‘The papers inflated it but I assure you: four tellers and two guardsmen. Naked as the day they entered the world.’
‘Quite the sight. A lot of people lost their money that day. I’m struggling to see why I should hand over yours. You’ve not given me any suitable reason so far.’
‘I just want what’s mine.’
‘Now, now, I stole it fair and square. I don’t have it any more of course. That’s not how the game is played, not around here. Don’t let the sand fool you. This here is a lake we each can drown in and everyone answers to a bigger fish. You, on that day, answered to a bigger fish. So sorry, you’re fresh out of luck. Besides, have you never heard that saying never take the shiny from a jackdaw?’
Cole’s eyes narrowed. He sized up the weapons on him, wondering if they had lowered at any point. They hadn’t. Finally Jackdaw waved them to holster. He had this under control.
‘You’ve been tracking me ever since I take it, Little Fish?’
‘I have. You crooks don’t exactly keep a low profile.’
‘Crooks? Ouch.’ Jackdaw feigned hurt. ‘But colour me impressed nonetheless. Not many would do that. I suppose you know my reputation?’
‘I do.’
‘And you could have gone to the law. Got a nice, fat reward for the information I bet.’
‘But I wouldn’t have got my money back, now would I? Besides, the law has no business in my affairs. I don’t need Bluecoats sniffing around.’
‘You and me both.’
Cole rubbed his jaw, thoroughly, probing at the flesh with testing fingers.
‘Your man there has a mean swing.’
* * *
Jackdaw observed Blakestone prop himself on the bar and swill from Cutter’s open bottle. He needed to drown the embarrassment and not quickly enough. Alvina took a mouthful of her own before sliding it back along the countertop. With her uncle making the sorry trio, they each watched the conversation for any change in tone or threat.
‘That he does,’ Jackdaw said, ‘though I think we need to talk about little upstarts like yourself getting the jump on us. I’m as surprised as you are. Maybe I need to be paying him more.’
Blakestone grumbled under his breath, which his employer noticed.
‘Or less,’ Jackdaw added, taking a measure from his own filled glass, ‘but you have done something few others have. You’ve impressed me, kid. It’s the sole reason why you and I are talking, instead of your body waiting to be found by rats while vagabonds fleece you of your clothes.’
There was a pregnant pause. Cole downed the last of his whisky and placed the vacant glass between them. ‘So where do we go from here?’
‘Isn’t that just the question. What do you do for a living, Cole?’
‘A job? Don’t have one. Not no more. I sold the ore from a strip-mining firm out west. Since they found me to be good with numbers, I worked the books as well. Being that you knocked over the local bank, they closed doors on account of everyone losing their money. It put me out of a job. It put plenty out of a job.’
‘I see.’ Jackdaw smiled to his colleagues.
Already Blakestone knew where this was heading. He hid his pout, glad that his other eye was hidden behind its patch. It was painfully obvious.
‘Want one?’ Jackdaw asked.
‘With you?’ Cole scoffed.
‘What, you have a better offer on the table?’
It was a fair point.
‘What would I be doing?’
‘It depends. What are you good at?’
‘Numbers. Bookkeeping.’
‘Creative bookkeeping?’ It was now Jack’s turn to probe.
‘Like I said, I’m good with numbers. Very good.’
‘There’s a skill. You as handy with that gun of yours as you are with a pen?’
‘You would have been unfortunate to find out.’
Jack clapped loudly in delight, tossing his head back with laughter. ‘Lucky I wasn’t out in the open now, wasn’t I?’
Cole’s eyes narrowed. Unperturbed by the fact that he could be a corpse a long time ago. This clearly wasn’t how he’d envisioned tonight going down, not by a long shot.
Jack may have been jovial but he was as sober to the situation as could be.
‘What about my money?’ he spat.
‘I’ll give you the chance to earn it back tenfold. Take it or leave it.’
The thoughtful pause gave Jackdaw cause to push for a response.
‘Well …?’
There was no possible alternative but to accept of course.
‘All right. I agree.’
