‘Delightful,’ Cole lied, eyes still watering.
‘Just another thing for you to get used to if you’re slumming it with the rest of us.’ Alvina chuckled and sank the rest of her drink with one confident motion. Marquis instantly shuffled before them and refilled their glasses, much to Cole’s horror. The second went down just as easily as the first for Alvina. Cole, however, cradled his to make it last.
‘Mess up those clean hands, get dirt under those pretty fingernails …’
‘You can cut that out now,’ he whined, teeth gnashing in frustration.
‘Tell me something, Cole. You shun something like this, like you’re allergic to it. You even look down on me for simply suggesting this fine eatery. Why?’
‘No!’ Marquis gasped in shock, eavesdropping.
‘I’m afraid so, but don’t judge him too harshly – he has yet to taste your cooking. There is plenty of time to apologize.’
The proprietor grinned from ear to ear, shaking a spatula at the woman. He turned back to the griddle.
‘Why do you do that? Back to your roots ain’t it?’
Cole lowered his drink onto the bar, his eyes narrowing in question. ‘What are my roots exactly, seeing as you seem to be an expert on all things me?’ he probed, with a much more sour tone.
‘Now, now, don’t get all uppity. I meant no offence. I just meant you got Settler’s blood in you is all – just an observation I’m making. Settler folks get trod on, looked down upon, I should know … I’ve endured plenty of shunning. Name-calling. Some of the remarks made by the more uncouth folk are grounds for hurting.’
‘Some of that blood in you, is it?’
‘A tad.’ Alvina smiled. ‘My mother’s side. I figure that would be obvious just by looking at me.’ The woman rarely drew attention to her heritage, probably deeming it a moot point of conversation. It was likely only in his company that she felt comfortable enough to discuss it, even though she could have had more tact in her approach.
‘Then you know how hard it is to court respect from others when all they can see is the superficial – and judge you on it. It should never come down to the colour of skin. The place they’re born. Things like that are out of one’s control. Judging a person because of these qualities is unjust.’ Cole dashed a mouthful of the sour drink down his throat. ‘And money always, always underpins that. I can guarantee there’s not a villain you’ve heard of who doesn’t bathe in wealth.’
‘You’ve got money,’ Alvina pointed out.
‘Not any more I don’t thanks to Jack. That little stunt put plenty out of pocket. A lot of people, a lot of our kind, are out there wanting.’
‘Posh folk?’
‘Settlers,’ Cole corrected with a grunt. ‘Those whom we share blood with. They’re out there starving. Perishing in gutters. Others aren’t as lucky as us, to have a place to lay their heads and a meal ready. It’s our duty to correct that if we have the opportunity,’ Cole replied with a tint of anger to his words.
‘Yeah, well what should be and what transpires ain’t exactly bedfellows now, are they?’ Alvina tapped her coffee-coloured fingers upon the bar.
‘One’s heritage is out of one’s control. Judging a person because of that quality is unjust. Letting them die because of it is abhorrent.’
‘I suppose you’re right. But you’ve done good. Been elevated.’
Cole paused. ‘Let’s just say I’ve always been motivated to make a go of things despite circumstances to the contrary. What’s that old expression? Play the hand you’re dealt.’
‘Quite.’ She struck her glass against Cole’s own. ‘And to that I say ante up.’
Cole eventually had to confess that he didn’t mind his meal. It wasn’t perfect of course, far from it, but there was an ambiance that Cook’s Alley provided that made him forgo his usual stuffiness. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he relaxed, even to the point of enjoying the drink that he slowly poisoned himself with. Alvina commented that it was good to see him at ease for once. Sadly this would not last.
* * *
Their attention was taken by a group of men who were making their way through Cook’s Alley, obnoxiously loud and clearly unwelcome. They jeered and crowed, barging past anyone in their way and, at times, obstructing the path of others just to barge them to the ground. A good number had been drinking, judging by occasional stagger that a simple stride brought about.
‘Oh, that’s just plenty shiny that is,’ Alvina whined, staring deep into her drink.
