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Chapter Nine

Wise Men

Jacques had never deemed himself wise.

Clever, yes, observant, for sure, but wise? Wise wasn’t his thing. Wise was a quality for folks with big glasses, who spent all their time reading books, wrangling numbers and the like. Wise was, to him, an insult – a proclamation that a person was focused on small complexities rather than indulging in the world at hand.

So when Misu had playfully called the head of security wise, he wrinkled his nose and pouted in disappointment. She didn’t mean anything by it of course, but when realizing that it may have caused offence, she explained that it wasn’t a word that should be taken in the wrong way and the reason she needed his wise council was because she was concerned about Franco’s next endeavour and he needed company, wise company, to steer him from any lapses in intelligence he may suffer.

* * *

The Den was still impounded so Franco made it his business to ensure that it wasn’t damaged in the search. Secretly his paranoia was gnawing away at his conscience. Wyld had been with them for a month. Who knows what she had stashed in the storage car. Whatever it was, it was hopefully something that the law did not find.

‘Wise?’ Franco chuckled, walking out of the station clad in his long brown leathers protecting his smart attire, animal-skin boots clicking down each stone step. His green vest was finely tailored, a trail of brilliant buttons rising from belly to collar almost dazzling in the equally brilliant noon sunlight. His crisp white shirt beneath was clean – not scuffed with dirt.

‘Misu certainly did think so.’

‘She’s never been one to comment on anybody’s intelligence.’

‘Maybe she needed someone to compliment on such a quality.’

Franco pouted. ‘A quality I lack?’

‘I’m implying nothing, boss, not a thing. Just repeating what I was told.’

‘For the best.’

‘So, what’s the letter?’ Jacques asked, pointing to the folded paper protruding from Franco’s vest pocket. Ever since it was delivered that morning Franco had read it and reread it, even all through breakfast when he was focused more on its contents than eating.

‘A request from someone. They heard word that we were in town and asked for a visit.’

‘An admirer?’

‘Even better,’ Franco replied. ‘An old acquaintance.’

The pair took the tram to the western residential district, where tight streets of cobblestone terraced houses seemingly jostled one another for space. Doors and windows seemed decidedly cramped, as if they were being squeezed from the masonry. Carts rattled down the road, noisily, the clopping of horseshoes on stone creating a rhythm of strikes.

Franco stood in the doorway of a residence identical to the rows of those he had passed before, equally unspectacular. He rapped the door and beamed at the old gentleman who cautiously opened it.

‘Franco, what a pleasure,’ the owner croaked. ‘I didn’t think you would come. Please, come inside, welcome.’

The house was surprisingly comfortable despite being somewhat sparse. The furniture was mostly wooden, the décor a collection of simple materials and aged fabrics, sentimentally kept and repaired if needed. It was comfortable, though Jacques muttered that the seating was far too hard for his liking.

‘Mister Follister.’ Franco shook his hand, now far bonier than he recalled.

The old man clearly struggled to compare the Franco he recalled to the one before him, his eyes squinting in effort. It was quite the transformation, Franco knew. Well dressed, well groomed, clearly moneyed. Where did that scrawny boy go? Had it really been ten years, give or take?

‘Call me Larrs, please. You’re a man yourself now. Never thought I would see the day.’

‘Of course, Larrs.’

‘It warms my heart to see you once again.’

‘Likewise.’

‘Please, make yourself comfortable; take a spell if you would.’

His smile was toothy and kind, his hands lingering in the embrace before slipping away. Larrs shuffled into the kitchen from which he returned with a pot of tea. It danced noisily on a tray that rattled with every step before being placed down with care between them.

‘I heard you were in town. News was that some show had made a noise. It’s not every day we get a commotion like yours arrive and I guessed it was your troublesome self.’

Franco sipped his tea before deciding to drop in some sugar from the bowl beside the pot. ‘A different kind of trouble from when you last saw me, I assure you.’ He stirred his tea.

Jacques squinted deeply in question, catching the old man’s gaze.

‘Do not be distracted by this pizzazz.’ The old man grinned, reaching from his chair and patting Franco’s chest. ‘Trouble followed this one many a time.’

