Hudson's Kill Page 8

  “How about this one?” The man pulled an orange shawl from the top of the pile. It was slightly coarse, and Kerry guessed it was made of old wool.

  The man smiled. “Yes, you are right. Not for a true lady.” He flipped through the bolts, and pulled out a pale blue length of cloth. “Try this. Lambswool.”

  The cloth was luxurious, as soft as fresh cotton, but with the texture of a light blanket.

  “It’s rum. But the shawl my friend bought is finer than this, I’d say.”

  “Indeed? His wife is a lucky lady, then. Such garments are very expensive.”

  “I told you. I have coin.”

  The man held up his hands. “Of course. Forgive me.” He fumbled at the bottom of a stack of bolts of cloth and eased out a single rose-colored shawl.

  “Here.” He held out the scarf. “This may be what your friend bought for his wife.”

  Kerry’s fingers tingled as she ran her hand over the material. It was like stroking a kitten.

  The man chuckled. “Beautiful, is it not? Let me show you.” He shook the shawl open, so that it floated in the air for a moment, like a pink cloud.

  Kerry glanced down at the cart. The edge of a square of pale yellow cloth had pulled loose from the bottom of the pile. It looked like silk, edged with gold embroidery.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ah.” The man cocked his head to the side. “That is not for sale.”

  “It’s on your cart.”

  “A mistake, I assure you.”

  “It’s dimber.”

  The man nodded. “It is very rare. Made from the hair of a goat that lives high in the mountains of a place called Kasheer, very far from here.”

  “May I touch it? Just to see?”

  The man’s head bobbled side to side. Neither a yes or a no. Kerry reached out her fingers. The cloth was as fine as silk, but softer. She knew instantly that it was the same cloth that the girl’s robe was made of.

  “How much is a shawl made of this?”

  “It is not for sale.”

  “Everything’s for sale.”

  “It is too much.”

  “What did I say before?” Kerry snapped.

  The man gave her a long look. He quoted a number.

  Kerry laughed. “You’re cracked.”

  The man shrugged “I told you. It is very rare.”

  “Rare as rocking horse shit.”

  The man sighed. He held up the shawl that he had unwrapped. “Did you like this one?”

  “I did. Until I saw that other. Now I think I might have to save up a bit longer.”

  “I see.” The man began to fold up the shawl again. “Perhaps you will think about it and come and see me again.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The man gave a thin smile. “But before dusk the next time, please.”

  ELEVEN

  The salesman pushed his cart back into the compound, turning left at the wall. There was no way of seeing inside, Kerry decided. She felt the sunburned guard watching her. He popped the last scrap of dried fish into his mouth and wiped his fingers on his beard. She nodded casually, thrust her hands deeper into her pockets, and sauntered back down the alleyway.

  There was a bend in the path, and as she made the turn, she heard someone step close behind her. She picked up her pace, widening her stride, her heart thundering as she fumbled for the knife that she had hidden inside the band of her breeches.

  A huge hand clamped over her fingers. An arm wrapped around her neck, pulling her backwards, off her feet. She arched her back and kicked hard, and was rewarded with a grunt. But it was a lost cause. The man who held her was bigger and stronger. He spun her to the side and dragged her through a doorway. And then, as quickly as he had grabbed her, he released her, and sent her staggering forward.

  She spun around, hauling at the knife, the breath like fire in her throat. But there was no one there, just a length of loose hessian that served as a door.

  “Sit down, girl. And put the chive away.”

  She turned back. She was standing in the middle of a small, mean room, walled in by loose planks of wood. The roof was a poorly stitched patchwork of rough sacking and tattered sailcloth. A dim light filtered in through its holes and seams, and a single stub of candle guttered in a sconce nailed carelessly to one wall. The place smelled of dried mud and stale sweat.

  A man with a shaven head and skin like polished mahogany sat on a low bench on one side of the space. Lew Owens wore his usual clothes, a pair of cream riding breeches, black leather boots, and a white shirt that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the darkness of his skin. He was leaning back on the wall, his long legs thrown out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

  She scowled. “I should have known it was you.”

