by Clea Simon
Suddenly, my reluctance makes sense. There was evil here – the stench of death and fear – and I would keep this girl from it, if I could. Despite the constant footfall, the open stretch of stone, I dart ahead to stand before her.
‘Blackie.’ She shakes her head as if I were the boy. ‘I thought maybe I saw you. Damn …’ She looks around, as if for an escape, and my tail perks up. My ears. ‘Where will you be safe?’ She’s talking to herself, without expectation of an answer, but I must react. She seeks to store me, to stow me away for my safety, when I am the experienced one in this venue. I lean in, straddling her foot with my body. This has the advantage of stopping her while I deliberate, as well as expressing my allegiance. But no, too late, I recall our relative sizes – I feel the hands on my side and twist. The sore place makes me, perhaps, a tad more vocal in my protest than I would like, but it does no good.
‘Shh.’ She holds me up, close to her face. Her breath is warm in my fur, her heartbeat steady. I settle, and as I do, I feel her shift and turn. She is putting me in her satchel, asking me to be quiet. Rather to my surprise, I am.
‘What are you waiting for?’ The boy’s voice comes from her other side. He has not, I realize, seen our meeting. Has no idea that I am secreted in her bag. I shift and feel her arm through the worn denim, emptied now of her clothes and few possessions. This could be a useful vantage point, I realize. I am hidden here and yet close to her. Even the boy, whom I do not trust, is oblivious of who travels by her side. And – yes! – I test the cloth with my claw. If need be, I can rend this carryall. I have had too much of traps in this life and while I trust the girl – trust the heart I still hear, steady, through her side – I have no such expectations of this world. Not for myself alone do I fear. This girl may need me, yet. For now, however, all is well.
‘This is the one.’ She’s talking to the boy, having already explained about taking stock, about checking the surroundings. He’s too smitten with the verve and zest around him to pay heed. Here, on the downtown side of the river, many paths cross, their combined scents and sounds an intoxicant to the unwary.
I confess I hunker down as she ascends the stairs. Through the loose weave I can barely see the brick beneath us but I remember its dampness and the way it crumbled where the water had gotten in. The girl leans back and the bag sways as she pulls on a door. Better for us both if I could have led her through the mouse hole from the alley, through the dark and secret entrance to this evil place.
‘Oi!’ The voice rings out, a man approaching across an open space – the lobby with the stairs. ‘Girl!’ Closer now, and she stops so short I slap against her side and her arm descends to hold me. Does she fear that I will struggle or call out, and thus expose myself? I prefer the thought that she finds some comfort in my solid warmth. ‘You can’t come in here.’
‘I’m looking for Mr Bushwick,’ she says. I can tell by the tone – the breath in her body – that she’s standing chin out, trying to look brave. ‘I’ve something for him.’
‘Do you now?’ The inquisitor turns salacious; in his voice I hear his greasy smile.
‘Intel,’ she says, the syllables hard. Direct. ‘Something he’s been looking for.’
Nearby, I hear the boy mutter. He must recognize his own words but she reaches and pulls him close. She fears his going off – his being hurt – when she should be cautious of the damage he may do.
‘Wait here.’ Footsteps, work boots on worn linoleum, the give of rot beneath the floor softening the heavy tread. Through the weave I spy the stairwell leading up. The scent of death is faint here – too many men and too much commerce. Ash and mud and sweat converge. I do not see the man, but as a door squeals shut I feel Care move. She is following – no, she is turning to watch – and she heads toward the steps.
It is not only the movement that makes me grip the cloth, my claws ready for a fight I fear will come. But no – it’s the squeal, and Care jumps back again. The breeze of an open door and another voice, familiar in its threat.
‘This one, huh? Well, what have you got to say for yourself, girl?’ Not the big bully – not Brian. I sniff the air for smoke or that chemical tang.
‘Bushwick came to see me.’ She’s dropped the title. Gauged her audience and pitched. ‘He was looking for something. Something he lost.’
Smart, this girl. She doesn’t trust the story about the job and so she has kept the old man out of it. She’s setting bait as sure as that cheese I had hoped to leave.
