‘Shh.’ She holds me up, close to her face. Her breath is warm in my fur, her heartbeat steady. I settle, and as I do, I feel her shift and turn. She is putting me in her satchel, asking me to be quiet. Rather to my surprise, I am.
‘What are you waiting for?’ The boy’s voice comes from her other side. He has not, I realize, seen our meeting. Has no idea that I am secreted in her bag. I shift and feel her arm through the worn denim, emptied now of her clothes and few possessions. This could be a useful vantage point, I realize. I am hidden here and yet close to her. Even the boy, whom I do not trust, is oblivious of who travels by her side. And – yes! – I test the cloth with my claw. If need be, I can rend this carryall. I have had too much of traps in this life and while I trust the girl – trust the heart I still hear, steady, through her side – I have no such expectations of this world. Not for myself alone do I fear. This girl may need me, yet. For now, however, all is well.
‘This is the one.’ She’s talking to the boy, having already explained about taking stock, about checking the surroundings. He’s too smitten with the verve and zest around him to pay heed. Here, on the downtown side of the river, many paths cross, their combined scents and sounds an intoxicant to the unwary.
I confess I hunker down as she ascends the stairs. Through the loose weave I can barely see the brick beneath us but I remember its dampness and the way it crumbled where the water had gotten in. The girl leans back and the bag sways as she pulls on a door. Better for us both if I could have led her through the mouse hole from the alley, through the dark and secret entrance to this evil place.
‘Oi!’ The voice rings out, a man approaching across an open space – the lobby with the stairs. ‘Girl!’ Closer now, and she stops so short I slap against her side and her arm descends to hold me. Does she fear that I will struggle or call out, and thus expose myself? I prefer the thought that she finds some comfort in my solid warmth. ‘You can’t come in here.’
‘I’m looking for Mr Bushwick,’ she says. I can tell by the tone – the breath in her body – that she’s standing chin out, trying to look brave. ‘I’ve something for him.’
‘Do you now?’ The inquisitor turns salacious; in his voice I hear his greasy smile.
‘Intel,’ she says, the syllables hard. Direct. ‘Something he’s been looking for.’
Nearby, I hear the boy mutter. He must recognize his own words but she reaches and pulls him close. She fears his going off – his being hurt – when she should be cautious of the damage he may do.
‘Wait here.’ Footsteps, work boots on worn linoleum, the give of rot beneath the floor softening the heavy tread. Through the weave I spy the stairwell leading up. The scent of death is faint here – too many men and too much commerce. Ash and mud and sweat converge. I do not see the man, but as a door squeals shut I feel Care move. She is following – no, she is turning to watch – and she heads toward the steps.
It is not only the movement that makes me grip the cloth, my claws ready for a fight I fear will come. But no – it’s the squeal, and Care jumps back again. The breeze of an open door and another voice, familiar in its threat.
‘This one, huh? Well, what have you got to say for yourself, girl?’ Not the big bully – not Brian. I sniff the air for smoke or that chemical tang.
‘Bushwick came to see me.’ She’s dropped the title. Gauged her audience and pitched. ‘He was looking for something. Something he lost.’
Smart, this girl. She doesn’t trust the story about the job and so she has kept the old man out of it. She’s setting bait as sure as that cheese I had hoped to leave.
‘And what has the big man lost that you can help him with?’
I feel her arm move. Her hand rises to her throat and my ears go back with trepidation. She is not speaking. She has lost her nerve.
But no. The speaker laughs. Randy – the smaller of the thugs. ‘You looking for some sparkles, girl?’
‘No,’ she says, her smile clear in her voice. ‘But Bushwick is. Tell him I found what he came by to look for. Tell him I know where it is.’
Footsteps and some murmured consultation just beyond my ability to hear. I am hesitant to shift much in this sack, and the girl’s arm, while steadying, blocks some of the impressions I would ordinarily receive.
‘What are you talking about?’ Tick’s whispered query lets me know both men have retreated to a safe distance. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘It’s got to be about the heist. The necklace,’ she answers, her voice low but clear. ‘Bushwick must have been looking for the ledger, too. The old man always said: “There are no coincidences.”’