‘Who’s the rabble?’ Cole quietly muttered.
‘The Sanders Boys. Just one of our many competitors,’ the woman stated.
‘No they’re not.’ Cole peered over his shoulder, eventually shaking his head. ‘Jack and I sold them for a score yesterday.’
‘Some of them no doubt, but not all. The Sanders Boys are one grand, ugly family that’s a straight-up annoyance. That mother of theirs spat them out like rabbits, one after the other like she was a factory of sorts. There was twelve at last count, not including cousins. I suppose with a litter of such size, criminality was all they could look forward to.’ Alvina steadied herself with a staggered exhalation.
‘Is this going to be an issue?’ Cole asked, keeping his voice low.
‘Not if we’re not noticed.’
Alvina hunched herself over her glass with the hope that the pair would remain incognito, only for the disastrous to happen. One of the Sanders Boys came over and leant between them, calling to Marquis.
‘Hey, old-timer. Three fingers of mash, four ales and whatever this pretty thing will drink when she leaves the bore beside her.’
His arm had dropped across Alvina’s shoulders, making her neck hair stand on end. It only took one glance to the woman beside him for his face to fall, for him to release his grip and step back.
Alvina said nothing, letting her stare convey her annoyance, while she finished the last of her soup. She’d hoped the man wouldn’t recognize her, would just see her as another woman annoyed at his chauvinistic advances when she was simply trying to eat.
‘Oh hell. What sort of a coincidence is this?’ the man cheered, waving for the attention of the others. ‘Fellas, come look-see, you won’t believe what I have stumbled upon.’
Luck seemed to be intent to shit upon her from up on high.
From behind, the collection of men, of varying ages and sizes, sauntered over. One showed great irritation at his prolonged sobriety.
‘All this commotion isn’t bringing me my drink any faster, Joey. What are you bleating about?’
‘I recognize this piece right here. This very piece. I’ve seen a bitch like her shake down folks in the street. Exactly like her in fact.’
‘Guys, there’s no need for that,’ Cole protested with his palms open, but he was firmly brushed from his stool with a wave of a muscular arm.
‘Oh yeah, I know who you are, girlie.’ Joey Sanders wagged his finger in her face. Alvina remained stone-faced. ‘I know exactly who you are. You’re a down and dirty Jackrabbit. What in the hell makes you think you’re validated in drinking in this establishment with the stunts you pull?’
Alvina tossed the last of her liquor from cheek to cheek before swallowing the burning away. Finally, and with not an unjust threat, she spoke.
‘You have a big mouth,’ she said. ‘In fact, you all have big mouths. Big mouths with big words, with a tendency to lead you into big trouble.’
Now provoked, the five behind Joey stepped closer.
‘I’ve got half a mind to drag you down the street by your hair and give you a going over,’ Joey stated.
‘At least you’re right about the half a mind part,’ she quipped.
‘No trouble!’ Marquis insisted, repeating himself louder in vague threat. ‘No trouble here! You do that, you do it elsewhere, you do it elsewhere away from here!’
Suddenly Marquis jabbed the air at Alvina and Cole. ‘You two are supposed to be protection! Protect!’
> Alvina beckoned the man on the floor to rise with a wag of her fingers. ‘He’s got a point, Little Fish. Feet. Up on your feet with you.’
‘We’re protection?’ Cole asked, taking to his boots though quite unsure about what to do next.
‘For a portion of the nice stallholders’ profits. The ones who pay us of course.’
‘You’re protection?’ Joey repeated in surprise, louder. A couple of the men behind him sniggered loudly.
‘From the ugly – such as you – sure. Why not?’ Alvina shrugged.
Joey was the first to take a swing. He was fast, faster than someone should be with his bulk. He had obviously learnt how to throw a punch, to use his size as an asset. Sadly it would be for naught in this instance. Alvina slipped down on her stool, letting the fist arc overhead. During its course of travel she reached to her belt, withdrew a switchblade and shanked the aggressor in the thigh. It was a motion that she assumed would take the fight from him, though his roar of anger at his wound indicated it had done no such thing.
