Читать книгу Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy - Christopher Byford - Страница 16

Chapter Six

High Rollers

When the Gambler’s Den was finally cleared to be boarded, Franco found himself the last to arrive. The showgirls had already begun to work though the mess, sorting spilled papers, making the overturned beds, hanging the multitude of dresses and gowns that had been carelessly thrown onto the floor. Nothing had been claimed as evidence of wrongdoing and scant items were damaged in the vigorous search for hidden trapdoors or compartments.

The residence carriage was totally pulled apart. The dining car tables had been tipped over. The storage cars were in a huge mess with every table, chair, stool, and game disorganized. There was work, much work indeed to do, and everyone set about it without a word of complaint, as the Den was their home and its upkeep was performed diligently.

Young women brushed Franco aside as he surveyed the intrusion, their rearranging, replacing, tidying, a breeze of movement. He had already checked his private car, which was left in a shambles, though not much different than the condition he had left it in. Thankfully the trunk that Wyld had used to store more evidence than Juniper could imagine was untouched, still tucked into a dusty recess behind the tables. With no sign of tampering Franco could finally rest easy.

‘The bar is done, though I’m not convinced some sticky-fingered Bluecoat didn’t lift a couple of bottles of Honey Fae.’ Katerina pouted and slanted her hips. A flare of flame-red hair, still in perfect curled ringlets, draped around her shoulders, framed features that usually gave warm smiles. Now, however, all she could do was scowl as she went about her business. Dainty freckles that decorated her cheeks scrunched closer to one another in disapproval. ‘It’s bad enough that they can do this, but helping themselves to liquor? That’s unacceptable. Can’t you do something?’

Franco put his weight against the newly polished bar, minding to not to undo Katerina’s good work. ‘I think we should consider ourselves lucky,’ he said.

From behind him, one of the older girls, Corinne – tall and slender – carried a pile of folded towels to place behind the bar. When done, she chipped in, reaffirming herself as an elder sister of sorts, though not by blood. ‘Of course, you weren’t with us when we passed through the Western lines. This was nothing in comparison. Lawmen, they claimed. They wanted bribes, they tried to pilfer goods, and some tried to use us girls. One peculiar bunch demanded a couple of girls as permanent payment of passage.’

‘They what?’ Katerina squeaked in alarm.

‘No word of a lie. Wanted wives. When refusing, Franco had to talk his way out of handing us over – along with a week’s takings – with a barrel at his temple.’

‘And?’

‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’ Franco sighed. ‘Quick-tongued wizardry only gets you so far. It’s why we have security with us. Muscle fares better when words fail in negotiation. He sorted things.’ Jacques was quietly sat at one table and puffed himself out in pride at the comment, remembering the encounter fondly.

‘He sorted things?’ Katerina queried.

‘I showed them the error of their ways.’ Jacques grinned. Franco patted him heavily on the shoulder.

‘You showed them the soles of your boots, is what you did.’

‘It’s why you pay me the big bucks, boss.’

A slip of a girl – petite with an almost nauseating purr to her voice – skipped up to Franco, scowling with such determination that it was impossible to take the effort seriously. Kitty had finished in the dining car, tidying her sanctuary of the kitchen space and was moving some of the equipment to storage, holding the contents in a worn cardboard box. She dropped it onto the polished bar surface, pulled a spatula from the contents, and jabbed Franco over and over.

‘You best not consider giving any of us up. I, especially, will be unhappy with you,’ Kitty taunted, every word punctuated with a thrust of her wrist.

‘Easy there, firecracker, that would never be the case!’ Franco laughed.

‘Good, because I am warning you.’

‘You’re warning me?’ he cooed.

‘With words and all.’ Kitty grinned, cheeky and rambunctious. The flat of the utensil bit a line into his waistcoat. ‘And also with this.’

‘You have my word I will never use you as currency,’ Franco agreed, patting her blonde hair in reassurance.

‘Any more,’ she added.

‘When have I done so previously? How is that even a thing?’

Corinne slipped the box back to its owner and shooed her along the carriage to the next task at hand.

‘Back to work with you. Less talking if you please,’ she insisted. All objections were ignored as Kitty went on her way.

