truth, then it would have been quite similar to this here boiler.
For a brief moment it could have been mistaken that Pappy’s hands lingered on the Johnson bar. Even to Franco it seemed that his cracked lips trembled in a silent prayer before heaving the bar forward. Pipes juddered. Steam blasted outward, dousing the ground in a blanket of white.
‘Hold the cylinder cocks and seal ’em up when I say so,’ he ordered.
Franco got himself ready.
The train juddered slightly in response.
‘Okay, now,’ his grandfather confirmed.
Pappy reached forward and freed the engine brakes. The train shuddered once more, conversing with thick eruptions from its chimney. Smoke arced into the brilliant blue sky, chasing lingering clouds that rode the wind.
Pappy reached up and pulled the throttle bar forward a little and shudders ran along the cab floor.
Franco took to the window, half leaning over the side. He stared downward. Sure enough the rail sleepers began to edge along one by one.
‘We’re moving.’ He exploded with joy. ‘We’re doing it; it’s moving!’
A mighty surge of steam enveloped the train’s sides as it took its first breaths of a new life. There were spluttering gasps as the locomotive found itself once again, familiarizing itself with every pipe, wheel, crank, and piston upon it. Grease and oil massaged bearings, slowly making their movements supple. The Eiferian 433 advanced gradually, carefully, shaking off the restraints of its hibernation. It was once again alive.
* * *
‘I’ve never known joy quite like it,’ Franco stated, his attention firmly back in the present. Misu had hooked him by the arm as he accompanied her back out into the street, letting the daily bustle carry them along the pavement. Their pace was relaxed as they ignored the concerns of the legal trouble that had plagued their arrival.
‘Not since?’
Words failed him. Instead he nudged her playfully with a shoulder.
Misu’s fingers gripped into his jacket, dragging out the serenity for as long as it could last.
For a moment she noticed a scruffy-looking trapper watching from across the street, clad in a leather apron, a garment used for skinning the caught wild beasts of his trade. He watched with piercing eyes, seemingly taking great notice of the pair, or simply enjoying a brief cigarette during a lull in the day’s work.
Misu’s clenched Franco’s arm that little bit tighter.
Rather than walk the rest of the way to the station, Misu had suggested that they take the penny tram to rest their already overworked feet. Its network of rails climbed through steep streets, connecting district to district, mainly to provide locals an easier, and speedier, commute to their destination. Plus it was a moderately scenic tour, which Misu pushed as worthwhile.
Windberg, though eccentric in construction, had plenty of sights to observe, she preached. The town clock was large and ornate, the centrepiece dwarfing the square that held it. A cathedral’s spire announced its edifice, peppered with stained-glass windows, their imagery both abstract and figurative. When asked how she came to know all this, Misu’s face fell. She stated that she had ventured this way once a very long time ago, though declined to elaborate further.
As they boarded the tram, two dockhands who had clearly just finished their shift rose to relinquish their seats, though stopped at Franco’s instance that he and the woman accompanying him would stand instead.
The ground trembled as a sand ship rolled alongside a wharf, a mighty thunder from its horn announcing its arrival. For most, ships of this size would only be seen in water, though here, with heaving caterpillar treads and belching flumes that spat soot into the clear azure sky, their coming and going was commonplace. Their routes, normally cutting through scorching the Sand Sea itself, allowed the transport of immense amounts of cargo in relatively quick time. Where trains were limited by terrain and line, these leviathans of the desert succumbed to no such constraints.
Eclipsing the sun, the ship’s shadow fell upon two entire streets, darkening the structures therein, and crept across the road to cover everyone who watched this whole spectacle. Others in the streets continued about their business, quite unfazed by this whole affair, being that they were of regular occurrence. The tram clattered through this obscurity and back into the brightness of the day. Misu lowered herself to take stock of the vehicle through the glass.
‘Have you ever thought of upsizing?’
‘To something like that?’ Franco recoiled in surprise. ‘I can’t even count how many decks it has. Even if I had the money we would need three times more staff and don’t even get me started on the running costs.’
‘Some fancy paintwork, lights making it shine like the moon itself. Come on, don’t tell you me you can’t picture it.’
‘I can already imagine going broke in what we have, thank you very much.’
‘Still, handsome though, isn’t it?’
‘You and I have very different ideas of what sets a heart aflutter.’
The tram rocked and its little bell jangled as it pulled into each stop, its simple wooden construction awfully quaint yet perfectly functional for its task. An influx of bodies ended up pressing Misu and Franco together, holding straps from the ceiling to ensure balance.
‘Look, I don’t pretend to know everything about your grandfather nor the circumstances …’ Misu hesitated, apparently attempting to articulate her thoughts correctly ‘… but you’re our manager and we follow you. You’ve done your best with this whole thing. Don’t convince yourself otherwise.’
‘Have I?’ Franco stared back, shocked, as if he had confessed to a great wrongdoing. Of course there was more he could have done. The times spent in frustrated dialogue could have been quelled if he had listened just that little more. He needn’t have been so difficult when it came to negotiating, letting one of the showgirls deliver bad news to local traders because he made the excuse of being indisposed. By his own admission he could have been less of an ass.
