workshop for however long it takes to get it restored to working condition. That and we have claim of whatever can be of use on the premises. It will be a venture well worth the undertaking.’
‘We?’ Franco said, clearly not sharing the enthusiasm. ‘This is your endeavour, Grandpa, not mine. Don’t be roping me into this none.’
‘Yes, we. Us. You and I. Was I not clear in pointing that out? Do you have something better to do? Elsewhere to be?’
‘Yeah I do. I’ve got ambitions,’ he boasted with juvenile pride.
‘Please! You’ve got nothing but bad decisions under your belt, hoisting up those britches that are far too big. What are your plans outside of causing a ruckus with those who disagree with you?’
‘Does it even matter to you? It’s not like you’re my father or anything.’
‘No, but like I repeat every year, I’m the next best thing you’re ever going to get and should he miraculously drift on past, I’ll gladly pass the mantle.’
Franco huffed, kicking a spent can of paint over in frustration.
‘This is stupid. Don’t you think I deserve a say in all this? Don’t I get, I dunno, a choice?’
‘No, you don’t,’ Pappy snarled, ‘because I’m sick of hearing about the mischief you’ve been getting up to. You’re better than those rapscallions out there, troublemakers who steal purses from already downtrodden folk. Do you want to live picking pockets or brawling in gutters? You’re better than that, Franco. I raised you better than that and I’ll be damned if I’m going to watch you succumb to such foolishness. If you are incapable of making sensible decisions, then I’ll have to make them for you.’
Franco immediately recoiled. The pigeons loudly took to the sky in surprise. Anger was not a stranger to Pappy, but to see him so fiery about his grandson’s wellbeing was unique. That passion was normally reserved for betting on horses or debating the state of local ales.
‘Fine. I get it, I get it,’ the youngster conceded.
‘Do you? Because if you don’t make something of yourself now, you’ll die a very sad death out here, alone and with no one to grieve for you.’
‘All right! All right, stop; you don’t have to go on,’ Franco squawked, ‘but why would you want to go to the effort of getting it running again? It sounds like a job for a younger man.’
Disappointingly this was correct. Pappy lacked the strength of his youth, physically at least. Help was indeed required, which is why Franco would be another pair of hands in the endeavour, an apprentice of sorts. Age was against him and this was apparent from the occasional pain in the joint or strain of eyesight. What was the alternative though? Endure the remaining years in abject poverty? No. He’d promised the boy better once and no matter the hardship, he would make good on that. He’d fixed such a beast on the go with little assistance from associates, learning every facet with vigour. Resurrecting one from scrap should be a straightforward affair.
The Eiferian 433 loomed over the pair, patiently slumbering.
‘The same reason why you act up when you could be doing something productive. What compels you to do that? Honestly.’
Franco was unsure whether to take offence or not, but he deliberated and answered truthfully. ‘I don’t really know.’
‘Exactly,’ Pappy agreed, ‘we both have things that run in our blood that we can’t quite explain.’
* * *
Franco lay slumped, fingers still coaxed around green frosted glass, the last pouring collected at its base. An occasional mumble left his lips but they were nothing particularly coherent. He didn’t deserve Misu relieving him of the bottle so it wouldn’t spill on the carpet, but taking pity on him, she’d returned it to the bar counter. Neither did he deserve the blanket draped over his person to keep out the cold, but it was provided. For a moment she questioned whether she’d caught a mumble about time in his comatose state, though with the affray outside still taking place, she dismissed it.
Leaving the lamps burning out of consideration should he wake, Misu left in the pursuit of rest. As winds battered the Gambler’s Den, their troubled manager slumbered in the carriage with nothing but his dreams as company.
The Hardest Word
‘Mister Rosso. Good morning.’
Franco strolled out into the sun. The morning sky was a brilliant blue, clear and devoid of a single cloud. It was hot but lacked humidity, a dry heat that ensured that it would be, on all accounts, a perfect day. At least it would be if he wasn’t nursing the results of last night’s drinking session. His boots fell into a disturbed drift of sand that had collected against the carriage side, recently dug away with accompanying shovels propped alongside.
Rosso snapped a pair of goggles from his eyes. He nonchalantly tossed a wrench into a rusted toolbox beside him, and groaned, part amused and part in pain. An hour of squatting, addressing the temperamental valve gear, had knotted his back, forcing him to rise and flex himself from side to side. The goggles slapped onto the toolbox; its lid closed with a kick. He cracked old knuckles, scarred fingers complaining of decade’s worth of toil, a sentiment echoed in the deep lines on his face. Short hair was fading from auburn to grey, a process seemingly more advanced in the sun’s full glare.
Rosso had taken over driving the Gambler’s Den almost five years ago, a task that was fraught with challenges, though he would describe it far less eloquently. It took a rougher sort to keep the locomotive happy, one who used individual grit as much as oil. With Rosso at the helm, Franco could freely concentrate on the entertainment, which suited him fine.
Standing to attention beside Rosso was his boy, just seventeen with the arms of lazy youth. Rosso had requested that the boy come with them in the hope of teaching him a decent, honest profession. He tended to the firebox mostly, heaving coal into the boiler, which was as fine a job as any. The pay was minimal and as such the decision easy. When Franco strode past, the boy lurched, back straight and arms flat to his sides as if on parade. His father knocked the wind from his chest with a sharp slap to the stomach.
‘In Her name, you blasted fool. Stop that, will you? You look like a damn statue. A statue of an ass of all things. Good morning, Franco. Slept well I presume?’ he grunted in a deep, gravelly tone.
Franco gave a pained sigh. Blast those talkative women.
‘You’re referring to the drinking.’
‘Yes, that would be what I’m talking about in no uncertain terms.’ Rosso laughed before adding sarcasm. ‘I never thought you to be a lightweight.’
‘Remind me again, what was that spiced rum you wanted me to hold for you for the night off? Pricy, came in that nice bottle. Really pretty label.’
‘Ah yes. The Shellcoof Black. Good stuff by all accounts,’ Rosso recalled, knowing full well where this was going.
‘Keep up the attitude and I’ll drain it down the sink,’ he threatened, deadpan in tone.
There was a serious, uncomfortable
