‘How persuasive?’
‘Enough to make sure they have trouble lifting things. Any problems with that?’
‘None at all.’
‘Good to hear. Ralust?’
‘Boss?’
‘Word is, the taxman is going to be paying us a visit soon. I need to know what options we have.’
‘That’s easy: lies or bribery.’
‘Pick one and run with it.’
‘Got it.’ Ralust began to scribble details down into a well-used leather ledger.
‘Cole?’
* * *
Cole looked up from cleaning the surfaces, a job that had clearly been previously ignored and would take him considerable time.
‘Yes, Jack?’ The air felt thick as all eyes turned on him, glaring. Immediately Cole corrected his mistake. ‘Sorry, I mean boss.’
The ceramic cup was shaken in Jack’s hand. ‘Refill.’
‘Right.’
‘Blake, take a stroll over to the docks and put the feelers out. There’s a few ships rolling in. See if there’s any deckhands who can be easily persuaded to miscount any offloaded cargo. Get Ralust to give you the list of this week’s buyers and what they’re on the lookout for.’
‘Shall do.’ Blake ground his cigar into a smoky glass ashtray.
‘Well? Everyone has their roles. Let’s get to work. The day is waiting.’
* * *
When everyone had cleared out to perform their individual tasks, the hideout fell significantly quieter. Cole’s frantic scrubbing of pans and the factory din filled the void.
Jack took his corduroy suit jacket from a stand that inhabited a corner. He peered out into the streets via a clean spot on the window, taking in the untarnished blue sky. Those outside went about their business, unhurried, a trend adopted by most in Esquelle. Mornings weren’t built for rushing about.
He sauntered to a large single-pane piece of glass and looked down onto the factory itself. Each workstation was accompanied by someone who twisted and turned fabric with speed, as their sewing machine continued its repetitive clatter. The foremen walked about between them, dispensing advice and ensuring all went smoothly. On the surface these individuals, older women mostly, were simply disposable labourers, but that was a deliberate deception. They were each well paid, not only to do their jobs, but also to keep their mouths shut. They were moles, informants, bribers, relayers of gossip and a vital part of the Jackrabbits’ network. Dismissing them as just workers would be a disservice, for they were capable and handy.
A foreman waved to the management upon noticing he was being watched. Jack acknowledged with a dip of the head.
‘Cole.’
‘Yes, boss?’ he said, up to his wrists in suds.
‘Finish that up and lace your boots. You’re with me today. I’ve got something for you to get stuck into.’
* * *
Papers were stacked in uneven piles, some bleeding into others. Just from a glance Cole felt his stomach fall through the floor. Purchase orders, receipts, inventories, and scores of what else almost mocked him in intimidation. The mass was a complex collection with no attempt of organization, or at least not one that met normal conventions. Cole guessed things were just piled up on top of one another. Never had he been in the presence of such a fiasco.
‘This is your attempt at bookkeeping?’ he asked, aghast.
‘Not mine. Ralust has a very unique way of filing. Or he did, until he just gave up and began tossing things in here.’ Jack flicked a roll-up from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘I’m assuming as much at least. I won’t pretend to know the intricate details of you numbers people. I just know what I see and what I see is that substantial pile being messy.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I thought that would be obvious.’ Jack grinned, removing his cigarette and letting the ash drift to the floor. ‘Un-mess it.’
‘You sure know how to force a heart attack on me. Don’t need a weapon to do so, I tell you that much.’ Cole began to sieve through the first pieces of paper within his reach. ‘Invoices. IOUs. There’s plenty here that doesn’t match convention. It’ll take me …’
‘How long do you need?’
Cole, still feeling traumatized, flatly responded. ‘The end of time itself by the looks of this.’
‘You have three days,’ Jack compromised, or at least, it was a compromise to him.
‘Wonderful.’
‘Call me if there’s anything that you need.’ Jack corrected himself: ‘Actually, make it Alvina or Blake. Best to call one of those two. I’ll be busy.’
