Den of Smoke

by Christopher Byford

  Cole laughed as he claimed the pot, dragging it into his possession. This time Alvina had no suggestions to give, only a grimace.

  ‘That’s the fun over with. I suggest we focus on getting back to work. There’s plenty of the day left.’ Blake counted up his winnings, or lack of them and pocketed them.

  Alvina raised her brows in surprise. ‘Jack’s been riding us harder than ever and the moment we catch a break you want to get back to it? You were the first one to complain earlier. Are you that keen for work?’

  ‘Don’t you have something you need to keep your eye on? Somebody to check in on, something to pick up maybe? Anything?’

  ‘It might surprise you to hear but I’m up on all that. There’s nothing for me to do this afternoon but indulge in some sweet leisure time.’ Alvina heavily leant back on her chair, tilting it on two legs. ‘Another game, Little Fish?’

  ‘He’ll pass,’ Blake interrupted before Cole could respond.

  He was just as confused as Alvina as to where this was coming from. It was Alvina’s turn to speak for him. ‘Yes, he will. Are you his keeper now?’

  ‘While Jack is off I thought that was down to you,’ he insisted, getting up from the table. ‘Off screwing a damned Rose of all things …’ Blake grumbled.

  ‘That’s nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Be that as it may, despite you being in charge, I’m telling you that we’re getting back to business. In fact, I figure given Cole’s recent foray into violence …’

  ‘Very careful wording, thank you.’ Cole nodded.

  ‘… he could do with being taught how to shoot to prevent any more situations where he gets his ass kicked.’

  ‘That was less subtle.’ Cole wheezed, deflated. He placed his own cards down and picked through the coins in his possession. ‘As much as it hurts my ego, he does have a point.’

  ‘Couple of killjoys, the pair of you. This table was turning sour anyway.’ Alvina spun her cards firmly over the table though her reaction wasn’t risen to.

  This just irritated Blake more. The bear of a man pulled himself to his feet and beckoned Cole to follow him. Cole surrendered quickly.

  ‘There’s no use buying him a new toy and not playing with it. I’m taking him downstairs and won’t come up until he knows how to assert himself.’

  ‘Fine! Okay! Point taken. Go on, young blood, you’ve been told,’ Alvina whined before pouring herself another drink. ‘Leave me all alone here.’

  * * *

  The pair took the stairs to the factory floor, the chatter of sewing machines melding into an almost deafening droll. Each one rattled in motion, their operators drawing cloth back and forth in monotony. They passed the rows of workers – who knew better than to look up – until they reached the basement stairwell. Barred by a thick padlock, Blake snapped it open with the corresponding key and struck the light switch just inside. Gloomy concrete steps revealed themselves in luminescence as the lamps’ filaments warmed into light.

  ‘Why downstairs? Why not outside?’ Cole asked, cautiously descending to ensure that the steep steps didn’t cause him to slip.

  ‘We don’t want undue attention. The machinery will mask the noise we make. The basement is plenty big enough.’

  Cole had never been in the basement before – in fact he had been unaware there even was one. Judging by the lock he assumed that there must be something down here Jack didn’t want snoopers to get their hands on. Though the workers were mostly the poor, the unfortunate, he paid enough of a wage to buy their loyalty. Despite this, you could never be too careful it seemed.

  Crates lay stacked in piles, all seemingly well organized, with most nailed shut. Some were labelled in languages that were simply alien to him, no doubt shipped from regions where a different tongue was spoken. Cole’s recent tallying of the books had revealed that there was a complete tapestry of things, things that must be stored down here – from the curious and obscure to the downright illegal. Bags of spice. Antiques. Cole trailed his fingers across the rough oak of liquor barrels while loud squeaking resonated from the walls.

  In the corner were a number of stacked bales covered by a canvas. They had each been bound well, with the exception of the one at the bottom which, when dragged along, had revealed its contents. Curiosity dictated Cole to kneel and pull a length from the bale. He turned it in his fingers under the basement light, not quite sure of what to make of it. He sniffed at the rust-coloured plant, dried fragments tarnishing his dark fingertips.

