He needed Jack to want it.
“Anyway, I’m more than finished with this evening.” Harte pulled his overcoat around him against the brisk winter air.
Jack let his arm fall to his side, and for a moment he looked like he wasn’t sure what to do. Then he straightened, his eyes wide and his expression suddenly eager.
“You know,” Jack said, “you should come.”
“Come where?” Harte asked. He kept his tone flat, so Jack wouldn’t guess at how the invitation affected him, how his heart had kicked up in his chest and how it felt suddenly too much even to breathe.
“Come to the gallery opening. As my guest.”
I’m close. So very close. “I have the eight o’clock show . . . ,” he started.
“Oh, right,” Jack said, his shoulders sinking.
“But I’m not on until well after nine,” Harte continued. “I’m sure I could swing by for a little while.”
“You should,” Jack insisted, looking relieved.
“I’ll think about it,” Harte said, the thrill of this small victory coursing through him. But he forced himself to keep his expression noncommittal, placid.
“I’ll send you over an invitation, just in case.”
“Sure, Jack. You do that.” Harte gave a small salute. “I’ll see you around,” he said, and without another word, he turned and left Jack Grew behind with the noise of Satan’s Circus.
As he walked, the elevated train thundered by overhead, coughing its coal-fired way to its final destination, and the city grew quiet. The crowded sidewalks gave way to streets lined with serene townhomes, but in that silence he felt a chill, and he knew danger of some sort had followed him.
Keeping his gait steady, he turned right, following to where the street opened onto Madison Square. Then he slipped into the quiet of the gardens and waited.
It didn’t take long before he saw his stalker pause at the gates of the park. Harte recognized him immediately. Cursing under his breath, he considered his options. Finally, he decided that the direct route would be best.
“Why are you following me, Nibsy?” he asked, stepping out from the shadows.
The lenses of the boy’s spectacles flashed in the moonlight. “Harte Darrigan? Is that you?” Nibs called, like he hadn’t been following Harte all the time. Like it was a surprise to run into an old friend in an empty park in the dead of night.
“You know damn well it’s me. You’ve been following me for three blocks.” He walked toward the boy until they were nearly toe-to-toe. “Were you at the Haymarket, too?” he demanded, wondering if the sense of unease that had driven him to his feet might have been Nibsy and not the girl after all.
“The Haymarket?” The boy sounded confused, but Harte didn’t believe the act for a second. People tended to overlook Nibsy Lorcan because he didn’t have any discernible affinity, but then, neither did Harte. Nibs kept his secrets close to the vest, but Harte knew that anyone Dolph Saunders trusted as much as he trusted the boy had to have something to him. It should have been easy enough to find out for sure, but Nibs had a way of staying just out of reach—a defense mechanism, Harte supposed. One that seemed to serve him well.
Even now Nibsy took a step back.
“Don’t try to tell me you didn’t know I was at the Haymarket,” Harte said, too tired to deal anything else that night.
Behind his glasses, the boy’s eyes were unreadable, but Harte got the sense they were taking everything in.
“Yeah, you got me all right,” Nibsy said affably enough. “Bridget told me you were meeting with Jack Grew.”
So they were finally coming to it. New York might have been one of the biggest cities in the world, but Harte should have known he couldn’t do anything without everyone knowing his business. “Yeah, I met with him, all right. With Vanderbilt and Chandler and a couple of others, too. What business is that of yours? And why were you waiting for me to start with?”
“I needed to talk with you. They won’t let me backstage anymore.” There was a tone of reproach in his voice.
“It’s a new policy,” Harte said, skirting the truth. In fact, it was his new policy. A few weeks before, Nibsy had started showing up and pestering him about Dolph’s proposal again. It got so bad Harte could barely think straight, much less get ready for his next performance.
Besides, he had plans of his own, and he couldn’t chance Nibsy running into Jack.
The boy frowned, like he understood this wasn’t exactly a lie, but it also wasn’t exactly the truth. Which was what worried Harte about the kid—he always seemed to know a little too much when he shouldn’t have known anything at all. “Does your meeting with Jack Grew mean you’ve thought about Dolph’s proposition?”
“Not a chance,” Harte said, shaking his head.
In truth, Harte had done little else but think about Dolph’s proposition. It was the reason he’d been getting friendlier with Jack. Harte wasn’t about to join the ragtag crew Dolph Saunders was assembling. He’d had enough of working for other people to last him a lifetime. But he’d thought a lot about why Dolph was assembling them—and about how he could do the same job, but better, and on his own.
“Dolph’s still eager to have you on board,” Nibsy said, rubbing his hands a little for warmth. “He needs you to make a go of it.”
While Harte could appreciate a bit of theater as well as the next person, he wasn’t buying the meek-and-humble routine Nibs was playing for him. “Why’s that? Far as I can tell, Dolph isn’t hurting any for talent. All I can do is make some rabbits disappear.”
Nibsy didn’t react, and he didn’t call Harte on the lie, which made him wonder how much Dolph had shared with Nibs. “Dolph still thinks you’re our way in. With you on board, the job would be a certain bet,” Nibsy said, ducking his head to look over the rims of his glasses. “You gotta at least consider it.”
“It’s been a long day, Nibs. I had two curtains today, and three more tomorrow. The only thing I’m considering is the way my bed’s going to feel when I finally sink into it.” Harte clapped the boy on the shoulder, squeezing gently. It wasn’t the kid’s fault that Dolph had put him up to this, but Harte wasn’t soft enough to care. “Take care, and stop following me, will you?” he said as he walked past Nibs.
“So what do I tell Dolph?” Nibsy called.
Harte turned, walking backward for a few steps. “Tell him I’m still not interested in the suicide mission he’s cooked up.” Not when he had plans of his own.
BRIDGET MALONE, I PRESUME
The Haymarket
The first thing Esta noticed when she came to was that she wasn’t alone. Her head still ached from the blow, and she was slumped against a damp wall in a room that smelled dank and old, the way basements do.
She kept her breathing steady, her body still as she slowly moved her hand down her leg. Her fingers finally found the edge of her boot, but Dakari’s knife was gone.