Читать книгу Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy - Christopher Byford - Страница 17

Chapter Seven

Slow Decisions

Franco sifted through invites that had been delivered that morning over a cup of strong black coffee. Most of the envelopes were slit open, scanned, and placed in catalogued piles, though almost all were likely to be rejected. A good number were invitations to social events, sudden parties by popular folk keen to get someone so elusive and debonair at their function. Celebration this, party that. All of them were superficial nonsense for the wealthy.

A handful of requests were for Franco to be a potential suitor for daughters – the girls to be introduced with utmost urgency. Each approach was charming, formal of course, and besieged with compliments that were ultimately meaningless. None of these merited consideration in the slightest, even when skimming through the occasionally accompanying photo. Each piece of mail was devoid of value, with exception of the one he tucked into his jacket pocket.

* * *

Misu yawned, sitting herself in the lounge car, leaning her legs lengthways across a red velvet sofa. Immediately she yanked a drawstring on the curtains, letting them fall to a close, relieving the onset of a headache. She picked through each letter in turn as Franco sipped slowly on his morning poison. She mimicked his verdicts. The re-sorted letters made newly designated piles with the same dismissal – though unlike Franco, Misu carried the baggage of the evening’s events, baggage that dictated her hand movements.

‘How did we do last night? From all accounts, everyone was kept busy and the bar had good takings. I didn’t see the books by the close. Were the games on par?’

Franco nodded jubilantly. ‘It seems like Windberg is a haven of bad gamblers – not that I’m complaining, mind you. Lessens our money troubles somewhat and everybody enjoyed themselves. Yes, we did well.’

‘Well enough for a bonus?’

‘I said we did well; I didn’t say we did great. By well, I refer to the fact that we can now cover repairs and pay off a few debts. Should all that go belly-up I can at least resort to my back-up plan.’

‘Which is?’

‘Fancy being married off? Plenty of lonely rich men would turn a blind eye to you fleecing them,’ Franco offered.

‘You know I’m susceptible to flattery. Please, I may not be able to control myself,’ Misu replied, deadpan, looking over the table’s contents, and deciding what it lacked was a drink of her own. She called for one of the girls to bring her a water with ice. The girl promptly did so.

‘There’s a number there for you. Some by name. Most even got it right this time.’ Franco gestured to the separate assortment of paper placed delicately aside.

‘I don’t know if I should be relived or disappointed,’ Misu whined. She withdrew the first envelope addressed to her and took a letter opener to its seal.

‘Catching eyes, breaking hearts. See anything you like?’

One of the letters was waved between them. ‘Hah! This here is asking the permission of my father to arrange a marriage. I assume he means you, old man. Oh now, that is funny.’

Franco almost spluttered on his coffee. ‘Old?’ he repeated, placing the bone china cup onto its matching saucer. ‘I said I’d marry you off, but now I’m thinking I could just straight up sell you to some dapper gentleman.’

‘And how much would you get for me?’ Misu leant on her hands, blinking her deep hazel eyes.

‘Not enough for the trouble, that’s for sure.’

The pair laughed in unison, flicking between the reams of envelopes and opening them in turn.

Misu slid one of the letters from the middle of the rejection pile. It was plain, with no gilding, no fine handwriting or extravagant print. It had a name, an accompanying address, and a simple request inside. It was also addressed to Franco directly. Its seal remained unbroken.

‘Here. You missed one.’ She slid it over. ‘Looks like it could be interesting.’

* * *

Strange, he pondered, that was quite unlike him.

Franco rectified the oversight by finishing his morning drink and reading the letter’s contents aloud.

Mister Monaire,

Naturally I assume your time here in Windberg will be short and taken up with your events and other dealings, but I hope you will find the time for this.

I have a proposal for yourself that will, given time, be a fruitful endeavour for all parties. I am aware of your reputation as a businessman and your unique venture could increase both our fortunes.