‘Jacques, my Head of Security,’ Franco said by way of introduction.

‘A pleasure,’ Larrs said as they warmly shook hands.

‘Likewise.’

‘So you were talking about trouble?’ Jacques chuckled.

‘My boy was always a rambunctious one. The stories I could tell you of him and Franco here getting into scrapes. Once, those two broke into the railway yard to scavenge spares for this heap of rust Franco’s grandfather was looking to renovate. The first I knew of it was the law at my door and those two creeping in the back with a trolley of oil-dripping parts! I gave them such a telling-off! My boy would never do such a thing, I said. He wouldn’t dare do such a thing for the fear of me tanning his backside, I said.’

‘I’m sure at the time it was a sound idea.’

‘Hah! You convincing someone else to get involved in your schemes? Whoever thought of such a thing?’

Franco leant back and exhaled slowly in reminiscence. ‘And I remember getting my backside spanked red raw,’ he added, taking a sip from his cup. ‘Your younger brother got the same and rightly so. Leading all us youngsters into trouble. How is that rascal?’

Larrs cleared his throat as his voice broke in reply. ‘I’m afraid he passed.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear.’

‘He had his time, so he said. Kept saying that when you’ve done all you need to, you shuffle off. The Angels have him now.’

‘He always was the impatient sort.’

Jacques seemed surprised at such candour between them, especially regarding such sensitivities.

‘So where is that son of yours now? Is that what you wished to discuss?’

‘Aye, lad.’

‘I expected Ketan to tackle me to the ground. I was hoping to at least show him what those scraps amounted to. Is he working or drinking? One or the other. Hell, maybe even both!’

‘If only I could be so blasé.’

Franco placed the cup down and listened intently.

‘Opportunities are rare here, lad,’ Larrs continued. ‘We can’t all be waiting for a train of chance to bring us fortune. When you left with your grandfather, it did something to Ketan. I don’t know, I saw him get more impatient with things. His temper took control. I’ll never get out, he would always say, that is, before he fell in with the bad ’uns.’

‘Define bad.’

Jacques inadvertently slurped the last traces of his drink.

‘Wilheim. He runs The Lavender Club by the east tracks – someplace they show pictures and peddle bad drink. They do much more besides, but I’ve never seen the law approach. Paid off maybe or some sort, but we all know what goes on there. Some arrangement made, no doubt.’

‘What kind of more?’

Larrs’s breath quickened at the mention of that name and he was in obvious discomfort. Every word after seemed unusually burdened. ‘Anything you need, you can get, but the price is high as you can guess. Shipments tend to go missing around these parts. Plenty of bandits. Travellers need to be careful.’

‘I think we met some of them.’ Jacques laughed softly. His amusement wasn’t reciprocated.

‘Ketan never was the type to be mixed up with those sorts. Never was the type for anything until you left,’ Larrs continued.

‘Is he there now?’

‘I doubt it,’ Larrs replied. ‘Apparently he spends time propping up the bar in some shabby thing near the docks. The Water Hole I believe it was. It’s just as rotten on all accounts.’

‘Worth checking out?’ Jacques asked.

‘Depends if you’re looking for trouble.’

‘Seems to be there’s no getting away from it.’ Franco removed the letter from his jacket pocket and slipped it on the table between them.

‘Is this why you asked for me?’

‘You could talk sense into him maybe, if you had the time. I would be grateful.’ Larrs swallowed his pride as firmly to his gut as possible. ‘I would be grateful indeed,’ he repeated.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s … he’s all I’ve got left these days. Look at me, lad, I’m not as spry as I once were. I’m too old to be clipping ears and tanning hides. Ketan is a good boy, but these folks will be the death of him.’

Franco, despite leaving his past behind, could never neglect it entirely. He saw his difficult upbringing as a rite of passage and endured hardships that forged his iron resolve, and for that he was unexpectedly thankful. In all honesty – if honesty was something that Franco wished to indulge in – he had no choice but to accept this appeal. Larrs had steered him right in those old, delinquency days. Along with his grandfather, he had helped raise him right.

