‘Was that? Never mind.’ The girl’s face peeks up beside me as the door slams shut. ‘I wish you could talk, Blackie. I swear you’d be a good partner. But I should do my own groundwork. That’s what the old man always said. “Do your groundwork. Know what you’re getting into, and who was there first.”’
I do what I can, perusing the worn steps for any unusual scents. The men who passed have left little trace beyond their leather and tobacco. The river scent is strong here, obscuring all else at first sniff, and when I close my eyes to concentrate I find myself caught up in its complexity. Fish and flesh, fresh and less so, the spring melt releasing odors that have been caged all winter, that have been carried from far away. I catch the faint tang of the drug, of scat, though it is not, I think, from the men who have passed. I get, as well, another familiar scent – sweet and slightly putrid. The smell of death.
Approaching footsteps, louder this time, make me jump back down to where the girl waits. I burrow into the folds of her coat and let her warm her hands on me, both of us silent as the newcomers approach. Folded into the warm tweed, I am enveloped as well in the now-familiar smells of tobacco and sweat. Friendly smells which contribute to the sleepiness that creeps over me. Only when the footsteps pass do I catch a whiff of something else. Cigar smoke. A harsh laugh as the men push inside the heavy door.
‘Diamond Jim,’ says the girl. ‘Time to move,’ she adds, to shore up her own courage, I suspect. She begins to sit up, despite her nervousness. Despite, I suspect, her reluctance to unseat me. And so, to relieve her of the latter, I jump up, once again, to the stairwell – and leap immediately down again.
‘What is it?’ She has the sense to cower, covering me with her own body. I would squirm free. The coat, hanging over me, muffles both sounds and scent, only I do not want her to respond. Do not want her to move.
Still, even within her coat, I can make out that two more men have arrived. The one in front is tall and lean. He walks quietly. I might not have heard his footsteps at all, his shoes good leather and his movement careful with grace. It is the other, two steps behind, who has given them away. Thick and heavy, he rolls with his bulk, and I sense he does not care who sees it. This is a man whose poundage is his asset, a muscle man in every sense. A guard.
But it is not the guard who alarms me, though he is big. Powerful in the flesh. It is his companion – his boss – who sends a chill down my spine. Whose presence cuts through the wool of the girl’s coat and touches my every scar and bruise. He stands, still, by the door as the heavier man holds it open. Scans the street, turning without a word from the city proper down to the waterfront and back again.
Peering out from the girl’s coat, I catch the movement, the glint of light on watchful eyes. He seems to sense that they are not alone, and I see him frown in concentration as he turns our way.
The girl holds still. Holds her breath, even, her hands on my back and belly, as if afraid I will reveal our position. I freeze as well, conscious of his silent gaze, the way he looms above us, tall and lean, silhouetted in the dim light.
I wait for him to look down at us. I anticipate his face. His eyes.
‘Boss?’ The guard’s voice is soft. He holds the door ajar with his leg but one arm reaches out. The other – I sense the movement as much as see it – disappears inside his jacket, waiting for the command.
He doesn’t get it. Without a word, the man turns and disappears inside the door. The guard waits a moment, looks around at the still streetscape then follows him inside.
‘That was something.’ The girl beside me exhales. Her voice is light, almost laughing. She has been scared, I can tell, and now seeks to rebalance herself – regain her nerve. ‘I wonder if he’s the dealer. He seemed pretty posh.’
That wasn’t the word that came to my mind, but I cannot offer another. Instead, I clamber from her lap as she shifts and then stands. I do not feel good about this, about her plan to confront these men – to turn them on each other. But the die is cast.
We wait for another dozen heartbeats. I watch the moon break through the clouds, sketching out silhouettes that stretch along the iron-grey street. I think about the man who has arrived, about his silent appraisal. The face I couldn’t see. There is something on the tip of my consciousness, an impression as fleeting as one of those moon shadows. A faint memory. This place, that man …
I’m on the tip of recovering it – the thought, the image – when the girl stands up.