‘Jacques.’ He grunted in disdain.
The former head of security of the Gambler’s Den slouched in his seat, his left eye patterned with purples and blacks. His suit was torn and scuffed, peppered with dots of blood – his blood, he told them, when they attempted to extract further information from him.
‘That’s it? Just Jacques?’
‘It is to you.’
‘Well then, just Jacques, I have something for you to sign here.’ A wad of yellow-tinted papers were slid over, all finely typed up and bearing the genuine mark of Windberg’s local law enforcement. It was a statement, or at least the statement that Jacques should have given, incriminating every single one of them for a multitude of reasons – the murder of numerous Bluecoats being one especially pushed point. ‘Now I have a pen …’
‘You’re going to have to read it to me, on account of me not seeing too great.’ Jacques pointed at his shiner, still angry and bloodshot. ‘You guys keep beating and beating on me to get me to change the story but it’s the truth! That’s not going to change, no matter how many fancy pieces of paper you put under my nose. What you wrote up is a pack of lies. I’m not putting my name to that crap.’
‘Mister Jacques.’
‘Just Jacques, remember? Your memory isn’t that sharp.’
‘Quite. Here’s some advice. Not friendly advice, mind, because you and I are the furthest thing from. In fact you might say I’m the opposite. Tell us again how Franco Del Monaire managed to coax you all into defending him – and this time, please do make it more believable than what you’ve said so far. I don’t believe it. The sheriff doesn’t believe it. The judge won’t believe it. And by the time you’re deep in the cold, cold ground, the Holy Sorceress will cast doubt on your retelling.’
‘What can I say? He was a persuasive sort. There was something about the tone of his voice and the barrel pressed to my forehead.’
‘Sign this confession and we can finally get things moving instead of putting up with this needless display.’ The pen was placed on the table between them.
‘You put that pen any closer to me and I’ll drive it right on through your eye socket. How’s that for a confession?’
Jacques poised himself, quite ready to make good on his threat despite the handcuffs weighing down his wrists. He had managed to escape rougher scrapes than this. Admittedly, he wouldn’t make it far but escape was escape, even if it was just from the room.
The Bluecoat slammed his hands down onto the table’s edge, rapidly losing his patience. ‘Bleat all you want but may I remind you that plenty of good men died chasing you and your brigade over the wastes. Plenty in the station are calling for time alone with you and they won’t be anywhere near as gentle as we have been so far. How long do you think you would last in their hands?’
He rolled his eyes, his good one at least, before quipping, ‘Longer than your mother, I’ll tell you that much.’
The bluecoat launched into a series of punches, lashing out over and over. Each crack was stifled by the room, which seemingly swallowed all traces of unpleasantness to spare the good and dutiful lawmen passing outside.
The door swung out quickly, interrupting this loss of control.
Sheriff Juniper marched inside, his right arm in a pale sling, contrasting against his ribbon-decorated cobalt uniform. His left arm embraced a leather-bound file stuffed with neatly organized notes and photographs. It was placed on the table and unbound.
‘That’s enough. I’ll take it from here, lieutenant,’ he ordered, waiting for objection. There was none, of course.
The Bluecoat clicked his heels in immediate compliance, huffing in exertion and adjusting his crooked tie. ‘Yes, sir.’
Jacques rolled his head over his shoulder, spitting out a ribbon of blood. The punches were driven out of anger so had some weight to them, but Jacques had been hit harder and by bigger men. This was nothing spectacular in the slightest. It was borderline mundane. ‘I’ll get her to press your shirts for tomorrow. Real nice and smart, like.’
Juniper intervened. ‘Now, lieutenant.’
He stormed out and closed the door with a bang behind him.
* * *
Finally the sheriff could get down to work. He drew the chair out, seated himself most properly, and picked at the folder, speaking as he did so. ‘I pride myself on my professionalism, Jacques. You could do well with displaying some instead of acting like a buffoon.’