‘I understand.’ Franco nodded sagely. ‘Jacques, if your throat is dry, could you do with a stronger drink?’

* * *

Despite Misu’s request for him to keep Franco on a sensible path, it would be impossible to sway him from this new agenda. Then again, Jacques had no desire to. Sure, the shows were enjoyable to manage and in an ideal world they would never have to stray and assist in such personal endeavours.

But what he and Franco felt failed to be suppressed by words. The red blood of men was pumping in exhilaration and this task was something to satisfy it. It was, in a word, exciting, and just enough to fleetingly forget the monotony of day-to-day business.

‘Always, boss,’ Jacques replied.

‘Then let’s make a move.’

* * *

With Windberg established as one of the main trading routes across the Sand Sea, its docks were sprawling and massive. Cranes arched high above on each lengthy jetty, packing and unpacking cargo from sand ships with dockhands running around to accommodate each crate and drum.

Warehouses of every size and shape and complexity dominated the south district. Trade was plentiful in animal and textile goods – and especially in raw materials. Iron and steel came from mines and foundries, train lines carrying row upon row of carts at a time. Oil came further afield. It was pumped from the large ships, most hiring private groups of security to ensure the cargo reached its destination.

Some ships would roll in pitted with bullet holes and with punctured hulls, maybe even sustaining a few human casualties. You had to be crazy to attempt to hijack a sand ship – not that this was a concern for those trying. Repelling these was dangerous work, requiring a rotation of private security teams, most of which congregated at the local dock bars.

They were ideal places of congregation. Cheap drink, likeminded folks, and if you needed some muscle to protect a shipment, they could be easily found and the agreement bartered, all in the same place.

Of course, goods regularly went missing in transport – something Sheriff Juniper had failed to get around to stamping out. Some warehouse security was easily bribed, or even in league with one or two unscrupulous operators in the city. Some merchandise found itself in the back rooms of these bars, ready for collection by paying parties. Either way, security and lawlessness went hand in hand. Attempting to separate the pair was fruitless.

It was one of these bars Franco and Jacques made their way to, navigating each sanded street and pressing through reams of workers transporting the most recent shipments. Horses pulled carts in, the nearby market traders peddling as much as they could in bulk, turning streets narrower into jostling rivers. Down a side road, sat a building much like any other. The brickwork was pitted and scarred from blasts of sand, iron railings rusted and shedding paint. The sign itself, once proud and new, had text reduced to semi-transparent lettering.

Jacques snapped a cigarette alight between his teeth, taking in a slow, powerful draw.

They paused to read the sign above the door. Beneath the name The Water Hole was a crudely attempted image of an oasis, equally scorched by the elements and equally ramshackle.

Inside wasn’t much better. Simple wooden furniture, straight wooden bar, bottles lined up behind – though the selection and quality was severely lacking. Their arrival was noted by a couple of grizzly regulars, rough and unwashed, playing cards with little enthusiasm. The bartender, equally unkempt, watched with scrutiny all while Franco ordered two whiskies and the pair seated themselves in a corner.

Jacques stubbed his cigarette into an ashtray and chuckled to himself. ‘Nice place, huh?’

‘That it is.’ Franco hid his vision behind a pair of smoked oval spectacles, eying up the premises before adding, ‘Sarcasm, right?’

‘Sarcasm it was, boss.’ Jacques rasped his tongue over a rolling paper filled with shag tobacco.

‘What do you think? Could we buy this place?’ Franco sipped from his glass, watching the barman who, in turn, kept his attention very much on the door.

‘Only for the purposes of demolishing I’m guessing.’

‘A dash of paint, replace the glass, and have someone a damn sight prettier to coax punters in. I think it could be a prime place for business.’

‘Because trade seems to be going so well.’

A roar from the pair playing poker forced a pause for a moment as cards were slapped down onto a table and the call for another round from the excited winner was announced.

‘How did the meeting go this morning? Misu mentioned you met someone,’ Jacques said, changing the subject quickly.

‘Someone wanted to buy the Den from me.’

‘How much?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘How much did they propose?’

