Clip Joint

by Debra Dunbar

  Vincent sat listening. The hourly patrol arrived, just as the rat-man said. The hooves of their horses plowed past the cottage without pause or alarm and continued on down the lane back toward the other cottages. He stared at the package in his hands, then pulled the string loose to unwrap it.

  A tiny figurine rested in the palm of his hand. A horse carved in ebony. Turning the paper over he saw writing on it in Hattie’s familiar scrawl.

  Always the Knight.

  “Knight,” he whispered. “That’s what they’re called.”

  Vincent lay back on his cot and closed his eyes clutching the chess piece in his fist. And for the first time since he’d arrived at this horrible place, he truly slept.

  Chapter 24

  The next morning Gertha delivered a suit to Vincent’s cell. It was a slim cut wool jacket and waistcoat with a bright white shirt and bow tie. The effect was bizarrely formal. He regarded the suit as he laid it on his cot. “Sorta fancy. Are fine dining and dance lessons now part of my training?”

  Gertha didn’t respond.

  Vincent eyed the woman, who lingered in his cell. “You gonna watch, or what?”

  She turned to the hall, then brought in a bucket filled with steaming water. She set it down in the middle of the cell, then tossed a sponge to Vincent.

  He nodded in thanks, but still she lingered. “Anything else?”

  She nodded once, then reached for her back pocket to produce a straight razor. She unhinged it to sling it to length.

  Vincent lifted his chin in apprehension. Then he ran his fingers along his jaw line. The bristles of a healthy beard had risen into place over these past…what was it? A week? Two?

  It felt like months.

  Gertha brought in a cup and some soap powder, then gripped Vincent by the shoulder to sit him into one of the cold metal chairs from the common room. She lathered his cheeks and put her surgical precision to work as she dragged the blade across his face. The ritual was unnerving in its austerity. Her motions were slow along the shave, then sharp between passes as she cleaned off the lather. The hand she kept on his throat was heavy and strong, digging in to keep him from moving, and nearly choking him in the process.

  As she finished, she toweled off his face, then paused to run a thumb over the top of his ear to capture a stray bit of lather. Her hand remained on the side of his face for just a second longer than was necessary. Then she wiped her thumb on the towel and turned for the door. “Clean yourself. You have ten minutes.”

  Vincent waited for her to leave then made good time stripping down and scrubbing his body with the warm water, the first such luxury since he’d arrived at Ithaca. He toweled off his hair, trying to make some sense of it before putting on the suit. When it came to tie the bowtie, he realized he was at a disadvantage without a mirror. He did his best, and had his third go-around complete, and had slipped the ebony Knight into his pants pocket, when Gertha returned, no doubt precisely ten minutes later.

  She looked him over, and adjusted his bowtie for him. Then pulling a tin of pomade from her front pocket, she gave his hair a quick toss, combing it to the side. He stood in the center of the room feeling like a schoolboy being dressed for church. The discomfort subsided as Gertha snapped the tin closed and nodded for the door.

  A car was waiting for them outside the cottage. She gestured for him to take a seat in the back, then blindfolded him. He heard the car door close, felt the car move forward, then settled back for the drive.

  Sebastian must have worked things out with Dominguez after all, because surely he was headed toward the auction. He wondered for a moment why they wouldn’t have it at the chalet, then realized the exact location of this facility was a closely kept secret. No one he’d spoken to ever seemed to know exactly where it was located, and pinchers going to and from there were blindfolded.

  The auction. What did Hattie have in mind? She’d sent word through the bizarre shapeshifting courier that she had a plan. All Vincent supposedly had to do was make the auction. What did that mean, exactly? Did he have to only step into the room? Did he have to be successfully contracted with one of the buyers? Was she out there now, pinching an illusion to hide in plain sight?

  And what was this plan of hers? Even if it all went perfectly, she couldn’t ensure their future. He’d still be a hunted man. And Lefty would be killed in retaliation if Vito found out he’d escaped.

