by Unknown
"O-kay," Carerra sighed wearily, looking from the Lucite box and back out to the crowd. "I am bid fifty thousand, do I hear sixty? Can anyone beat sixty?"
I swallowed hard, steeling my nerves, and climbed to my feet.
"I will," I said, as forcefully as I could manage.
Angela tugged at my sleeve, and snatched up my fan from the floor.
"You just wave the fan, Cassidy," she said, chuckling. "You don't have to pop up like a jack-in-the-box."
I waved her off, my palms sweating, my eyes never leaving Carerra. In their respective corners, the holders of fans 17 and 45 were looking at me hard, with those if-looks-could-kill looks.
"You're an eager one, aren't you, kid?" Carerra said. "So, what do you bid?"
I shoved a hand into my suit pocket, and felt the hard edges of the jewel case.
"Information," I answered, proud that my voice hardly cracked at all.
Carerra's thick eyebrows knitted together, and he looked at me quizzically.
"What?" he asked.
"Information," I repeated, straightening up a bit taller, trying to come off the dangerous guy.
"Alright, kid," Carerra finally said, "I'll bite. What the hell are you talking about?"
"I've got information to sell," I answered, pulling the jewel case from my pocket and holding it up for him to see. This was a bit of stagecraft on my part, the disc inside little more than a prop, but I figured I needed it for the kind of play I was trying for. "On this disk are a few choice files I've pulled from my collection, about the murders of Sonny Bianca and his family, about what really happened to Mayor Kelly's daughter, about what's buried in the foundation of the First Federal Bank of Chicago, about…"
"Okay, okay," Carerra said angrily, banging the microphone against the podium like a gavel, sending a shriek of distortion and feedback through the P.A. system. "So you got a little dirt," he said, trying to play it cool. "So what?"
I knew so what as well as he did. For all their tendency to boast and brag when around family, there are still some messes even the loudest mob boss doesn't want to get mixed up in, things he's done personally that he should have passed off to a subordinate, or even secret transgressions against other mobsters. Bad business, all around, and that was precisely what I was talking about. Enough dirt to bury Carerra, thanks to my contacts over the years and a few dashes of spice from Tan. As soon as Tan had told me who was hosting the auction, and always did, I remembered the half dozen stories about him I'd heard but could never use, for fear that he'd manage to get me killed before someone else got to him first. But desperate times and desperate measure, so here I was with my ass hanging out and a disc of pure dynamite waiting to go off in my hand, hoping Carerra would jump the way I'd guessed he would.
"So what," I answered, as evenly as possible, "is that I'm not part of any family, and worse still, I'm a reporter." I paused for a second, letting that one sink in, and heard chairs scraping against the floor as the heavies around me started to their feet. "And," I added louder, "if I don't make a call at a certain hour tonight, everything on this disc will be automatically emailed to every newspaper and FBI office in the country, along with a few other choice morsels I've collected over the years."
Carerra fumed, but kept his place. So far no one had clubbed me from behind or stuck a knife between my ribs, so I was ahead of the game. I just hoped I could make it to the end of the play without collapsing on my shaking knees, or wetting myself, or both. I'm not nearly so tough as I'd like to make out.
"Okay, okay, everybody stay cool," Carerra finally said, waving to the room. "Alright, Mr. I'm-Really-A-Reporter-And-I'm-So-FuckingClever, what do you want? Huh? What's going to keep your yap shut?"
I nodded towards the Lucite box on the podium next to him.
"That book, and a clear path out of here," I answered.
The combatants in the bidding war didn't like that one bit, and jumped to their feet. The Justice, acting like he thought he was back at the bench, actually shouted "Objection!" while the guy in the gray suit with the 17 fan across the room just shouted "The Book is mine" in a screwball accent.
"Somebody shut them up," Carerra said out of the side of his mouth, and while he rubbed his chin a few lackeys made their way to the front rows and convincingly argued that everyone should keep to their seats. Not happy about it, but not seeing any options, everyone sat back down and kept quiet, their eyes never leaving me.