Jacques winced through new injuries. ‘Is that why you have a broken arm? Professionalism, is it? Our definitions of the word differ. I expected a little roughing up but trying to beat a confession out of me for what you believe happened rather than what actually occurred … My, the law here really defends the concept of justice, does it not?’
Finally Juniper gave Jacques his full attention, brushing the file to the side. There were no games to be played here, no bravado-led tirades of heroics Jacques could enjoy to conjure leniency. Bad things had been done and the time for payment was due.
‘We use the methods required of us to keep this fair city safe. We don’t tolerate your kind, Jacques. The day for rampant disorder is fast dying out – slowly in my opinion but dying all the same. Sometimes force is required to bend those who act out of turn. Now, I figured that if I spoke to you myself you might be more cooperative. It’s worth remembering that this is your last chance at a confession. Think hard now.’
They each dared one another to blink first, the mental tussling quite apparent. Jacques played with the teeth on his jaw before delivering his verdict.
‘I’m telling you – that’s how it all went down. It’s my cast-iron word that ol’ Franco put guns to our heads and threatened to shuffle us from this mortal coil if we didn’t comply. With what you’ve got on that paper you may as well use it to wipe your boots with.’
The sheriff calmly looked at the statement set upon the table, scanning it momentarily. He had read it before of course when it was issued, but scrutinized it for anything that he may not have noticed previously. When satisfied he placed it back down as if it were a decorative piece of furniture. To him, it was of no worth and the words written upon it nonexistent. This was all pretext to what Juniper actually sought.
‘I don’t deal with lies, Jacques. I don’t like them, I don’t appreciate them, and I’m surely not going to accommodate yours. I will not entertain for even a moment that the man who you rode with for years decided to turn heel on yourself and his workers. You insult me with the mere suggestion. You make yourself look a fool.’
Alex Juniper sighed, retrieving a second bound collection of papers. He rested the tip of his index finger upon them.
‘This statement you’ve given me, your actual one, is a pack of lies. Bad lies at that. I was hoping that you could do something noble and confess to your wrongdoings. Sure there would be plenty of prison time for all involved but I can’t see that being much of a problem for yourself. You’re an honourable man of sorts, aren’t you? Let’s check that.’
Between the papers was a telling mugshot of Jacques resembling something not too dissimilar from how he looked now, though a score younger and trimmer in the face. The accompanying paperwork contained all manner of information, dates, and transgressions. Again, Juniper was quite familiar with the contents though feigned ignorance to secure his point.
‘You have a colourful past, Jacques. Public disorder, breaking and entering, drunkenness, consumption of contraband … You’re not really the noble protector the papers are reporting you to be. They do root for you; that much is sure. Some even have the audacity to call you a hero.’
‘Shucks, I’m all embarrassed.’
‘We know the truth, you and I,’ he vaguely threatened but to no avail.
‘Let the people assume what they want. Everyone’s tarnished, sheriff. If you’re threatening to ruin my character then you can think again. I wouldn’t mind in the slightest. It’s all just words. What matters is action.’
Alex Juniper knew that Jacques’s entire tale was balderdash, not that such a thing could be proved. The showgirls were sticking to their story, showing impressive solidarity no matter the threats made or bargains offered. Without any possibility of one of them breaking, it would be troublesome to score a conviction. Reporters congregated like pigeons around the station upon hearing that the great Gambler’s Den was wrecked and those surviving in incarceration. With so many eyes upon him, results were expected and swiftly.
* * *
‘It’s all a game to you, isn’t it?’ Juniper stated, his free hand pulling at the binder string, oddly patient and very much out of his character. It set Jacques at a slight unease, knowing full well just how verbose the sheriff could be when agitated.
‘Something like that,’ he grouched.
‘Then I propose a change of the rules to accommodate. In light of the uncooperative attitudes of everyone involved, I will have no choice but to put you all behind bars for the rest of your days. I have a nice hole in the ground picked out in the middle of nowhere. Swap that revelry for some nice rock breaking.’