‘There’s not a single person unconvinced that they couldn’t do better in hindsight.’ She sighed, rested her head against his chest, eyes folding to a close. ‘That’s something I’ve yet to be blessed with, so let’s just accept these choices and leave it at that.’
Reaching their stop, the pair were surprised by Jacques who had been sitting outside the rail station for some considerable amount of time. Upon seeing them disembark he waved with urgency, sprinting over to the pair who clearly misunderstood his eagerness with an unchanged pace. With a fistful of documents, Jacques drove them into Franco’s chest for review.
‘What’s this?’ The papers were unfurled and scanned.
‘Write-up papers, boss. The Bluecoats are done. They’re letting everyone back on the Den.’
Chapter Six
High Rollers
When the Gambler’s Den was finally cleared to be boarded, Franco found himself the last to arrive. The showgirls had already begun to work though the mess, sorting spilled papers, making the overturned beds, hanging the multitude of dresses and gowns that had been carelessly thrown onto the floor. Nothing had been claimed as evidence of wrongdoing and scant items were damaged in the vigorous search for hidden trapdoors or compartments.
The residence carriage was totally pulled apart. The dining car tables had been tipped over. The storage cars were in a huge mess with every table, chair, stool, and game disorganized. There was work, much work indeed to do, and everyone set about it without a word of complaint, as the Den was their home and its upkeep was performed diligently.
Young women brushed Franco aside as he surveyed the intrusion, their rearranging, replacing, tidying, a breeze of movement. He had already checked his private car, which was left in a shambles, though not much different than the condition he had left it in. Thankfully the trunk that Wyld had used to store more evidence than Juniper could imagine was untouched, still tucked into a dusty recess behind the tables. With no sign of tampering Franco could finally rest easy.
‘The bar is done, though I’m not convinced some sticky-fingered Bluecoat didn’t lift a couple of bottles of Honey Fae.’ Katerina pouted and slanted her hips. A flare of flame-red hair, still in perfect curled ringlets, draped around her shoulders, framed features that usually gave warm smiles. Now, however, all she could do was scowl as she went about her business. Dainty freckles that decorated her cheeks scrunched closer to one another in disapproval. ‘It’s bad enough that they can do this, but helping themselves to liquor? That’s unacceptable. Can’t you do something?’
Franco put his weight against the newly polished bar, minding to not to undo Katerina’s good work. ‘I think we should consider ourselves lucky,’ he said.
From behind him, one of the older girls, Corinne – tall and slender – carried a pile of folded towels to place behind the bar. When done, she chipped in, reaffirming herself as an elder sister of sorts, though not by blood. ‘Of course, you weren’t with us when we passed through the Western lines. This was nothing in comparison. Lawmen, they claimed. They wanted bribes, they tried to pilfer goods, and some tried to use us girls. One peculiar bunch demanded a couple of girls as permanent payment of passage.’
‘They what?’ Katerina squeaked in alarm.
‘No word of a lie. Wanted wives. When refusing, Franco had to talk his way out of handing us over – along with a week’s takings – with a barrel at his temple.’
‘And?’
‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’ Franco sighed. ‘Quick-tongued wizardry only gets you so far. It’s why we have security with us. Muscle fares better when words fail in negotiation. He sorted things.’ Jacques was quietly sat at one table and puffed himself out in pride at the comment, remembering the encounter fondly.
‘He sorted things?’ Katerina queried.
‘I showed them the error of their ways.’ Jacques grinned. Franco patted him heavily on the shoulder.
‘You showed them the soles of your boots, is what you did.’
‘It’s why you pay me the big bucks, boss.�
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A slip of a girl – petite with an almost nauseating purr to her voice – skipped up to Franco, scowling with such determination that it was impossible to take the effort seriously. Kitty had finished in the dining car, tidying her sanctuary of the kitchen space and was moving some of the equipment to storage, holding the contents in a worn cardboard box. She dropped it onto the polished bar surface, pulled a spatula from the contents, and jabbed Franco over and over.
‘You best not consider giving any of us up. I, especially, will be unhappy with you,’ Kitty taunted, every word punctuated with a thrust of her wrist.
‘Easy there, firecracker, that would never be the case!’ Franco laughed.
‘Good, because I am warning you.’
‘You’re warning me?’ he cooed.
‘With words and all.’ Kitty grinned, cheeky and rambunctious. The flat of the utensil bit a line into his waistcoat. ‘And also with this.’
‘You have my word I will never use you as currency,’ Franco agreed, patting her blonde hair in reassurance.
‘Any more,’ she added.
‘When have I done so previously? How is that even a thing?’
Corinne slipped the box back to its owner and shooed her along the carriage to the next task at hand.
‘Back to work with you. Less talking if you please,’ she insisted. All objections were ignored as Kitty went on her way.
The carriage was organized, every decoration in perfect placement, as if it had never been disturbed.
‘She still has a smart mouth, that one,’ he mumbled as Corinne strolled back towards him. He straightened a glass-shaded lamp before him, turning it this way and that until it looked right.
‘Isn’t that why we picked Kitty up? I think the exact word you used at the time to introduce her was pluck.’
‘Suppose so.’
Den of Shadows Page 10