  As the car bumped over the roads, he wondered about Betty and if she would also be at the auction. How he wished things could have transpired more smoothly with the glass pincher. To have ended this time of captivity in worse standing with her bothered him. They were victims together, suffering the same punishments. But the method Sebastian was so proud of seemed comprehensive. Vincent wondered if more such pairings didn’t end with blood feuds once the pinchers were placed in the real world.

  The car stopped moving. A door opened and Vincent’s blindfold was removed. They were parked in front of a large building with cars lined along the side, and several security details huddled together smoking cigars in the fresh air. Vincent hopped out at Gertha’s urging, following her through a set of doors. The interior of the long building was packed with besuited strangers. This auction had made ripples, it seemed.

  Vincent turned to Gertha with a lift of his brow. “What now?”

  Gertha reached a hand out to Vincent, a gesture he hadn’t expected. He shook her hand, tightening against her vise grip.

  “Good luck,” she said. “If you return, I break you. Maybe kill you.”

  He nodded. “I’ll avoid that, then.”

  With one last nod, Gertha turned to vanish into the rest of the retainers and employees milling around the periphery of the gathering. She left Vincent standing by himself in a suit not dissimilar from the rest of the gangsters gathered.

  A young serving boy trotted up to Vincent, offering him a cup of tea. “Thank you,” Vincent said as he took the cup.

  “The boss’s waitin’,” the boy mumbled, pointing to the side hall along the kitchen.

  Vincent took his cup of tea and withdrew to the hall. He found Sebastian standing outside an office, bobbing on the balls of his feet.

  As Sebastian spotted Vincent, he strode forward. “Good. You’re here. I see Gertha’s put you back in order.”

  “Hell of a shindig,” Vincent said. “I look like I’m ready to put in a bid, myself.”

  “Don’t get cocky,” Sebastian grumbled. “Your friend is in there now, for her assessment.” He lifted a thumb toward the office. “I told him it’s insane to put you and her on the same block, but here we are. Too many buyers in town to pass up the opportunity.” Sebastian snatched the tea from Vincent’s hands and took a long sip. “Listen, you don’t know it yet, but you’ve been off your elixir for three days now. The buyers will demand a demonstration of your abilities.”

  Vincent reached out with his powers for the first time in weeks. That old sense had returned, the feel of the flow of time rushing across his skin. It was subtle, and until Sebastian called it to Vincent’s attention, had gone unnoticed. But now that he was looking for it, Vincent knew his power was back.

  The door to the office opened, and an unfamiliar face emerged to give Sebastian a nod.

  “Well,” Sebastian sighed, “here’s hoping she can control herself. I trust I won’t have a problem with you?”

  Vincent shook his head, then followed the man into the main space of the building, as Vincent took in face after face in his search for Hattie. He’d be able to see through her illusion even if no one else could. But how long could she keep something like that up in a crowd this large and in an event that might take hours?

  A woman emerged from the rear of the room, ringing a brass hand bell as if she were a school marm. It took several minutes for everyone to pipe down and face the far end of the building.

  She cleared her throat. “The auction will begin in a few minutes. Would the representatives for the following parties please approach the sale
s floor?”

  Vincent sucked in a breath, shoving his hands in his pockets. His fingers brushed against the chess piece. It gave him hope, though the temptation to pinch time and just run grew stronger by the second.

  The woman recited from a tiny slip of paper, “Guiseppe Masseria.”

  A trio of oil-pated men from the Genovese famiglia weaved through the crowd toward the far end of the chalet. A group of dark-suited men eyed them with intensity as they passed.

  “Salvatore Maranzano.”

  The men stabbed out their cigarettes and approached the sales floor, keeping a distance from Masseria’s men.

  “Charles Luciano.”

  Vincent stretched to spot a single man approaching the rest. He recognized him from the pincher moot.

  Floresta. The man stood alone, eyes working the crowd.

  Vincent was about to make some comment now that all three buyers’ agents had been accounted for, when the school marm called out one more.

  “Salvatore Sabella.”

  Vincent cocked his head at the name. Philadelphia? How the hell had Philadelphia gotten an invitation to the auction? Then he saw a tall figure slip through the crowd. DeBarre? Sabella had sent DeBarre up to bid?