‘Fantastic. Welcome to the Jackrabbits. One wrong move and I’ll put a hole through your skull so big you could fit your fist through it.’ Jackdaw aimed down the sight to the dead centre of Cole’s forehead. It was quick, too quick for him to retaliate, and done so for a time before finally being lowered. ‘Don’t be giving me a reason to and you’ll be just fine.’
Blakestone narrowed his good eye. Disgusted at the outcome of this, he nudged Cole by the shoulder upon passing and muttered in his ear. ‘He might need a reason to make that head of yours a good deal lighter,’ he venomously hissed, ‘but you’ve given me mine already.’
Chapter Two
Shoot the runner
The first thing that Cole woke to was an acrid blast of smoke over his face. Or more specifically, it was the smoke that drove him to wake up. Immediately he lurched up in the simple bed he had been allocated and hacked the air from his lungs. When untainted air found its way to his throat, Cole cracked his eyes open and sneered at the culprit.
‘Good morning, sleepyhead. We were wondering if you were ever going to wake up,’ Blakestone taunted. He drew his thick cigar back to his leathery lips, punctuated with a toothy smile. Cole wafted away the haze between them.
‘Like anybody could sleep with that crap in their face. Do you have to do that?’
‘Yep.’
‘Could you do it elsewhere?’
Blakestone took another slow draw and exhausted it above him with the cockiest of smiles. The ash fluttered onto Cole’s cheek.
‘Nope.’
‘That figures. What time is it at least?’
‘Dawn. Or thereabouts.’
‘Civilized people sleep during this time,’ Cole protested, wiping the accumulated debris from his eyes. His ears adjusted to the vigorous chatter that was loud enough to be picked up, but dull enough to be a droll.
‘What is that racket?’ he called in borderline frustration.
‘Downstairs is a machine shop. There’s some thirty who work there, putting together clothes, that sort of thing. It makes the place look legitimate, so our coming and going isn’t suspicious.’
‘They’re too loud and it’s too early for my liking.’
‘Not for what we have planned. Come on, up.’ Blakestone hoisted himself to his feet, forcing the releasing springs to jolt back to their normal position. ‘You’re a Jackrabbit now. We don’t do lie-ins. Complaining, neither.’
Cole begrudgingly took leave of his bed and wiped his face with a hand. He staggered to a dirtied window and wiped the dust, peering out into the streets. It was relatively deserted with the exception of the convoy of stallholders, each transporting their goods by cart and horse to the marketplace and bazaar. Birds had only just started to rise with their songs greeting the rusty hues of the flaring sky.
The safe house was an inconspicuous affair, a two-tiered building nestled in an equally inconspicuous street in an established factory district. The downstairs was a factory floor, with workstations all adorned with large rolls of prepared cloths, the accompanying employees working sewing machines since the beginning of their shifts. Upstairs was off limits to the staff and the keys were held by Jackdaw and his cronies alone. It was spacious and open with functional room divides, though lacked comfort. Most of the floors were bare apart from patches of foreign rugs on walking areas to create an improvised carpet. Furniture was sparse, s
imple and wooden, most situated around a kitchen area. The kitchen itself was built around a large green iron cooker, a behemoth of a thing with numerous enamelled doors. Windows were few but made up in size for what they lacked in quantity, most grubby and in need of cleaning.
Piled in corners were goods, provisions and assorted randomness, mostly crated up or in trunks, most seeping into what constituted as a communal bedroom. Here, single iron bedframes lined the walls, a number still empty. Sleeping together built camaraderie, preached Jackdaw, though he himself had a room of his own, separated by a wooden beaded curtain making its interior difficult to see, as did his demand that nobody enter without his permission.
After a quick attempt at a wash, Cole stared at himself in a fractured mirror, towelling himself down. His eyes hung heavy, bagged from when good sleep had eluded him. Finding Jackdaw had granted little time for rest and the places where he gained some were not places one willingly would relax in. Remarkably, last night was the most comfortably he had rested in the last couple of months, which was no doubt why he felt such animosity at being woken in such a detestable fashion.
