Iron Cast(48)

His tone, though not malicious, was final. Corinne took the hint and let the subject drop. They walked in silence the rest of the way back to the Cast Iron.

Ada refused to let Charlie walk her back to the club. She didn’t want the Cast Iron looming over them as they said good night. True to his word, Charlie didn’t bring up their conversation from the day before. He just kissed her softly and asked her to be careful. Ada hadn’t wanted to break away from his arms, but it was almost ten, and her troubles were waiting for her in the club.

The bar was still closed, and Ada went through the back door. Gordon was gone from his post in the storage room, which was unlike him. Maybe he’d figured that without any drunk patrons to keep from snooping around, he could take the night off. Or maybe he needed to feed his cat.

She was about to push open the wall panel when the alley door opened and Gordon came in. He was wheezing with exertion, and his coat was misbuttoned, as if he had left in a hurry.

“Ada,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “I tried to rush back.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

He didn’t move from the doorway, and for a few seconds the only sound was his labored breathing. The silver winter air drifted past him, bringing the sharp scent of frost and nighttime into the storage room. Ada saw that he was shaking. She took a step forward. “What is it?”

“Ada, it’s . . . it’s Johnny.” Gordon pulled off his cap and squeezed it between his hands. He took a few hesitant steps forward. “The police called earlier and asked me to come down. I thought it was some kind of ruse at first, but it was Rick Dalton on the phone. He’s been a paying customer for years.”

“I don’t understand,” Ada said. “Has Johnny been arrested?”

“Ada, they wanted me to come to the morgue. Johnny’s dead.”

There was something strange about hearing the words from Gordon, who had spent so many years sitting in this room, resolutely saying nothing of importance. At first Ada couldn’t grasp the full meaning of what he was saying—just that it was odd to see him standing there, hat in hand, trembling like a schoolboy.

Johnny’s dead.

Ada sat down hard in Gordon’s chair.

“They found him somewhere on the wharves,” Gordon said. “Someone shot him four times in the chest.”

There were tears in Ada’s eyes, but she didn’t know what to do with them. She opened her mouth, but words wouldn’t come.

“I have to go,” Gordon said. There was a hitch in his voice, and he was backing toward the door. “I’ve been here for seven years, Ada. I never thought—I never—I have to go.”

He tossed her the keys, and Ada caught them in numb reflex. Gordon shut the door behind him. Ada had never noticed how dark the storage room was at night. She stumbled into the basement and curled up on one of the couches, listening to the electric lights buzzing overhead. Corinne would be home soon. When she was here, Ada would be able to think straight.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but in that moment she was back in Haversham, the walls cold around her, the screams echoing down the corridor as they dragged her fellow prisoner away. Down to the basement. Down to whatever hell had been created for hemopaths by a society convinced of its own rectitude. Ada had been the first hemopath to ever escape Haversham, but sooner or later she would end up back there. Maybe they all would. Without Johnny the Cast Iron would go dark. The other hemopath clubs in the city had no reason to shelter their rival’s crew. The HPA would catch up with her and Corinne easily, and this time they wouldn’t have Johnny or his resources to bail them out.

Despite the creeping, crushing fear, Ada kept her eyes closed and began to hum. The song tasted of salt and sorrow, but it was easier than crying. It was easier than remembering how Johnny Dervish had been the one to offer her hope when her world had collapsed, how Johnny had been something untouchable and unbreakable in a city of broken, soiled dreams. It was easier than knowing that if Johnny was gone, then the rest of them didn’t stand a chance.





CHAPTER EIGHT



Snow fell the next morning from a white sky, just enough to dust the treetops and windowpanes. Ice hardened on the sidewalks, and Boston was quiet.

The bar of the Cast Iron was packed with people, with everyone who needed to know the news. Corinne was the one who told them that Johnny was dead. She was still in her dress from the night before. The pale-blue satin trembled as she spoke, but her voice never broke. She bit off each word with deliberate asperity. She sat on the stage with her legs dangling, answering questions until she had run out of answers. Then she dropped into a chair beside Ada. She laid her head on Ada’s shoulder and closed her eyes. No one had slept the night before.

“That’s it, then,” Corinne said.

For a while no one moved. No one spoke. Corinne didn’t open her eyes. Finally people started to trickle toward the door. They were members of Johnny’s crew, his inner circle. Some had known him for years, some only for months.

“Wait, stop,” Ada said, jarring Corinne as she jumped to her feet.

The group looked at her.

“It’s not safe out there,” Ada said. “First the docks and now Johnny—we don’t know who’s gunning for us.”

A couple of people shook their heads and left. The others looked uncertain, shuffling their feet.