‘Wait, is this safe?’ Cole asked.
‘Nothing we do is strictly safe, Little Fish …’
‘No, I mean this record keeping. Anybody could read it.’
‘The written word is easily accessible to most with working eyes. That’s sort of its point of being.’
‘That’s not what I’m getting at. Do you want me to encode it? Make it so that only we can tell the coming and goings, just in case the worst should happen?’
‘You can do that, can you?’
‘Yeah. It’ll take me a little longer but in this line of work it would be good –’ Cole hesitated to find the correct word, awkwardly grinning as he did so ‘– er … insurance?’
Jack entwined his arms, reciprocating the expression and cocking a brow. ‘Insurance, huh? And who would be able to decode it?’
‘Myself. You. Whoever you wanted that we taught the cypher to.’
Jackdaw frowned at the term, clearly attempting to pair it with its meaning. Cole witnessed the struggle and offered the solution.
‘Cypher. The key.’
‘Just us will be fine. Do whatever you need to do.’
‘I’ll probably need an extra day,’ Cole bargained, lifting a stack of loose papers from the desk chair. They slid under their own weight, noisily scattering about at his feet.
‘Nice try but you still have three,’ Jackdaw answered.
* * *
In those three days, Cole set himself to work and did so every minute he was able to. He ate at the desk, clearing a space to work with his master ledger and a space for a plate and cup. These areas were not compromised with loose papers, maintaining a working area that prevented confusion and further clutter. Firstly he sorted each item by date, then type, then attempted to bind it all together in whatever logic could be mustered from it all. He slept around five hours a night, and spend at least fifteen working away at the task at hand.
As gruelling as a routine as this was, progress was being made. A comprehensive list of the Jackrabbits’ dealings was coming to light, something that the law would kill for. Acquisition by theft was numerous. Embezzlement was dotted here and there. Bribery of many local officials – and some regional – made a good part of expenditures, the trade-off being acquisition of goods, some small and others in impressive scores. Recorded stock was all over the place, with goods going this way and that, sometimes sold, sometimes vanishing into the air and marked as a loss.
But as much of a picture this was creating, there were a couple of curiosities Cole stumbled upon. They were things that merited deeper investigation and so, he chased the paper trail only to be sent in loops and eventual dead ends. Cole decided that the best course of action was just to come out and ask about them to the ones who would best know.
* * *
‘There he is. The numbers man. Good thing you’re not at the table. I would have to accuse you of counting cards.’ Blake tilted his chair back, his chips considerably lower than any others on the table. He swigged a mouthful of beer despite his slur indicating he should show restraint. He always drank whenever the group played cards, smoked like a bonfire too. Sadly, displacing his attention into these vices caused plenty of overzealous bluffs, which even a blind man could identify. Not that the others complained of course. Taking Blake’s money never got old. The day he caught on to this would be the day their fun was ruined.
‘Lucky for both of us I won’t be winning your money by the fistful. It seems like everyone else at the table is doing it for me,’ Cole jabbed.
‘He’s not wrong there.’ Alvina snickered, taunting the winnings she had alleviated from him.
Jack placed his cards face down on the veneer. ‘Are you thinking of joining us or is there something you want to ask about that there stack of papers under your arm?’
‘I’ve got most of this in order but there’s a discrepancy that needs sorting. I was hoping somebody could clear it up for me.’
‘Go on.’ Jack sipped from a glass.
Cole cleared his throat loudly. ‘Large sums of monies are shifting back and forth with constant losses. All of these share something in common. Manifests, notes, they all loop back to the same thing.’
‘What’s the point?’ Blake asked, failing to look up from his cards. He was already forty bucks in the hole and the last thing he wanted was to be put off whilst attempting to bluff his way out.
‘The point is, some of these are initialled with D.K. So my question is …’ he placed the stack of paperwork and the completed, encoded ledger on the table, loudly and with purpose ‘… who exactly is Donovan Kane?’
