Hope and Red

by Jon Skovron

  “You can handle rolling a shopgirl,” said Nettles. “So what do you need me for?”

  “Because a day’s earnings at a bakery is barely worth my time. No, we’re going to use this to get to the bigger prize, which is the safe in the butcher’s.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “Like I said, they let this shopgirl in after closing. Unlock the doors and lead her straight to wherever the safe is hidden. And this girl just happens to be about your height and have similar hair.”

  “You want to roll the shopgirl, then have me pose as her to find the safe and get in it.”

  “I’ll trail you to the shop. Then when it’s time for you to make the grab, I’ll step in and help with whatever muscle they’ve got there. In and out. Simple as sideways.”

  “It’s never as simple as you say,” said Nettles.

  He grinned at her. “I wouldn’t want you to get bored.”

  That night, they spotted the shopgirl halfway between the shops. On one hand, it seemed an odd, not very safe way to transport money. On the other hand, most people wouldn’t think of a mousy little shopgirl like her to have anything worth stealing. She played it well, too. Walking at a leisurely pace, not giving anything away that she might have something worth taking or that she was going somewhere important. If Red hadn’t stumbled across the knowledge, he wouldn’t have been the wiser. But over the years, he had learned that, more than throwing a knife or picking a lock, finding things out was the skill most useful to thriving in Paradise Circle.

  Nettles positioned herself in an alley ahead of the girl, and Red was on the street a block beyond that. Red started walking toward the girl and timed it so that she crossed the alley just as he was about to walk past her. Nettles threw out the blunt, weighted end of her chainblade, striking the girl in the temple. Red was there to catch her before she hit the ground. He quickly moved her into the alley where Nettles waited. Nettles put on the girl’s ragged scarf and hat, then took the small purse of coins meant to be transported to the butcher’s.

  “Better not take any yet,” said Red. “They’ll expect to see it when they open the safe.”

  Nettles looked doubtfully down at the unconscious shopgirl. “Tell me true, do I really look like her?”

  “Sure you do, Nettie. Except prettier.” He winked.

  She frowned. “Let’s find out just how full of piss you and this plan are, then.”

  Nettles walked the rest of the way to the butcher’s with Red trailing cautiously behind, staying in the shadows or blending in with small clusters of people. The sun was setting and the imp patrols who lit the street lamps hadn’t reached that part of the neighborhood yet, so there was plenty of dark to hide in. Red was pleased to see that Nettles had adopted the same leisurely pace as the shopgirl. He knew it wasn’t easy to act relaxed when you were about to pull a job like this.

  Finally they reached the butcher shop. Nettles knocked on the door with the rhythm Red had observed the shopgirl use, and a tense minute later, the door opened. A tall, thick man wearing a bloody apron looked down at her.

  “Where’s the usual girl?”

  Nettles only hesitated a moment, probably to silently curse Red in her thoughts. “Burned her hand on the oven today, so they sent me instead.”

  The man looked at her a moment and Red held his breath, ready to jump in and pull Nettles out if things went leeward. But then the man just nodded.

  “Yeah, alright.” He stepped aside and motioned Nettles to come in. As she passed, he said, “Tell the boss he should send you more often,” and swatted her rear.

  Nettles paused, and again Red held his breath. She might gut the tom right then and there. It was certainly in her rights to do so. But it would foul the whole job.

  “Yeah, alright, maybe I will,” she said and smiled at him. He seemed pleased by the smile, but Red recognized it immediately as the not only will I kill you, I will make it painful smile, and shuddered. He made a mental note to leave that one to her.

  Once they were inside, the man pulled the door closed. At the last second, Red threw one of his new two-sided blades, keeping the door slightly ajar. The man pulled the latch to lock it. He might normally have noticed the additional resistance in fastening it, but his eyes were now locked on Nettles.