‘And what has the big man lost that you can help him with?’
I feel her arm move. Her hand rises to her throat and my ears go back with trepidation. She is not speaking. She has lost her nerve.
But no. The speaker laughs. Randy – the smaller of the thugs. ‘You looking for some sparkles, girl?’
‘No,’ she says, her smile clear in her voice. ‘But Bushwick is. Tell him I found what he came by to look for. Tell him I know where it is.’
Footsteps and some murmured consultation just beyond my ability to hear. I am hesitant to shift much in this sack, and the girl’s arm, while steadying, blocks some of the impressions I would ordinarily receive.
‘What are you talking about?’ Tick’s whispered query lets me know both men have retreated to a safe distance. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘It’s got to be about the heist. The necklace,’ she answers, her voice low but clear. ‘Bushwick must have been looking for the ledger, too. The old man always said: “There are no coincidences.”’
‘Girl.’ She starts, turns. No, she hasn’t been overheard. ‘Come here. You can go up, see the boss, but not this little brat. He’s filthy, and the boss doesn’t like his things getting dirty.’
I brace myself as the bag sags. ‘Wait for me outside, Tick,’ she says, bending low. Through the loose weave, I see him nod, his eyes large with worry. ‘Around the corner.’ He nods again and opens his mouth, but she cuts him off. ‘Give me an hour, no more. If I don’t come out, bring the ledger to AD. Tell him I wouldn’t let you have it. Use it to save yourself.’
She rises before he can reply, holding me close to her side as much for reassurance, I believe, as to keep me still. Up the stairs then, but then a turn. She’s not heading toward the room of coats, the badly cured furs, but down a hallway opposite. She’s walking quickly but she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t engage the ruffian whose heavy tread leads the way.
‘In here.’ An intake of breath – a reflex as she considers the door, a room, a trap. I think of the room with the coats. The couch. The stench … But then she steps inside and I relax. The light is different here, even through the bag – brighter and more diffuse. An office, then, with large windows. The scent confirms this: tobacco and men. Stale but not rancid.
‘If it isn’t little miss detective.’ Bushwick, his voice full of swagger. Fear, too, though it is faint now, buried beneath the tobacco and the beer. ‘She’s got her own sidekick now.’ From the sound, he’s seated, leaning back. Of course, he wouldn’t rise for a girl like this. It’s not simple courtesy, it’s dominance. ‘And she’s got a delivery for me.’
‘I have information.’ She calculates her speech, doling out words. I do not know what she understands of politics or of power, but she has incorporated the basics. She is asserting herself. My ears prick up, curious more than alarmed. ‘You were seeking some paperwork?’ She pauses before the last word, letting him see that she is aware of his lie.
He laughs too loudly. Too obvious. ‘Paperwork? Come on, girl. You’ve got it or you don’t.’ He licks his lips. ‘Don’t be stupid, girl.’
‘I don’t have it with me.’ She articulates the last two words carefully, emphasizing the distinction. ‘I know where it is.’
A bark. No – a laugh, forced and lacking humor. ‘You amuse me, girl. You’ve got spunk. Maybe you do have a future on your feet. You could run errands, maybe. I could use a trustworthy messenger.’
Silence. He’s thrown her off, as he doubtless intended. I feel
her intake of breath, readying her next sally. ‘I’ve been made aware that others want it, too, you know.’
It’s a risk. AD and this slick monster may be in league. But the man before her only laughs some more. ‘You hearing this, Randy? The girl is trying to strike a deal.’
A squeak and a shuffle – and a shift in voice. ‘You don’t know who you’re messing with, do you, girl?’ He has leaned forward. I can almost feel his breath, heavy with meat and his own importance. ‘You really don’t have a clue. Look around.’ I feel her move slightly. She doesn’t dare disobey. ‘Does it look like I have to bargain with gutter scum like you?’
This close to her body, I can feel her tremble as she takes a breath. By the time she speaks again, however, her voice is steady. ‘I have the ledger, Mr Bushwick. The ledger you’ve been looking for. It’s in a safe place, and not—’ A pause. For effect, I believe. The girl is growing more confident with each passing moment. ‘Not in my mentor’s former office.’