All three lowered their cards in unison.
‘Want to field this one, boss?’ Blakestone folded his hand and anxiously vacated his seat to fetch himself a smoke. He could bleed money some other time. Alvina felt it fit to follow. Suddenly, her throat had become dry and booze within reach wouldn’t have sated it.
‘Sit, Cole,’ Jackdaw insisted, waving at the still-warm chair. Complying, Cole did so. ‘How did you come about that name?’
‘Handwritten letter dictating a telegram. Telephone message here referring to a date that I traced to an inventory slip with the initials on. That date would be tomorrow. It looks like an invitation of sorts with your name on it.’
Jack took the paperwork as his own and surveyed it with the utmost scrutiny. Unfortunately it was true. What was worse was that this slip-up was in his own handwriting. It was quite unusual for him to be so sloppy.
‘It’s a name you don’t want to become accustomed to,’ he added with determination.
‘I hate to break it to you, but it seems like I already am.’
Jack’s tone became solemn, borderline threatening almost. ‘Mr Kane is an individual we do not like to speak of. As far as you are concerned he is a voice on the wind. A voice that we very much pay attention to.’
‘… okay. And you’re seeing him tomorrow, correct?’
‘That I most certainly am. The crux of it is that he is our benefactor, or sponsor if you will. He finances this here enterprise and we pay in kind. No questions. No fuss. Setting something like this up requires tribute in every form it could possibly take. I do not expect you to become accustomed to such a thing and that’s not a black mark against your living. We are indebted to him in the literal and the monetary sense. Like I said to you, there’s always a bigger fish.’
Jack doused his explanation with a swig of ale.
‘And that bastard is the biggest you’re ever gonna see. Now. Are we absolutely, positively clear on the situation regarding Mister Kane?’ Jack asked. Only a fool would have misunderstood the tone and pressed further. Cole was not a fool by any definition of the world and said nothing else on this topic.
Cole nodded as Jack scooped the pot into his pile with considerable envy.
‘Good. Now sit there. You’re going to play some cards with us.’
Chapter Three
Knives in meat
A typically uncomfortable train ride did nothing to brighten Jack’s mood. Having to visit Donovan in any capacity was never something to be pleased with. You were never in Donovan’s company unless you needed to beg for something, or he had demanded your presence. Rarely did either of these situations play out as expected. Bargains would always be one-sided and most of the time, an individual would leave empty-handed.
So when Jackdaw received a letter requesting his attendance, very politely of course, it did nothing but coax ire. He had enough to concern himself with and didn’t need to burden his mind with the what-ifs the note conjured up. None of them were good of course. Nothing about being summoned by Donovan ever concluded pleasantly.
Semmerton was a small village with a shady past, a single stop westwards by train. Every brothel Jackdaw passed hid criminals by the score. Each storefront was a façade for bootleggers, betting dens and underground boxing rings. All the sordid things that respectable towns swept out to keep themselves decent wound up here. It was an open secret of course and under Donovan’s control, this lawless hole had begun attracting every sort of scumbag from the Badlands to the borders of Eifera. It was a haven for their sort.
Not for Jackdaw though. He had a code he worked to, a professionalism that refused to be tarnished by vermin who pulled the trigger at a simple disagreement, or saw fit to cut a woman’s face just for looking at them wrong. Yes, these were the crimes the worst were guilty of and if the land were scrubbed clean in a flood, not a one would be missed by anyone with scruples.
Jackdaw sidestepped a fight that had broken out between two small gangs, passing by before knives could be introduced or the inevitable shots fired. He had walked the approach to Donovan’s compound a good number of times before but that didn’t alleviate scrutiny from passing sharpshooters. They sat on overhangs, rooftops and watchtowers looking for the first signs of trouble. Bluecoat trouble, not the regular disgusting masses that brawled in the open.