‘Bluffing doesn’t become you, Juniper. These threats are hollow; you have nothing on us. Like I said, it was all against our will. Prove to me otherwise.’
The disguise was dropped. The sheriff rattled off his intentions methodically, almost routinely.
‘You’re under the impression that would remotely matter. Evidence would be falsified. Statements changed. I would have a score ready to pin you and your rabble down for whatever charges I can invent. On my word every Bluecoat in court would paint a picture of the showgirls as sordid desperados, anxious to reclaim their pimp, murderers all, and they would never again see the light of day. The Gambler’s Den may already be in ruin but I do declare that I will make it my ambition to destroy the legacy surrounding it, just because I felt so inclined.’
Juniper’s delivery was cold, leaving no room for believing that he would do anything other than what he specified. ‘And should you somehow secure a release, nobody will hire the women except for the most sordid bordellos your mind can muster. You will either die rotting in the worst prison I can toss you in, or in the streets in abject poverty. I will personally see to that.’
‘I thought you didn’t deal with lies?’
‘I don’t. This is all fact. At least, it will be when I say it is.’ Juniper almost found amusement that this individual would think otherwise. ‘My word is literally law in Windberg. And on that account, I think that we are concluded. Good day.’
Juniper dragged his chair back with a squeak, gathered up the papers, and took his first steps to exit, before being interrupted.
‘You lost a few men out in the Sand Sea, sheriff. I’m sure everyone feels terrible reading about the loss of life of your men, outraged even, but you don’t have us to blame for that. Just Wilheim Fort.’
‘Ah yes, see, that’s the other point,’ the lawman added. ‘Among these fabrications you’re accusing quite an elevated man in our society of wrongdoings. Do you have evidence to back up your claim?’
Jacques grinned, feeling the familiar comfort of a power shift. The tell-tale signs were there, the slight facial tics and body language that the sheriff displayed. Juniper wasn’t adept at lying and Jacques drew attention to this fact.
‘You have a terrible poker face. If you ever found your way onto the Den, you would be cleaned out before you finished your first drink. I think it’s your turn to confess now. That’s all you wanted me to say. Why didn’t you just ask? Don’t act like you don’t know what he’s up to.’
Sheriff Juniper scrutinized the man, then glanced to the door. ‘You’re wasting my time.’
‘Stings to be on the other end of that, don’t it? But I’m not wasting your time. The Lavender Club.’
‘I’m familiar with the place. What of it?’
‘I was inside it for a time. I spoke to someone who had quite an ear to Mister Fort’s business relations.’
‘Legal business associates, I’m sure. He entertains plenty who come through his doors. Unless you can give me something of worth –’
‘I have a fine memory, sheriff,’ Jacques flatly revealed, ‘Mr Fort was not alone when I encroached on his territory. He had plenty of friends, important-looking people, who scattered like they didn’t want to be involved in a bad mix-up. Beforehand, I had a nice long conversation with someone privy to his wrong dealings. If you ask nicely I may even be able to describe some faces. Tell you some names.’
* * *
And there it was. Within Juniper’s reach was a treasure trove of information, ammunition with the sole purpose of bringing down the corruption that festered out of his considerable reach. Sure, he had attempted to pursue charges for some – targeting the more influential individuals of high standing, only to be met with silenced voices and witnesses who were either overcome with cases of sudden amnesia or lead poisoning. This irritated him no end, knowing that there were those who flaunted their power and remained just out of reach of righteousness.
‘State your terms,’ Juniper bluntly fired.
‘Total immunity from prosecution. The charges are dropped; the girls and I walk free. It’s that simple. Oh, and there’s not a single bad word about the Gambler’s Den spoken to a single soul.’
‘If you think there’s even a chance of granting that you are gravely mistaken!’ Juniper exploded. Such an outlandish request could only be met with scorn. Only a madman would consider this.
