Читать книгу Den of Shadows - Christopher Byford - Страница 10

Chapter Three

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 pause before smiles cracked through. The boy, though, was slightly rattled.

‘In answer to your question,’ Franco continued, ‘I would sleep better knowing that we’re getting back on schedule. Are there any problems given yesterday’s interruption?’

‘Apart from being stuck in this shit-hole for longer than desired? Thankfully none. The boiler is burning fine, the small drifts are already dug away, and the tracks ahead seem to be uncovered. We’ve had your security boy Jacques helping out all morning so you pretty folks could indulge in a lie-in. Doing manicures. Rubbing feet. Waxing hair. Whatever you are getting up to in there while we do, you know, the work.’

Rosso heartily chuckled to himself. Franco had not been in the engine cab for quite some time now, not since he traded overalls for smart suit jackets. Their repartee, which occasionally happened at great length and usually over drink, was legendary. It was all false of course. Franco could never forget how to operate the Den and, arguably could look after it better than anyone else, but Rosso was, to him, the best substitute possible.

The youngster, knowing that it was inappropriate, sniggered behind a hand, only to receive another bearlike hand to the stomach to correct his demeanour.

‘Dammit, lad, that’s your boss. He’s the one who gives you coin, you ungrateful cur. When it’s in your hand, you can piss and squander it on whatever you like, but show some respect in his presence because I ain’t seeing you rich enough to grow a pair yet.’

‘Of course, Pa. Sorry, Mister Franco.’ He bowed meekly.

‘Forget that, son, your old man is just being his stubborn self. None of the work, huh?’ Franco considered that for a moment. ‘If you’re too busy to eat, I’ll tell Kitty to put the skids on your breakfast. From what I understand she insisted on cooking up something special to show our appreciation, but with all this backbreaking labour you’re describing you couldn’t possibly take time out, could you?’ Franco rubbed his chin, beaming, clearly enjoying the banter.

Rosso grinned back, showing a ream of crooked teeth. ‘Driving the Den is a harsh affair, boss. We couldn’t possibly pull off on an empty stomach. That is, unless you might want to get grease on those smooth, well-tended hands. I’m assuming you remember how to regulate pressure again? Or is pressure just a word used when balancing the books?’

‘Baseless accusations aside, how soon can we leave?’

‘Come now, when we’ve only just got here? I thought you wanted to stay a while, take in the sights.’ As if on cue to illustrate the point, a wild dog trotted over the loose sand, carrying a freshly caught rat in its jaws. It took a moment to pause, eyeing up the change in scenery as if to decide whether these new arrivals were a threat to its freshly caught meal. Having assessed them enough, it continued onward. ‘Well, sight. Singular. But to answer your question, I’ll get the boy to make preparations. We’ll be good in under an hour. Any change in destination?’

‘No, straight on to Balvalk.’

‘Aye, I know it. If we ride right, we’ll make it in under three hours.’

‘Good man. See that you do.’ Franco produced a silver coin and offered it to the boy beside him who tried, with difficulty, to act nonchalantly.

‘As soon as we arrive, buy yourself something to unwind. Your choice, not his. And make it worthwhile.’

The youngster blushed and voiced his thanks.

True to his word, Rosso pulled the Gambler’s Den from Velencia station on time and set off through the yellow sand drifts, heading for the mountain-scattered horizon.

Balvalk was, by all criteria, the town that Velencia wished it could have been. Built by a wealthy investor who decided that creating a settlement would be a decent pursuit, it was Balvalk’s creation that caused Velencia’s strife. The significant investment, and influence with its neighbours, fed its expansion at the expense of others, bypassing a good handful of towns with a newly laid track. Three times the size with more than double the amenities of others, Balvalk was a cluster of roads with small flat-roofed edifices sandwiched between multiple-level structures. Inns, taverns, stores embossed with bright lettering and dramatic graphics.