  The down pincher paused with a wink as he passed. It was a subtle gesture meant for Vincent, though a wink looked perfectly at home on the smug bastard’s face. Vincent frowned as he watched the other man. Was DeBarre part of Hattie’s plan, as well? Or was he actually here on Philadelphia business to buy a pincher?

  Sebastian prodded Vincent forward as the woman rang her bell once more. They stepped through the crowd finally arriving at the sales floor. Three lacquered boxes stood side by side in front of a crackling fireplace. The woman pointed to the left-most box, and Vincent stepped onto it, turning to face the buyers.

  DeBarre took a seat on a sofa, crossing his legs at the ankles. His face was pulled into a permanent smirk, seemingly amused by this turn of events. The buyers from New York didn’t seem particularly interested in Vincent, though Floresta never stopped staring at him from the second Vincent stepped onto the box.

  Another figure wove through the crowd, pushed along by her new handler. Betty Sharp wore a skinny red-and-black fringed dress with a matching cloche. Whoever was assigned to her grooming had done a bang-up job. Her face no longer seemed pale and haggard, though Vincent could spot the extent of makeup on her skin as she took her place on the box beside him. Her eyes met his briefly, assuring him that murder was still foremost in her mind.

  “Good luck,” Vincent whispered.

  “Go to hell,” she replied as she grinned at the New York agents.

  The third asset for auction seemed late, but finally arrived with two escorts. He was an enormous mule ox of a man stuffed into an ill-fitting suit. Though freshly shaven, his neck still bore considerable hair flowing from the collar, and even from the edges of his cuffs. The handlers held batons at their sides, as if ready to hit the man at any moment. But the brute stepped politely and gracefully up to his box without complaint. The New York crowd seemed eager to beat their opponents to the punch vying for this massive individual. Floresta, for his part, seemed wholly uninterested.

  The bell rang again. “Presenting Asset Six-dash-Two, known as Lew Olevski. Asset Eleven-dash-Two, known as Betty Sharp. And Asset Eleven-dash-One, known as Vincent Calendo.”

  A spattering of applause washed front-to-back through the building.

  The woman nodded to a side hall. Two men stepped into the auction area with a steamer trunk between them. They unlatched the chest and lifted a tiny wooden stand from the interior, setting it in front of the auction blocks. Then, one by one, they produced three spheres to set onto the table. The first was a highly polished wooden orb with bold grain pattern swirling along its surface. The second was a ball of glass. And the third, a globe of polished white marble. The spheres sat in a row along the length of the stand. Vincent noted the glass sphere in the middle had a clear connection with Betty, who stood on the center block. By that reasoning, Olevski on the far end would have something to do with wood pinching.

  Vincent had no clue what marble had to do with his time pinching skills. Unless someone was going to throw it at his head, that is.

  “And now,” the woman declared, “a demonstration of the assets’ abilities, starting with Six-Two, Olevski.”

  A tall gentleman in the crowd nodded to Olevski, who seemed reluctant to step off his box. His entire demeanor seemed withdrawn. This massive individual must have been a serious work in progress, for them to put him forward at auction. The tall man, ostensibly his proctor, cleared his throat. At the sound, Olevski broke out into an instant sweat and hopped off the box. He reached for the wooden orb, holding it in his massive palm.

  The crowd grew quiet, all eyes waiting to see what a wood pincher could do.

  Olevski’s eyes drooped, brimming with some sad, dark thought. He then closed his eyes, and the polished surface of the sphere lost its sheen. Tiny thorns emerged all along the circumference. As they rose from the ball, small buds popped to life along the length of each stem. Leaves unfurled, and the ball became a bush. A spray of white flowers—daisies—bloomed at the end of each spike.

  Olevski opened his eyes to behold the sudden cloud of springtime in his hand, and he smiled. He reached for a single blossom and picked it off the sphere. The crowd shifted uncomfortably as he reached out to hand the daisy to Betty.

  She stood stiff, eyes wide for a second. Then, as if sensing the inappropriateness of the gesture, she took the flower and tucked it beneath her cloche, just behind her ear with a smirk.