  His laugh boomed in the tiny space. “Noswaith dda, cousin.”

  Her face was still hot. “Try your Taffy patter on someone who gives a damn.”

  “It means good evening.”

  “I don’t give a strap. What do you mean, having your dogs grab me off the street?”

  “Would you have come if they’d asked nicely?”

  She said nothing.

  “I didn’t think so.” Owens patted the space on the bench next to him. “Don’t be hot with me, now. Come on and rest your cooler and I’ll put you flash to what’s what.”

  She sat down. There was no point in doing otherwise. The man who had ambushed her would be waiting outside, she was sure, and there would be more of her cousin’s men scattered about the area, as he never traveled without a half-dozen trusties with him.

  Lew Owens grinned at her. He was only thirty-three years old, but in just ten years he had clubbed and stabbed his way to the top of the filthy, vice-ridden heap that was Canvas Town, and then extended his reach far beyond. He owned a stake in almost every gambling house, oyster bar, brothel, and dance hall in the Fourth and Sixth Wards, and collected a protection fee from many more. He was tall, handsome, and as black as the coal he had been forced to mine in Cape Breton, before he escaped.

  He was just ten years old when he arrived in New York. His aunt took him in. She too was a runaway slave, who had fallen in love with an Irish gangster named O’Toole. Three years later, she died giving birth to her daughter, Kerry.

  Kerry hated her cousin and loved him in equal amounts. She hated him because he was a violent, merciless criminal; she hated him because he was a parasite, feeding off the lives of the poor, the desperate, and the addicted; she hated him because he reminded her of what she was: high yellow, mulatto, half-breed, and unwelcome in either community.

  But she loved him, too. He had put a roof over her head, food in her belly, and clothes on her back, and never asked anything of her. His protection gave her a measure of freedom, and made her feel safe in a city that was dangerous for a woman with her skin color, not to mention her ambitions. He was family.

  “It’s a shame I have to come all the way down here to get a glimpse of you,” he said. “What’s it been, two months since we broke bread? Three?”

  “You only have to walk around the back of your house and knock on the door, Lew.”

  “No. I respect your privacy. But perhaps we should arrange something more regular.”

  “As you like.”

  A low murmur of voices came through the thin wall behind them, followed by a rhythmic grunting. The candle guttered and dripped wax onto the bench between them.

  Kerry screwed up her face. “Christ, Lew. This isn’t one of your vaulting-schools, is it?”

  “Not mine. Longhair Torrance. You know him?”

  “No.”

  “Course you don’t. Well, don’t worry, he knows how to keep snug.”

  “It’s not that I was worried about.”

  “Well, you should be.” Owens narrowed his eyes. “What were you doing up by Jericho?”

  “Why do you call it that?”

  “On account it’s got a wagging great wall built around it, and no one knows what’s
inside. Now what were you doing there?”

  She shrugged. “I wanted to buy a shawl.”

  “You didn’t get dressed up in that rig to buy a blasted scarf, Kerry. Tell me.”

  She leaned back to look at him. “You look a bit worried, Lew.”

  “I wouldn’t say worried. But that big bastard Absalom is giving me enough of a headache without you twisting the puzzle.”

  “Absalom?”

  “Umar Salam’s what he calls himself now, but he was named Absalom when he washed up here with nothing but the rags on his back. More than a dozen years ago now.”

  The grunting intensified. The wall behind them began to shake. Kerry leaned forward. “And he’s the topping man in Jericho?”

  “He is. Styles himself a high priest of some kind. Goes about harping on the word of the Prophet or some fudge.”

  “And that bothers you?”

  “It does when it cuts into my business. Telling folk that borrowing money is an offense against God? I’ve had twenty-three coves pay me back in full in the last half year.”

