by Debra Dunbar
Hattie stepped back into the corridor as Arnoud closed the salon door behind him.
“Miss Malloy,” he stated. “This is probably not the best time for a delivery.”
“I just needed to speak with Mr. DeBarre for a moment. Will he be long? I can wait.” She turned her most charming smile on the man.
Arnoud stared at her for a second, then shot a quick glance back into the room. “I…maybe…but.”
“Shall I wait in this room over here, or what? I’m in no hurry and I did want to speak with him.”
Arnoud eyed one of his interrogation rooms, then grimaced. “No, you most definitely don’t want to wait there. Follow me.”
He led her down the corridor, unlocking a heavy oak door with a brass key and twisting its knob to hold the door for Hattie.
She peered inside to find cozy accommodations. A writing desk sat between two bookcases. A skinny Murphy bed left unslung from its wall cabinet, but well dressed in cotton sheets and a deep burgundy comforter.
“Stay here,” Arnoud told her in a whisper. “I’ll send Loren down as soon as he’s finished.”
He turned to leave, making sure the door was open and giving her a hurried bow.
She watched him until he was out of sight, then surveyed the space. A Persian rug was spread beneath the furniture. The woodwork of the bookcases was hand-carved in some dark, tropical wood. She ran a finger over the leather-bound spines. Gold-leaf print indicated works of classics. Melville. Coleridge. Twain. Hattie pulled The House of Mirth from the shelf, thumbing through the pages.
This must be DeBarre’s bedroom. Odd that he’d have a room here in the cannery and not some swanky apartment or well-appointed house in the city. Hattie took a seat at the desk and set the book down. If this would take time, she’d pass it like a civilized lady.
Before long, voices murmured in the corridor. She shut the book and slipped it back into its place, then positioned herself in the desk chair, legs crossed.
DeBarre wore a white shirt with a cream-colored vest. A dark red cravat spilled from his throat into the vest, setting the dark and sunken tone of his eyes apart from the glint of his smile. “Why, Miss Hattie Malloy. What an unexpected pleasure!”
“I’m so sorry to barge in on you like this,” she apologized, getting to her feet.
“You are always a welcome visitor. I hope I didn’t make you wait too long?”
“I’ve been well entertained, reading your books.”
DeBarre blinked, then smirked. “Oh, this isn’t my room.”
“It isn’t?” she asked with unguarded regret.
“It’s Bradley’s.” DeBarre chuckled. “And I’m sure he’d be ecstatic to hear you were reading his books. Which one? I’ll let him know so he can have it bronzed and put in a display case. The man is a bit smitten, you know.”
She laughed off the comment, and followed DeBarre back to the salon, where he offered her a spill of whisky at the bar.
Hattie waved off the liquor. “I can’t stay long, I just wanted to see if you had any news.”
“I do as a matter of fact,” DeBarre declared as he poured himself some of the amber liquor. “Those men who were here just now? They’re from New York, and one of them whispered a very interesting rumor in my ear.”
Hattie leaned forward. “Are they making a move on Baltimore? Sweeping in to take over before Corbi gets Vincent back?”
“If the rumor is true, there won’t be any need for urgency on their part, because Corbi isn’t getting Vincent back.”
Hattie stared in shock. “There’s a trade? Did Corbi decide to sell him after all? Vincent told me there had been an offer.”
DeBarre’s nodded. “The offer you thought might be from Luciano?”
“I didn’t get a name. I only know it was someone up in New York. Isn’t Luciano, or rather his pincher, the one that saddled Vincent with bringing Betty in? And tasked the Crew with wiping out the Richmond group?”
“The same. Hmm. If Luciano made an offer for Vincent, and Corbi turned him down because he wanted a trade…that makes sense.”
“What makes sense?” Hattie blurted out. “He’s being sold? What’s going on?”
“Rumor has it that Vincent is going to be sold at the auction New Year’s Eve up at Ithaca, and that Luciano is sending his pincher up there with enough cash to buy him.”