‘So what’s the plan for today?’ Cole enquired, met by Alvina who took to the sink to fill a glass of water. She consumed a mouthful and reached under the countertop, before offering him a cast-iron pan that was well used and alarmingly heavy. ‘You’re on cooking duty. You best get a shake on – we’re hungry.’
‘You’re kidding right?’
She paused, almost surprised at the response. ‘I never joke when I’m hungry.’
The upcurl of Cole’s bottom lip prompted further explanation.
‘Look. It’s your first day so let me lay it out for you,’ she stated, expressing with her hands. ‘Are you familiar with what we actually do?’
‘No.’
‘Have you held up a bank before? Shaken down anyone for protection money?’
‘No.’
‘Muscled in on some territory owned by another?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Then you’ll need to learn all the things that we do. That means you get to start at the bottom, the very bottom. And the bottom, right here, is that kitchen around ten minutes ago.’
Cole stared, dumbfounded.
Jackdaw presented himself, loudly clearing his throat and spitting out the contents. The curtain fell back with a staggered rattle. He smelt the air and took in the serene silence of the early morn, calm, unbroken and all quite unacceptable.
‘Now I know there isn’t discord in the ranks so I’m baffled as to why I hear no breakfast being made.’
A chair was yanked out, squeaking across boards as it took his weight. A long, inquisitive forefinger checked his ears for debris. He yawned widely, like a lion would when sat among its pride.
‘The new blood is a little slow on the uptake, boss, sorry. No breakfast yet.’
‘Is this some sort of running joke on the new guy?’ Cole whined.
Jackdaw immediately glanced to Alvina. ‘I’m hungry. Does he know that we don’t joke about that?’
‘Oh, he knows.’
‘Good.’ Jackdaw turned back to Cole to add his own voice as encouragement. ‘Because we just don’t joke about that.’
Cole was a good cook. He knew this. Those he once called friends knew this, before he left them all behind. In fact, among them, Cole was always asked to organize the food as any other was dull in comparison to his talents. He could work a kitchen. Being moneyed, he was used to fine ingredients too: black bass from Surenth’s flanking oceans. Pink truffles from Eifera. Cruden gold wheat.
So it came as a surprise that he had to work under such restrictive conditions. It took some trial and effort to get to grips with the ancient monstrosity that passed for an oven. With enough wood, it harboured a fine fire, radiating great heat within its iron belly. The cuts of meat looked like a blind lumberjack had taken a saw to them. These details, just two of a score, made the affair a lot more tedious than it needed to be.
Damning his pride, Cole proceeded to lay thick strips of smoked bacon into a pan before breaking eggs into another. Immediately the room was swamped with the hearty smell of a good breakfast, a smell that set anybody up for the day’s hardships. Toast was made. Tomatoes fried. It was menial work, a fact that Cole was more than aware of, but he was also mindful that this was the first undertaking on a long road ahead.
And he was going to get his money no matter what pains he had to endure.
With stomachs full the Jackrabbits were far more content and considerably less grouchy. Jack began joking with those in his company and even Blakestone reined in his thorny complaints. Cole barely noticed, being that he was kept busy at the stove, doing nothing but preparing food, cooking food and inadvertently sweating into the food.
When the others had been fed, he took time himself to putting a couple of sausages between two pieces of bread. Originally he was cautious about eating, even going so far as asking permission, but when he was told that they didn’t care, he indulged. Not only that but in an act of outrageous defiance, he took one more sausage than necessary. A perk he justified to himself.
Jackdaw rubbed his belly with contentment, dislodging any debris between his teeth with a toothpick. A good breakfast was the underpinning of a successful day. After all, one couldn’t cause all manner of mischief on an empty stomach.
‘Ah. Now that’s more like it. How’s his coffee?’
‘Let’s find out.’ Blakestone tilted his chair back and called his order. ‘Coffee?’
‘Coffee it is.’ Cole withheld his whining and instead simply got to work. Naturally, upon its discovery, the coffee was just as disappointing as the rest of the provisions that occupied cupboard space. He worked the beans as best he could, roasting a couple of handfuls in an iron skillet and tossing them with extravagant flicks of the wrist.
