“Job?” Sal asked, turning to Bartley. “What job is that?”
“It’s not one of mine. This is work Vinny pulled in. Seems at least one of our gang is loyal to the Shadow Guild.”
“Right, I get it,” said Sal. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t we?”
“I only wonder why you would choose to hide work from your friends,” Bartley said. “Makes a man wonder what else you might be hiding, is all.”
“I’m not hiding anything, mate, and I’m not leaving you out of anything that would be good for you. Look, I have no intention of abandoning you.”
“Bugger off. You keep talking to me like I’m your foundling and you’ll see what happens.”
Sal smiled. “So what’s this job, Vinny? ”
“Anton’s job,” Vinny said. “I’m only hiring out.”
“Anton?” Sal asked, his hand moving to the pocket of his jerkin were the locket was nestled. He felt something in the pit of his stomach when he heard the name. But why should he feel guilty? He wasn’t the one who’d felled Anton like a tree. Sal grabbed hold of the locket, his hand still on the outside of his jerkin, yet even through the wool fabric he could feel the power of the thing. Why hadn’t he gone to see Anton? The question begged asking, but Sal wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. “He’s awake?”
“Only that, awake. He’s been out of bed, but little else. He sent a runner out my way just last night.”
“Have you seen him?” Sal asked. “How’s he look?” Even as Sal asked the question, he wished he hadn’t. The last he’d seen Anton, the man had one foot in the grave.
Vinny shook his head as he averted his gaze.
“What sort of job are we talking?” Sal asked, wanting to change the subject quickly.
“The sort that needs some extra muscle,” said Vinny.
“Muscle?” Sal chuckled in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Surely you could do better than Bartley and me if you’re looking for some size.”
“Don’t need size so much as numbers,” Vinny said. “Seeing how Anton spent the better part of the week lying on his back with a mender stitching him back together, he’s fallen behind on his collections. The shape he’s in, he doesn’t want anyone seeing him and getting the wrong idea. So he wants me to make his pickups for him. I figured I’d bring the two of you along, and it should help with some of the pigeons that might have had thoughts of holding out otherwise.”
“Anton has a sizeable route, but I can’t imagine there’s much coin to be made split three ways. Not after Don Moretti, Luca, and Anton have all taken their cuts,” Sal said.
“Don Moretti will get his cut,” Vinny said. “But Luca Vrana is no don. I figure we split his usual payment three ways and that ought to make it worth the squeeze.”
“And cut Luca out of the coin?” blurted Bartley. “Are you mad? ”
Vinny took a swig of ale, then set his mug on the table, a confident smirk fixed on his face.
The Moretti family was arguably the third most powerful within the Commission. With control of everything south of Beggar’s Lane, Don Moretti collected a protection tax for every business, racket, hustle, heist, and second-story job. Be they thief or shopkeeper, if they operated south of Beggar’s Lane and west of Captillo Road, they paid their tax to Moretti. As boss of the Moretti family, Don Moretti collected from the Shoe, the Lowers, South Dock, the Wharf, Urchin Town, the Stretch, the Cauldron, and the Narrows.
“Look, Vinny, you know the Code. Anton runs with Luca’s crew, and they are both made men under Don Moretti,” Sal said. “You can’t just cut a made man out of the coin. It doesn’t work like that.”
“I’m no made man,” Vinny said, “and neither are you, Salvatori. The only code we need follow is the code we make for ourselves.”
Sal shook his head. “I’m telling you, Luca will get his cut, one way or another. Best way to handle this is to pay the man upfront. You do that, and I don’t see how the pay is there for a three-man job.”
“Light’s name,” Vinny cursed, “I’m inclined to think you don’t want the work. Come across a purse full of krom you just gonna leave it lying there on the side of the road?”
“Might be Salvatori is just flush for work,” said Bartley.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Vinny.