  “I’d have thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Don’t be daft, Kerry. If some clunch pays me back, it means I can’t squeeze him for chink. True, I only got a trickle out of most of them, but those twenty-three trickles made for a healthy little stream that’s not flowing into my purse no more. And that’s not all. The bastard’s been after my best doxies, too. Preaching at them about turning away from sin and making a paradise on earth. Ten of them, he’s turned. And no cherry-colored cats, neither. White girls, every one. I’ve had to put lads on the door of every one of my houses, but his word gets in, somehow, and they get out. Never to be seen again.”

  “What are you saying? He kills them?”

  “I don’t know. That’s another reason I want to get in there. To find out.”

  The noises from the room behind them stopped. Owens rolled his eyes. “I thought he’d never finish. Now I’ve pattered enough. Time for you to tell me what you were up to.”

  It was dark in the small room. A cart clattered past on the narrow street, and, somewhere, a woman laughed. Kerry thought about the horror she had seen the night before.

  “Did you hear about the girl who was milled?”

  Owens shrugged. “She wasn’t one of mine, if you’re asking.”

  “I’m not. She looked more like a princess than a curtezan. But no one’s claimed her.”

  “And you think she came from Jericho?”

  “Maybe. It was the kemesa she was wearing that twigged me. Made of a fine nab that the Mohammedans sell. I wanted to look for myself.”

  “And?”

  “Some cove name of Faisal showed me a clutch of shawls, all made of good cloth, but nothing like what that girl had on. But I saw he had another piece, hidden away on this cart. I asked about it but he got all scaly and said it wasn’t for sale. It was the same nab the girl was wearing, though, I’m sure of it. He said the wool came from a long way from here.”

  “So it came in on a ship.” Owens scowled. “Umar must be going snacks with that fat madge Flanagan.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “The Bull runs the waterfront, don’t he? How else is Umar going to get his goods off the hard? But it’s not a dockside deal I’m worried about.”

  “What? You think they’re planning a move against you?”

  “Maybe. Flanagan has his eye on my turf. And old Absalom’s for sure gathering a crew. You don’t do that for no reason. I don’t know how many he’s got behind those walls of his now, but it’s a sight more than the dozen he brought with him from the Carolinas. That Faisal cove you met hails from Araby. That hackum guarding the gate is New York born. So there’s all sorts in there, including plenty of runaway slaves. The kind that don’t shirk in a tilt, if you catch me.”

  A shout came from close by in the lane outside. Several voices joined in, and a woman screamed. There was the sound of something heavy collapsing.

  The sack curtain in the doorway twitched. The man who stepped inside seemed to fill the space. He was built like Owens, with the same shaved head and broad shoulders, but he was half as big again, in every direction.

  “What plays, Jonty?” Owens asked.

  “Bit of a ruck going on, Chief.” The man’s voice was a deep Barbados drawl. “Some simkin went and pulled down the front of Tanny’s libben. Looks like a nob. Says she buzzed something precious out of his pit. The boys have him outside.”

  “Something precious, eh? Let’s have a gun.” Owens sprang up, and the big man named Jonty backed up out of the doorway.

  A blanket of cloud had rolled in across the city with the dusk, and the night was pitch dark. There was no street lighting in Canvas Town, and no torches for fear of fire, but two of Owens’ men carried lanterns, attached to long poles. Two more had a tight grip on a tall, thin man with a shock of white hair. His narrow face was bruised on the right cheek and bleeding above the left eye. He wore a crushed-velvet coat and whipcord breeches, white hose, and a pair of dainty shoes with large silver buckles.

  Owens stepped close. “Slumming it, are we?” His voice was silky, the Welsh accent strong.

  “There’s been a mistake.” The man’s voice wavered. His accent was English, cultured.

  “I’ll say there has, bach.” Owens looked over the man’s shoulder. A small crowd had gathered, dark faces lit up by the flickering lanterns. “You think you can come down here and do what you like, do you? Accuse folk of theft? Tear down their homes?”

  The trickle of blood on the man’s temple showed black against his bone-white skin. “That … that woman stole from me, while I was…”

  “While you were what?”

  “While I was … inconvenienced.”

