KODIAK
Goddamn brat.
Lamb sends me stomping down Royal Street full of piss and vinegar. Now she’s gonna go on her little martyr’s procession back to our hotel, pouting cause I won’t let her get held up in the Vieux Carré. Out here, the cobblestone streets turn to stoves with the summer sun, the stink of horse shit and tobacco thick as mud.
Can just imagine Fitz the Fence giving me a raw deal, knowing I won’t reach for my gun with my lady in the cross fire. Enemies smiling ’cause now they know just how to squeeze what they want outta me. She don’t get it. It ain’t just her delicate sensibilities being at odds with the likes of outlaws, or that I think she can’t handle herself—though, I ain’t sure for that either. Showing weakness is dangerous for the both of us.
But of course she don’t know that, keeping a ledger and folding sheets at an inn her whole life. Maybe I shouldn’ta been so cold to her. But she ought to know, this ain’t a game.
By the time I find myself on Fitz’s street, all that dynamite in my veins done turned to kittens. Hope she ain’t back at the room crying. Or worse, packing.
Fucking hell—this woman’s gonna be my death.
A phonograph rasps a brass tune that carries down the alleyways. The block vibrates with merchantry—men pushing handcarts full of bananas and oranges fresh off the port. Whores lean out of windows with rouge thick as paint, fishing for sailors spilling off boats.
I pull my hat down low and push through the doors to Fitz’s shop, a “general store” selling cigarettes and candy out the front, forgeries and specialized occult items out the back. A man could unload a bundle of checks for pennies on the dollar and stroll off with a human skull; all depends on what you’re into, I suppose. But I ain’t worried ’bout putting on no rituals, even if I lost my good sense in the stars with this fate business.
Chimes twang, and I catch a breath of the musty air. Shop full of dusty tins of smoked oysters and canned peaches been sitting for years. Old wood planks creak underfoot as I make my way to the back, where Fitz smokes a cigar and idly shuffles a deck of cards.
“Mother of God, look who’s come callin’,” Fitz says. Bastard always chatting me up all friendly-like before he tries to fuck me over. “What’s the craic? Word all over town about the opera house. Thought it might be you. Not many men could lift paper clean as that.”
I reach into my coat and set my bundle on the counter. “Ain’t my business,” I say. “Came with my own paper to sell. You fence it or not?” I shove it across to him.
“What have we here?” Fitz asks. “Choir music and prayer cards?”
I stay quiet, tapping my thumb on the counter as he shuffles through, muttering numbers to himself.
“Hmm,” he starts. “Face value’s near a thousand. Could give you forty now. Maybe fifty if you can wait for your cut.”
The bastard’s being cute.
“Fitz, you move paper better than any man in town. You can do better than four cents on the dollar.”
He slams his hand on the counter, hot tempered son of a bitch he is. “Five cents on the dollar, Christ above. Whole city’s talking about that job. I’ll hang before I see a bloody penny!”
“I’m tellin’ ya, Fitz. You’re givin’ me credit for another man’s crime. Now, twenty-five cents, or I might as well feed this paper to the stove.”
“Ten and not a penny more, you bloody bastard.”
I thumb my coat, hand sitting on the butt of my pistol. “Fifteen and I forget the insult.”
Chimes sound behind me, and Fitz leans over to get a peek, tossing a leather ledger over top of the stolen checks as if on instinct. “Be right with ye.”
“We got a deal or not?” I say.
“Fine, you devil,” he mutters low, then disappears to a back room. I’m grateful for the distraction that hurried our negotiations along. I look over my shoulder to see who I might have to thank for the favor and see a man lurking by a wall of tinctures and medicines that are liable to do more damage than good.
“Here,” Fitz says, returning with a few greenbacks and gold coins he pushes my way. “Now off with ye, before I change my mind.”
I grin, tuck the take inside my coat. “Always a pleasure.”
I’m near the door when the man edges out from between the shelves. Plain coat, broad hat. Blocks me clean.
“Archibald Randolph?”
Never met this bastard, and I ain’t keen on him using my name. My hand drifts toward my coat. “Depends who’s askin’.”
He looks me dead in the eye, voice flat. “Virgil Sherman. Says you put Joseph in the ground and run off with his wife. Says you’ll pay for both soon enough.” The man’s mustache twitches. “You stick out, Mr. Randolph. Ain’t many places Mr. Sherman don’t have someone watchin’. Bellhops, porters, barkeeps—folk who don’t mind earnin’ an extra dollar to pass along a name.”