  Once Red could no longer see them in the window, he moved swiftly toward the door. The blade left a small crack between the door and the lintel just wide enough for him to get one of his slim lock picks through to pop the latch. As the door swung open, he retrieved the throwing blade stuck in the lintel and slipped inside.

  The front area where customers ordered their cuts was dark. He could hear voices from a doorway on the other side of the counter. He crept forward cautiously, following the sound. The doorway opened into the back room, where sides of meat hung on hooks. There was a big table in the center, stained with years of blood, and buckets with congealed blood beneath. The safe was all the way in the back. In addition to the tom with Nettles, there were two others just as big.

  “What’s your name, molly?” one of them asked.

  “Ell,” she said, giving her best attempt at a shy smile. It didn’t look very convincing to Red, but the toms seemed to buy it.

  As Red waited for them to open the safe, he became aware of a stinging pain in his hand. He looked down and saw his palm was sliced open, a trickle of blood coming out. He must have cut himself when he threw his blade. Clearly his technique needed some refinement.

  Finally, the toms stopped flirting long enough to open the safe.

  “So, what are you doing later—” one of them began. But then a thrown blade embedded itself in his neck. He grabbed at it, which only made him slice up his hands as well. The one on the other side went down a moment later. That left only the one from the entrance. He stared in shock at his two fellows, who lay choking on their own blood.

  “You treacherous slice!” He took a swing at her with his big fist. She dodged to one side and threw her chain so that the blade embedded itself in his wrist. She yanked hard, pulling him off balance as the blade came loose. He stumbled, and she kicked him in the side of his head. He reeled back, swinging wildly with his good hand. Nettles waited for an opening, then threw the weighted end of her chain at his cock. He gave a feeble whimper and dropped to his knees.

  Nettles loomed over him. “I’m going to let you live so that you can tell every tom you meet the important lesson of never touching a molly’s ass without her say-so. Keen?” Then she grabbed his head with both hands and slammed her knee into his face. He flopped to the floor, unconscious.

  “Nicely done,” said Red.

  As they scooped the contents of the safe into a sack, Nettles said, “Why are your hands bleeding?”

  “I haven’t figured out how to throw my blades yet without catching myself,” Red admitted.

  “Well, until you do, you might want to wear some gloves so you don’t bleed out before the end of a job.”

  Red shook his head. “Wouldn’t be able to get gloved fingers through the rings.”

  “So cut off the fingers. That would still protect your palms, wouldn’t it?”

  “Good idea,” said Red, looking at his sliced-up hands.

  “So was this,” said Nettles, nodding to the safe.

  He beamed at her. “You think so?”

  “Yeah. Good haul, minimum risk. Who knew an artsy ponce from Silverback could work the Circle so well?”

  Red chose to view that as a compliment. Nettles was usually extra leaky after a successful job, so he didn’t want to ruin the mood.

  * * *

  The top floor of Slice of Heaven was where the employees who weren’t whores lived. Nettles shared a room with the cleaning woman, Ipsy. Ipsy’s tom was a sailor and often out on the water. When he was in port, she always stayed with him at the Sailor’s Mother, which wasn’t a crimp house anymore, just an inn. She’d been gone the past week, so Red and Nettles had the place all to themselves. This led to a great deal of sex, an
d that night was no exception.

  If you’d asked Red if the sex was good, he’d have said yes, even though he didn’t have any basis of comparison. No tom wanted to admit he didn’t enjoy a toss. It just wasn’t a thing to say. But right after, still sweaty and panting, when he reached for her and she pushed him off, there was always a moment that struck him with a cold and lonely shot to the gut. In those moments, he would try anything to bridge that gap. Nettles didn’t cuddle. She’d made that perfectly clear. Even holding hands irritated her. So he would use words to bridge that gap. Most of the time, as they lay in the dark, he would just rabbit on about whatever popped into his head, and she would respond with noncommittal grunts. But the night they robbed the butcher’s, when he was going on about how he’d ingratiated himself with Neepman to find out the information that helped them succeed that night, she interrupted him.