However, despite its fortuitous beginnings, Balvalk was in decline. Trade was moving out of the region. Contracts were being fulfilled in the larger port cities and where the work went, so did the people. But wealth remained a priority, which was admitted by those you spoke to. It was a town where pizzazz and status were paramount, even in light of current affairs. A perfect location, Franco believed, to hold the next event.

Franco’s pre-show encouragement was almost completely ignored. Misu placed herself at his side as routine, though her mind was clearly elsewhere. Silent nods acknowledged changes in the lighting cues and anything else of note – minor revisions at best. Mechanical affirmatives emerged from the showgirls, not wanting to inflame the situation any further with questions.

Everyone stood in formation, a line down the carriage, with not a word said. The chandeliers gently clattering at the carriage’s rhythmic sway filled the noiseless void. From outside eager faces from the stacked platform buzzed past windows, their speed lessening as the locomotive eased to a final stop.

Spotlights silently turned upon the platform. The carriage was bathed in white. The entertainer took a slow, calming breath to steady any possible nerves.

‘Let’s have a good show, everybody,’ Franco insisted. The sentence was barely finished before he strolled out to rapturous applause.

* * *

A cacophony of fireworks joined the starlight that evening and, true to form, Franco led the evening’s entertainment without a break in expression or tenacity. Strutting between tables, his aloof mingling was natural, joining patrons with shakes of the hand and self-indulgent repartee. Roulette was full of cheering patrons, some excitably waving over more drinks. The card tables were equally occupied, with regional variations of poker, blackjack, and pontoon.

More than once he was asked to kiss the dice for luck, and when the numbers came up, was gracious enough to inflate the payout for those at the table. Generous, they called him. A gentleman, they praised. He bathed in his celebrity, playing his part flawlessly. A showman. An entertainer. A host.

Though a problem, an invisible one to revellers, was eroding this veneer. Misu, whenever spoken to, gave one- or two-syllable answers, most of them monotone. The normal interaction between them, a fluid exchange of opinions, of conversation, was reduced to glances and bluntness. The cause was obvious, stemming from her disapproval over finding other avenues of income. It was her problem though, right? Her reaction. Misu needed to grow up. She was, after all, just another employee. It was Franco who called the shots and she needed to not overreach herself.

If only that was true.

The crux of the matter and subsequent cause of Franco’s guilt was that Misu was anything but just another employee. Far from it. Time and time again she had proven herself to be steadfast and headstrong, keeping her areas of responsibility well managed. He never had to prompt nor apply pressure, ensuring that their professional relationship flowed more smoothly than thought possible.

Her inclusion in the Gambler’s Den was one of the most fruitful – calming too. Whenever he found scant time to relax, Misu always seemed to be a part of the procedure. It was why she and she only invited herself into Franco’s personal carriage whilst it remained out of bounds for anyone else. No, their relationship was anything but ordinary. She was a confidante in the times when he needed to spit frustration. She was a balm when times became painful.

And it was precisely these reasons why Franco felt the pangs of guilt.

His gaze fell on the woman, keeping the pretence of satisfaction. The gilded smile was impossible to class as fake unless you were aware of what stirred beneath.

Misu always was good at hiding things. A talent, he assumed, where the harshness of reality could be locked away for a spell and the illusion indulged in. Succumbing to reason, he produced a heavy sigh, knowing full well what he was about to do.

‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ He struck his hands together in succession, drawing attention. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your time please. I must share with you all a truth. It would be easy to witness this spectacle, this extravaganza and believe it is the work of just one man. I am not so proud to admit that is not the case. I introduce to you, the ever lovely Misu, the companion at my side who endures the wastes, the hardships, to bring this show to all of you.’

A spotlight swung off routine. Light set her awash in a white halo. Misu’s cheeks flushed with red at this unexpected attention. She curtseyed politely to applause. What is he up to? her expression said.