Each one waved him past, recognizing him as a regular. He was welcomed at the gates, patted down and his weapon was removed, as was procedure. He passed the main house, large and obtained via ill-gotten money, and then he followed the white gravel paths that funnelled people through the property. Past the stables he went, catching sight of the newest collection of mares being trained for racing. Only at a rundown-looking barn on the outskirts did Jackdaw find who had called for him.
A heavyset pale man guarded the door, his rifle propped up against the barn itself, stock first. A block of ginger hair protruded from a brown derby bowler that had seen better days. His freckled features moved to delight upon seeing Jackdaw approach. Immediately he whipped his hand out and shook the visitor’s warmly.
‘Morning, Jack. It’s been a while since you’ve given us a visit. I was beginning to think you had been replaced. Wouldn’t want that now.’
‘Me neither.’ Jack smiled. ‘I like working. I like breathing a whole lot more if you catch my meaning.’
The sentry spat into the ground, surveying the harsh sun.
‘Things have changed since Wilheim was buried … Not for the better. Too many youngsters these days are trying to make their name – with no experience. Figure they can get it by taking out big ’uns like you and I. Brats the lot of them. I always said you were one of the good ones.’
It would have been a nice sentiment if Jackdaw could remember this fellow’s damn name. Instead he tipped his head in thanks and stated his intentions. From the open doorway, a curious and irregular thumping sound made itself known. The daylight was so harsh that the interior was swamped with shadow.
‘I’ll always accept a compliment, warranted or no. I’m here to see the big man. Got a summons the other day; fellow at the gate pointed me in this direction. He inside?’
‘He’s inside all right. Best not say anything out of turn today. He seems to be in quite the mood,’ the sentry proclaimed, turning his head to the side and calling into the darkness, ‘Hey, boss! Jackdaw is out here saying you sent for him!’
The thumping abruptly stopped.
‘Send him in,’ was the gravelled reply.
The sentry held his arm out to offer Jackdaw passage inside. ‘Best of luck to you, Jack.’
The blows started up once more, louder this time. The deeper Jack ventured inside, navigating a small grimy corridor filled with barrels and gurneys, his eyes readjusting to the gloom, the better he could s
ee and, unfortunately, smell. The air was nauseatingly thick with a pungent metallic waft. Jack didn’t need to guess the cause. There had been times when the stench had clung to him after a day’s labour, poisoned his clothes and became one with his skin.
Nobody had to remind Jackdaw what death smelt like.
He looked back the way he had come, eyes now turning to the floor to follow a strip of red that ran from the open door to another that had been propped open. Spitting the warm miasma from his mouth to the floor, Jackdaw followed the trail.
He had known Donovan Kane for as long as he’d been in the game. A small-time thug had risen to become Wilheim Fort’s most trusted adviser and, as an extension, a grabber and torturer. A grabber was an individual who was skilled in the art of retrieval. Rubbed the boss up the wrong way? A grabber would get you and force you to explain yourself in person. Went on the run after owing money? A grabber would drag you back to ensure you paid in full. Naturally grabbing and torture went hand in hand, as tongues needed to be loosened by any means necessary.
Donovan was especially talented at this.
His father had taught him butchery in his youth, which became useful when putting the hurt on the uncooperative. How bones broke. Which part of the insides to hurt and how. When Wilheim’s empire began to crumble, it was Donovan who claimed it and this patented hurt of his had to be applied on a good number of fellow challengers before they submitted to reason. By the time he was victorious, Donovan’s dominance was unquestioned.
It would be easy to become sluggish upon his new throne, to let his gifts become rusty and obsolete.
But Donovan had found a routine to ensure this would not be the case.
Donovan continued to cut through a sow with quick slips of a knife. Segments of chops were removed and placed beside one another. Despite having the animal bled out beforehand, dashes of blood accompanied that spread out on the chopping block. That which the block failed to contain dripped down onto the tiled floor that gently sloped to a drain. Judging by the amount of blood that adorned the floor, he had gone through a few animals already today.
Den of Smoke Page 3