The second swing was faster, just as sizable, but it too missed its target. Alvina was already on her feet, had ducked beneath the punch and struck him with one of her own on his jaw. It was a decent punch though on a hardened chin caused nothing but surprise.
Before either party could react further, glass exploded between the pair of them. Cole stood frozen, still clenching the neck of a now shattered rum bottle that he had burst against the thug’s temple. It was enough to knock him out, and he landed in the dirt among the thick shrapnel of smoky bottle shards.
‘Thanks,’ Alvina said, though her attention turned to the others. As Cole tossed his defunct tool away, the Marquis abandoned his stall, as did others who had hoped for a quiet meal.
As the Sanders Boys advanced, Cole struggled to see any way out. He had already had one beating this week and was keen to ensure that it wouldn’t be repeated. His fists were raised in defence, trying to recall some of the boxing tips that his father had imparted.
‘Isn’t it a good time to show some iron to these folks?’
‘You don’t pull a gun out in a bar fight. It’s just not how an altercation is done,’ Alvina explained, waiting for the first unlucky fool to take their chance. One did so and was hip-tossed into a barstool, shattering it into pieces. She followed it up with a kick across the jaw, rendering him motionless.
A glint of steel flashed between them. The knife flashed, light sinking down the blade to its hilt. Its owner advanced aggressively and waved it back and forth.
‘And that?’ Cole asked, trying not to panic.
‘Well, that’s just unsporting.’
He watched Alvina flow through the air like liquid, darting and dodging every thrust, moves practised so much that they were committed to muscle memory. The knife pierced nothing but air and when a sufficient opening appeared, Alvina punished the thrust and ensured that the culprit would be unable to hold anything for a few weeks.
The cracking of bone caused the men to surge onward in a wave of malice. All Cole saw was Alvina landing punches into the cluster of bodies, scattering them this way and that.
That and the fist that knocked him out, sending the world to black.
Chapter Seven
Protecting interests
Two days later, the Jackrabbits took to the merchants’ quarter, navigating the streets with purpose. Cole was more sheepish than the others, nursing an almighty black eye that sullied his eye socket. It had swollen too, an uncomfortable reminder of his lack experience in a brawl. Not that he needed a reminder of course. Between then and now, the entire gang had ribbed him about his shiner. That didn’t look to be easing up any time soon.
‘If recent events have shown us anything,’ Jack declared, ‘it’s that you need to defend yourself a little better than you already have. I can’t have people under my employ walking around with faces like a butcher’s scrap bucket.’
‘He’s referring to the eye,’ Alvina leant in and whispered.
‘Thank you, I got that,’ Cole groaned back under his breath.
‘In this line of work, I expect plenty,’ Jack continued. ‘Loyalty is a given. But what I need to know when you’re out of my sight, and the sight of others, is that you can see potential dangers.’
‘That’s difficult for you on account of being punched.’ Alvina edged closer once more, the end of her revelation trailing to a hiss. ‘Punched in the eye.’
Cole slapped his palm to his face in disbelief.
Blake had remained curiously silent, occasionally flicking his good eye in Cole’s direction. It was clear that this entire affair didn’t sit right with him and he voiced as much.
‘What are we doing about retaliation? We’re not letting the Sanders Boys get away with this are we? Even as a sham, they’ll be under the false impression that they can get one over on us without repercussions.’ He loudly spat into the gutter. ‘The last thing we need is more pressure from chancers.’
‘They are plenty in number and we are a handful. The odds dictate we play things smart and safe.’
‘Is that a no? We’re going to let this go unpunished?’
‘When the time comes, but today is not that day.’ Jackdaw fiddled with his shirt cuffs in irritation.
‘Just give me a couple of weeks. I’ll jump each and every one from whatever pit they crawl out of, do the lot in turn and we’ll have one less concern on the daily.’