  As the New York agents conversed, their faces painted in disapproving scowls, Olevski’s proctor took a step forward to make a sharp gesture with his hand.

  Olevski recoiled out of reflex.

  His proctor nodded.

  The giant peered down at his handful of beauty and sighed. He turned toward the fireplace and lifted the sphere at eye level. With another heavy breath, he nodded and threw the sphere into the fireplace.

  A chest-thumping explosion rocked the sales floor. Vincent nearly leapt off his box.

  Sparks showered the fireplace as tiny wooden splinters bounced against the stonework interior and fell into the flames. Olevski lowered his empty hands, dusting them off and returning to his box.

  The woman stepped toward the fireplace to pull a vicious little half-buried wooden spike from the mantel ledge. She inspected it, then held it up to the buyers’ agents.

  The New York crowd now seemed far more animated over asset Six-Two. And why wouldn’t they be? A man who could transform any piece of wood into a shrapnel shell had the potential to turn the tide of any war.

  “And now, Eleven-Two. Sharp,” the woman announced.

  Sebastian nodded to Betty with a long, steady glance as she stepped off her box. She didn’t even reach for the orb. Instead, it unwound into a languid tendril of molten crystal, winding into the air and around her arm like a serpent. The spectacle sent a wave of oohs and aahs through the onlookers. Betty manipulated the glass snake into a long, slender pole. A curved blade emerged at the end, graceful and elegant as it was sharp and lethal. With a flourish, she spun the glass scythe in one hand to the wonder of the crowd, then reached for the center of the staff to split the scythe in half, crafting them into dual swords.

  Vincent wondered how much of this had been choreographed by Sebastian himself during their time alone. It played out like a dance, more show than substance. Though, Vincent held a breath each time her blade twirling brought the edges closer to his box.

  As the crowd began to lose their enthusiasm for the glass crafting, Sebastian gave her a nod. She pooled the glass together and rubbed her hands in a brisk back-and-forth motion. A thin tendril of glass spun out of her hand, slithering to the floor to collect in a coil. As she continued, Vincent noticed a bead of sweat forming on her forehead. This was a lot of focused, sustained glass pinching. She’d have to get to the point bef
ore showing the limit of her reserves.

  Betty ceased her motion, holding the end of a long glass whip in her hand. With a gentle flip of her hand, she sent the coil into the air to wrap around a wood-carved bust set onto a pedestal by the leaded windows. The coil encircled the neck of the bust, and with a quick tug severed the head in a clean, effortless slice.

  Applause rippled over the crowd.

  Vincent flinched as the end of the whip landed on his shoe, slithering around his ankle, and tightening with furtive motions. He shot Betty a warning glance. She returned his scolding look with a savage smile.

  The crowd’s applause subsided. Sebastian was now standing directly behind DeBarre, his fingers held in a snapping gesture.

  Betty pulled the glass whip away from Vincent’s ankle before breaking off a piece near the end and fashioning it into the shape of a flower. She handed it over to Olevski, whose face broke out in a dopey grin.

  Sebastian withdrew, lowering his fingers. DeBarre peered over his shoulder, noting the man with a squint, then he glanced back at Vincent, easing forward on his seat as he uncrossed his legs.

  The woman announced, “And now, Eleven-One. Calendo.”

  Vincent stood still on his box, eyeing the marble orb sitting alone on the stand. This was the moment, but he had to wait for Sebastian to make a move.

  A few coughs and mumbles bounced around crowd as he stood still and silent.

  Finally, Sebastian stepped onto the auction floor. He gestured for Vincent to stay put with a flat palm, then snatched the marble sphere from the stand. He held it up for the crowd like a showman, turning a slow half-circle.

  Floresta leaned forward with an amused grin, while DeBarre’s face was tight and focused, no longer casually observing the auction as a form of entertainment.

  Sebastian lifted a finger. “Asset Eleven-One’s capabilities are somewhat less visual, but perhaps the most directly useful we’ve seen in Ithaca for some time.”