Брайан Гарфилд - Gangway!

He turned back to Vangie at last and asked half absent-mindedly, “Where is this Mint anyway?”

She pointed up the nearest hill. “Up there.”

It was at the very top, shrouded in the mist that hung from the underbellies of the clouds. But up there along the incredibly steep cobblestoned street, past many blocks of stores and saloons and houses and hotels, he had a vague grey picture of a huge forbidding fortress, a structure of stone-block and iron gates and castle turrets like the Manhattan Armory.

He must have grunted because Vangie said, “What about it?”

“Just interested.”

“You wouldn’t be thinking about trying to steal one of those gold shipments, would you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of that.”

“That’s good. Just take another look at those toughs and their rifles.”

It wasn’t hard to take another look at them. It would have been harder not to, since the gold wagon and its escort were at that moment rumbling right past them. Mounts had been brought for the big guys, and they were twice as big on horseback as they had been before. One of them — the guy Gabe had talked to in Sacramento — gave Gabe a quick cold glance as he rode by. The mud flew, the wagon rattled and the hoofs thundered. The wagon this time was drawn by at least twenty teams, and it was easy to see why: If that high hill had been any steeper it would have been a cliff.

Vangie had been watching him while he’d been watching the gold, and now she said, “And don’t think about trying to break into the Mint.”

“Mmm?”

“It can’t be done.”

“You mean nobody’s done it.”

“I mean it can’t be done.” She turned. “Come on, will you?”

“Where?”

“My belly feels like my throat’s been cut. And as for you — you’ve just got to be hungry after all the food you left in the Sacramento River.”

“Now that you mention it...”

They moved into a narrow street, getting jostled. Something like grey smoke began to drift down off the rooftops, obscuring their view of things. “What’s going on? Something on fire?”

“Shh!” Vangie clapped a finger to Gabe’s mouth. “Don’t say fire around here. Ever. Unless you mean it.”

“But that stuff...”

“That’s just the fog coming in.”

It was coming in mighty fast. He could hardly see the end of the street, only a block away. “This happen often?”

Defensively she said, “From time to time.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Well,” she said reluctantly, “maybe once or twice a day.”

“A day? ”

“We don’t mind it.”

“Every day?”

“You get used to it.”

“All year round?”

She said desperately, “We like the fog.”

“All right then, tell me this. Does it ever get any warmer around here?”

“Once in a while. From time to time.”

“You mean once or twice a day?”

“Well, maybe once or twice a year.” She added quickly, “But it never gets much colder than this either.”

“I don’t see how it hardly could.” He shook his head. “And you call this a city.”

Just the same at least there was life teeming around them. The narrow street was overflowing with toughs, brassy girls and drunken sailors. Among the buildings Gabe could see, two out of three were Melodeons and Saloons. The rest were whorehouses, opium dens, Cheap John clothing stores, shipchandlers and the kind of boarding houses where you kept your boots on when you went to bed to make sure nobody stole them. It was a neighborhood not altogether unlike Hell’s Kitchen; even if it was a pretty limp imitation, it did show some promise.

You didn’t even have to guess at what the shadier emporiums were. They all had frank signs. Ye Olde Whore Shoppe. Ye Blinde Pigge . They didn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination. Or maybe they did: It was doubtful most of the passersby could read.

Vangie was leading him around another corner, and Gabe was damned if she wasn’t leading him right back down to the docks. “Now what?”

“I’ve just got something to take care of, over on the next pier.”

“Take care of what?” But he trailed along onto the pier, and he saw through the descending mist a variety of gaudily painted signs announcing that ships left this spot for such destinations as Alaska, San Pedro, Panama, and New York.

An oceangoing paddlewheel steam packet was tied up at the berth. For a panic-stricken moment Gabe was terrified that Vangie was going to lead him straight on board the damn thing. But she stopped just inside the pier entrance and leaned down to lift the lid of a wooden box. Evidently it had been nailed into place on the boarding.

The box was a cube about a foot in every dimension. There was a slot in its lid, like a ticket-taker’s box, and on a stake above the box was a prettily lettered sign:

From her enormous shoulderbag Vangie took a small key. It unlocked the padlock on the key box. She lifted the lid and removed the three keys that reposed in the box. Each key was attached to a wooden tag bearing the name of a hotel and a room number.

She closed the box and locked it, putting the three wood-tagged keys into her bag. “Okay, we can go now.”

Gabe walked back up the street with her. “The San Francisco Hotel Association,” he said. “ You’re the San Francisco Hotel Association.”

“Well, you know lodgings are terribly expensive.”

“Uh-huh. And your parents live in San Francisco, and someone stole all your money, and you were stranded up the river, and you’d never ever picked anybody’s pocket before, ever.”

Vangie shrugged evasively and went on up the street with a cheerful grin. Her body swung alertly and the huge pocketbook flew from her little shoulder.

She was damned pretty. Gabe found himself thinking it might be fun to show her around New York. She’d probably fit right in back there, which was something he hadn’t expected from any Westerner.

She paused to look back at him. “You coming?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I’m coming.”

He caught up with her and this time they walked directly into the city. They passed a Melodeon on a corner. Someone had splashed a huge X of red paint across its lurid poster of cancan dancers, and hung on the door a wooden shingle with CLOSED painted on it in the same vivid red paint.

The sign on the corner was wreathed in fog but there was a gas street lamp next to it and Gabe could make out the printing. It seemed very important to know that they were at the intersection of Sansome and Pacific Streets. Not that Gabe would ever find it again without a guide. But he liked to know the names of places where there might be opportunities. And Pacific Street looked like such a place. Jammed from sidewalk to sidewalk with moving bodies, most of them unsteady on their feet. And it wasn’t even sunset yet.

“Pacific Street,” he murmured.

“We call it the Barbary Coast.”

“Is that right. What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know. But I heard a politician say it’s the most vice-infested square mile of corruption in the world.” She said it with a note of triumph which Gabe didn’t miss; suddenly she turned and jabbed a pretty little finger into his chest. “Nobody’s ever said that about New York. Hah!”

“Only because New York’s bigger than a square mile. We like to spread the joy around a little.”

“Oh you’re so smart.” She lifted her chin and swung away toward a side street.