"Let me ask you something, Reporter," Carerra said, his head cocked to one side. "What's to keep me from just having my boys break your neck, burn the disc, and let the chips fall where they might? Hmm? Are you that convinced you've got the goods on me, or that I even give a shit about my reputation?"
"No," I answered calmly, "but I know one thing for sure. You don't shit where you eat. It's not good business."
Carerra looked at me for a long minute, tapping the microphone lightly against the palm of his hand, and then nodded.
"Okay," he finally answered, "you've got a deal. Give me the disc, take the book, and get the hell out of here. And if I ever see you or hear your voice again, I will personally rip off your head and shit down your neck, you get me?"
"I got you," I started to say, taking a step forward, but the outbursts from the party on the left and the party on the right drowned out my words. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but I got the distinct impression that they weren't happy.
Carerra snapped his fingers, and more lackeys and bruisers appeared from the wings to join those already waiting at hand.
"Keep those mugs quiet," he ordered, indicating the two parties in front, "and if they give you any trouble, kill them."
The lackeys nodded mutely, and within seconds had the situation well in hand. The former bidders weren't happy, but they seemed content now to bide their time.
I made it to the podium without incident, and handed over the disc as with his other hand Carerra passed me the Lucite-encased book. With it firmly in hand, I decided not to waste any time with idle chat, and hurried towards the door. The mobsters and killers looked on as I passed, vaguely bemused, as though I had provided a bit of dinner theater and they were thankful for the distraction. A few seemed sorry to see me go, not eager to get back to the business of the auction.
At the door, Angela caught my elbow, smirking.
"I was right about you, Cassidy," she said in a low voice, her mouth near enough to my ear to give me the shakes. "You certainly weren't boring."
I smiled back, wishing for better circumstances, and beat feet the hell out of there. I still wasn't sure if I'd make it to the car alive; getting out onto the road was another thing entirely.
As it was, I made it out without incident, the car untouched and the Lucite case on my lap. Once back on the main road, the electric gate swinging shut behind me, I hauled ass through the gathering dark, passed up Sizemore without a backwards glance, and made it Flagstaff in record time. I ditched the rental car in a parking garage. Lugging my suitcase, the cardboard box of my grandfather's things and the Lucite encased book awkwardly across the street, I bought a ticket at the Greyhound station for the first red-eye heading east. In just over an hour after leaving the ranch, I was nestled in a cramped bus, the suitcase wedged under my seat, the cardboard box at my feet, and the Lucite case in my lap.
I was too wired to sleep and was looking at another five or six hours in that seat, so I figured I'd take a peek at this book that was worth so much of my time and trouble and so many other people's lives. I couldn't figure the case, though, and didn't want to risk damaging the book in the dim light trying to get it out. The passing scenery was ghostly gray in the darkness, and not much to look at in the light, so I didn't have a choice but to pull another piece of madness out of my grandfather's box to give me something to focus on, and hopefully calm me down a bit. I pulled out a sheaf of Xeroxed papers, with a rusty staple in the corner holding them together, and started to read.
The Blake Hande
Dated sometime after 1430, this ballad represents one of the earliest surviving of its type. It is preserved in one fragmentary manuscript copy in Cambridge University Library, MS Ff.7.97, folios 94v-109v. It is presented here as re-edited by Professor E. Mettler (Cambridge University) from the original MS. This text, along with the critical apparatus, was first presented in Scoundrels and Rogues: Forgotten Ballads of the Medieval Period, 1898, eds. E. Mettler & J. Boanerges.
Introductory Notes
Despite parallels with early Robin Hood legends, notably The Gest of Robyn Hode and Robin Hood and the Monk (both anon.), the ballad of the Blake Hande seems to predate either of them, and may well have served as a precursor, if not inspiration, for both.
The setting for the story is the close of the Eleventh Century, during the 3rd Crusade. The principal figure, who by the end comes to be known by the nom du guerre of "Blake Hande" or Black Hand, is Edward, the son of a tailor. Desiring to win the respect and admiration of his countrymen, Edward allows himself to be impressed into service as a foot-soldier. It is his earnest hope to win his spurs through his valor, and thus ennoble both himself and his family.
