“No, it makes you reckless and stupid.”
Corinne jerked away from her, but not before Ada saw the hurt cross her face.
“If you want to wait in the car, then go,” Corinne said. “I’m not leaving until I talk to the Witchers.”
It was Ada’s turn to be hurt. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “But if we just march in there, they’ll throw us out. The back rooms are private for a reason. You know what goes on in there.”
“The Witchers know who we are,” Corinne said. “Surely that can get us through the door.”
It was true that they had been here a couple of times before, but always with Johnny, and Ada didn’t remember those visits ever ending with anything but tense words and veiled threats. The Red Cat and the Cast Iron had their old rivalry, but at the end of the day Johnny and Luke Carson were both businessmen. If they let the bad blood spill into the public eye, then the patrons might think twice about coming. The Witchers were outliers, though, and more invested in their cause than in anything else.
“Silas is probably the only one here,” Gabriel said. “George usually travels after Christmas.”
He was so matter-of-fact that it didn’t occur to Ada to doubt him, even though she had no idea why he would know the Witcher brothers’ itineraries. Maybe Johnny had mentioned it. Gabriel was still looking at the front door of the saloon, his brow furrowed. Ada expected Corinne to say something, but she was studying Gabriel with a dissecting gaze.
“He’ll meet with us,” Gabriel said at last, sounding strangely resigned. “Let’s go.” He crossed the street, hands in pockets, not waiting to see if they would follow.
The Down Street saloon was possibly Corinne’s least favorite place in Boston. It stank of sweat and fish. There was no music here, no poetry. The men who came here worked long hours for little pay, and they were worn thin and jagged from laboring around iron and steel. The liquor was dark and flowed fast. The saloon was iron-free, but that was mostly because both the Witchers were wordsmiths. Even though it sported no entertainment, Down Street was a haven for all the blue-collar workers of the West End, not just hemopaths.
Corinne could feel the stares as they passed through. Even with their coats on, she and Gabriel weren’t exactly subtle in their party attire. Most of the patrons were indifferent toward them, but one man spat toward her feet, and there were a couple of catcalls behind them that raised the hairs on her neck. She found Ada’s hand and squeezed it once, more to comfort herself than for Ada.
Wine still sang in her blood, and if she wasn’t careful to focus, the room would start to slip sideways. She kept her eyes on the tense line of Gabriel’s shoulders as they neared the back. She didn’t know why he was so confident that Silas Witcher would see them, but she was relieved that he wasn’t fighting her anymore. It was hard enough trying to bring Ada on board without him brooding over his logical, but ultimately irrelevant, concerns.
Gabriel knocked on the door that led into the back rooms of the saloon. The door cracked open.
“No admittance after ten,” a voice barked.
“It’s five till,” Gabriel replied evenly.
It was actually ten minutes past, but the man on the other side of the door didn’t say anything. After a few seconds, he pushed it open a few more inches and waved at them to come in. Corinne didn’t like how easy it was, because easy never boded well in their business. She glanced back to catch Ada’s eye and could see that she harbored the same disquiet. Corinne knew that if they were going to turn back, now was their last chance. She couldn’t do that, though, no matter what waited on the other side of the door. She followed Gabriel inside.
There was a meeting happening in a room to their left. Men, and some women, sat in rows of chairs, their backs to the door. At the front, pacing in a frenzy, a man was shouting about the greedy pig of capitalism. The energy was palpable, even from the hall.