Robert Bennett - The Company Man

“Hear what?”

“Tattoo. On the inside of his bicep. It’s real faded. Hidden close to the armpit, probably so that you couldn’t see it.”

“What’s it of?” he asked, and stood.

“Looks like a bell and a hammer.”

“You mind?” Garvey asked, reaching for the corpse.

“I’m not married to him. Go on ahead.”

Garvey took the flesh of the man’s arm with his thumb and pushed it up. On the inside was a small black bell with a white hammer inside, acting as the clapper. It looked medieval. Some badge of brotherhood, almost.

“Ever seen it before?” asked Garvey.

“No,” said Gibson, frowning. “Well, I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“I haven’t. You?” Garvey asked the attendant.

The boy shook his head.

“Hm,” said Garvey. He looked at it a while, then picked up his file and sketched out the tattoo.

“Amateur stuff,” said Gibson. He flicked the dead man’s arm, the flesh as solid as rubber. “He didn’t know what he was doing at all. Probably just got some ink and a pin, maybe a razor, and went to it.”

“It’s the only identifying mark we have, though, right?”

“That’s true.”

Garvey sat back down, made sure to carefully notate the details of the tattoo, and then said, “Okay. Let’s continue on, then.”

Nights in Evesden were unlike nights anywhere else. As soon as the blue drained out of the sky all the cradle spotlights would come on at once across the city, shafts of hazy, dreamlike light stabbing up into the darkening atmosphere. They grew in clusters, positioned around each district’s cradle. If the angle was right one could look up and see a forest of soft white trunks swaying back and forth, moving so slowly and with borders so faint it was hard to tell if they were moving at all, unless they happened to fall across an airship, in which case a bright, burnished gold star would suddenly light up above. Newcomers found it hard to sleep in the more exposed neighborhoods, as they were unused to the tides of porcelain light that came washing across their walls or ceilings, but veteran Evesdeners hardly paid attention. They scarcely noticed the strange waltzes that moved back and forth across the city as overnight traffic poured in from the skies.

It was generally acknowledged that the farther you were from them the more spectacular the view was, and in that case Dockland, which would not tolerate a cradle or indeed any real sign of modern civilization, offered one of the best vistas possible, although probably one of the most dangerous ones as well. The entire neighborhood was almost a sea of gloom buried among mountains of sparkling light.

Deep in the twisting bowels of Dockland the city did not sleep. As the distant spotlights flickered on the markets stirred and came to life, gathering in dimly lit rooms and doorways and alley entrances. Smoke tumbled across the tent covers and turned the voices of the barkers and the tradesmen into coarse growls, barely human over the din and clatter of trade. Whores grouped in well-lit spots and flashed mangled grins at passersby. In other places men positioned themselves around the entryways of inconspicuous shops, signaling to one another and screening visitors for whatever business happened within.

Hayes moved among them all like a ghost, weaving through the weak points of the crowds. He was riding a mean drunk and he had forgotten his coat somewhere and his scarf was stuffed down the front of his shirt, which was only half-buttoned. He tried to keep his senses about him. Dockland was probably the most treacherous part of Evesden except for some sections of Construct, where hobos and vagrants had holed up in the half-finished sites and lived in medieval savagery. He was familiar with Dockland, though, and its denizens were familiar with him.

Magic, he thought to himself as he walked. They need the old magic back in action, wheeling and dealing. Like always.

He knew he shouldn’t feel angry at Evans. He wasn’t the one who’d given the order to cut him off. The board, yes. Brightly, yes. But still, they had no issue dumping him off at the drop of a hat, and no issue calling him back just the same.

He shouldn’t have come back. He should have just cut tether and run. He’d done it before. He’d done it overseas, in worse conditions than this. He was a consummate survivor. He could wander anywhere and find a future, should he want to.

Hayes scratched at his arm and realized he was shivering again. His nerves jangled with the needling tension that always took him at this hour. Cho Lun’s Carpentry was only a block away but here in this loud, chattering chaos it seemed miles. He picked up his pace and skipped through a gap in the groups of people. As he did someone shouted, “Princeling! Hey, Princeling! Princeling’s here!” but he did not respond.

He reached into his pocket to touch his savings. It was more of a wad of small bills, kept together by his sweat. He wondered how much time that would buy him. An hour. Maybe less. When he had first started coming to the dens he had bought out booths for the entire night, sprawled out on the cushions and teasing the girls for favors. Now it was utilitarian. Medicinal. He came to get his regular dose, and then he could make it through the next day.

He counted his cash again. It wasn’t enough. Not for what he needed.

Hayes scanned the crowd and wandered for a bit before he found what he was looking for. In front of a closed warehouse a group of youths had set up a table game, the usual find-the-jack switch. They weren’t working in shifts, which was lucky. Just one frontman and the rest of the gang organizing. It would be far easier to get a bead on things that way.

Hayes took up a station just down the alley from them and leaned up against the brick wall and waited. He listened to the leader’s chatter, to his cajoling and wheedling. Watched the movements of his hands and the blur of the cards.

Then he took a breath, let it out, and tried to pay attention.

It took about an hour for Hayes to start getting it. It helped that all the boys were watching the game at once. Soon the sensations started leaking in, the joy of the con and the careful attention of the bait and hook. Let them win a little, let them lose more. The greed burned inside Hayes and he began to hold the pattern in his mind, the way one thought and feeling segued into another, the way the night was supposed to work for these young men. It was faint and not much to work with, but Hayes didn’t have much time.

He stepped out from the shadows of the alley and got in line for the game. When he stepped up the young man grinned and said, “Up to try your luck, try and get the jack to bleed green?”

“I am indeed,” Hayes said.

“All right then, sir, let’s see the wager you’re willing to put on his crown. Hopefully your bundle’ll stay put and not topple, eh?”

“Hopefully,” he said, and put down his money.

The young man looked at it. “That’s an awful lot.”

“I’m awful lucky.”

The boy frowned, judging him. He nodded. “Fair enough.”

Hayes felt the pattern change in the boy. Change tempo and direction, almost. Hayes struggled to keep his attention and watched the cards. Lose once, win twice, and walk, he said to himself.

The boy turned the cards up, showing him the jack. Hayes barely looked. Then the boy flipped them over and began smoothly swerving them in and out, chanting quietly as they moved. Hayes anticipated the turn and felt the boys burn white-hot with anxiety. When the cards stopped moving Hayes pointed to the wrong card and the lead boy smiled and flipped it over.

The boy grinned. Already he had the gray teeth of an old man. “Sorry, sir. You’re not lucky today, it seems.”