‘Now, Misu has been feeling, well, many things considering I am her manager, but sadly for the most part, she believes herself ignored. Unappreciated. Imagine that hardship for a moment, if you could.’

The crowd collectively sighed in sympathy.

‘Now, this is no fault of your own, my fine people. The desert is harsh to travel and we cross it with strength to bring you delight. Your smiles are worthwhile but the toil … the toil can beat the best of us. This woman is the one who keeps me sane.’ Franco wagged a finger. ‘She ensures more things, many things than you experience now. For instance, she ensures the games are managed!’

The crowd cheered, raising their drinks in hand.

‘She keeps the kitchen stocked!’

Another cheer.

‘She keeps the girls in their finery!’

A louder cheer this time, especially from the men who whistled in approval.

‘But more importantly than that –’ Franco thrust his finger in the air, with every person lingering on his words ‘– she keeps the bar populated with the best alcohol you could ever find and convinces me to keep the prices low!’

The cheer was followed with rapturous applause. They chanted Misu’s name over and over, a number of patrons patting her back and thanking her in person. She accepted each and every one, nodding and grinning, warmly shaking the hands of those who offered. Through the sea of faces, elevated up on the train platform – three sets of steps up – Franco threw out his arm.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, your appreciation please, to our ever-shining gem of the Gambler’s Den!’

The torrent of cheers, repeating Misu’s name over and over were deafening, and from his place above them, Franco gave a wink and smile, ensuring full well that Misu knew how much she was valued to him. Maybe speaking the words was difficult, the right ones especially, and he wasn’t prone to delivering heartfelt monologues. Others indulged in such familiarities. They were welcome to them, but Franco rarely had the time or the patience.

But she knew.

Come the dawn, the Gambler’s Den once again came to life. The clattering of iron pans broke the pale morning’s silence. The dining car was thriving with action, with the noises shortly joined by the hissing of bacon rashers, the pungent aroma of brewed coffee, and the accompanying smells that gave a tired person life anew. The kitchen, though grand in no way or special on any account, buzzed with life even at such an unsociable time. Plates were passed between the showgirls, who had already tended to the platform and packed the show materials away into storage. From the outside you would have never imagined such revelry had emerged from its doors. All was now hidden away in the visage of the fine old train.

The girls each gossiped, taking seats at one of the many tables, and prepared themselves for the day. Franco looked around him at the smiling faces, the jokes and cheers, and smiled at each of them in turn. The culminated stress of the last few days had flittered away – much to everyone’s relief. It felt comforting to see everyone relaxed once again, the dirt of their journey and profession scrubbed away somewhat by a camaraderie that they all shared.

It wasn’t family.

Franco refused to call it that as he had, in the past, referred to others not of his blood as such, resulting in it being used as a form of blackmail. Those who forged the title of family demanded sacrifice, devotion, all under the guise of manipulating what one should do. No, family wasn’t the word to use.

This was different.

This was nice, in a sense.

But family it was not.

He took a plate and thanked the one who handed it to him. The woman delivered a smile that had never faltered after her hiring. She called him boss, as respectfully as any of the others.

Misu strolled past, a plate of her own balancing on fingertips, before seating herself opposite Franco. She had decided on a lighter option than what the man before her chose, picking at a small portion of cherry tomatoes, cockatrice eggs, and greenery, which she assumed to be a form of cliff pepper. Chickens didn’t fare so well out here and thanks to the domestication of its larger and much more dangerous relative, cockatrice eggs became a staple foodstuff.

Franco had ordered that there was always to be an ample supply of food so local delicacies were picked up whenever the train stopped. The tomatoes were shipped out from the west where the climate was more temperamental, an extravagance for anyone to indulge in, let alone those under his employ. For most under his roof, the chance to eat so well was extraordinary.

The showgirls came from every background – impoverished, well-to-do, all across the spectrum. Their reasons for joining were their own (escapism, adventure, and others) but each could agree that nothing beat such decadent food, or the traditional tastes of home no matter where that may have been. A full stomach, in Franco’s words, would ensure a full performance.