He doesn’t respond, not right away. And when he does, his voice is different. Distant. He is leaning back in his chair, but more than that is at work.
‘You thought I was seeking a ledger?’ The laugh cascades out of him like a marble bouncing down stairs: cold and hard. ‘I came by your late boss’s office because I had mislaid something. A trifle, a detail. And while I appreciate your desire to please me, I fear you’ve picked up the wrong idea about what I was seeking – or what your role could be. No, girl, I don’t need anything you may have or think you’ve found. I’ve got everything I need. It’s you who should be asking me for help. I could use an eager young thing like you.’
The last words come out slow, the proposition in his voice as obvious as the implications.
‘I guess I was mistaken then.’ The girl speaks up, and I confess I am proud of her. ‘I had reason to believe you were looking for an accounting, shall we say? But if not—’ She turns so fast I lose my balance. And she stops. I hear breathing in front of her. Blocking her way. ‘I came here in good faith.’ She is making an effort to hold her voice steady, only I hear the slight tremor.
‘So you did, so you did.’ Bushwick must have made a gesture because the breather moves. ‘And as I’ve said, you’ve got spunk, girl. But don’t let it go to your head like it did with your old man. You keep coming to me with whatever goodies you find and we’ll get on fine, you and me. When you’re ready, I’ll have a place for you in the organization. When you get tired of playing at detective.’
He’s laughing again, calling to his man even as the door shuts behind us, and this time Care rushes down the steps, her worn shoes slapping on the linoleum as she runs.
‘Hey, girl!’ It’s the doorman, but she keeps on going, out into the sunshine and down the stairs. Only when she’s around the corner does she stop, taking a great breath in what sounds for all the world like a sob.
‘Care, there you are!’ The boy is here, for good or ill. I shift and mew, ready to get down. ‘What happened?’
She’s panting, fright rather than exertion. I call again and scratch at the fabric. She sinks to the ground, her back against the building, and I jump free. It has been a disturbing visit and I feel the need to groom. One asserts order however one can.
‘He threatened me, Tick. And he pretty much confessed to having the old man killed.’ She pauses but I can imagine her train of thought. Bushwick views himself as a fancy man, despite his cheap furs and low-life companions. He’s quite capable of ordering violence, although he’s unlikely to have committed it himself. There is something wrong, however. Something about how he presented …
‘And he didn’t care about the ledger. Maybe there was something in the old man’s office.’ She’s talking to herself now more than to the boy. ‘Something I missed.’
I neaten my ruff and begin to work on my leg. It feels good to stretch after all that time being carried. My fur is falling back into place.
‘I think he’s behind the heist, Tick,’ she says at last. ‘I think he got the necklace – paid those jerks to steal it, most likely. And now, with the old man and Fat Peter dead, he’s neatening up the loose ends.’
I pause, my leg extended, struck by her phrasing. Struck, as well, by the logic of what she says. Yes, it makes sense. The man has a business large enough to incorporate many kinds of contraband, and gemstones would be more compact, easier to transport than those stinking ratty furs. What I don’t understand, I realize, as I return to my grooming, is why the man should still smell of fear – and why he views this one pale girl as a threat.
‘So what now?’ The boy is on his feet, anxious to move. ‘You want me to bring that book to AD? I mean, if he wants it so bad.’
‘No.’ She shakes her head, scowling. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on with it yet, Tick, but it’s worth something. I need to put it together before I present it, case closed, to Diamond Jim. The old man always taught me to watch out for the loose ends, to make sure I had everything in place. I think I need to go back to the old man’s office. See if I can figure out what Bushwick was really looking for.’
The boy, accustomed to obeying orders, stands at the ready, but when Care looks down at me I remove myself, just far enough to make my intentions clear. Concern flashes briefly across her face as she realizes I will not be compliant, and I experience a twinge of regret. I do not want to cause this child any sadness. However, I do not wish to be confined again, no matter how benign her intent. As she begins to walk, retracing our steps to the back street, I trot along in full view, the better to reassure her, aware of her gaze as she watches my upright tail.