‘The actual figure wasn’t brought up. The discussion never got that far. An offer was made by proxy.’

‘Bad pitch then.’ Jacques paused, looking into his glass. ‘You get a name for who was putting up the money?’

‘None,’ Franco huffed, ‘but I’ve got a notion.’

‘Are you considering it?’

‘What kind of question is that? Of course I’m not – it would be all kinds of crazy to do! The madness of yourself, Jacques, honestly.’

‘No offence, boss. Just sounded worth, well, contemplating.’

‘Misu said that too. I’m beginning to think you’re in cahoots.’

‘Cahoots nothing. Ain’t no shame in thinking of endeavours new – especially when you have a considerable plenty in waiting.’

A sudden, tremendous blast of a two-tone horn signalled another ship rolling into the docks, its momentum reverberating the very ground and forcing standing glasses behind the bar to momentarily dance until it stopped. The bartender checked his pocket watch before opening a storeroom behind him, leaving a turned wrought-iron key protruding from the lock.

The ship’s horn blasted anew, causing the ground to vibrate with tremors.

‘Notwithstanding this place, you’re not serious, surely? Questionable profit to be made I would say.’ Jacques chuckled.

‘Why not? Invest in a little rut like this. Settle down in a shoebox house, a nice wife, screaming children you only have to see on the weekends. Isn’t that the dream of every man?’

‘Not this one, that’s for sure.’

‘Present company excluded then, you have to agree that the idea is satisfying.’

‘It’s plenty of food for thought; I’ll give it that.’ Jacques sombrely drummed his fingers onto the table in anticipation. Something was making him curiously uneasy.

‘You ain’t the settling-down type,’ Jacques added, starting as his ears picking out a close, obtuse noise from among the sprawling throngs outside.

‘When I figure out what kind of man I am, I’ll be sure to make you aware.’

‘I’ll be planning your funeral accordingly then. What would you like on the stone? Gunshot in the back by treachery, was it? Or shot in the front by our little canary?’

‘Misu may be grumpy with me from time to time, but she wouldn’t do that.’

‘And why would that be the case?’

‘I’m just too pretty to die and she knows it.’

Jacques broke a smile before it sharply faded.

In that moment, a bevy of horses pulled up outside, snorting as if lightning had struck their hides. Six pulled a carriage behind, secured with a canvas marked by the occasional bullet hole. Men straddling another half-dozen horses arrived. They dismounted and tied up reins before unloading the carriage’s cargo. Orders were hollered, liberally sprinkled with swear words and threats, as four of the men rushed inside, struggling under the weight of their prize: a mightily gilded casket in brilliant emerald green, with a sizeable padlock.

Franco tipped his head in question and watched this development quite intently.

The bartender beckoned the group behind the bar, to which the gang obliged.

‘Back here,’ he said, flustered. ‘Back here, in Her name, be quick about it will you.’

The men were agitated, the remains of facemasks at their necks, with sweat at their brows and urgency in their eyes. Franco knew men like these. Hired goons, semi-professional thugs making a living doing difficult jobs. Selfish men who thought nothing to pull the trigger. Bad men.

Franco gave no sign that he sniffed the air, though he caught the stench rising from them. Black powder and blood. This was probably due to one of the gang holding his arm, and another hobbling behind. Through their clenched grips, blood seeped from their wounds, just enough to redden their clothing and stifle breath. These men too were rushed out of view by the bar hand, just a small boy of twelve rushing from the back room to wipe up any evidence of their arrival and lead the horses around back. Within minutes their existence was reduced to the occasional raised voice from behind the drink-laden shelves.

Jacques drained his glass, deciding it best not to have it refilled. ‘Quite the time to be here, boss.’ He spoke carefully, so that anyone else in attendance wouldn’t hear. One could never be too careful as to how many in attendance were just drinkers and how many were paid to keep their eyes and ears open.

‘Seems like the old man was right about this place. Nothing going on here but shady back-room dealings.’

‘That’s a little hypocritical, isn’t it?’

‘I prefer my dealings to be in the open,’ Franco added. ‘Just away from the prying eyes of some.’

‘Our little tag-along Wyld excluded, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Franco agreed.