(Throughout the body of the text, the editors have included glosses and commentary drawn substantially from later versions of the tale, which, it is hoped, will help fill the gaps left by those portions lost over the years.)
The Blake Hande
Lythe and listin, gentilmen,
That worke upon the lande;
I shall the tel of a gode yeman,
Hoos name was the Blake Hande.
Eduard was hys name at birthe,
In a humbl family borne
Hys mother a humble taylors wif
Hys faders handes wel worn.
He grewe to lern to cut an sewe A taylors life he mede
But dremed dyd he of other fates And wher the roads might leade.
When Richard of the Lioun Heart
Agains the Saracin did war
Eduard saw a chaynce to teke
An thoght to winne his spurs.
Edward the Tailor's Son joins a massing of soldiers and knights, nobles and commoners alike, led by Richard the Lion-Hearted. They cross the Channel and make their way through Europe, coming at last to the Holy Land. They meet and fight against the forces of Saracen repeatedly, sometimes knowing victory, sometimes defeat. Finally, in a melee near the Muslim-held Jaffa, Edward himself is separated from the bulk of the English contingent and finds himself lost, cut off in the wilderness.
Away from the eyes of hys fellowes
A wanderynge alone was he,
Until in the mydden of a grene wode
Spyed a Moor beneth a tre.
Al arrayed for battle,
Hys sworde helde in hys hande
Mede Eduard redy for the charge,
To dye in that foregn lande.
The Moor aspyed hys comin,
An made no move to fyght,
An proved for all hys fearsom mene
He was a peacefel wight.
Than Eduard was a tyred and sick
Of swordes and bowes a bende
Sew made he peace with that dark moor
An made of he a frende.
Edward and the Moor spend several days travelling together. The Moor speaks English well enough to communicate, and entertains Richard with tales of his home, and of the great mysteries and legends thereof. The Moor finally tells him of the fabled, half-legendary Order of the Black Hand, which has acted as a force against mindless aggression and slaughter in the Moorish lands for countless ages.
Now of thys solem Order
Of the handes of Blake,
The Moor he did long recovnt
They work theyr fellowes seke.
"Agains the Kynges an Prelates al,"
The Moor he clearley sayed,
"Each Brothere of the hande of Blake,
Does lifte up prode his hede."
"Each mann they saye, and evry childe,
Must hys own choyces meke,
An sew they strugle al lif longe,
Each with handes of blake."
Edward and the Moor become friends as they travel, recognizing each other as brothers beneath the skin, and each resolves to see the other treated kindly, with humanity, should they be found by his own countrymen. Unfortunately for the Moor, they stumble across an encampment of English soldiers first, who toy with the Moor brutally for long hours before finally killing him.
Eduard than entreats the peeres
To putte awey ther swordes,
Let the Moor go wit them than
A prisonner at hi worde.
The peeres thoght hi wordes a gest
An bede him meerey speke
An geve the Moor unsemely dethe
An cut Eduard on his cheke.
It is at this point that Edward abandons forever his dream, his hope, of becoming a knight. He now has something grander, more noble, towards which to strive. He leaves the English camp that night, the blood hardly dried upon his face, and makes his way home, alone, to England. Arriving at his father's home, he finds the old tailor three winters dead, his mother nowhere to be found.
Came Eudward to the taylor's home
Wher lyved hys parens bothe
An founde he ther no livynge sole
Nor sygne they lyved for sothe.
Away a fro the home he fonde
Depe in the grate grene wode
The plece his fader restes hi hede
Beneth a crude woden rode.
Hi mother he could fynd no synge Nor any grave she laye
Butte kne he than she too had mete Her oun tru dyeing daye.
Kne he than that bothe had fel
Benethe som cutthrotes sworde
The work of som vile bishoppes hande
Or els some crule landelorde.