I invite you to meet me at Pilgrims Smoking House, in Six Trees, for a discussion on this most important topic. Just send word of your interest and I will make arrangements to meet.

Kindest regards,

Donovan Kane

Franco was half inclined to crumple the paper in his palm.

‘Why is it that people want to approach me with crackpot business ideas? I am not a bank. If I had anything to invest, I would invest it here.’ He sighed, tossing the paper aside. Misu recovered it, slapping it on the table once more.

‘And why is approaching you such a bad idea? You clearly have a mind for such things and you’re encouraging others with your reputation. I fail to see any downside.’

‘The last time I met one of these charlatans, they wanted me to add a couple more carriages to the Den. Do you know what they wanted me to fill them with?’

‘What?’

‘Dangerous animals.’

Misu hooted in amusement. ‘Animals? Like some sort of –’

‘Travelling zoo.’ Franco finished the sentence. He waited for her laughter to subside, the idea inviting far more hilarity than was necessary.

‘I’m sorry. I was just thinking of you cleaning out cages with a broom.’ Misu subdued her giggling.

‘That in mind, I think I’ll give this a miss. Mister Kane can be left waiting.’

‘We need money,’ Misu reminded him, knocking the ice around her tumbler.

‘Yes, I know that.’

‘So, it wouldn’t hurt you to just speak to one of these people. You never know, it could be profitable. The answer to your problems.’

‘Problems?’

‘Money,’ Misu clarified.

‘You really think that?’

‘There’s nothing to lose, is there? Except a morning of you cluttering up the Den with your sour-faced self.’

‘I’m not sour-faced.’ He puffed up his lips in defence.

‘There, you see? You’re doing it now.’ Misu leant back and waved him aside. ‘Go and see this guy this afternoon and talk. You may even have some fun while you’re at it.’

‘I have plans for later. It wouldn’t be convenient.’

Misu took hold of Franco’s cup and measured the remaining coffee with a squint. She swigged the last quantity with a tip of the neck, skimming the cup back over.

‘There. You’re done. Your busy schedule is now free. Nothing else to do this morning?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Then problem solved.’

* * *

Pilgrims was a tucked-away smoking bar, where men normally congregated to discuss affairs of the day and drink in the evening. Its seating was simple, its décor rustic and weather-beaten, with the lines of tables leading through the alley to its entrance. Patrons puffed on supplied hookahs that burnt tobacco and filtered the smoke though a water-filled basin. Its walls were covered by tin advertising signs, eroded by a combination of age and the elements.

Even at this time in the morning the tables were busy. The chatter was light-hearted as Franco edged past, looking for his contact among them. A wave from the back caught his gaze, from a smartly dressed individual with short, slick black hair. He wore a light beige suit in contrast to his olive skin, and rose on Franco’s approach, shaking his hand firmly in welcome.

‘Mister Kane.’

‘Please, Mister Franco, call me Donovan.’

Franco scooted the chair backward with a squeak before folding his hands on the table.

‘Thank you for your time. I was worried you wouldn’t take me up on my offer, but I needn’t have fretted. Here you are.’

Donovan snapped his thin mocha fingers together ushering over a waiter, who took an order of sour mash. Franco declined, being that it was far too early for such indulgencies, though late enough to smoke.

The hookahs that adorned the centre of every table were tall and slender, constructed of steel and glass. Patrons sat relaxed, in the midst of morning discussion, taking turns to draw the hose between and exhaling the contents in the air. They burnt with a mixture of flavoured tobaccos. Donovan filled the one at their table with another spoonful of shisha from an accompanying plain bowl. He took the hose in hand and placed it to his lips, drawing in the vapour with a patient breath. When done, he handed it to Franco, who obliged out of politeness, though immediately began to splutter at the strength of its contents. Its potency was enough to make his eyes weep.

Donovan watched intently and laughed. ‘An acquired taste, my friend. Forgive me, maybe something lighter is more agreeable to your palate.’

