Steeplejack (Alternative Detective, #1)(31)

He wasn’t.

His name was William—Billy—Jennings, a petty thief and pickpocket who worked for one of Morlak’s rivals. He was walking briskly, his eyes flicking around the street, fastening on the women with their little purses and handbags as he moved. I did not think he had seen me.

Falling into step behind him, I timed my approach to a point between two grand terraces where a narrow street ran up under the shade of a tantu tree. He half turned, sensing my presence, but I got a good grip on his left wrist and twisted it. Stifling his cry to avoid attention, he let me propel him a few yards up the street, where we would not be observed.

“What’s going on?” he blustered, faltering when he saw my face. “Oh, it’s you.”

“What are you doing here, Billy?” I demanded.

“Walking. What’s it to you?”

“A bit high end for your beat, isn’t it?” I said.

“That’s rich coming from you,” he shot back.

I gave his wrist a twist.

“What do you want? I ain’t done nothing.”

“Not yet today, perhaps,” I said. “But I’ll bet you plan to.”

“Can’t punish a man for what he ain’t done yet,” said Billy, smirking slightly. “And what’s it got to do with you anyway?”

“You work this street a lot?” I asked.

“What do you mean ‘work’?” he said, staring me down, though the color in his cheek gave the lie to his defiance.

“Walk then,” I said. “You walk this street a lot?”

“Sure,” he said. “Free country, right? A man has to get around.”

“And you see what’s going on, don’t you, Billy? Always on the watch?”

“What’s this about?” he demanded again.

“You see anything odd around here last week?” I asked, relaxing my grip on his wrist.

“Odd? What do you mean odd?”

“Anything out of place—other than you, I mean.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Men like you know the routines in a place like this, don’t you, Billy? When the streets are busiest, when the ladies do a little shopping after a glass of luncheon wine, which makes them less careful of their belongings, a fraction slower to react when someone dips into their purses—”

“I resent that,” he cut in. “I’m a businessman, me.”

“So you’ll know when people make deliveries, or when there are whispers of important deals. Especially where luxorite is concerned.”

“Luxorite?” said Billy. He looked confused and alarmed. “I don’t deal in luxorite,” he said, smoothing the frayed collar of his overstarched shirt. “Too hard to move, isn’t it?”

“No one’s accusing you of anything, Billy,” I said. “I’m just asking if you’ve seen or heard anything out of the ordinary.”

“Why?” he demanded, reverting to his original tack. “Who wants to know?”

“I do,” I said. “I’m curious.”

“You can say that again,” he sneered.

I made a snatch for his wrist, but he whipped it away. “There’s money in it for you,” I tried. “If you think of anything.”

“How much?” said Billy, giving me a sidelong look. “I mean, if I should remember anything, that is.”

“That depends on what you remember, Billy.”

“Yeah,” he drawled. “That’s what I thought. Bloody Seventh Street gang never have any money. What kind of cash can I expect from a Lani steeplejack?”

I wanted to slap him, but something in his last word stirred his memory, and a realization dawned.

“You’re the one who had the apprentice what died last week,” he said. “What was his name?”

“Berrit,” I said.

“Berrit,” he echoed. “Right. Sorry to hear it. He fell off a chimney, yeah?”

His manner was different now. People in our social bracket couldn’t afford much in the way of sentimentality, but there was a kind of class loyalty that cut across some of the rivalries of race and gang affiliation.

“I don’t think he fell,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. “And that’s connected to this stuff you’re asking me?” he said.

“Might be.”

He turned away for a moment, thinking. When he looked back at me, there was a frankness in his face that hadn’t been there before. “I have a lady friend,” he said, “scullery maid for one of the dealers back there.” He nodded toward Crommerty Street.

“A luxorite trader?” I asked.

“A bit,” he said. “Macinnes. Fancy bits and bobs. Number Twenty-three.”

Across the street from Ansveld’s.

“And she’s legit, this lady friend?” I asked.

“Why wouldn’t she be?” Billy demanded, on his dignity again.

“Well, she’s with you, for a start,” I said.

He frowned at that, then reached into his inside pocket, producing two buttoned pouches jingling with coins.

“I don’t want your money,” I said.