Page 5 of By Any Means

“Ah, geez. I didn’t mean to scare you. You look like you could hit me right now, despite yourself.”

Chary agreed. He was still debating a well-timed shove. The horses were more than capable of speed, even emburdened.

“Hey,” Mr. Moore said, “hey, look.”

Chary did look, because there was sudden, alarming movement. Mr. Moore leaned back, undoing the buttons of his tweed jacket, quick, and reached beneath and unbuttoned suspenders. Then the top button of his denim waist trousers.

Chary started. “What in God’s name are you doing?” He slid sideways, as far away as he could go on the bench without falling off.

Mr. Moore gave him a blinding grin, roguish. Handsome, but it was merely a reminder that attractive men could do whatever they wanted, and whenever, too. “Drive straight, will ya? This isn’t an automobile. I’m not exposin’ myself, swear.”

Chary faced forward, though it felt like showing his neck to a lion. Ought he warn the man he had a gun? “You wish to speak to me of illegal? Indecent exposure is quite illegal—when it is plenty to find yourself on the wrong end of a policeman’s regard⁠—!”

“So, you do know law and prejudice.”

“Of course I do.”

Mr. Moore huffed. “It’s a tattoo I’m tryin’ to show you. Jus’ that it’s inconvenient to get to, with the long underwear. You can look now.”

“A tattoo. A likely story.” Chary glanced over warily. But Mr. Moore had unbuttoned his blue jean trousers only so far as his—fuzzy—abdomen, and the flannel union suit was split apart only a little, barely enough to see his navel. A little below and to the right was indeed a tattoo, the ink black and strong: a tiny five-point star. Centered beneath that was script Chary couldn’t quite read.

“What does it say?”

“Industry is the root of all ugliness.”

Chary swallowed. Surely, that was him, all summed up: ugliness born of industry. Third generation.

“Oscar Wilde,” he said shakily. “I believe we have different ideas of prerogative, Mr. Moore. And… obvious.”

Chary rather thought he preferred a carnation. But though his alarm ebbed, his heartbeat stayed the same. Mr. Moore was queer too.

“Are you a convicted criminal?” Chary asked. “Or you simply don’t fear being identified as one?”

“Are you?” Mr. Moore said easily. He re-buttoned just as quick, with a shudder against the wind, then sat up straight and stuck his hands beneath his arms. “The Prince of Wales is sposta have a tattoo. Maybe I’m a prince. Anyway, not many coppers read Wilde.”

Chary nudged the hot brick farther his way. “Are you a prostitute?” he pressed. “A fairy?” All the way in Berryfield?

“Et tu?” Mr. Moore raised his brows.

Chary narrowed his eyes. Shakespeare? (August would’ve kicked him for his bias. But really.) “Hardly. Who are you?”

“A man who didn’t mean to scare you, promise. Swear. I’m Laurie Moore; that’s all. And your gloves won’t fit me, not in the slightest, Mr. Wright.” He showed one hand. “Look.”

“I don’t wish to hear that word ever again. If you please.” He clicked the mares forward; Mr. Moore clutched at the bench at the lurch.

But Chary did look. Again. Mr. Moore had large hands, not especially thick nor delicate but well used and long-fingered. Chary’s gloves wouldn’t have fit him after all.

Mr. Moore said, “I don’t need ’em. I wear these gloves a-purpose, to make impressions on men like you.”

This, too, was code Chary hadn’t encountered. Fingerless gloves? Did the yarn weight matter? Or the color? Or the fingerlessness itself?

“Men… like me,” he said flatly. “Like us?”

Mr. Moore gave him a sly glance. “No, like you. Businessmen. Men of means. The Upper Ten Thousand. I will say it don’t usually come down to ’em donatin’ things off their backs.”

“I’m not a Rockefeller.”

“Oh, sure.” Said like shore. “D’you have a mansion?”