Not such a bad idea, though the second inhalation found his throat without burning as much. The length of pipe was passed back across to Donovan, who puffed away, quite contentedly.

‘A little exotic, nothing more,’ Franco said.

‘Exotic,’ Donovan repeated with a toothy grin. ‘Yes, yes it is.’ He paused, assessing Franco with chestnut eyes.

‘Anyway. Let us talk about business, for that is why you are here.’ Donovan took his newly poured drink and soothed his throat. ‘The Gambler’s Den. The famous travelling show. What a reputation you have. You can’t go anywhere, and I mean anywhere in this region, without hearing the legend. You bring joy to the masses, Mister Monaire, and that is quite the achievement.’

‘Thank you for your kind words.’

‘May I ask –’ Donovan withdrew the pipe slowly ‘– how long have you been doing this?’

‘Three years, give or take.’

‘Three years.’ Donovan nodded his head back. ‘Barely any time at all, but you have your enterprise and your wealth, I suspect, all made in just three years. The Den has a considerable value attached to it, does it not?’

‘I doubt many would deem it valuable in a conventional sense.’

‘Monetary, of course. If that is conventionally enough.’ Donovan oozed confidence. Franco wasn’t blind to what he had walked into, identifying a predator on first sight in a place where he feasted on others. Pilgrims had an appearance of legitimacy but the muscle behind the bar and situated by the entrance eliminated that notion. This exchange was being watched, but for what reason he was still uncertain.

‘Considerable,’ Franco agreed, playing the game.

‘Considerable. Yes, I expected no less.’

‘Would you like to elaborate on your proposition now?’

‘My what?’

‘Your proposition.’

‘It’s not mine in any sense of the word, Mister Monaire.’ He lingered on an exhalation. ‘I speak on behalf of a benefactor who is impressed by the work you do. I appreciate that you would be unable to discuss figures – but to him, that is not of concern. What he has taken to, is your freedom. You take your business from town to village and you put on a show. People forget their cares. For a handful of hours, everybody’s life is made better.’

‘That we do.’

‘You do indeed!’ Donovan cheered, clapping his hands together. ‘What you achieve cannot be bought. Or at least that’s the impression folks have.’

‘Maybe.’

‘But we know business, do we not? Everything, everything in this world has a price. Tell me, Franco, are you familiar with the term franchise?’

‘I’ve a notion.’

‘And an interest in being one?’

‘No.’ Franco leant back. ‘Just one Den is enough. Having any more running about would bring me to an early grave. It’s a hardship to manage just the one.’

‘Quite the pity, but understandable. Still, this does not detract from my benefactor’s proposal. The reputation you have with this train of yours is invaluable. It is this that he wishes to obtain.’

‘I’m sorry, obtain?’

‘He would like to make an offer to purchase the Gambler’s Den from you.’ Donovan’s face fell into seriousness. ‘Please state your price.’

‘Excuse me, I think there’s been a mistake,’ Franco said, rejecting the new offer to smoke from the pipe between then. ‘You think that I’m willing to sell?’

Donovan emptied his tumbler of alcohol and sat it on the table’s veneer. ‘If it is concern for your staff that worries you, there is no need. Current employees’ contracts would be honoured of course, with no change in salary or conditions. Security is so hard to find these days, would you not agree? It is such a charity to be provided. There would be very little in the way of changes to your operation if that is of a concern. I assure you, the man who I represent – his reserves are inexhaustible.’

‘I imagine they are.’ Franco mulled over this for a moment. ‘May I know the name of this generous individual?’

‘It was decided that he should remain anonymous.’ A waiter strolled alongside them, taking the glass away without a word. ‘In case an agreement was not made.’

Clearly, Franco assessed, this man was not getting the point. It wasn’t a case of money. ‘Let me put this another way. I have no intention to sell my train. I believe there has been some sort of mistake and I’m afraid you are wasting your time.’

