Zachary slapped a couple of dollar bills on the shiny wood surface.
“Yes, sir.” By magic, the money disappeared and so did the bartender.
Since there were more customers than stools at the long counter, Zachary was shown to a small table beside a window. He ordered a dozen oysters and a mug of beer. He sat where he could see everything and waited. His Stetson was probably theonly one he saw in the place. Some of the patrons were laborers in the nearby fish market, or men who worked on the ferry pier a few steps away. They wore caps.
Zachary glanced at his watch, hoped he didn’t have to wait long. If he had heard the legend right, the mention of Maguire’s name scattered the worst of criminals and caused children to hide beneath their beds shaking with night terrors. Did the bartender take off with his money? He downed another oyster and picked up his hat.
A huge racket echoed from the back of the pub. Loud whispers, then shouts rose with people pointing fingers, grabbing their caps, abandoning their lunches and heading out the other exit. Did a fight break out? He tilted his head back.
With his derby pulled low, a burly mountain of a man boasting biblical proportions with a hulking, beefy neck, shoulders as wide as a ship shoved through the melee. A descendent of the Nephilim? Goliath?
When the man lifted his head, Zachary choked on his beer. Patrick Maguire? What were the odds? This was the head of one of the largest gangs in New York City?
Patrick was not one to cross. Easily recognized, he didn’t need to elbow his way through the rest of the crowd for everyone darted away like a shoal of terrified fish.
Maguire and Zachary owned a rough history. Years before, Maguire had worked under Zachary on the railroads. Fierce prejudice and hostilities had been set against Zachary, a southerner, and manager, causing delays and vanishing supplies. Zach realized early on the unbreakable supremacy the Irishman held over the crew.
It was Zachary and Chen who risked their lives to rescue the obstinate Irishman and his friends from the Cheyenne. Afterwards, there had been a mutual respect between the twomen. No more stealing or delays. In fact, they finished ahead of time.
Unsolicited, a waiter brought a large platter of oysters to the table, crackers and a pot of horseradish, and two old-fashioned pewter tankards of ale. He disappeared like a mule with his tail afire.
“First things first,” said the big Irishman, taking his measure and plunking himself down on the chair across from Zachary. “I want to know who the devil Daniel O’Reilly is.”
Zachary frowned. The topic was far from what he had on his mind, and why the interest in his lead engineer? “Why do you ask?”
“The Mick is dating my sister.”
“Fiona’s your sister?”
The Irishman stood up. “You have a problem with that?”
“Not at all. I offer you my sincere compliments.” Zach made a study of his mug. He couldn’t have been more surprised if Maguire had said he was the eighteenth-century Chief Executioner of the guillotine.
Daniel had taken a liking to Fiona, and as far as Zachary could tell the shared attraction had blossomed into a full-blown romance. Zachary took a sip of ale and eyed Maguire over the brim of his mug. “He’s a good man if you are worried. Loyal and will care for her. If I can get my company off the ground, he’ll be a rich man.”
Zachary shucked an oyster with his knife. “He’s also my key man. The most brilliant mechanic and engineer I’ve ever met. I don’t want anything to happen to him.”
Maguire filled his mug of ale with shucked oysters and drank. “Don’t get your bowels in an uproar. As far as your compliments on my sister, the thought might be more of a curse. Concerning O’Reilly, your word is good enough for me. Don’t want a jackeen sniffing around Fiona.”
Maguire protected his sister.
“Ever heard of a man named Rawlins Dyer?” Zachary asked.
“I have. What’s more, I think you know that I do.”
“You know a lot about what goes on, don’t you, Maguire?”
“Keep my ears open.” Maguire took a long draught of beer, wiped his face with his meaty fist. Those were fists Zachary had gone up against a time or two, and didn’t desire to repeat with Maguire being a down and dirty pugilist from the city. Zachary had been weaned on southern boxing with bouts in haylofts and tutored by the famous prizefighter, Boxing Billy, and then continued to be knocked down by his brothers until he was weaned to their standards.
The bang of the bow thumping the dock heralded the arrival of the Brooklyn ferry. A few men went out to meet it. The window was steamed with warm breath and Zachary used the side of his wrist to scour a clear space. The glass was crusted with salt spray, and he could barely make out the crew securing the mooring lines, and beyond them, on the opposite shore, the rising tower of the audacious bridge most claimed would make the ferry obsolete.
“I hear you had a little problem with the Whyos.”
“A bit,” said Zachary.
Maguire laughed. “You are up against the most powerful group in the city. Very organized. Extortion, prostitution, murder for hire. They have some of New York’s finest. Hoggy Walsh, Red Rocks Farrell, Clops Connelly, and everyone’s favorite, Dandy Dolan. He wears a copper eye gouger on his thumb, takes out people’s eyes, and then dazzles his friends with his eye collection.”
Zach leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “Is that supposed to make me afraid? They haven’t met the Comanche or Sioux.”