Before Sal could explain, Bessy showed up with a tray. She plopped two clay mugs of frothing ale on the table, followed by two plates of steaming hot food. Sal’s mouth watered at the sight of golden-brown potato slices and char-blackened sausage all smothered in a thick brown gravy.
“Anything else I can get you boys?” asked Bessy.
“Another ale for me,” said Vinny, raising his mug.
“Fine, thank you,” said Sal, starting in on the eggs.
The eggs were poached, the yolks orange and runny. Sal skewered a bit of everything on the plate with his fork, gave it all a dip in the gravy, and stuffed his mouth to the point of bursting .
“What’s this about being flush for work?” asked Vinny.
“Only that Salvatori is taking jobs for himself and not bothering to share his windfalls with his friends.”
Vinny shot Sal a questioning look.
“That’s not the half of it,” said Sal, more defensively than he’d intended. “I’m doing some scouting for Luca. You know I would have refused if I hadn’t feared a red smile in return. Lady’s sake, you heard about Pavalo?”
“That mad ward-smith?” Vinny asked. “What’s he done now?”
“Died,” Bartley said through a mouthful of food.
“Murdered, way Nabu tells it,” Sal said.
“Pavalo Picarri, murdered,” said Vinny. “What for? Unless—” Vinny’s eyes widened. “You don’t think—the rat? But that would mean—”
“Luca,” Sal said.
“Right,” said Vinny. “If Luca thought Pavalo was the rat he would have done it himself. But do you really think it was Luca?”
Sal shrugged. “Difficult to tell. He didn’t exactly cop to doing it.”
“And you’re going to do another job for the man?” Vinny asked. “Sacrull’s hell, I wouldn’t go near Luca for the next fortnight no matter what you paid me, you know how he is. If he’s found one rat, chances are he’s going to go looking for another.”
“As I said, this is one obligation I’d rather shrug.”
“You could give the job to someone that needs the coin,” Bartley said sullenly.
Sal only shook his head.
“Well, some of us won’t complain of the work.”
“I believe even your breakfast has taken the point, Bartley,” said Vinny in a consoling tone.
Bartley opened his mouth to retort, but Sal beat him to the punch.
“No, Vinny,” Sal said. “He’s right. I’ve turned my back on the crew. When have I ever put my neck out there and vouched for either of you? When have I ever put work your way?” Vinny smiled, but Bartley seemed nonplussed. “Though I suppose there were all those jobs in the past, but what’s that matter? This is the here and now, and when, in the here and now, have I ever extended an invitation to one of Luca’s jobs?” Sal paused for dramatic effect. “Oh, that’s right, the bloody High Keep. And we all saw how that one turned out.”
Vinny reached across the table and squeezed Bartley’s shoulder playfully, but the little Yahdrish shook him off and stood. Bartley headed for the door, mumbling something about meeting with Anton, leaving half a plate of food untouched.
Vinny looked to Sal for an explanation, but Sal could only shake his head.
“Listen, I know you said you’re not interested in working the collections route,” Vinny said, “but you should come along anyhow. Anton sent word he wants to speak with you.”
Sal’s hand went back to his jerkin pocket where the locket hid. Anton’s client was probably hounding him already. Sal was only surprised Anton had not done the same to him, but supposed he’d been a touch preoccupied with simply living. Sal nodded. “I thought he
might want to.”
Vinny arched an eyebrow, but Sal didn’t deign to explain. Instead, he shoveled down what was left of his breakfast and set a silver krom and two iron dingés on the tabletop.
A s Sal, Bartley, and Vinny trekked across Low Town, the weather turned for the worse. Black storm clouds blew in from the north. Thunder sounded the arrival of lightning, which was followed by rain. Bartley remained sullen, while Vinny was his usual quiet self.
Sal didn’t mind the lack of conversation. He was still feeling the euphoric effects of the skeev, and there was something about the storm that felt right. Sal put a hand into his jerkin pocket and felt the electric energy of the locket course through him. He opened his mouth to the sky and drank the rainwater. It felt to him that the storm was as much within him as it was without. The walk to Anton’s was by no means a quick jaunt. By the end, Vinny and Bartley looked sodden and bedraggled, but Sal felt invigorated, his time in the rain cut too short.