The carriage was organized, every decoration in perfect placement, as if it had never been disturbed.

‘She still has a smart mouth, that one,’ he mumbled as Corinne strolled back towards him. He straightened a glass-shaded lamp before him, turning it this way and that until it looked right.

‘Isn’t that why we picked Kitty up? I think the exact word you used at the time to introduce her was pluck.’

‘Suppose so.’

‘Then take the rough with the smooth. We can’t be entertaining all the time. Little country girls like her take a while to refine.’

‘You make it sound like I’m whoring you all out.’

Corinne’s gaze hardened. They both knew that should Misu have heard him use that word – that despicable, horrid word – she would have administered a slap across his face. There were comparisons at times that the showgirls who worked at the Gambler’s Den were for hire, mostly by patrons far too drunk to keep their sensibilities. That was not the service they performed and Misu would enforce this to those who thought differently, defending their reputation. Working girls had no qualms about being touched if the price was right, but placing your hands on the girls at the Den could result in Jacques’s intervention.

‘Sorry. Poor choice of words, but you get my meaning.’ Franco exhaled.

‘There’s a difference between entertaining and warming beds. That’s not our business.’

‘I apologize.’

‘You have no reason to.’ Corinne passed him to find a new endeavour. ‘The sheriff was out of line. Don’t dwell so much; it’s not what we do. You’re no pimp. Let people lie to the eye. If one cannot think for themselves then their opinion is worthless.’

While the Gambler’s Den was still technically impounded, the embargo was lifted for any shows, though they required a mandatory Bluecoat presence. How much of one was not elaborated on. The papers served on its owner used very open terms such as requirement and discretion. Soon, decorated flyers appeared on message boards announcing that, finally, Windberg would get the show that it deserved – though its announcement was sadly subdued. The newswire echoed the statements, causing a brief frenzy of excitement in the populace. If the show could not utilize surprise, then they would capitalize on rumour and excitement.

Come sunset, Windberg Central Station was exposed to the fading sky and packed with excited crowds. Platform 4 was barricaded off behind velvet rope. Tables were all laid out for patrons with flickering candles on each. They all buzzed and jostled as, from behind the rope, Franco gave the introduction, with the utmost bravado.

Music thundered triumphantly, as he played to the crowd, prompting cheers and claps, striding back and forth like a peacock. He even managed a slight jab at Sheriff Juniper in his welcoming speech, causing an uproar of laughter. These were not shared by the Bluecoats who separated the masses and the entertainment. They instead wore disapproving looks.

The sky burst with a cavalcade of colours as Franco pulled the barricades away. With the showgirls welcoming all to indulge, the revelries began.

The people of Windberg drank and gambled and danced the hours away. There were no disturbances, no arguments or accusations of cheating. The only situation of note was Jacques having to escort a few individuals who had drunk too much off the train – and even they took their exit jovially. The showgirls put on their performances, coaxing awe and applause. The Gambler’s Den cemented itself in local lore once again.

Franco kept his word and spent a good deal of the night with the employees from the Lau Benge Repair Yard. They were, expectedly, a rowdy bunch and drank more than their fair share of beer. Despite the impression that Franco would be taking a loss with how much it cost to provide the hospitality, the truth was quite the opposite. The repairs would have been considerably more, leaving him very much up on this particular arrangement. Though good-natured, the group did cause Jacques some concern and he found himself keeping a closer eye on them than most.

The only thing out of the ordinary was Misu’s conversation with the high rollers.

‘Who are they?’ Misu asked Kitty as she approached the bar, relieving her of a tray of empty glasses. She gestured with a nod of her head to the end table. ‘They’re not exactly our usual crowd.’

It was true, they weren’t. Ever since their arrival, the pair of gentlemen had caught her attention. Their clean tweed suits were impeccable, unmatched and untarnished with matching bowler hats. They had begun the evening dispensing charm to the serving and showgirls, alternating between all who came near. The tips were generous, exceedingly so, which made any attention all the more focused.

Kitty chirped in surprise to Misu’s question, playing with a blonde curl in the hope she would be next to be noticed by the patrons. Her blue eyes sparkled as she spoke, matching her fresh face in excitement.

