The girl half slid off his knee, tugging him by the hand while her other hand crept into his pocket. “Come and bring me luck, then.”
“No luck in there, darling,” David said apologetically. “But this kind man will give you a coin if you tell him where to find… What’s his name, Sol?”
“Madly,” Solomon said. “Jason Madly.”
The girl pouted. “He ain’t here. And we ain’t supposed to answer cheeky questions. You could be peelers. Though you talk too nice. You ain’t from round here, eh?”
“No, we’re from Jamaica,” David said.
“Where’s that, then? Got to be better than here.”
Solomon put a coin on the tray she’d abandoned on the table. “A reminder. About Madly. I owe him money, you see.”
“Oh. You want to try George’s place around the corner. I’ll take you for another of them coins. Keeps the guv’nor happy and gets me some fresh air.”
Solomon, wary of being led into places he couldn’t find his way out of, wished he had a huge ball of string or a pocket full of breadcrumbs to mark the path. But in the end, it wasn’t far, before the girl introduced them to the lookouts as “gents wot are friends of mine.” She skipped off grinning with her extra coins, only one of which was for “the guv’nor”—Solomon hoped.
He wondered if Constance ever recruited from places like this and felt his flesh crawl in fear for her.
This den was marginally cleaner than the first two. It even had one open window, high up in the wall, so it smelled slightly better, too.
Solomon saw him at once, partly because he was the sort of man who did draw attention. Broad of shoulder, with a shock of black, curly hair, graying at the temples, he was handsome in a sort of harsh, almost brutal way that gave one pause. His black eyes seemed to glitter, though whether from excitement or drink or sheer volatility was not immediately plain. He sat at the head of a busy table, surrounded by coins and throwing dice. A bottle of decent brandy and a half-empty glass stood at his elbow while he threw the dice. A girl fawned over his other arm.
“Who’s that?” Solomon asked the man who was showing them the way.
“We don’t ask names here.”
“But I’m sure I know him,” Solomon said.
“Then what you asking me for? If you want to play, sit down. You want to ask questions, sling your hook.”
Solomon and David moved toward the dice table and watched the game. Most of the gamblers were looking furious and glaring at the man Solomon was sure was Madly. He held the bank and was clearly winning. Just as clearly, the other players were suspicious of his luck.
The banker’s laugh was jeering. “Suit yourselves. Split the dice. Go on, I’ve finished for the night anyway.”
“And if they’re loaded?” one man growled.
“Take it up with the management, old man. They’re not my dice.”
“Then it’s not your money,” the man insisted.
The banker jumped to his feet and roared, “Hammer!”
As though it was a frequent occurrence, a scantily dressed girl brought him a hammer that looked as if it weighed more than she did. There was a sudden surge away from the table asthe banker swept the hammer upward—and brought it crashing down on both dice, one after the other.
Some of the glasses foolishly left on the table fell to the floor and shattered. The man threw the hammer onto the table among the detritus of bottles, cups, and coins, and began to clear his winnings into his pocket.
His accuser was inspecting the pieces of dice, all of which he threw down with disgust.
“Madly wins,” he uttered. “Again.”
“Cheer up,” Madly said. “You should have seen me last night. Now, my sweetheart,” he added to the fawning girl, sweeping her up like his coins, “at the end of a hard night, a young man’s fancy turns to—”
“Mr. Madly?” Solomon interrupted. “Might I have a word?”
The beetling brows and the hard, glittering eyes turned on him. Madly seemed surprised, though he only shrugged. “Stay with them—they love to talk. I’m on to other business.”
The girl giggled as he fondled her.