‘You –’ Jackdaw spun in his place, bringing Blake to an abrupt stop, his hand extended ‘– will do what I say. I’ve told you my stance on the matter and no action needs to be taken. Not by me, not by the others and especially not by you when in one of your hot-headed moods. Just having to explain this simple concept irritates me, so, from this moment forth, there will be none of this nonsense. Do you understand me?’
Jack may have missed it but Cole witnessed Blake’s fists clench to the point that his knuckles turned white. He held his breath, expecting a punch to be thrown that never came. Instead, the Jackrabbit relented and fell into line.
After a brief couple of stops to check with shop owners as to the state of goods they were harbouring, or whether long-standing trouble had returned, Jack and the others stopped at their destination.
Cole had never been inside a store like this before. He had always kept clear of them because, previously, he hadn’t wanted to tarnish his reputation – and the kind of individuals they attracted were of the rougher sort. Of course, that was before the pursuit of reclaiming his lost money. Now, Cole realized he was one of those whom he used to cross the street to avoid.
He raised his eyes to the overhanging sign on the wall. On it, painted in a port red, were two crossed revolvers with the name of the premises:
THE DEADBOLT GUNWORKS
The door swung inward, the tinkle of a bell rattling above to indicate their arrival. The shop was deceptively small, with four large glass cases and plenty of stock hidden in the basement. Windows were reinforced with iron lattices to deter potential thieves. The lowering sun flooded the interior with orange, though not enough to light a lamp. Glass display cases bared their wares: a range of firearms, rifles, knives and other such instruments of injury. All had been keenly buffed, with price cards set alongside them.
Past these were various workbenches, along with racks of well-sorted tools. Among them, the owner pressed down on a lever intermittently. Beside her, skeletons of metal were processed, filled with black powder and bullets. At her side a burly man organized piles of materials, his face thick with a pitch bush of an untamed beard. His eyes were blank, only seemingly springing to life at the sound of the bell, which coaxed the pair to turn their attention to the patrons.
* * *
Wyld pulled the protective goggles from her eyes and wiped her hands upon a thick leather apron. She strode over and welcomed Jack with a charming smile. Her work gloves were removed and tossed onto a worktop so as not to tarnish the main cabinets’ impeccable polish. Umbra remained at his s
tation, busying himself.
‘This is nice to see.’ She beamed. ‘Good afternoon, folks. You have impeccable timing. I was just about to close doors.’
‘Is that an indication that you don’t want our business? I’m hurt.’ Jack scanned over the stock to see if there was anything of interest. There usually was. Her connections to individuals like him ensured that there was a flow of good quality imperial weaponry. Quality, however, came at considerable expense and sometimes that bill wasn’t monetary.
‘Perish the thought, Jack. Honest crooks like yourself are keeping the lights on and the pair of us fed. I’m happy to see you still breathing.’
‘Not for the want of others trying, I assure you.’
Wyld turned her head to the tallest one among them.
‘Mister Blakestone, it’s nice to see you once more. You’re keeping those good looks in check I’m hoping.’ She grinned.
Blake tipped the lip of his hat, showing the slightest sign of a blush, but luckily his beard hid most of it. ‘Ma’am.’
Wyld turned to the next in line. ‘Alvina, always a pleasure, dear.’
The smile was warmly reciprocated.
Wyld curled one side of her mouth in thought whilst looking at Cole. With a wagging finger she finally confessed, ‘You … I don’t know you.’
Immediately Cole reached over the counter and shook her hand a tad too vigorously for her taste. His grin was nauseatingly wide.
‘Cole Roaner, ma’am. Associate of Jack, er … Jackdaw.’
‘So you are. Wow.’ She watched her hand bounce around in his grip. ‘And a fine hand you have there too. Nice eye.’
* * *
Cole withdrew his hand in embarrassment. ‘Is this your establishment?’
Wyld slanted her hips, tugging at her apron strings. The apron was removed, folded and put aside.
‘It’s my name above the door ain’t it? It’s my pride and joy. You’re new, so I’ll let you in on a slim little secret,’ she intimately whispered, ‘if you’re looking for iron, I have the best in town. Honest.’
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