Anton’s place was a mere loft above a warehouse down Penny Row. The warehouse was one of the older buildings and had apparently not received regular maintenance. The paint had peeled. The rushes were stale, which made the place smell something like a stable, though there were no signs of horses. Three-quarters of the warehouse was stocked with burlap sacks of barley and wheat, stacked high as a grown man.
The rickety staircase had grayed with age, though color could be found in the black and orange-brown molds that grew on the handrail and steps. The stairs creaked and moaned, shifting this way and that as the trio climbed. The higher they went, the more the staircase moved.
Vinny led the way, pushing open a trapdoor overhead and pulling himself through. Next went Bartley, only rather than pull through, the Yahdrish stopped halfway between loft and staircase.
Vinny let out a curse, and Bartley stumbled back down. Sal clutched the railing as the staircase drifted ominously far from the wall.
“What is it?” Sal asked. “What’s happened?”
Vinny continued to string together a litany of curses in the loft above, while Bartley retched over the side of the railing.
“What’s happened?” Sal asked again.
Vinny had quieted, but Sal still heard movement in the loft above.
Bartley continued to be sick, the miserable look on his face making it clear he wasn’t going to explain anytime soon.
Trying not to knock his friend off the staircase, Sal slid past Bartley and made for the trapdoor. He reached up and heaved himself into the loft. Though he’d been prepared for the worst, the sight still took him by surprise.
Anton lay faceup in a pool of blood, a deep red gash across his throat and a blank stare in his open, lifeless eyes.
9
Something for the Pain
A grimace was fixed upon Anton’s lifeless face. His hair was matted and clumpy with patches of dark dried blood. Besides the gash across his throat there were multiple wounds to his naked torso that had bloomed red.
Vinny poked at one of Anton’s hands.
“What in the Lady’s name are you doing?” said Sal.
“Come here,” said Vinny, bending down for a closer inspection. “Look at his arms.”
Sal got as close to the fresh corpse as he dared and looked as instructed.
Jagged cuts latticed Anton’s forearms and wrists. The hands were stiff with rigor mortis, making them look more like the claws of some storybook creature than hands belonging to a soft-touch artist. In life, Anton had been one of the best pickers in the city. Now his hands were black with dried blood and his palms covered in gashes, so many that the soft flesh looked like chewed meat.
“Ugly business,” said Sal.
Bartley poked his head up into the loft. His face took on a sickly look, and he went back down out of view.
“You know what it means?” Vinny asked .
“Anton must have grabbed the blade when he was stabbed,” Sal said. “From the look of it, they tried stabbing him half a hundred times.”
“Right, but what does this tell you?” Vinny asked, as though he were asking a question to which he already knew the answer.
Sal shrugged.
“The attacker approached him head on,” said Vinny. “Elsewise, Anton never would have been able to grab at the blade.”
“Oh?” Sal said.
“Also,” Vinny went on, “it tells us whoever went for Anton is an amateur. Couldn’t find the ass end of a pigeon until it shat in his eye.”
“What makes you say that?” Sal asked.
“Obvious, isn’t it? A hired man wouldn’t have made such a botch of the job. A true professional would have come at him from behind, cut his throat first, and saved himself the dirty work.”
“I wouldn’t say that was obvious.”
“All right, call it observably apparent.”
“No,” said Sal. “I mean, I think you might be wrong.”
“Like hell,” said Vinny. “How else would you explain the cuts on his hands?”
Sal took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Look at this place.”
Vinny looked around the loft. Stark walls and musty rafters. Old rushes and dust-laden furniture. The sconces were coated thickly with layers of candle wax, the ceiling black from smoke.
“A grim place, I’ll grant, and Anton here don’t do much to cheer it up, but what’s your point?”