Hattie’s heart sank. “So Corbi decided to sell him after all. I thought he didn’t want to be without a pincher? And why send Vincent off for reeducation? He had an offer outright, why bother with Ithaca and an auction?”
DeBarre took a sip of his whisky. “Corbi doesn’t know. That’s the real meat of this rumor. They’ll sell Vincent at the auction, and Corbi won’t find out until it’s too late. What’s he gonna do? Attack New York to get his pincher back? Complain and look even weaker than he already is? Ithaca has always been partial to whoever has the deepest pockets. If Luciano wanted Vincent, and Corbi wouldn’t sell, this was a perfect plan B. Corbi has been vocal about wanting to send Vincent to Ithaca. Floresta just needed to give him one more reason, then when Vincent is there, Luciano can buy him. For probably less than he offered Corbi. Ithaca would be happy to sell him and rake in the money. And what’s Corbi gonna do but bluster and look the fool?”
“We have to get him before the auction,” Hattie demanded. “I took everyone’s counsel to be patient and wait for Vincent to come back, that he’d only be gone a few weeks as some sort of barbaric punishment, but he’s not coming back. I’m not going to stand around while he gets sold on an auction block like a piece of farm equipment, and hauled off to New York. We have to rescue him.”
DeBarre shook his head. “There’s still the same hurdles. I don’t know exactly where the place is, and they’ve got the kind of security that makes this sort of rescue impossible.”
“Then we set up some sort of watch on the roads back to New York, and we hit them while they’re in transit.”
DeBarre crossed the room and reached out to grab her arms. “I know you’re upset, but pinchers get bought and sold. It happens all the time. Vincent’s gonna be sold, and he’s going to New York. And the repercussions of all that are most likely going to be a very fast and violent coup down in Baltimore within the next few months. Wait it out. Maybe Luciano will get the Baltimore territory and send Vincent down to work with whoever he puts in place to manage it.”
Hattie searched for some other solution. “If I tell Lefty, and he tells Corbi, maybe he can get Vincent released before the auction. Maybe he can send some of his goons up there and—”
“Corbi is not going to take on Ithaca, especially when the New York families are backing them. The only way Vincent is getting out of there is with a buyer. And unless someone shows up with a briefcase full of cash, that buyer is most likely going to be Luciano.”
Hattie bowed her head, knowing he was right. “Thank you for letting me know.” Her voice was small, barely a whisper.
DeBarre gave her arms a squeeze before letting them go. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.”
She nodded and left with a promise to see him next week with a delivery, then walked through the busy cannery and outside where she found Arnoud waiting beside her car.
“I wanted…wanted to wish you a Happy New Year, Miss Malloy,” he told her, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“Happy New Year to you too, Mr. Arnoud.” Hattie went to edge around him, then paused, remembering something Vincent had once told her. “Mr. Arnoud? I realize this might be a bit of a personal matter, but I heard that you once had a run-in with a Hell pincher. Or rather, with one of his summoned demons.”
The man took a step back, his eyes wide. “That’s nothing you want to know about, Miss Malloy. I barely escaped with my life. They’re dangerous.”
“I know,” she told him. “Twice I’ve been face-to-face with a demon. One of which very nearly sent me to the hereafter.”
Arnoud gaped at her. “Two? How did you… Where? Near here?
” He looked frantically around. “Are they near?”
Hattie shook her head. “One down in Virginia, the other in Amish country. Which I believe was where you also encountered one. It’s not the demons I’m searching for though, but the one who summons them—a Hell pincher. Vincent once said you’d done some research after your encounter. Do you know where the Hell pincher could possibly be found?”
“Not personally.” Arnoud wiped the sweat from his forehead. “But I know someone who might.”
“Would you share this information?” Hattie asked, taking a step forward.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he whispered. “You’re too pretty to die. Forget about Hell pinchers and demons. Forget about Ithaca and Calendo. Forget about bootlegging moonshine and Loren. I can take care of you. I can keep you safe. I can make sure no one hurts you.”