  “While you were up to your nuts in guts you mean.” Owens bared his teeth, triggering a rumble of laughter from the crowd.

  The man tried to turn around to see who was laughing, but the two men held him steady.

  “Look at me.” Owens voice was a lash. “Do you know who I am?”

  The man nodded. “You are Lew Owens. Mayor of Canvas Town.”

  Owens laughed. “Mayor? Yes, that’ll fadge. I’m the Mayor, which means I make the laws, and I make sure people stick to them.” He looked around. “And there’s a law against tearing down peoples’ kips, ain’t there?”

  The crowd murmured its approval.

  “Now where’s Tanny?”

  A petite woman pushed through the crowd, past the Englishman and his captors. She wore a long-tailed red tunic over a grubby petticoat that looked as though it might have been pink. She was about twenty years old, light-skinned and dark-eyed, with long, black hair piled in untidy hanks on the top of her head.

  Owens smiled. “Evening, Antoinette.”

  “Lew,” the girl simpered, and made a parody of a curtsey.

  “What’s this about you buzzing this cove, then?” Owens’ tone was friendly.

  The precarious pile of hair shook. “Not me, Lew. You know I don’t play them kinds of games with my gentlemen. I know the rules.”

  “He says different.”

  The girl pouted. “Well, he’s a liar then, ain’t he?”

  Owens turned to the Englishman. “We may not have any grand cribs or flash halls like you have on Wall Street, mister, but that don’t mean we don’t take pride in where we live. It don’t mean we allow any flash cove to come down here and do as he pleases.”

  The man nodded. “I understand. I didn’t mean to damage the lady’s … house. I’ll pay.”

  “Yes you will. But not ’til you’ve learned a lesson.” Owens nodded at his men. “Let him go.”

  For a moment, it looked as though the Englishman might collapse. His knees shook, and his face grew even paler. But then he recovered, smoothing his coat, and tugging at his long cuffs.

  “Right, lads.” Owens’ voice was sharp. “Get down to Tanny’s kip and take it apart. Every scrap. Anything worth a rag, bring it here. And burn the rest.”


  “No!” the girl shrieked.

  Owens held up his hand to stop the men. He loomed over Tanny. “What’s wrong, geneth? Worried about what they’ll find?”

  “There’s nothing in there, I swear it, Lew, I swear!”

  “In that case, the next step’s to search you. And I mean everywhere. Maybe I’ll have Jonty do it. He’s a clumsy bastard, mind. Big fingers, too. Like bloody bananas.”

  Jonty folded his massive arms across his chest. The girl’s eyes were wide. She lifted her skirt and fumbled inside her drawers.

  “Here.” She held out a silver medallion on a thin necklace.

  “I told you,” the man said.

  “I don’t give a nun’s grot.” Owens examined the medallion. “Plate. The chain’s worth more than the coin.”

  “It has sentimental value.”

  “Oh, it does?” Owens grinned. “How much value? Shall we say an eagle?”

  The man gave him a sour look. He dug into the pocket of his breeches for a coin.

  Owens tossed him the medallion. “Right then. And remember this: there’s only one man can go about tearing down another’s libben, and that’s me.” He stared at Tanny. “Carry on, lads.”

  “No!” Tanny clutched at the men, but they shoved her aside.

  Owens’ grin was a wolf’s snarl. “The only reason I’m not going to break all your fingers and pull out your front teeth, girl, is because you’ve still got some miles left in you.” He stared at the crowd. “The next cove or cooler I catch thieving won’t be so blessed with good fortune.”

  “What about the nob?” someone shouted from the back of the crowd.

  “Oh yes, the nob.”

  Owens took a step forward and drove his fist into the Englishman’s stomach. The man’s hair flapped limply as he doubled over. Owens stepped behind him, put his boot on the man’s backside, and shoved. Kerry jumped back as the man went sprawling through the doorway into the shack. Owens nodded at his bodyguard.

  “Teach him a lesson, Jonty. But hold off killing him. I don’t want anyone asking questions.”