  ‘You don’t want that, kid.’ Blakestone removed it from Cole’s possession and pocketed it for his own personal use.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just the payoff for a deal from a while ago. We did someone over one time and that’s the thank you present. That right there is a contraband the likes of which we don’t talk about. It doesn’t exist, get me? If any of the others operating in this town catch wind that we’re in possession of bales of Red Root, they’ll all come knocking at our door, loudly at that. That stuff is trouble on our heads.’

  Cole thought for a second. ‘It came from the Morning Star job, didn’t it? From a few months back?’

  ‘How would you happen to know that?’

  ‘I went through the paperwork, remember? One of the many discrepancies I had to sort out. I processed the inventory. Seems like we have a lot more than what was declared to … what was the name … Wilheim something? Hey, seeing that this Donovan guy is in the picture, does he know about all this?’

  Blake heaved boxes aside, clearing an area. Dust kicked up causing him to succumb to the occasional cough.

  ‘We don’t speak his name, remember?’ Blake reminded him.

  ‘Right. Sorry.’

  A row of dilapidated wooden mannequins were rudimentary, but would prove to be great targets. Blake had hauled each from the wall and dragged them into position, placing them a couple of feet apart in space. When happy with the set-up, he called Cole on over and the teaching began.

  ‘Little Fish!’ he called, quite proudly. On Cole’s approach he took the Bastion from its holster and offered it, handle first. ‘Today you gain some teeth.’

  Chapter Nine

  Procurement

  ‘Enjoying your paper?’

  ‘As much as one can. Or at least I was.’ Jack loudly turned the page, returning his eyes to the print once more. It was too early in the morning to do anything but relax. On the table before him plates remained dotted with toast crusts. Drained cups or those harbouring a cold inch of coffee had been left. Cole had yet to clean up, but Jack had given him some leeway since his recent performances. Yes, it was a morning fit for embracing a scant few minutes of tranquillity – and not what Blakestone was oh so eager to start.

  ‘What’s eating away at you, Blake? You’ve got that look in your eyes.’ He corrected himself: ‘Well, eye. You’re either going to throw something or have an outburst and we both know I like my crockery the way it is.’

  ‘You may not appreciate it,’ Blake grunted in disdain.

  ‘Out with it.’

  ‘I’ll be blunt.’

  Without looking up, Jack accommodated another one of Blake’s moments. He reached for his cup and went to finish it, only to find it devoid of coffee. Placing it back down he sighed in disappointment, the tranquillity now on the cusp of being shattered for good. ‘Blunt is all I ever want you to be,’ he added.

  ‘Fine. Blunt it is. You’re putting an awful lot of trust in the kid. Someone, I will point out, who you know absolutely nothing about.’

  Jack flexed the paper, not finding anything in this conversation enough to warrant putting it down. Half of his attention was spent scanning column space for any mention of misdeeds – those of the Jackrabbits or others.

  ‘Think you’ve learnt something about him in my absence?’

  ‘The kid asked a lot of questions while getting accustomed to a gun. I mean a lot of questions. Wanted to know about us. About me. About you especially.’

  ‘Wh
at did you tell him?’

  ‘Enough to get by. Nothing I would call revealing,’ Blake scoffed.

  Jackdaw turned the page. ‘Can he shoot yet?’

  ‘Absolutely. His aim isn’t going to be sharp, but he’ll hit a target at fifteen paces. Past that, it’s sketchy but that’s what experience builds, not that he should be with us long enough to get that …’

  Blake paused his pacing in the vain hope that Jack would give him his total attention. Somehow, the newspaper was more of a priority.

  ‘I know what you’re getting at. You think he’ll do me wrong,’ Jack said.

  ‘I’m just saying, is all. What if he’s not on the level? Maybe he’s got an agenda of his own? There’s been plenty nipping at our heels so it wouldn’t be farfetched one might have sent a plant to get on your good side.’

  ‘Then we’ll find out in time.’