Hattie forced herself not to shudder. What was most likely meant to be a declaration of affection had come across as…creepy. “I’m capable of taking care of myself, Mr. Arnoud. I have survived two demon encounters, after all.”
That earned her the very first smile she’d ever seen from the man, brief though it may have been. He cleared his throat and shook out his arms. “Wilkes-Barre. There’s a store in Wilkes-Barre that deals in oddities and implements.”
“Oddities?” Hattie repeated.
“Pincher sort of oddities. Alchemy and occult objects. The proprietor there is a fellow by the name of Miles Absalom. Last spring, he clued me in to some tourist with an unhealthy interest in dark practices. I never followed up on it though.”
Hattie took a step back. “Did you say Absalom?”
Arnoud nodded. “Sure. Most pinchers know the old geezer. Least ways, most people on this part of the coast. Does that name mean something to you?”
“It does. It means I took a wrong turn.” She reached into her coat pocket to finger the tiny orb. “Thank you, Mr. Arnoud. Thank you and have a Happy New Year.”
* * *
Hattie barely made Wilkes-Barre before sunset. The Yesteryear Bazaar was easy to miss. Only a tiny glass storefront set in from the rest of the city block indicated the store even existed. An electric lamp sat upon an end table that consumed most of the window space. Its light splashed through several prisms from a nearby crystal candelabra, creating an image that was at once inviting and dazzling.
Before entering, Hattie checked up and down the street for onlookers, then pinched light around her wardrobe, knitting together the illusion of a smart day-tripping ensemble. Velvet bodice with a straight-lined skirt. A comfortable shawl and matching cloche. Modest heels, but something a step above her boots. Satisfied that she no longer presented as a boat-legger, Hattie stepped through the door and a tiny brass bell rang at the lintel.
Sounds from the rear of the shop like boxes being dropped preceded the arrival of a hunched gentleman with silver hair and thick spectacles. He grinned with a face full of wrinkles as Hattie nodded.
“Oh, hello there,” he called, sweeping around a glass case of tiny baubles. “Come on in. Wipe your feet.”
Hattie glanced to her boots, which were reasonably clean considering the day’s activities. She gave them a brisk stomp on his front mat, then froze.
Boots.
Pants, shirt, coat. Where had her illusion gone? She didn’t even feel it drop.
Hattie gave her feet another discreet stomp on the welcome mat and wove through the clutter of the store.
“Good afternoon. Are you Miles Absalom?”
“I am, my dear.” He peered over the top of his glasses. “In the flesh, so they say.” He chuckled at whatever joke he thought he’d made. “I see you’re a bit perplexed by your change in appearance? Don’t take it personally, dear. I don’t allow any magic inside the shop. Outside the shop, however, have yourself a ball.”
She cocked her head. “You know what I am?”
“Well, I do,” he began. “You’re a pincher, like most everyone else who comes asking for Old Absalom. Though I know what you are, I’m afraid I don’t know who.” He leaned over his sales counter, supporting himself by his elbows. “And you are?”
Hattie considered the question. Though she was far from Baltimore at this point, if this old man was as well-connected as he seemed, it wouldn’t do to give her real name.
“O’Toole,” she declared with a genial smile. “Brigid O’Toole.”
“You’ve come a long ways, Miss O’Toole. And I don’t mean across the Atlantic.” He lifted a finger, drawing a lazy circle with it as he stared at her face. “I’ve met about every pincher from Philly to Boston, and I don’t believe we’ve met. I’d remember a lovely young lady such as yourself. Must be new.”
She smirked. “How do you know I’m not just a free pincher walking in devil-may-care?”
He laughed, a wet noise that transformed into a cough. “Oh, no free pincher in her right mind would set foot a hundred miles from this place! You seem a bright young woman…too smart for that sort of ignorance. Which means you’re someone’s asset. Question is whose?” He hobbled around the sales counter and gave her a measured glance. “The accent throws me off, but I wager I’ll sort you out. Must be from south of the Mason-Dixon, otherwise I’d know you. I want to say Richmond, but rumor has it Capstein enjoys his Southern propriety. I doubt you’d be in pants if you were a part of that group.”