Franco chewed slowly as they eyed one another silently. Clearly she was waiting for him to begin a dialogue and he did so, placing his cutlery down.

‘Eggs good?’

* * *

Misu tilted her head, mouth still half full. Eggs. After the conflict between them, the best point of conversation he could muster was about eggs?

‘The eggs are fine,’ she revealed, taking the last of them from the plate. ‘The eggs are always fine.’

She heavily swallowed and gestured with a dainty fork. No, this wouldn’t do.

‘I’m sorry, eggs? Eggs. I just wanted to clarify you’re talking about eggs and nothing else at all. It’s not, like, a metaphor for something that I have clearly missed. Maybe about you being an ass and me clearly provoking you for being such a bloody fool?’

Immediately she recoiled upon giving voice to her anger. Turning away did nothing to help the embarrassment.

Franco shrugged blankly. ‘Wow. Good thing I didn’t enquire about the tomatoes.’

The pair laughed at the absurdity, causing more than a few glances in their direction.

‘Food has been a concern of late for you. Are we still on the lookout for an actual cook?’

‘We should be. I’m not altogether keen on this stopgap who you hired last month.’

‘Kitty,’ Misu prompted.

‘Yes, her. Don’t get me wrong, she fills the role well, but Kitty’s one of the girls and was brought on to be such. I don’t like the idea of someone with a split job. It prevents one from dedicating themselves to a single task. Makes things messy,’ Franco stated.

‘What would the chances be that we just happen to stumble upon someone looking for work who is talented in the kitchen? Most of the girls are unfamiliar with the majority of what we bring on board. Kitty has been the only one capable of actually cooking it. I’m assuming that’s because of her farm upbringing – growing and whatnot. Not everyone has had such exposure.’

‘I still think it would be a good idea.’

Misu gave a modest laugh, watching the short blonde girl whizz between cupboard and counter, brandishing pan and knife in turn, a content country song passing from her lips. ‘It would be frivolous. With Kitty about, what’s the point? I’ve heard no complaints, nothing but praise in fact. Seems to be doing good and nobody is going hungry.’

‘Yet.’

‘Yet,’ Misu repeated.

‘Or poisoned.’

‘Yes, or poisoned.’

Misu glanced to the plate of bacon and flat bread that Franco had almost managed to finish, finding the hypocrisy to be almost amusing. She grinned, in answer to which he patted his lips with a napkin, balled it beside him, and returned the expression in kind.

Misu flexed a finger to the plate. ‘That right there tells me that we should see how it plays out. Trust in my recruitment and give it a chance. Okay?’

‘We’ll do it your way.’ Franco eased a yawn.

‘I’m glad you see sense. How are the finances after last night? Generally, I mean,’ she asked.

‘We’re not broke yet.’

‘Not this week at least.’ She paused then winced meekly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that.’

‘Sure you did. It’s fine though; I don’t mind you prying. You’re right. Not this week.’ Franco grinned and she reciprocated.

‘Good to know.’ Misu paused. ‘I was wondering where you were at the close last night. I had to give your speech, you know. I’ve not done that in a while.’

‘Some people wanted me to play nice, talk to them, that sort of thing. Got dragged away for far too long.’ Franco yawned, recalling the events and their associated tedium.

‘Anyone important?’

‘Local mayor, some friends of his. Nothing that couldn’t wait but they insisted I bantered at the table. Then he wanted me to meet his daughter in an attempt of matchmaking, not that they had the courtesy to inform me first. The stories, damn their mouths – they talked seemingly for ever! If I hear one more tale about how Balvalk was once great I may very well shoot this head of mine. It’s not great. Greatness never lived here. It just needed a place to piss and hung around a spell before moving on.’

‘And the daughter?’

‘Not my sort.’