It is my fault, therefore, that she is caught in an inattentive moment and I spin, hissing, as an arm reaches out from a recessed doorway, pulling her into its shadow.
‘Care!’ The boy raises the alarm, jumping away from the hands while I crouch, readying myself to attack.
‘It’s me, Jonah!’ The man in the shadow pulls back, hands open and up, releasing her. She sways and rights herself, staying still within the shadow as she considers him. He looks too much like a splayed frog to be threatening, but his smell is foul. Sharp and gritty all at once. It irritates my nose and eyes as I pass behind her, settling into a low growl. ‘I just – I wanted to warn you.’
‘Warn me?’ Care’s been spooked but she’s curious. I feel her lean forward on her toes; her head tilts up with the question. My pose does not change, though I lower my growl to listen. He has not harmed her – not yet – but that does not preclude a trap.
‘I shouldn’t.’ Even from below, I see the whites around his eyes. He’s the one who’s afraid, his face drawn and darting, peering out into the sunlight and back again. I step forward to sniff his cuff. It’s worn and dirty, frayed as if by claws, and rank – soaked in more than filth and sweat. ‘The boss sent me to get a crowbar but I saw you and, well, you were good to me. You and the old man. You couldn’t know … Bushwick – he’s the big boss now. He’s the one who …’ He swallows and points to himself. Whatever happened, it’s still too raw to articulate.
‘The matchbook?’ She keeps her voice low but he still winces as he nods. That smell – it’s kerosene – under the fug of smoke. Kerosene and something else – cloth or paper. Maybe wood. The stench of a life’s work taken and destroyed.
‘You have something of theirs. I heard them. You’ve got to give it to them.’ His words come in gasps, his breathing rough as he looks around. ‘Please, Care.’
‘I can’t.’ Care’s words are gentle but the man starts back as if she’s hit him. ‘You knew him, the old man,’ she explains. ‘There’s something in it if they want it that badly. Something that could explain why he was killed. If I can just decipher it—’
‘Decipher?’ He looks at her as if she is speaking an unknown tongue. As if he were the beast, not I.
‘The sequence,’ she says. ‘Fat Peter had everything in order, so I think they’re straightforward. Only one is missing.’
‘That’s it –
that’s the one!’ He’s excited. He reaches to grab her hands.
‘Can you read it?’ Care picks up on this, color rising to her cheeks. ‘Can you read the ledger?’
‘Ledger? What ledger? You mean Fat Peter’s? What does Fat Peter’s ledger have to do with anything?’ Care is staring, confused. The man leans in, all sweat and desperation. ‘It’s the marker they’re after. You’ve got to give them the marker. Then you’ll be able to get away. They’ll let you go, I think. Now that the old man’s gone, they’ll let you go.’
‘No, wait.’ Care shakes her head, her hand going into her pocket. ‘I tried – they don’t want the ticket—’
‘It’s not a ticket.’ He spits the word. ‘It’s the marker! The marker they’re after. They need it for the deal.’
‘The deal?’ Care examines his face, leaning in despite the stench, despite the way he has begun to shake. From my vantage point I see the cords on his neck. See as well how he swallows once and then again. ‘Jonah, is that what happened to you? Did you try to do a deal with Bushwick? Because the old man and I, we thought we’d set you up. This city, it’s hard on people, but we thought …’
‘No, no.’ His head hangs down as he shakes it – weighted, it seems, by sadness or by memory. ‘No, I kept it straight. I refused. I thought I could protect him but now there’s only you.’
Down the street, an engine growls and male voices shout. The man jerks back, a puppet on a string, and turns. The light coming in from the alley’s mouth illuminates his eyes, the cracked lips that he keeps licking. He cranes his neck and then turns back.
‘Give them the marker, Care.’ He takes her hands once more in his. Squeezes them tight, a father or a teacher imparting words of wisdom. ‘Give it up, and then run.’ A quick glimpse back toward the noise. The engine. Shouting. ‘Run as fast and as far as you can.’