Hattie regarded her outfit, then nodded. “So far, so good.”
“You have lots of freckles, too. Which means you’re in the elements. And none of the East Coast families are in the farming business, so you’re probably involved in liquor distribution.”
“Not bad.”
“And you’ve an urban air about you, so here’s my guess. Baltimore.”
She shook her head. “Charleston.”
The man winced and shook his fist once in the air. “Damn.”
Hattie asked, “So, what was the wager? What did I win?”
He thought to himself, then turned for the glass case beside the counter. He fished out a tiny peacock pin. The figure was a spray of blue and green with costume glass at the eyes of each tail feather.
“Fair’s fair. Here. This was enchanted by a fellow from Istanbul. It’s a modest little charm meant to ease the hard corners of a person’s appearance. A light pincher such as yourself would find it much easier to sustain an illusion for long periods of time with this. You just pin it to your clothing to activate it.”
She took the pin with a half-bow. “Thank you, good sir.”
He shrugged. “It’s a bauble. Once activated it lasts for two hours, give or take. I believe it only has two or three charges left.”
“And then it will be a beautiful pin,” she said with a smile. “Thank you again.” She glanced over her shoulder to the door. “Can I ask how you did that? Scoured my illusion?”
“Simple enough,” he replied, waddling toward the door. He lifted a finger at the tiny brass bell hung on a hook just above the lintel. “Another of my friend’s creations. It’s a Null enchantment. Turns everyone inside this store into a Null.”
“A what?”
“A Null. Surely you’ve heard of Nulls. I see perhaps you haven’t.” He nodded. “They are indeed rare. A Null, my dear, is a regular person such as myself who is immune to the powers of extraordinary people such as yourself.”
“I had no idea such people existed.” She eyed the tiny bell over the doorway. “So, everyone in this shop is immune to magic?”
“While they are here. This is a safe place for all, be they pinchers, their owners, or Janissaries. I don’t choose sides. Bad for business.”
“Janissaries?”
“Practitioners,” he told her with a smile. “Such as my friend from Istanbul. That’s what they call themselves—Janissaries.”
Practitioners? People who enchanted devices? He spoke of them as though they were different than pinchers. Did he perhaps mean Hell pinchers? They performed a type of magic and yet were not pinchers.
Hattie
caught her breath, wondering if the Hell pincher and this man’s practitioner friend were one in the same.
“So how do these work?” she asked lifting up the peacock pin. “These enchantments? I’ve never heard of such things.”
“They do come in handy from time to time, even for your kind. You can’t use your powers forever. Every magic has its price, am I right?”
“That’s true.”
“For professionals such as yourself, a little cheat now and then can mean all the difference. But your associates in Charleston know all about that. My friend Gregory does a brisk business there.” He lifted a brow. “Have you met Gregory?”
Hattie steeled herself as the old man’s eyes shifted back and forth between hers.
“No, I haven’t” she replied.
“Ah, well…you’re new.”
“Not so new,” she countered. “And Gregory doesn’t exist. Does he?”
Absalom nodded, then snickered. “I told you…a bright young lady you are!”
“And you’re a flatterer.”
“So much for small talk. You’ve come to shop, and we have a good solid hour of daylight left. Let’s see what sort of damage we can do, shall we? What sort of charm were you hunting for?”
Hattie followed him to the sales counter. “Actually, good sir, I’m not here hunting for a charm. I’m hunting a person.”
His face pinched in displeasure. “I’ll have to stop you there, Miss. That sort of business is bad for mine. I do trade with all the families. The Italians and Sicilians. Even the Irish up in Boston. You’ll have to leave your squabbles at my doorstep.”
“I’m looking for a Hell pincher,” she announced.
Absalom fell silent.
Hattie pressed, “I know one is operating in the area. I’ve had one or two encounters with his handiwork.”