a purple shiner that squatted on his left eye socket, a warning that Jacques had happily delivered.
Every advance down the steps was angular, with weight being relieved from his left leg. When others of his type had scampered away after their beating, Flenn had remained behind, brooding on vicious plans, designing on his hate. Hate was chased with liquor, and there he had sat, in the cramped crooked alleyway, followed by equally despicable people who drank, and hated, as much as he.
‘Where are you going, little rabbit?’ Flenn sneered. A cackle emanated from his entourage behind him. ‘And where’s your friend?’
‘Seems like she’s been tossed out,’ someone said.
‘Aye.’ Flenn’s eyes flashed. ‘That it does.’
‘No –’ Misu attempted to speak.
‘Streets are cold, I would say. Dangerous too. Never know what folks walk these streets.’
‘I think we need to find a home for her.’
‘That we do.’
‘Come along. I know someone who will take care of you. You’ve played long enough.’
An attempt at struggling was halted as thick fingers squeezed her cheeks.
‘Ah ah ah, none of that now. The boss said he wanted you back, but never said in what condition. You’ve already been trouble. I’ve killed men for a bad look. I’ve gutted others for a dirty word spoken, so don’t think I wouldn’t do the same to you. I can take you back without a hassle, untouched. Or …’ Flenn bent forward, eye to eye in challenge ‘… I can make you very ugly. Decide.’
Another whimper, this one the last, accompanied with a hurried shake of the head. Misu’s reward was to be pushed back, gasping for air and knowing full well that escape was impossible.
‘Clever girl.’
Rude Awakenings
What was that noise?
Marching feet, raised voices. Both things indicative of trouble – trouble that Jacques didn’t need to accompany his hangover. The sunlight was bad enough: a barrage of a thousand tiny needles that burrowed into his forehead via his fragile eyes, but this addition was overkill.
How much did they drink last night? Could he even remember? The collection of empty beer bottles was evidence enough. Every slam and bang and crash and call served to do nothing to his already suffering demeanour. He peeled himself from a carriage seat and attempted to wince as the ring of the church bells had taken residence within his skull. Every step to the windows set them ringing, reducing the speed of his steps until the pain became bearable, and then Jacques caught sight of the cause.
Alex Juniper positioned himself in full view with a handful of men, each keen-eyed and geared for trouble. Then, he called out to the occupants. ‘Mister Monaire, please do grant me a kindness and the pleasure of your company.’
Jacques squinted bleary-eyed past a curtain, fingering the material back. The train remained quiet, far too quiet for this hour as breakfast would normally be made and the showgirls would be serving coffee.
Right, he recalled the night before. The showgirls. At some point the arguments became heated and they’d insisted on looking for Misu, no matter how long it took. It must have taken a while as they had yet to come back.
* * *
Corinne’s disapproving glare still burnt in Franco’s mind as he was roused awake, heavy-eyed and thick-headed.
‘What is the commotion?’ he whimpered, checking his body to ensure decency, though standing was a difficulty at this stage. ‘The sheriff is here? What in all the world could he be wanting?’
‘Guessing, nothing pleasant. Bad timing as well. Want me to try and get rid of him?’
Again Alex Juniper called, looking over the windows for any sign of life in the vehicle. ‘I’m giving you a courtesy to step out, but you should know I could walk on and drag you out by them pretty shoes of yours. You going to come say hello?’
‘That’s just brilliant.’ Franco eased his footwear on to comply.
‘He’s not after a friendly conversation I’d wager,’ Jacques grunted. ‘Are we going to be looking for trouble?’
‘Not this time; just behave yourself.’
‘Isn’t that an irony coming from you?’
The pair stepped out, hurriedly dressed and still red-eyed. Franco was fairly presentable, unlike his cohort who stood with shirt untucked and hair wild. An edge of concern unknowingly entered Franco’s voice, but he coughed it and the residue of fine rum away. ‘Sheriff. Awful loud ruckus you’re making just to say hello. Something I can do for you?’
‘Since you asked so nicely. Hold out your wrists.’
Franco failed to muster an iota of respect in his response. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I don’t think you need excusing; you heard me perfectly well. Hold out your wrists. Now.’
Franco conceded. His hands were bonded with weighted irons. All the while, Alex grinned contently.
‘Franco Del Monaire,’ the sheriff announced with so much delight he could burst, ‘I am arresting you for assisting the criminal underclass in their misdeeds and numerous murders, for associating with said people and the involvement of the robbery of contraband from this fair city. And on top of that, anything else I damn well see fit.’
‘This is unfair. We had nothing to do with these things!’ Franco protested. Already he was being escorted away and Jacques was warned against intervention with the showing of billy clubs.
‘No, son. Being unable to lynch you where you stand in this great city of mine is a lack of fairness. This right here, this is just bad luck on your part. Or justice on mine. Take your pick.’
* * *
By the time the girls had returned, they expected to find Franco scowling, reading a riot of words about the docking of pay or the show of respect for his authority. They were, of course, all ready for this, with Corinne insisting that she would be doing most of the talking as there was no barb she couldn’t refute.
Yet as they walked into Central Station, Platform 4 was ominously quiet. Others who were passing through, or waiting at other platforms watched, as word had spilt that Franco Del Monaire had been arrested. What the girls found was their solemn-looking head of security, slouched on a carriage coupling. He was attempting to ease his pain with a bad Bloody Mary, with too little Blood and too much of the Mary.
When able to, he answered every question put to him. He cited the details of Franco’s arrest, step by torturous step, until his drink was empty. Every protest by the girls was met with a deadpan response. The situation was, to use his exact words, utterly hopeless and he suggested they take some time to sleep. It had been a busy night, he stated with intense sarcasm, though it was true.
The