Alvina looked a mite impressed, relaying the occasional observation between those at the table just out of earshot. When done, Cole drained off four cups of the black stuff and carried them over.
There was a slow pattering of feet up the stairs, the chattering of sewing machines from the factory floor, shrill and loud, as the door swung open. Shuffling his way inside, an older gentleman – with wispy white hair protruding from a mottled scalp and long grooves through the folds of his face – carried rolls of paper up beneath an arm. Gold-framed glasses dangled on the length of his reddened nose, seemingly oversized for his fragile face. He eased the door to a close and shuffled on over. A deep inhalation drew in the coffee’s aroma.
‘There’s service for you. It normally takes an age before the wife is awake enough to get to pouring a cup. I can barely function at this time without it in me. How is it?’ The old man pulled out a chair by its back and claimed it as his own.
‘We’re about to find out. I’ll leave it to someone else to try it first.’ Blake chuckled, dropping sugar cubes into his drink.
‘I’ll pass then. I’ll rather go thirsty than suffer some gut-rot. I’ll leave the risk to you,’ the coot dismissed, seating himself among the others with annoying familiarity. His rolls of paperwork thundered onto the table, accompanied by the morning newspaper that was passed to his superior. Jackdaw snapped it open, immediately looking for any mention of them, or other unlikables.
Cole set the coffee pot upon the stove plate a little too firmly, soon shadowed by Blake who was hunting for leftovers, mug in hand.
‘Who’s this guy?’ Cole asked a little too loudly.
‘Ralust,’ Blake flatly answered, stirring his drink with a silver spoon that haphazardly struck the ceramic sides in music. ‘This is our go-to man when we need paperwork done. Forgeries. Sign-offs.’
‘You do me too little credit. You may as well hand me a broom,’ Ralust barked. Clearly Cole hadn’t been as discreet as he had hoped.
‘Yes, yes, enough with the griping. I wasn’t finished.’ Blake secured an unclaimed sausage and indulged, educating Cole further. ‘He gets his grubby skeleton-like mi
tts on such delights as blueprints and shipping manifests. You get the idea. Our old codger here is something of a golden ticket to us bad people.’
‘Your golden ticket is being stretched thin with all these demands of yours,’ Ralust grumbled loudly, arranging his paperwork into a more suitable, organized collective. ‘I’m telling you, if you keep pushing threats on the dock quartermaster he’s going to have me shot before my undertaking of retirement.’
* * *
Jack found this quite amusing, smirking behind the yellowed paper. Old men’s griping was, to him, a waste of breath. Threats could be made and lines drawn, but here it was the nature of men to never settle nor stay still. Retirement was a luxury few could afford in the Sand Sea.
‘Men like you don’t retire, Ralust. You’ll just get bored and come back for another last job until you breathe your last. What’s the verdict on the coffee?’ He scanned all around him.
‘I’ve drunk worse,’ Alvina muttered, taking another sip.
‘I’ve drunk better,’ Blakestone disagreed, curling his lips.
Jackdaw finally lifted his eyes from the print and towards the kitchenette. ‘Congratulations, Little Fish, you’re not out on his ass just yet. Like I always say, you can judge a person’s character by the coffee they make.’
‘You’re too generous, Jack. Word used to be that you would shoot someone over a bad cup of coffee,’ Blake muttered.
‘I’ve mellowed in my old age.’
‘Mellowed. Right.’ Blake punctuated his sarcasm with the raising of eyebrows.
‘Plus this generosity stretches to you not needing to wrestle beasts out in the Sand Sea for a trapper’s pittance. You can thank me for that any time you like.’
‘The floor is dirty. These jeans are clean. If you think I’m getting on my knees in thanks then you can keep waiting.’
‘Are we done yet? Can we get down to work?’ Ralust grizzled, unfurling his rolls of charts across the table. ‘All this yapping is making me impatient.’
Jack struck the old man’s back playfully in agreement.
‘Let’s go over today. Alvina, we had that trouble with some youngsters causing hassles for the nice people paying protection money in the gold district. You get to go down there and persuade them to stop.’
Den of Smoke Page 2