Edward, born the son of a simple tailor, trained as a soldier by the Kingdom's finest, dedicates his life and all his efforts to the opposition of tyranny and injustice, both at home at abroad. Having seen too many sons of peasant families fall under the Saracen's spear in a war few of them could even hope to understand, Edward sees the leaders of his own country as a greater threat to liberty than a foreign king in far-off lands could ever be. Inspired by the Moor's tales of his country's legendary order, he ceases to be Edward Tailor, and ever after is known only as the Black Hand.
Sew Eduard than he left that plece
Cladde in livrey al of blake,
An toke him to the grene wode,
To fyghte for al mens seke.
An from that daye onne,
In evry cornere of the lande,
The people loved an nobles feyred
The name of the Blake Hande.
SIXTH DAY
I woke folded double in the cramped seat as the bus pulled into the station in El Paso. I'd slept a little, fitfully, dreaming in Middle English, but didn't feel at all rested. Coaxing my aching muscles and groaning joints into motion, I managed to climb out of the seat, get the bag, book, and box arranged in an awkward hold, and stumbled from the bus and out into the stale morning air. It was just past dawn, and already I was remembering why I didn't like El Paso.
Not bothering with a cab or rental car, I hoofed it the few blocks from the bus station to the nearest flea bag motel. I checked in under the name of Richmond Taylor, and lugged my things up rickety metal stairs to my shoebox room. The bed looked like it had been used as a prop in one too many professional wrestling bouts, and the sink in the bathroom wouldn't stop dripping, but the air conditioner seemed to work and the door locked solid.
Dropping my things unceremoniously on the floor and stripping to the waist, I struggled hard against the urge to a) shower, b) shower and then sleep, or
c) screw the shower and go right back to bed. I didn't feel like I'd really rested in days, which I hadn't, but my nagging conscience told me I had important things to do before I even thought about rest.
First, I had to call Tan and give him a heads up that
he might be expecting trouble. He'd known it was coming, naturally, having passed me the invite to the auction and given me the skinny on Carerra. Still, it was only good form to let him know that I was out of it, and that there was a chance there might be some ill will directed his way after vouching for me. Ill will, to say the least.
The phone rang at Tan's place a good six times before anyone answered, which was unusual enough in and of itself. More unusual still is that it wasn't Tan who answered, a first.
"Hello, who is this?" came a frantic voice on the other end of the line, a woman's and in no mood for niceties.
"Who is this?" I echoed, and then added. "Cachelle, is that you?"
"Spencer, baby, I'm so glad you called," she answered in a rush. "I've just been worried sick, sick I tell you, and I didn't know what to do. The doctors are no good, and the police are even worse. I oughta throw a hex on the whole lot of them, watch me if I don't."
I settled back on the bed, cradling the phone against my shoulder, and pulled off my boots.
"Slow down, Cachelle," I said. "Take it slow, from the top. Where's Tan?"
Cachelle let out a heavy, rattling sigh and continued.
"Tan's in the hospital, sugar, and he's in a bad way. Somebody broke into his place late last night and made a mess of him and his rooms. I heard the crashing around and called the cops, but by the time they showed up whoever it was had already gone. That ambulance took its own goddamned sweet time to get here, pardon my French, and I'm surprised Tan didn't just up and die on us before we got him to the hospital."
Two questions were jockeying for first position in my head, waiting to jump.
"How is he?" won the race by a nose, with "Who did it?" following close behind.
"Well," Cachelle answered, breathy, "Tan is… well, he could be better, sugar. They've got him all hooked up to monitors and computers and wires and tubes, and they're breathing for him and pushing his blood around and listening to his insides, but he hasn't woke up yet. They don't know for sure yet if he will, or if he does whether he'll still be… still…" Her voice broke, and I didn't have the heart to make her go on for a second. I just sat on the edge of that crappy bed, one boot off and the other on, naked to the waste and unable to feel a goddamn thing. I was numb, empty, and I could hardly hear her talking for the noise all the screaming thoughts in my head were making.