Dennis Lehane (Editor) - Boston Noir

“Why won’t you sell the place, Anna?” Miller’s words and tone were filled with hurt; she was doing him unfairly.

Anna’s eyes flicked around the room; the men sitting there drinking were curious. Why would Anna cross Miller? No profit in that, they all knew.

“And if I did, what would I live on then?” she asked gaily, as if Miller had been revisiting a long-standing joke.

“Go to the country, for all of me,” he said, draining his glass. It might as well have been Go to the Devil.

As if she had a farm to retire to, a home somewhere other than over the barroom. “I promised my father I would not,” she said, trying to maintain the tone of a joke, but the strain was audible in her voice, her desperation a tremor in her answer.

“Well, come find me-” he set his empty glass down. “When you’re ready to be reasonable.” He tipped his hat to her, ignored Thomas, and left.

After that, the other regulars filed out, one by one. None wanted to see what they all knew would come next. Anna tried to entice them to stay, even offering a round on the house on the flimsy excuse of someone’s good haul of fish. But it couldn’t last forever, and eventually even the boy who helped serve was sent home. Only Seaver was left.

It was late, past the time when Thomas generally retired. It was obvious he wasn’t going to bed.

Seaver stood up. Anna looked at him with a wild hope. Perhaps he would come to her aid, somehow defuse the situation. He put a coin down on the counter and leaned toward her.

She glanced hastily at Thomas, who was scowling as he jabbed the fire with a poker. Anna’s face was a mask of desperation. She leaned closer, and Seaver surreptitiously ran a finger along the back of her hand.

“Better if you don’t argue with him,” he breathed, his lips barely moving. “Don’t fight back too much.”

She watched his back as he left. The room was empty, quiet, save for the crackle of the fire, the beating of Anna’s heart in her chest.

Thomas straightened, and turned. “I thought we had an agreement.”

Anna looked around; there was no one to help her. The door…

“I thought, any man comes in here looking for a piece, you send him up to that fancy cathouse on Salem Street. And yet I see you, a damned slut, making cow eyes at every man in here, right in front of me.”

She ran, but just as her fingers touched the latch, she felt the poker slam across her shoulders. She cried out, fell against the door. The next blows landed on her back, but Thomas, tired of imprecision and mindful of leaving visible marks that would make the punters uneasy, dropped the poker and relied on the toe of his boot.

When his rage diminished, Thomas stormed out. Anna remained on the floor, too afraid and too hurt to get up. She measured the grain of the wood planks while she thought. Thomas would go to Miller, reassure him the sale was imminent. Soon she would have no choice.

She eventually forced herself up, pulling herself onto a stool. No bones broken, this time.

In her quest to find security, independence, she’d first tried the law, and when that wasn’t enough, she’d put her faith in her husband’s strength. Now…she wasn’t sure what would work, but knew she would be damned if she gave in. Not after all she’d done to make the place her own. Her father had taught her the value of a business, repeated it over and over, as she held his hand while he died. He said there were only two books she needed to mind, her Bible and her ledger, but now the latter had her in deep trouble. She moved stiffly to the bar, poured herself a large rum, drank it down neat, exchanging the burn of the liquor for the searing pain in her back.

Thomas didn’t return in the morning, but Anna hadn’t expected him to. He often stayed away after a beating, a chance for her to think over her sins, he’d told her once before. But never for more than a day or two.

She moved stiffly that day, easier the next, but late the third evening, when Anna was about to bar the door for the night, a man’s hand shoved it open. Maybe Thomas had had a change of heart, had come home-

It was Hook Miller.

She didn’t offer a drink. He didn’t ask for one.

“Why not sell to me, Anna Hoyt?” he asked, warming his hands at the fire. “I want this place, so you might as well save yourself the trouble.”

“I told you: my father said I should never sell. Property-it’s the only sure thing in this world.”

Miller didn’t seem bothered, only a bit impatient. “There’s nothing sure, Anna. Wood burns, casks break, and customers leave. And I’ve had the lawyer Clark make your rights over to Thomas. Take my money, leave here.”

She said nothing. Felt the paper she kept in her shoe, the copy of the document that gave her the Queen’s Arms, the property, the right to do business. Now they were, he was telling her, worthless. After all her work, all she’d done…

Suddenly, Anna had a dreadful thought. “Where’s Thomas? Have you seen him?”

“Indeed, I have just left him.” Miller stood straight, smiled crookedly. He continued, mock-serious: “He’s…down by my wharf. He couldn’t persuade you to sell, but he’s still looking after your interests.”

The blood froze inside her. Thomas was dead, she knew it.

Miller tilted his head and waited. When she couldn’t bring herself to respond, he left, closing the door behind him.

The paralyzing cold spread over her, and, for a blessed moment, Anna felt nothing. Then the shivering started, brought her back to the tavern. Anna’s first thought was that her knees would give way before she reached the chair by the fire. She clutched the back of it, her nails digging into the upholstery. When she felt one of them snap, she turned, took three steps, then vomited into the slops pot on the bar.

Better, Anna thought, wiping her mouth. I must be better than this.

Still trembling, but at least able to think, she climbed the stairs to her rooms. She saw Thomas’s good shirt hanging from a peg, and buried her face in it, breathing deeply. She took it down, rubbing the thick linen between her fingers, and considered the length of the sleeves. She stared at the peg, high on the wall, and reluctantly made her decision.

Everything was different in her new shoes. Since she was used to her thin slippers, the cobbles felt oddly distant beneath the thick soles, and it took her awhile to master the clunkiness of the heels. She relied on a population used to drunken sailors to ignore her, relied on the long cloak to conceal most of her blunders. Thomas’s clothes would have been impossible, but she still had a chest full of her father’s things, and his boots were a better fit. Best not to think about the rest of her garb. She needed to confirm what Miller had hinted, and she couldn’t be seen doing it. Anna was too familiar a figure to those whose lives were spent on the wharves, and most of them would be friendly faces. But not if she were caught. If they caught her, so scandalously dressed in britches, well…losing the tavern would be the least of it.

Somehow, her need to know for sure was stronger than fear, than embarrassment, and the bell in the Old North Church chimed as she found her way to Miller’s wharf. The reek of tar and wood fires made her eyes water, and a stiff breeze combined drying fish with the smells of spices in nearby warehouses, making her almost gag.

The moon broke through the clouds. She walked out to the harbor, feeling more and more exposed by the moment…

Nothing on Miller’s wharf that shouldn’t be there. She stopped, struck by a realization. Hook would never lay the murder at his own doorstep.

The urge to move a short way down to the pier and wharf that belonged to Clark, Miller’s detested rival in business, was nearly physical.