a Goddamned thing, you Goddamned guttersnipe.”
Here Jack’s stick flashed an arc up and Brown went down, clutching at his face, letting out a shriek. Jack pushed him from the alley wall to the ground and onto his back. He put his foot on Brown’s chest and placed the tip of his stick near the man’s aorta. Anatomy, simple.
“Listen close,” he said. “Chicago bought you and your waistcoat, and you’ll do as you’re told. Happily. Tonight. In for a penny, in for a fucking pound.”
Jack stepped off Brown and pulled out a wad of banknotes. He peeled off and dropped a flutter of bills over the now silent, cringing form. The little man was frozen, his hands protecting his phiz.
“My advice, Brown? Keep that dirty trap of yours shut, respect your elders in the kirk, and tie your bootlaces.”
This was not an especially encouraging turn of events. My hackles rose and I looked around for an eyewitness. No one. Brown keened in his pain. Ugly. Watch your step, boyo. My mouth spat aluminum-tasting saliva out onto the alley wall.
Jack came to me where I waited at the entry. He took a handkerchief from his sleeve and carefully wiped blood off the shaft of his stick. Done, he dropped the rag on the sidewalk. Was I terribly shocked by what had happened? Life had thus far shown me much worse. Together we went west.
“Let’s grab a ’cab,” he said.
St. James opened up at Victoria Square and at the foot of Beaver Hall Hill Jack whistled a motor-taxi over. We climbed in and Jack directed the driver to wheel us to the Derby. He whistled an old-fashioned tune as we rode, “The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.”
“Who was he?” I asked.
“A useful useless man,” said Jack. “He’s been trying to spit out his hook.”
“Scotch,” I said.
“No kidding.”
“No, here.”
My very last chattel. From its secret place I took out a flask of blood-warmed liquor and offered it to Jack. He took a pull and made a face.
“Christ in heaven. You must be broke.”
“And how. One question.”
“Shoot, lad.”
“What’s that, your stick?”
“Ah.”
His eyes lit as he stroked it.
“Shark’s spine.”
AT THE RESTAURANT Jack paid the ’cabman and we got out. For a moment I worried about my mien. My suit was starting to shine at knee and elbow. I’d left my overcoat at my digs as a sort of hostage. Quickly I checked my fingernails and brushed my front, then tightened my necktie. To hell with it. Set your hat straight and march on in. Do as Jack does. At the door they straightaway took our toppers and Jack’s damned stick. The maître d’ led us to a lowlit booth of deep brown leather. We sank in.
“Peckish?” asked Jack.
My salivary glands winced at the aroma of good food.
“Like that Russian’s dog,” I said, and let out a strange unbidden laugh.
Jack gave me the once-over.
“Here.”
He offered me his fancy case. I read Rameses II in blue ink on the oval cigaret I removed. Jack lit his own in the heat of a little oil lamp on the table. Convection. He hated wasting a match, I knew. The drinks steward came ’round.
“Claret,” said Jack.
We settled in and smoked and looked at what was offered in the table d’hôte. A waiter minced by.
“Oysters,” Jack said, looking at me. “For starters.”
I shrugged.
“A clear soup, some cucumber, the roast beef with new potatoes, a celery, then the cheese and the rest. Sound good?”
I nodded. Wine soon appeared. The steward poured and Jack raised his glass. I looked through the ruby fluid to the flame.
“Your wealth and hell-being.”
We drank. A cart rolled by bearing a silver salver. I caught my distorted reflection in the metal, dark and sour. Compare and contrast with Jack. He was hale, full of vim and vigour. Jack ran a large hand over his carefully combed red hair. My next question formed itself.
“How’d you find me?”
Smiling, Jack exhaled plumes of smoke out his nose thirls. The answer poured over me like cold water. Only one person on this earth.
“Laura,” I breathed.
Jack raised his eyebrows. The oysters were set down.
“A good thing it was too,” went Jack. “You’re off the reservation. Tried the school, Smiler and the rest. Thought you might’ve skipped town.”
“I’m out.”
“How long?”
“Since the end of last term.”
“Smiler suspected as much,” Jack said. “What’s this place you’re staying now?”
“Rooming house. What is it Leacock says? ‘All rooming houses are the same rooming house.’ He’s right, as always.”
“Ran into him on campus as well,” said Jack. “You tell your old man yet?”
“No point.”
“And Laura?”
“Don’t ask. Where’d you see her?”
“Dance out at Victoria Hall. Pure chance. She was being squired about by some local likely. Stole her and took her for a spin or two myself.”
This wasn’t news I liked the sound of. Jack’s manner was bland and still. I knew better than to ask him anything, mostly because I didn’t want to know. Ever thus he played the amused monarch, nature’s aristocrat. As evidenced by the beaten man he’d left behind, power over others was Jack’s meat. Try not to let suspicion eat at you. Say something.
“Doesn’t matter now. She won’t have a thing to do with me.”
Jack smiled again, but did I detect contempt in his eyes? I toyed with a glass.
“So why’d you stay in town?” he asked. “Hike down to Hogtown or head back home. I would.”
“To face down the Pater? No thank you. Besides, I’m skint. And there’s something else.”
“You’re hung up on her. I understand. But where in the hell’ve you been since April? Could have used you before now.”
“It’s