‘Then you’ll be left wanting. Imagine what the papers would say then when word got out? Alex Juniper can lock away a bunch of poor, defenceless women, but the real criminal under his nose gets to operate with impunity. Think on that in a headline, only more direct. Less wordy. The masses would assume that he had preferential treatment. That you were on the take. Why, there would be a riot.’
‘There’s no possible way that an offhand statement of yours could secure arrests. Do you think I could assault nobility with a simple piece of paper?’
‘Then I’ll go public. You haul me in for every trial and I’ll state as a witness what I know. I’ll point the fingers at their faces in front of you, the jury, and the judge. No arguments. No exceptions. I’ll see each and every one done on your word.’
Juniper gently sat back down on the chair, concerned to make no undue noise that could distract from their conversation. The papers were placed back down and a pen produced from his breast pocket. ‘You’re going to have to know some very big names to make it worthwhile.’
‘Ones you’re already informed of no doubt. Come, Juniper, you’re a smart man; you’ll already have a few in mind. I can validate your misgivings about those gilded people. Administer that justice, even, and make the city clean.
Juniper took his place back on his seat, clearly intrigued. Any agreement would rock the city to its foundations. It wasn’t a decision to take lightly and despite his hunger for ensuring arrests, the likes of which were already setting his mind racing, he was concerned that Jacques may not have quite realized what he was agreeing to.
‘If you did this, you would be a marked man for the rest of your days. People would come for you and I can only protect you so much.’
‘I suppose.’ Jacques pursed his lips in thought, smug that he was worthy enough for Wilheim to be frothing and raving for his end. ‘But I’m from the Gambler’s Den. Risk is what we do. I’ll take my chances.’
Chapter Twenty
The Package
Deep in Windberg’s nestled streets, in a house that looked like any of the others crammed into the district, with tired windows and slow-drooping roofs, Larrs Follister set about his morning routine. He shuffled old bones throughout his house, cleaning this and that, ensuring the day’s newspaper was neatly on the side table beside his usual chair.
He sat, wearily, and scanned the room with reddened eyes. It was still early, but he wasn’t weary from lack of sleep. His breaths were
laboured and difficult and the house silent. The old man played with his pitting skin, unshaven with patches of white whiskers, and wondered what he could busy himself with today. He thought, reaching for a decision, something, anything that would drain the time away.
There was an unexpected sharp knock at the door.
Peculiar, Larrs thought, easing it open to the gilded sunshine. There was nobody present that he could see. Whoever it was hadn’t waited around but instead left a small package on the doormat, bound with string and brown paper.
Larrs made the effort to retrieve it – setting his twitching back to ease with a rub – before seating himself inside and examining the package. There was no postmark, no sender address, and he certainly wasn’t expecting anything of the sort.
As the paper fell away, his eyes squinted in astonishment as neatly wrapped notes of money fell aside, some landing on the floorboards with a dusted thump. His fingers flexed through the currency, counting a bundle.
Ten thousand.
There was ten thousand in the one bundle alone – enough to buy the house he resided in.
And there were five more identical bundles.
In trepidation he pulled out a browned piece of card that was enclosed inside, written in black script. He mouthed each word in turn, slowly, carefully.
Whilst it could never replace Ketan, my wish is that this gift will at least alleviate some of the burden his loss brought.
- F
And with the card in hand, Larrs cried.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Morning Star
Tanworks, squatting on the cusp of the south of the Sand Sea, mostly handled shipments of ore from the regional strip mines, a pass-through for refineries nearby where the finished product was sent elsewhere for manufacturing. Beneath a steel sky, furnaces and factories belched smoke, dusting everything with soot, where industry had fully taken hold and the goal was to satisfy demand for new developments in goods, transportation, construction, and anything else the hammer and anvil of modernization dictated.
Den of Shadows Page 28