  ‘You’re just going to wait and see what happens?’

  ‘Why not? It’s as good a plan as any.’

  ‘I’m concerned that he’s so unchecked. Snooping through our paperwork, roaming around the place! He’s just … Dammit, Jack, can you …’ He lunged forward and swiped the paper down to the table, much to Jack’s surprise, his fingers now clenching air. ‘Can you stop that and bloody listen to me please? Did the thought strike you that he might even be one of Donovan’s men?’

  The paper was patiently and neatly folded up and placed to the side. The outburst convinced Jack to finally give him his full attention. His response was blunt and monotone. ‘The thought did occur, yup.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And these are not things you get to fret about. Take him along to tonight’s job to test him. You’ll both be keeping eyes on him, correct? If he even polishes his shoes cock-eyed I’ll be made aware. If he’s not, as you say, on the level, then he’ll be taking a long dirt nap.’

  Blake slouched down in the chair opposite, groaning aloud in frustration. There was no use arguing the point, but still. ‘You and I do this trust thing very differently.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re not in charge,’ Jack stated, going back to his newspaper. ‘Who knows, the day may come when you will be and when it does, you’ll have to remember this conversation when leading by example.’

  ‘One day, huh?’

  ‘In the far future, why not?’

  * * *

  ‘Since when was Muskratt a dry town?’ Cole enquired, looking over the map for the umpteenth time. He knew the place certainly: low incomes, troublesome at times. Most of the locals worked in the steel mill that the town had sprung up around like fungus. It was somewhere that had gained its reputation by word of mouth and the words used to spread it were not in the least polite. Jack fielded the question, moving his glass of Boudon’s Bourbon to weigh down one of the map’s corners.

  ‘Since some big-shot lawman took over the region. He’s cracking down hard on those intolerable types such as ourselves. It was decided that implementing prohibition here would suppress most of the uncouth folk.’

  ‘The southerners sure do like their drink …’ Blake agreed, a toothpick travelling from one side of his mouth to the other, then back again.

  ‘So would you if you worked out there,’ Jack stated. ‘Drinking is their only pleasure. Make no mistake, no matter how bad any region has it, they got it worse than anyone. New shipping lanes are turning it into a ghost town. Give it a handful of years and it’ll be dead. That’s all beside the point – today is about the here and now. This printer’s, right here, is just a front.’ Jack circled the location with a finger. ‘It’s brewing bootlegged booze and hauling it out to any bars that’ll have a lock-in. Some bright sort gave them an arrangement on supplies and they ship out the brew in the early hours.’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Alvina asked.

  ‘We hijack the booze, and sell it exclusively to one customer. We sell it for a lot more than most to compensate for having a monopoly on this here illegality. They crank up the prices in turn and both parties make good profit. Take the barrels and drop them off over in this metal workshop for storage. I’ve got someone there ready to stash them.’

  ‘You have a way of putting things simply,’ she stated, swigging from Jackdaw’s glass before placing it back down for its intended purpose.

  ‘I’m a straightforward kind of guy.’

  ‘What stops them from making more?’ Cole asked, raising a hand. When he noticed that this wasn’t the sort of audience to ask attention from, he withdrew it back to his side.

  ‘They won’t be able to. The means of which are up to your discretion.’

  ‘Limited to …?’ Blake opened his question hoping for something concrete. He was to be disappointed.

  ‘Whatever you see fit. We need that liquor and the pay that comes with. Everything under the roof is expendable.’

  ‘Thought you said these people were at the end of their ropes, boss.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you’re talking about taking away their only vice. Even their lives?’

  Jack sarcastically pouted. ‘My heart is breaking. It’s just business and these people are involved with nasty folks who are not us. Go take a nap, boys and girls – you leave at sundown.’

  * * *

  The drive out to Muskratt was uneventful. Even the exciting roads, which played havoc with the truck’s lack of suspension, felt like a monotony. Navigating the streets was a little tougher, with Cole reading directions out from the back seat. Muskratt was a maze, its streets winding this way and that. They managed to get lost twice before Blake relinquished the map and looked at it himself while driving them to the printer’s.