  “Your parents were from Silverback, then?”

  “My dad was a whore there, as was his mom, and her dad before him. Long proud line of Silverback whores who served the artistic community for generations. Some call the whores in Silverback the Muses, since they are, on the whole, uncommonly attractive and have inspired many a painter or musician. My dad included.”

  “What about your mom?”

  At another place and time, Red would have answered more cautiously. He was not completely bludgeon. But in that moment, he was still on a high from the plan and the fight and the money and the sex, and he was so very desperate to close the gap he couldn’t quite admit to himself that he felt. So he spoke crystal.

  “My mom was from Hollow Falls.”

  “Balls and pricks she was.”

  “No, really. That’s how I know how to read. I can paint, too, though I don’t do that much these days.”

  “Must be nice, coming from all that privilege.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. So your mom was one of those lacy girls who came down to Silverback with dreams of being a famous painter?”

  “She was a famous painter, actually. Until she got sick.”

  “From the coral spice, you mean? Your red eyes give that away. Though I never seen ’em on anyone other than a baby.”

  “Not just the spice. She had this other problem from the paints. She was real sick toward the end.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Gulia Pastinas.”

  “Lacies always have such fancy names.”

  “Lyrical names,” he said absently.

  “Odd thing for a proper lacy like her to have a son named Red. Especially with the eyes. It’s a bit pointed, isn’t it?”

  “Red is the name Sadie gave me when she took me in.”

  “What’s your birth name, then?”

  “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “Why would I laugh?”

  “I don’t know. Just promise.”

  “Sure, fine, I promise.”

  “My birth name is Rixidenteron.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Nettie?”

  He heard a small rustling, and through the blanket he could feel her shaking. Then she suddenly burst out into the loudest laugh he’d ever heard from her.

  “Sorry, sorry!” she gasped between bursts. “I just didn’t expect!” Another burst of laughter. “Something like that!”

  “Uh-huh.” Red felt the heat of shame rise in him.

  “You’re serious? Really?”

  “Yes, that’s my birth name. You can ask Filler. He’s…” He wondered whether it was a good idea to share any more truth that night. But maybe it would help her see what a big deal it was and how much she was hurting him. “He’s the only person I’ve told that to, besides you.”

  “I can see why!” Nettles said, and erupted into a fresh burst of laughter.

  * * *

  The next night, Red and Filler sat in their room and shared a jug of ale that Prin had given them for clearing off some rowdy drunks at the Drowned Rat earlier that day. Summer heat had descended on New Laven like a blanket drenched in boiling water, and they sat side by side under the open window, trying to keep cool.

  “Nettie came by the shop today to get a few adjustments to her chainblade. Said she gave it a good test last night while you two were on a job.”

  “She did,” agreed Red. “My throwing blades worked well, too. Except they cut up my palms.”

  “That why you got those leather gloves today from Brimmer?”

  “Yeah.”

  Filler took a long swallow on the jug. “Today, also. She asked me if it was true about your birth name.”

  “Yeah, I told her last night.”

  Filler handed Red the jug as he said, “She laughed, you know. When I told her it was true, she about choked on the gad.”

  Red took a pull on the jug. “Yeah.” He took another pull, then handed it back to him. “She laughed last night, too.”

  “You’re getting sotted with her,” said Filler.

  “Am not,” said Red automatically.

  Filler gave him a skeptical look and took another swig.

  “So what if I am, then?” asked Red. “It’s not a bad thing, you know.”

  “It is if she’s not sotted with you.” He handed the jug back to Red.

  Red frowned and stuck his thumb in the jug mouth, popping it in and out so it made a hollow noise. He had plenty of doubts himself. But sometimes doubts only made a person want to fight harder to believe. “I think she is sotted with me.”

  “Nah. She likes you. And she likes tossing you. But she’s not sotted.”

  “How would you know?” Red couldn’t help the defensive tone that was creeping into his voice.