The back-room door exploded open. Floorboards shook and pounded from heavy boots as the men dispersed, some upstairs to the box rooms where for a small payment you could have a bed for a spell, some out the door, while one with a freshly bandaged leg propped himself onto a barstool. Those who passed patted his shoulder in turn, referring him by name as Two Bits, sometimes patronizingly.

It wasn’t the most glamorous of nicknames, slightly insulting in truth as two bits, or coins, didn’t buy much in the way of luxuries or service. The man ordered a drink with his payment being his tone. Whisky was given, hurriedly. The first glass was gulped down to better the temper; each subsequent glass was slammed down with frustration. His cheeks were dirtied from a hard ride, his face flushed and hands shaking.

Franco tapped his finger gently, gesturing with his eyes to his companion. Jacques’s brow raised in question.

‘Ketan,’ Franco silently mouthed.

When things seemed reasonably settled and Ketan’s presence felt less threatening, Franco slid his chair back and strolled, quite merrily, to the bar. He stood silently, beside his old friend who nursed his drink like the only woman who would love him. Eventually Franco leant forward onto the bar with a devil-may-care grin. The bartender looked at them cautiously.

‘Another rye,’ Franco said gleefully. ‘And a glass of the good stuff for limpy here. He looks like he needs cheering up. That piss-water he’s sipping can only do so much.’

Ketan struck the bar loudly with a fist. ‘Think you’re funny, you sonofabitch?’ he said, turning on his stool with violent rage. ‘How about I cut that mouth of yours somewhat wider?’ Already he was on his feet, a switchblade firmly in his grip with the blade extended. It was scant inches from Franco’s face, in danger of scoring his best feature. Then, Ketan stopped and sank away, stepping back with his eyes bugging out in astonishment.

‘What? Franco, is that you?’

‘In the flesh before you, though not for long I’ll wager.’

Ketan hurriedly retracted his blade, bringing relief to the barman who was now regretting recent dealings to ensure his business’s security.

‘Yeah. Sorry about that, sorry … I just … It’s been a long time.’

‘I think you need to calm yourselves.’ Jacques prompted the barman. ‘Can we get those drinks please? Thanks.’

Franco took a seat beside Ketan, shadowed by Jacques who observed attentively.

‘It’s been long, Franco. Too long, you know.’

‘I’m here now aren’t I?’

‘And I see you.’ Ketan surveyed his friend, disapproving of every facet. ‘Nice teeth, fancy suits, and how. How much did all that set you back? Look at this – shiny buttons and everything.’ Ketan’s hand was patted away by the suit’s owner, who ensured no stray threads were pulled at. ‘You’ve come a fair way away from the train yard.’

‘Looks like we both have. How have things been?’

‘Tough finding work.’ Ketan drank slowly, relishing the taste of fine liquor for as long as he could, as it wouldn’t be repeated any time soon. ‘Isn’t it always, but I’m moving along. Making pay as best as I can. Can’t complain.’

‘Not even when being shot in the leg? And for what, ten per cent?’

‘Six.’

‘Six.’ Jacques whistled slowly in disapproval. ‘You are getting stiffed.’

Ketan stopped his drinking, taking a handful of pistachio nuts from a bowl and breaking their shells in turn. ‘Who’s this?’

‘A friend,’ Franco said. ‘Like yours, only he tends to stick around.’

‘Clever.’ Ketan grabbed some nuts from the nearest bowl.

‘Thanks,’ Jacques muttered.

‘Wasn’t a compliment.’ Ketan chased the nuts with a new mouthful of drink.

‘What’s the real story here? You never carried a blade; you never got involved in dirty-handed work,’ Franco said. It was true, for a time. Ketan used to avoid conflict as best he could, normally being the getaway man or shifting goods around when needed. Truth be told he was very apt at such things, but he never had a taste for the violence, at least he hadn’t some seven years back.

Yet to them both, this was a lifetime away, and time much like the desert sands, covered and uncovered much.

‘Been speaking to the old man, right? Never could keep his mouth shut.’

‘Maybe so, but he’s worried. You’re running in black-market gangs now?’