Donovan leant forward, hunching himself on approach. His thin mouth slipped out every world like a viper’s hiss, direct and in warning. ‘I disagree. Like I said, everything and more importantly everybody has a price, especially with the life we are accustomed to. Freedom and security are traits that are never given, only bought, and if you have nothing to pay with, then they cannot be assured. We know all about the Gambler’s Den, Franco. Trouble follows you wherever you go, and we assume this not to be, shall we say, coincidental. No, coincidental it is not, but unfortunate, most definitely. I believe you have difficulties these days with scores of outlaws. These bandits as they are called – thugs no less – they are innumerable, no? Relentless.’

Franco gave a cold reply. ‘We’re a good score for them.’

‘Again, most unfortunate. And it is with this that we come back to the concept of security. Maybe not so much for your train there, but for your employees. It would be terrible if they were accidentally harmed by these brutish individuals.’ Donovan licked his lips before sitting back again. ‘Weighty for the conscience.’

Franco was unable to ascertain if this was a suggestion or a threat. Certainly there was a sinister nature about Donovan Kane, which had been seemingly dressed up, hidden behind a good suit and clean shave, but to what extent Franco had difficulty discerning.

‘The people, the business …’ Franco drummed his fingers on the wood before scooting his chair back and standing up. ‘It’s one and the same to me. Thank you for your time, Mister Kane, but I assure you that the Gambler’s Den will always remain my property, though I am flattered by your interest. It has been a pleasure.’

‘Franco!’ Donovan called out. His doing so coaxed a pause in Franco’s movements who was well aware of the sentry, who now looked for any sign of required interference. ‘These are harsh times, Franco, where a fortune is won and lost in the smallest of moments. Please do consider this proposal. It’s an opportunity to alleviate any future hardships and a wise choice to make.’

* * *

‘I don’t understand why you’re angry.’

Misu watched Franco peel the shirt from his skin, push it into a linen basket, and remove a fresh one from his wardrobe. It never occurred to him that Misu might watch him, a little too intently whilst changing, but he had seen her in a worse state of undress and never thought twice about it. The private car was decidedly off limits to anyone without his permission to enter, though Misu had earned the exception by acting as a confidante.

She sat with legs dangling from his bed, which was a large affair with bright red satin sheets and matching décor. The pillows were always plump, the mattress perfectly between soft and firm, a place to truly enjoy one’s sleep. It was unlike Misu’s single bed, which lacked such comforts and privacy.

‘Buy, Misu.’ Franco scowled, brushing his hair in a full-length mirror with hard, violent swipes of the brush. ‘He wanted to buy me. I cannot imagine a notion more annoying.’ He placed the brush down, with no small measure of noise, and walked to her, pushing every golden button through its accompanying hole.

‘Not so much you, but the Den itself,’ Misu corrected him, patting his hands away. Franco had missed a button in his frustration and seemed not to have noticed. Delicate fingers casually corrected this. ‘There is a stark difference.’

‘Not to me there’s not.’

‘Not to you, of course.’

‘I am the Gambler’s Den,’ he replied. ‘It is me.’

‘You are many things, dear,’ Misu rebutted. ‘But a train you are not. Don’t take it personally. Money is money and an offer is an offer. Nobody has wronged you.’

When done, Misu rose and playfully slapped his cheek to knock away this mode of thought.

‘I’ll go find Jacques for you. He’s been ready for the last hour. Look, I understand your ego and all but selling the Den – would it really be the worst thing in the world? Think about it.’

* * *

Franco puffed his cheeks out but before he could begin complaining Misu had already sauntered off. He didn’t want to think about it, it wasn’t thought-worthy. Selling the Den? Preposterous notion.

Franco pulled on his vest and coat, taking a look at himself in the mirror. Something looked back at him, something quite foreign. Dulled eyes. A permanent frown. No matter, there was no time for any of this. He was already late for his next appointment.

Preposterous, he agreed with himself.