  “She don’t look at you the same way you look at her.”

  All Red’s fancy talk and agile thinking sometimes just allowed him to run circles around himself faster than most. Sometimes it was Filler, with his simple way, who laid things bare and direct. Said like that from the wag Red knew and trusted above all others, there was nothing to be done but acknowledge it.

  He looked at Filler plaintively. “What do I do?”

  “Ask her. Maybe I’m wrong. Either way, then you’ll know.”

  “But what if we’re supposed to be together? Like fate. Don’t you think we’re perfect for each other?”

  “No,” said Filler. “Not really.”

  Red looked over at him, his ruby eyes wide with surprise. “I thought you liked Nettles.”

  “I like her fine. But she don’t understand you the way you deserve to be understood.”

  “You talk like I’m some sort of artsy ponce,” Red said bitterly.

  Filler sighed. “Just promise me. When you talk to her, if things go leeward, promise you’ll go see Sadie after.”

  Red took a long swallow on the jug, then leaned his head back to rest on the open windowsill so the night winds blew across his sweaty forehead. “Fine. But it won’t come to that. You’ll see. She keeps it close, like any true wag of the Circle. But she’s just as sotted as me.”

  * * *

  Red loved Paradise Circle. More than Silverback, where he’d spent his early childhood. More than the Savage Wind, though those were some of his favorite memories. And certainly more than Hollow Falls, which he’d never set eyes on. Granted, there had been times in his life, especially when he was younger, when he’d wished his aunt Minara would suddenly appear and take him to her uptown lacy mansion. He remembered her a little from the few times she’d come to visit while his mother was alive. Older and more conservative than his mother, but nearly identical in looks and far more gentle in speech and touch. Particularly in those months before he’d met Sadie, he’d longed for that touch. But now he knew those had been the dreams of a weak and frightened child. These days, if he thought about his aunt at all, it was to wonder why she’d never come, and mostly to be glad she hadn’t.

  Red loved Paradise Circle, but there were days when the clouds were low and gray, and rain fell not to clean the grimy streets, but only
to turn the mud and trash and shit into a fetid soup. Days when every face in the street looked pinched with hunger and hostility, babies wailed for mothers that would never come, and children played listless games next to the bloated, rotting corpse of a horse. It was on days like that Red escaped to the rooftops.

  He could see the whole neighborhood up there, and occasionally farther, if the clouds weren’t too low. The air tasted different up there, unspoiled by the sewage that ran down the open gutters along the sides of the streets. And it was quiet up there. The sounds of the neighborhood receded to a murmur beneath the winds that rose up from the sea. For a little while, Red could pretend he was untouched by it all.

  The rooftops had always been Red’s alone. Filler wouldn’t have admitted it outright, but he wasn’t fond of heights. And there was no one else he wanted to share this temporary escape with. Until he met Nettles. He’d been trying to decide when the best time would be, and now he knew that it was where he would ask if she wanted him as her tom and she as his molly, forever and always.

  Most of the roofs in Paradise Circle were slanted, but Red knew every one that was flat and wide enough to comfortably stand. And as it happened, one of them was a perfect place. Well, perfect symbolically. Just not easy to reach.

  “We’re doing what?” asked Nettles as they stood in a side street. She looked up skeptically at the awning above the door.

  “If you need help, I can get up there first and throw down a rope.” He’d brought one, just in case.

  “I don’t need help, you salthead. I just don’t know why we’re doing it.”

  “You’ll see.” Red bounced his eyebrows mysteriously.

  Nettles sighed. “Fine.”

  They scrambled up onto the awning. From there, they shimmied along a ledge to a windowsill. From the windowsill it was a short jump to a clothesline pulley. Once one of them had the pulley, they had to swing their legs up to hook their heels on the rain gutter, then curl up to reach their hands on the gutter, and pull themselves up to the roof.

  “Piss’ell.” Nettles massaged her hands. “How did you even figure that out?”