“No windows,” Sal said. “No doors aside from the trapdoor, no other way in or out.”
“Meaning the amateur walked right through the bloody front door,” said Vinny. “But you still seem to be making my point. The man was a novice, why else do this here?”
“This is Penny Row,” said Sal, “the warehouse district. Where better to kill a man? Not a soul around after evenfall to hear his cries for help. Besides, it could be he found another way in—”
“What are we still doing here?” said Bartley, poking his head into the loft. His face had taken on a greenish hue, and he seemed unsteady.
Sal’s stomach had been feeling a bit queasy at the sight of all the blood. “I wouldn’t mind going elsewhere,” Sal said frowning down at the corpse of his old acquaintance, a twinge of sadness coming on.
Vinny looked as though he might protest, until he took another look at Anton and closed his mouth, swallowing whatever he was about to say.
“Should we summon the steel caps?” Bartley asked.
Sal and Vinny shared a look and simultaneously shook their heads.
T hough the black clouds remained overhead, the storm had dwindled to a light misting. The walk back to the Hog Snout seemed all the shorter for the distracted state of Sal’s mind.
When the trio pushed through the inn’s door they were dripping wet. The warmth of the hearth burning in the taproom was as welcome as the smell of cooking food. Though it wasn’t quite midday, and he’d broken his fast mere hours ago, Sal was hungry enough to eat a dead crow.
When he voiced this, Bartley eyed him and gave a sickly frown.
Although it was still morning, the taproom was already filling with the midday crowd. A singer with a lute had reached the final verses of “The Abbot and His Shoe” as Sal and the others found a place at one of the few empty tables.
“A song sung as a lesson, a song sung to refrain.
Yes, a cautionary tale,
a song sung to refrain, toooo refrain!”
Bessy came to their table just as the singer called for song requests from his audience.
“Back already?” Bessy asked, not unkindly .
“Bartley here insisted on it,” Sal said, patting his friend on the back.
The little Yahdrish looked like a cat confronted by a bear, but Bessy only smiled warmly. “Well then, what’ll it be, gents?”
“A round of the house ale,” said Vinny. “And have a second round ready. I’ve a feeling we have a thirst today.”
“Anything to eat?”
Vinny waved her off, and Bartley made a face as though he might retch then and there.
“Cooky whipped up a catch-o’-the-day stew. Let’s see here, think he said it was potatoes, leeks, and northern pike. Got a duck on the spit, honey and clove, you know the way he does them. Or if you’re in the mood, some salt beef has come in from Kirkundy, not half bad, that. I like mine with a glass of fresh milk.”
“Stew sounds just fine to me, though if you could try and snag me a bite or two of that duck, I’d much appreciate it.”
Bessy smiled and walked off with a nod.
Meanwhile the singer continued to go around the taproom taking requests for his next song.
“ ‘When Pigs Don Armor,’ ” called a woman.
“ ‘The Fool’s Wit,’ ” suggested another.
“ ‘Doppel Doppel Day’!” someone shouted.
“ ‘Piddle on the Diddler,’ ” said a man at the table next to Sal’s.
“Aye, ‘Piddle on the Diddler,’ ” said another from across the room.
“Wouldn’t be proper,” the singer protested. “I play a lute, not the fiddle.”
Despite his protest, others had taken up the call for “Piddle on the Diddler,” and the singer relented.
He strummed his lute a few times to give the room a chance to quiet back down. Then he started in on the first verse.
“A diddler will diddle, that’s what diddlers do.
That doesn’t mean it should happen to you. ”
“Back in the loft,” said Vinny, “you told me the killer found another way in. What did you mean?”
“No, say I, and no, say you.
Piddle on the diddler, for that’s what we do.”
“Right. Well, assuming Anton’s killer wasn’t soft in the head, I’m guessing he didn’t approach Anton from the trapdoor with knives drawn.”
Bessy returned with three clay mugs of ale and a steaming trencher of catch-o’-the-day stew.
The Hand That Takes Page 10