Misu snorted in amusement. ‘Do you even have a sort?’

‘I’ll tell you one day. You can keep guessing until then.’ Franco thanked a woman who passed and balanced his plate upon a stack of others she was on her way to clean.

‘I have no need to guess. You missed the commotion though; I’m sure you’re disappointed at that.’ Misu hung a cigarette between her lips and snapped off the contents of a matchbook. She held the flame in place, drawing slowly on her poison before shaking the fire to reduction. Her flute of grey smoke evaporated quickly. ‘We had a little trouble but nothing fancy.’

‘Oh?’

‘Some drunk accused one of ours of counting cards. Got rowdy and smashed a bottle. Glass everywhere.’

‘Heavens.’

‘Nothing more than a mess. Jacques calmed him down enough for the constabulary to haul him away after.’

‘A relief to hear. That man has paid for himself ten times over. The benefits of having some strong-arm help.’

‘Careful, Franco, you’re in danger of sounding like you actually care.’

‘Mistake noted. What are your plans for the day?’

‘The girls and I are going to the bath-house in town. I’m assuming that we can be spared some walking around money after last night? A little shopping would keep the spirits up.’

‘But the bath-house?’ he queried.

‘A little publicity for us, dear. Some pampering – I’m sure you won’t mind.’

Appearance was everything for the Gambler’s Den, and Misu knew full well what effect the parade of showgirls had on bored locals. Their appearance, especially in a pack, caused a sensation wherever they ventured, guaranteeing a higher turnout before a subsequent show. A higher turnout would result in a higher profit – at least one would assume so.

* * *

Franco pondered Misu’s request but remained cautious. He recalled the time where they were almost mobbed in a market square, or the time when some young men became far too aggressive in their affections. To him, it was not worrying. It was being wary of negative perceptions, despite how mechanical and callous that sounded. He had to consider these things, as the others sure wouldn’t. Why let sensibilities interrupt something fun?

Misu leant forward with a pout. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

Franco hesitated, only for a moment, but relinquished any concerns. Let them have their moment to dissipate the recent stress, he decided.

‘Of course I don’t. Make sure you’re back by dusk though. We’re hauling off then.’

‘A late one? You’ve not done that in a while.’

‘We’re going to be an extra day as it is on account of a detour. Red Points is starting to get busy with hijackings according to the wire. I would rather we kept ourselves in a measure of security even if that puts us an extra day over sand.’

The newswire had been abuzz in recent weeks. His venture into Balvalk’s post office confirmed that bandits were becoming increasingly brazen. He had scanned the noticeboards, taking in the bevy of warnings adorned with noticeably large print. Robbery this. Hijacking that. Ransom notices here and there. Pockets of lawlessness were widening out in the region, forcing organized travel routes to be changed with uncomfortable frequency. And there was significant cost. The Gambler’s Den was a lucrative target to any raiding parties and sadly replacing bullet-bitten panels was straining the coffers.

‘There’s that caring thing once more.’ Misu stubbed out her cigarette. ‘My, Franco, we’ll make an honest man out of you yet.’

‘I doubt it. Never been much for honest folk.’

‘Are they problematic?’ Misu quirked a brow.

Franco accompanied her rise to leave. He spied Rosso feverishly devouring his breakfast with copious amounts of coffee on a nearby table, accompanied by the boy who timidly pecked at his food in comparison.

‘Slippery,’ he replied. ‘At least with the rough cut, you get what you see.’

Distracted, Franco manoeuvred himself around the bar and rummaged beneath the counter. Settling upon a distinctive glass bottle with a rather attractive label, he hoisted it out by one of the fixed glass handles and deposited it before their resident driver. The pair subsequently stopped their eating.

‘That is a pleasure,’ Rosso admitted, clearly relishing the thought of taking the cork from this beauty and draining it dry.

‘For making good time,’ Franco declared, ‘though please do show some restraint; you still have to get us to Windberg.’