‘What of it?’

‘That was never our style!’ Franco protested.

‘Our style? Our style?!’ Ketan repeated in an outburst, causing everyone in the bar to turn in unison. ‘Coming in here, speaking about ours. Just look at you.’ This time Franco was surveyed with something he hadn’t been subjected to for some time, and could have lived a good life never seeing again. ‘You don’t know my style and you don’t know who I am. You think you can just talk to me like the years mean nothing? You think that you have some kind of right because we got bloodied noses together for a time? You’re not family, Franco. We ain’t that blood.’

‘I went to find a calling. Do something proper of sorts,’ Franco objected, quite amazed at this reaction.

‘You left!’ Ketan shouted. ‘You locked yourself in that crappy yard with your pappy, shunning the lot of us, working on some scrappy little ride. The next I hear you was already making your way to pastures new without even the notion of a goodbye. You left us; you left me. Dress it up however you want but leaving is what you did. Nothing more.’

Jacques slowly reached across to his holster on his hip, though Franco’s small, otherwise unnoticed gesture, told him otherwise. The fingers retreated.

‘And then you wander on in here,’ Ketan said, ‘talking to my father, talking to me like you’re so above it all, above everyone else. Talking about ours. Damn you. Money doesn’t give you the right, Franc.’ The shortening of Franco’s name caused memories to surface. ‘You need that rolling palace taken away from you, bring you down to the rest of us. Find your roots.’

Franco’s demeanour changed. He was wrong to come here, wrong to see someone he used to call a friend, and exceptionally wrong to expect welcoming arms.

But for what reason was he rejected?

Just because he was discontented with scratching the ground like a chicken, to take the harsh days and call them the norm, should he be scorned? Franco had built a life for himself, maybe not the most ordinary but it was a life, a good life and one he learned to relish every day.

In the time he had spent in this life, he had realized that Ketan was not some grand figure from his youth. True, he was a friend, once, but the longer this tirade went on for, the closer Franco came to the conclusion that Ketan wasn’t the person he once was.

He was less than that.

Ketan was just another crook.

A small-time bandit, and a poor one at that, seeing that he’d taken a slug to the leg. Franco had dealt with enough crooks in his life to know where they all ended up: in unmarked graves that the desert claimed. This would be Ketan’s fate, undoubtedly, and he had no time for such persons, old friend or not.

‘You best be careful. That sounds like jealousy,’ Franco said.

‘Sounds like actuality to me. I got a good thing here. I don’t need the likes of you lousing it up.’

‘I can see.’ Franco dragged his stool back, loudly. The bartender retreated. He had seen this kind of exchange before and it normally ended up with sweeping splintered wood and broken glass. ‘And I can see that talking will get me nowhere so this is all time wasted. One last thing, though, what do you suggest I tell your father about this little chat?’

Ketan sank the last of his drink and swallowed it away. ‘Tell him to mind his damn business – the same thing you should do.’ With a flick of the wrist he skated the empty glass between them. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

Franco took these words with their leave and ventured out into the early afternoon sun. A blaze of light forced him to shade his eyes, standing aside from the workers who busied themselves back and forth in plumes of golden dust.

‘Well that could have gone better,’ Jacques muttered.

‘You’re not wrong there.’

‘Despite you being friends and all, we may do well not going back. The place is a nest of villainy and your pal is agitated. We’ve got enough heat on us as it is. I think this best be left as is.’

* * *

Unbeknown to the pair, they were being observed from across the street, through the dust by a lone constable. He manoeuvred naturally and gave no cause to hide his presence, clad in a royal blue duster with badge pinned to his breast, he had been ordered to survey The Water Hole on patrol for anything of interest, and interest he had discovered.

The constable had witnessed the whole thing: the delivery of the goods, the thieves responsible and more importantly, he had seen Franco – owner of the prestigious Gambler’s Den – at the scene, making a quick leave upon the goods’ arrival. The only conclusion he could make was that those on the Gambler’s Den were somehow in league with those running the whole affair.

And when he reported back to Alex Juniper, it was exactly the information the sheriff had wished for.