  They parked up a few buildings back, where the streetlights neglected to administer their light, and they burned the hours away with small talk.

  With a grunt of concern, Blake peered beneath the chipped windscreen of the truck cab at the pitch-black sky. His eyes flicked between stars, or the lack of them, drowned by the brilliance of a full moon. For him, this was far from his liking and he voiced as much, in between sips from a silver hip flask. Tucked into the driver’s side door was a paper bag of shelled nuts, from which he removed a handful and began to de-shell and eat them in turn.

  ‘Trapper’s moon tonight. My old ma used to say that you never did business on a night like this. It’s bad luck. Money will leave you as fast as it came,’ Blake said.

  ‘I’ve never seen you as the superstitious type.’ Alvina drummed her fingers on the blemished dashboard. ‘Couldn’t Jack have obtained a better vehicle for the job?’

  ‘Who’s superstitious? I’m just stating a fact. You never listened to your mother?’

  ‘She was too busy swimming in a bottle to entertain her daughter.’

  ‘Cole?’

  ‘Absent for the most part, working for the rest.’ He sighed from behind them, nose deep in a book of some sort. Blake leant heavily back in his seat, the old springs complaining under the stress. His lips met the container once more.

  ‘My, this time is going to go fast …’

  Blakestone took his eyes to the rear-view mirror, spying Cole quite engrossed in the book between his fingers.

  ‘What are you reading there?’ he probed.

  ‘Pocketbook.’

  ‘Of?’

  Cole angled the cover towards him. The frayed green cloth was embossed with a faded gold stamp, declaring:

  The Yellow Soliloquy

  A collection of poetry by an indifferent mind

  ‘Fascinating.’ Blake turned to face forward again and began de-shelling a new handful of nuts.

  ‘Stop being so grumpy. There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of civility. Not that you would know anything about that. Or anything else worth knowing.’ Alvina swatted the back of Blake’s head.

  ‘My mother read to me at bedtime,’ Cole revealed, turning back to his place between the pages. ‘Before she passed from the Rust Cough, my pappy was made to promise to read something cultured other than Settlers’ tal
es of adventure and legends. He bought this and it was passed down to me.’

  ‘Oh please just kill me now,’ Blake interrupted. He scooped the shells into a palm and tossed them from the window, with an all too audible groan. Alvina struck him on the side of the arm for his rudeness.

  ‘The next time you say something so asinine, I’ll take it as an invitation.’

  Blakestone patted the wheel like a drum, sending the cab of the rickety vehicle rocking side to side.

  ‘Look at the bright side. If we encounter any trouble Cole here can recite them to death. I feel safer already.’

  ‘I find it ironic you speak of feeling safe when we have a satchel of dynamite rattling around in the back,’ Cole retorted, his book clapping shut in annoyance, spying the bag with as much concern as the numerous times before.

  ‘What can I say, young blood?’ Blake leant back until his seat springs complained. ‘You and me are just two different people.’

  ‘It’s not a concern to you? The prospect that you may be blown up on the job?’

  ‘Keep on jabbering away and you just might. I’ll personally see to that.’

  Blakestone drew back his cuff and spied the hands on his watch. ‘Okay. It’s going to get light in an hour so we’re on. Keep sharp and keep quiet unless you have a reason to talk.’

  ‘To think of the life of luxury I gave up for this …’ Cole murmured to himself.

  * * *

  The loading bay was accessible by a single entrance with two large double doors with a single door between them. Keeping to the shadows, the trio slinked along brickwork before trying the single door. It failed to open.

  Alvina pressed at various points, measuring the light breaking out from the inside.

  ‘Triple bolt, top, bottom and waist-high. Do you want to do the knocking?’

  ‘It would be my pleasure,’ Blake stated.

  Blake rapped his knuckles on the wood and waited. The door swung inward, only for the doorman to observe those same knuckles launching at his face, the solid punch causing him to sprawl out on the floor.