Kitty had not been part of the Den for long. She was picked up in a little town out in the mountains and practically begged to come along, much like Katerina. It was the adventure, she clarified to whoever would listen, that she craved. It was either that or remain on her parents’ farm until she died a spinster. She was bright but had not yet fully realized that the men were attracted to her youthful innocence rather than her opinions, a harsh truth she found difficult to accept at a table.

‘Well-suited men should be who we aim for. My, if we could attract more of that sort,’ she cooed in a voice dripping with naivety.

‘Mind on the job, girl, mind on the job,’ Misu teased.

‘Do you not wish to be whisked away by such a handsome gentleman?’ Kitty queried.

‘I prefer to be thankful for the employment I have. Keep those dreams in your pretty little head. That’s where they belong.’

Kitty chuckled to herself, patting Misu’s arm, who reciprocated the gesture.

Corinne busied herself by pulling another series of brown bottles from under the counter and balancing them on a silver serving tray. It wasn’t her remit to educate the girls on etiquette, especially ones like Kitty who seemed to be more trouble than she was comfortable with, but still she found herself playing an almost older sibling role to the younger ones. She was one whose inexperience was blindly apparent, and whose curiosity could become an irritant to patrons.

‘They’re big spenders those two,’ Corinne stated, popping each cork in succession. ‘Been quaffing liquor since they arrived – good stuff too. They opened a bottle of Eiferian Blue Reserve half an hour back. The only one I know who drinks something so pricy is Franco himself. They’re high rollers too. I heard a mention of a couple of hundred on the last hand they played,’ she stated, before shimmying over to a pack of customers who cheered at the alcohol’s arrival.

Misu picked up a bottle and quickly checked her appearance in its reflection; she brushed in any loose strands of hair and sneakily readjusted her bosom. She brushed her fingers around Kitty’s hip as she sauntered past.

‘Then it would only be suitable to make sure these fine gentlemen are well catered for, would it not?’

A woman like Misu knew how to approach men. A small saunter to her hips, a wry smile, a sparkle in the eyes and purse of the lips normally resulted in a marked increase in tips, and everyone wanted a little more spending money. So when Misu approached these high rollers, distributing the bottle’s liquor into each tumbler with her full bosom overshadowing the pile of chips, their attention was equitably obtained.

The nearest of the men tipped his bowler hat and scaled Misu’s form with a slow climb of his eyes. He whistled equally as long, pressing his back into the seat and placing his cards down.

‘My word.’ He smiled, grinning beneath a ginger goatee. His cards were slapped onto the table before him, the result of a rare, failed bluff. ‘What do I spy here? What a face. Eyes of the Holy Sorceress herself – look at them. Please, would you do us the honour of gracing us with your company, miss?’

Chair legs dragged along concrete as a seat was offered out, the ginger one giving a smile that only an older man with aged charm could give. His wink was coquettishly ignored. His ginger moustache fluttered momentarily as Misu eyed up his gold. The pocket watch chain draped to his breast pocket was an instinctive focal point. The thick bracelet at his wrist was elaborate yet cleanly stylish. The wealth on this man was easy to assess. The way the tweed suit fitted him was nothing short of perfect, with the material and stitching utterly flawless. The leather wallet, clearly placed in view as cards launched over it, was stuffed with notes that would have easily amounted to the hundreds, if not tipping a thousand. His friend, though dressed in much darker colours, mirrored the resplendence. Oiled hair was slicked back, a sharp brow egging on Misu’s agreement.

‘How could I refuse such an invitation?’

As if it was her right to do so, Misu slipped her arm over the ginger man’s hefty shoulders, draping herself over him and watching the next hand unfold. ‘What is the game, gents?’

‘Poker. Five Draw,’ the man in the darker suit revealed, tossing another red chip into the stack. ‘Is there anything finer in this world?’

‘We cater for all games of all types here at the Den, though Poker is considered one of choice by our patrons.’

‘And are you a fan?’ the darker-dressed man asked.

‘I’m familiar with the cards though am not one for a game myself. I prefer watching the beauty of chance at work. Roulette, I’m especially fond of.’

