Amberlough(88)

“I’ll be careful,” she told him. “Thanks.”

When she moved to walk past, his truncheon struck her hard across the breasts. Hissing through her teeth, she stopped and waited.

“Hold on a minute. Which house are you from?”

“I ain’t from a house,” she said.

“So you’re freelance? Let’s see your license.”

“I don’t hire out,” she said. “I’m just passing through on my way home.”

“From where? You work one of them big ships on the docks? I doubt it. License.” He grabbed at her handbag.

She snatched it back. “I told you, I ain’t got one.”

“So you’re a hack.” He said it so calmly, she didn’t expect the blow. It slugged like iron straight into her belly. Her knees cracked on the pavement. As she fought to yank some air back into her lungs, the hound scooped up her handbag.

“How much you want?” she asked. No use trying to convince him she wasn’t for hire, not now. “I just got off work and I got a stack stuffed in my garter. Take it all.” Just don’t open the bag.

“More’n my oysters is worth, pigeon pie. New commissioner’s coming down hard on us that likes a little side dish with our roast.”

Hidden by her hair, Cordelia cased the street. There weren’t any other hounds she could see, and most of the whores and their hangers-on had scuttled when they clocked this one.

He popped the clasp and opened her purse. “Though maybe I’ll have a look in here, just to find out what else’s on offer. You was awful grabby about it. Something in here I shouldn’t see?”

She launched herself forward, taking him out at the knees. Last time she’d fought she’d been a scrawny kid going after other featherweights. The resistance she met when she went at the hound surprised her, and she bungled. He tilted to the side and tripped, but he didn’t crash down like she’d planned. His truncheon struck the side of her head and things splashed white, bright as a powder flash. She didn’t let go. Right at a level with his tackle, she opened wide and bit.

He screamed like a baby and lost his balance, fell backward and dragged her along. She was up, and yanking her handbag from him, but he managed another swing of his truncheon and caught her across the wrist. There was a crunch like gravel under tires. Cordelia lost her grip. While the hound recovered, she lashed out with her other hand and scratched him across the eyes, then scooped the bag up and ran dead into Eel Town, looking for a crooked alleyway to hide in. Behind her, the hound blew his whistle.

She made it half a block before his partner came running, with four blackboots at his heels.

*

Cyril slept better now, back in his own rooms on Armament. With the windows open he could smell the roses blooming in Loendler Park, and pretend it was just another summer. So he was dead gone when the lights came up, and couldn’t claw himself awake before the foxes grabbed him.

He’d hauled a few targets out of bed in his time—he knew the routine. But the experience was different when he was the one blearily thrashing in a tangle of sheets and grabbing hands.

While he was still blinking, somebody snatched him by the hair and pulled him upright. He went limp and let them haul him, then lashed out with a sharp elbow and caught his assailant in the belly. Still blind, he dove for the foot of his bed and rolled free. The frame bruised his ribs.

Before he could stand, a second attacker landed a kick in the center of his body. He curled around the blow and felt his breath rush out.

“We’d prefer if you came quietly.”

Cyril tried to stand, but the man who’d kicked him stomped him back down. He heard the crack of his skull on the floor like a distant gunshot.

“The boss just wants to ask some questions,” said the first fox. He leaned over Cyril’s bed, weight on his hands, head hanging. His words sounded strained with lack of air. When Cyril spoke, he sounded much the same.

“Well he could’ve asked, couldn’t he?” He wanted to sit but stayed where he was, wary of another blow. “I’d really have preferred the telephone.”

*

“Good evening, Mr. DePaul.” Van der Joost had made himself comfortable in Culpepper’s office. The desk was organized in a careful grid, and he’d replaced Culpepper’s seat with a low-backed chair that displayed his ramrod posture to best advantage. Memmediv stood just behind him, looking unfairly poised for whatever ugly hour it was.

“Skip the pleasantries, Veedge.” Cyril had the satisfaction of catching Van der Joost in a double-take, pale eyes flashing under paler brows. “Why am I here? What time is it, anyway?”

“Quarter past three.” Not that anyone would have known from Van der Joost’s appearance—his suit was freshly pressed, his thinning hair combed neatly to one side. Cyril, on the other hand, felt rumpled and sandy-eyed. The foxes hadn’t even let him dress—he had a lightweight mackintosh over his pyjamas, and that was it. His stomach still hurt, too.

Van der Joost held up a hand. “Mr. Memmediv, the packet, if you please.”

Memmediv handed over a bundle wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine. The front was torn open beneath the binding, showing a slash of red.

“Recognize these?” Van der Joost set them on the desk, in front of Cyril.

The knot was tight, and Cyril struggled with it. Van der Joost slid a steel letter opener from his stationery box and sliced the string. Cyril thought he’d hidden his flinch, but Van der Joost’s smile told him he hadn’t managed it well enough.