Misu watched as the ginger one folded after a far too brave a bluff. The deck was cut once more, cards skimming into two piles.

‘You gamble well?’ Misu enquired.

‘Gamble? No,’ the dark-suited one stated without looking over his raised cards. ‘Win, though? All the time.’

A pair of Kings forced the ginger fellow to relinquish the pot with a playful groan. Misu cleared her throat and watched the cards slice over the table felt. The darker man made subtle movements, though the speed of the cards as a result was quite surprising.

‘A talented flicking of the wrist. What are your other skills?’ she asked.

The darker man grunted and played his cards with a grin. ‘Taking Flenn’s money.’ He gestured with a slim finger towards his friend who slid over a pair of notes after losing the pot once more. ‘I’m awfully good at that.’

‘If only you were just as invested in your work. I bet the boss would appreciate your newfound passion. Maybe even reward you for such.’

There was a bustle of laughs across the table as Misu refilled each emptied glass in turn.

‘Business is it? I’m not sure if we allow that here. It takes something from the atmosphere, if you catch my meaning.’

They eyed each other, returning grins.

‘Exactly. Drink?’ he offered.

‘I shouldn’t do so.’

‘There are plenty of things we shouldn’t do in a lifetime, but this is not one. Come, I insist.’ He gestured once more. Relinquishing, Misu took the liquor and nodded in turn.

‘And you’re too fine for me to object. To the good health of you both.’

Flenn smacked his lips after a long, slow draw of the glass’s contents.

‘And to yours,’ he said.

It was common for the girls on the Gambler’s Den to find their favourite patrons at each destination. This was, of course, all part of the grand ruse. Pretty girls at a man’s side were more than likely to encourage good business. Plays of hands become much more daring in attempts to impress. Stakes were raised, unspoken possibilities of companionship for the night were implied but never fulfilled. The girls knew the tricks, the wordplay, the innuendos, and the playful press on the customer. It all ensured that the men’s natural bravado was encouraged and they parted with the one thing, the only thing, that mattered.

Money.

Without that money, the Gambler’s Den could not travel. Its upkeep was quite an expense. Without money for supplies, it would be easy to find death in the desert – especially on the Sand Sea routes to the south. Without money, wages could not be paid. Without money, as with almost all things, progress would come to an immediate halt.

So Misu, as experienced as she was in picking a patsy, attempted to ensure that the number of notes in the wallet before her was substantially decreased. In doing so, she lowered her guard.

There were another few plays of cards, buffs called, wealth lost, before conversation resumed once more.

‘Speaking of talents, pretty thing,’ Flenn casually mentioned. ‘Surely you have many of your own. Care to share them?’

‘Ah, none of note or of any relevance, sirs.’

‘Apart from that spectacular display of breathing fire. Who would have possibly imagined that someone so pretty harboured a skill so dramatic! Now if someone dared to impart a tale that they saw a woman like yourself do such a thing, why, I would accuse them of being a liar and stake as much as I had in my pockets on the fact!’

She laughed at the compliment, cheeks flushed and red.

‘My, that boss of yours must juggle concern knowing full well that you could set him aflame with your very lips. I’m guessing he carries a pail of water wherever he goes. Sleeps with one beside him too for good measure, I’ll bet!’ Flenn laughed, loud and bold. This seemingly offhand comment shifted the tone somewhat, turning Misu’s temperament a shade cooler than it had been previously.

‘Mister Franco is a fair employer. Pays well. Keeps us amused. Why would I want to be employed elsewhere?’

‘Why indeed?’

She sipped from her tumbler during the pause, noticing a tremor running through her wrist. Her fingers were shaking. Why were her fingers shaking?

‘I bet a woman like yourself is pursued for such talents. Plenty of suitors.’

‘Not as many as you would think, sir, but you are one for flattery.’

‘Nonsense, a man would kill for a woman like you at his side. I can see it now, searching through the Sand Sea itself for a sign of your living, maybe even employing others to do so. And what an entourage they could be.’

Misu’s throat clenched in trepidation before she wheezed a response. ‘Aye, they would. If one imagined.’

‘Lucky that I am the imaginative sort. Some would. Most would, I think. I couldn’t envision any who would not. But my feelings tell me something – with this imagining of mine – that someone already has.’ He waved a chubby finger. ‘Why, I can imagine our employer doing so. You remember him, don’t you? Big puppy-dog eyes. Straight jaw. Quite the temper. Never able to let anything go. Especially runaways.’

Misu clenched her glass tighter, trying mightily to stop her hand from shaking more noticeably than it already was.

Flenn turned aside and patted his thigh. ‘Sit,’ he offered.

Before doing so, she paid a casual look behind her, but none of the others were watching. Tables were waited, games were tended. A plea from her eyes for help went unnoticed.

Flenn raised a brow, continuing. ‘Be speedy now. Donovan there is not known for his patience.’

The last of the cards cut the threat-heavy air. Donovan amused himself by slouching back, the threatening hilt of his knife produced from his hip.

She sat, as instructed, still gripping her glass, her skin drained of all colour. Her eyes flicked for Jacques though he was nowhere to be seen – cavorting for the patrons maybe, either way not doing what he was paid for. No, nobody was helping her out of this rapidly souring situation, a situation constructed by her own actions – seeded long ago. Things had caught up to her, without warning, without introduction, just like she feared they would. The nightmare had finally come true.

‘I’m sure that we don’t need to remind you that Mr Wilheim is not a patient sort. He’s asked us to simply remind you of your, shall we say, obligations.’

‘I won’t go b-back to that m-man,’ Misu stuttered. Her tumbler was placed, with difficulty, onto the table.

‘Luckily Mister Wilheim is generous and stated that you were not to be marked as a sign of good faith. Your disappearance has not roused his anger. However, there is a condition. He is willing to overlook your indiscretions in exchange for a simple task. Complete it and he will leave you be. Refuse, and we have free rein to reclaim you.’

‘Please refuse, my girl,’ Donovan exclaimed. It was immediate and disturbing, tainted with a relish for his dirty work. Misu glanced over the lines of his jacket breast, noticing that it was a size bigger than needed, and no doubt concealed a few more knives in the inner pockets. These men were not intending to negotiate. Of course they weren’t. Wilheim never negotiated. He would deliver the terms and you accepted, graciously.

If one failed to do so, the repercussions would be so severe that you would never do so again. If you ever had the chance afterwards, that was.

Misu attempted to keep her composure, asking as nonchalantly as possible, ‘Wilheim. What does he want me to do?’

When their talk was over, Misu made her way back to the bar carriage, overly concerned that her expression may give away her current state. Just for a moment her legs buckled, though she was saved by bracing herself on the bar so that her slip went unnoticed. Not to Jacques though. Jacques tilted his head and looked over her shoulder to the table she had just served. He walked between them to block their line of sight.

‘Is anything the matter? Are you all right?’ Jacques enquired, shielding her from the patrons.

‘Of course I am. Why would I not be?’

‘You seem disturbed by the gentlemen at the side table. I just saw, is all. They didn’t handle you did they? We have rules for a reason. Just say the word and I’ll enforce more appropriate behaviour.’

‘No, no, all is fine.’

Misu patted her clothes straight, skilfully blinking the tears back. From behind Jacques, Donovan tilted his chair back on two legs and winked playfully, threateningly.

‘Everything will be all right,’ she uttered.

* * *

With the Gambler’s Den being the focus for the residents, and the considerable police presence that was on the streets, Wyld found it easier to move undetected in the city. Strange, she mused, that so many constables would be sent to observe the evening’s entertainment. Did they expect a riot to break out, or for the patrons to form some unruly mob? Bizarre.

Still, with the streets empty, it made moving through the city, out into the shantytowns, all the easier. The directions that Muddick provided were, sadly, somewhat sketchy. They reeked of generality. Entire roads were missing from the crude drawings, scrawled down with aged hands. Thankfully they were not so bad that she totally missed the intended location.

It was detailed with a large cross in the middle of a plot of land. She found it in the darkness, a chain-link fence running around a circumference of scrubland – a space undisturbed by the increase in makeshift housing. Nothing hinted at its presence but the Vault was here, hidden inside an inconspicuous two-storey structure, waiting to be plundered.