Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy. Christopher ByfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
grips, blood seeped from their wounds, just enough to redden their clothing and stifle breath. These men too were rushed out of view by the bar hand, just a small boy of twelve rushing from the back room to wipe up any evidence of their arrival and lead the horses around back. Within minutes their existence was reduced to the occasional raised voice from behind the drink-laden shelves.
Jacques drained his glass, deciding it best not to have it refilled. ‘Quite the time to be here, boss.’ He spoke carefully, so that anyone else in attendance wouldn’t hear. One could never be too careful as to how many in attendance were just drinkers and how many were paid to keep their eyes and ears open.
‘Seems like the old man was right about this place. Nothing going on here but shady back-room dealings.’
‘That’s a little hypocritical, isn’t it?’
‘I prefer my dealings to be in the open,’ Franco added. ‘Just away from the prying eyes of some.’
‘Our little tag-along Wyld excluded, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Franco agreed.
The back-room door exploded open. Floorboards shook and pounded from heavy boots as the men dispersed, some upstairs to the box rooms where for a small payment you could have a bed for a spell, some out the door, while one with a freshly bandaged leg propped himself onto a barstool. Those who passed patted his shoulder in turn, referring him by name as Two Bits, sometimes patronizingly.
It wasn’t the most glamorous of nicknames, slightly insulting in truth as two bits, or coins, didn’t buy much in the way of luxuries or service. The man ordered a drink with his payment being his tone. Whisky was given, hurriedly. The first glass was gulped down to better the temper; each subsequent glass was slammed down with frustration. His cheeks were dirtied from a hard ride, his face flushed and hands shaking.
Franco tapped his finger gently, gesturing with his eyes to his companion. Jacques’s brow raised in question.
‘Ketan,’ Franco silently mouthed.
When things seemed reasonably settled and Ketan’s presence felt less threatening, Franco slid his chair back and strolled, quite merrily, to the bar. He stood silently, beside his old friend who nursed his drink like the only woman who would love him. Eventually Franco leant forward onto the bar with a devil-may-care grin. The bartender looked at them cautiously.
‘Another rye,’ Franco said gleefully. ‘And a glass of the good stuff for limpy here. He looks like he needs cheering up. That piss-water he’s sipping can only do so much.’
Ketan struck the bar loudly with a fist. ‘Think you’re funny, you sonofabitch?’ he said, turning on his stool with violent rage. ‘How about I cut that mouth of yours somewhat wider?’ Already he was on his feet, a switchblade firmly in his grip with the blade extended. It was scant inches from Franco’s face, in danger of scoring his best feature. Then, Ketan stopped and sank away, stepping back with his eyes bugging out in astonishment.
‘What? Franco, is that you?’
‘In the flesh before you, though not for long I’ll wager.’
Ketan hurriedly retracted his blade, bringing relief to the barman who was now regretting recent dealings to ensure his business’s security.
‘Yeah. Sorry about that, sorry … I just … It’s been a long time.’
‘I think you need to calm yourselves.’ Jacques prompted the barman. ‘Can we get those drinks please? Thanks.’
Franco took a seat beside Ketan, shadowed by Jacques who observed attentively.
‘It’s been long, Franco. Too long, you know.’
‘I’m here now aren’t I?’
‘And I see you.’ Ketan surveyed his friend, disapproving of every facet. ‘Nice teeth, fancy suits, and how. How much did all that set you back? Look at this – shiny buttons and everything.’ Ketan’s hand was patted away by the suit’s owner, who ensured no stray threads were pulled at. ‘You’ve come a fair way away from the train yard.’
‘Looks like we both have. How have things been?’
‘Tough finding work.’ Ketan drank slowly, relishing the taste of fine liquor for as long as he could, as it wouldn’t be repeated any time soon. ‘Isn’t it always, but I’m moving along. Making pay as best as I can. Can’t complain.’
‘Not even when being shot in the leg? And for what, ten per cent?’
‘Six.’
‘Six.’ Jacques whistled slowly in disapproval. ‘You are getting stiffed.’
Ketan stopped his drinking, taking a handful of pistachio nuts from a bowl and breaking their shells in turn. ‘Who’s this?’
‘A friend,’ Franco said. ‘Like yours, only he tends to stick around.’
‘Clever.’ Ketan grabbed some nuts from the nearest bowl.
‘Thanks,’ Jacques muttered.
‘Wasn’t a compliment.’ Ketan chased the nuts with a new mouthful of drink.
‘What’s the real story here? You never carried a blade; you never got involved in dirty-handed work,’ Franco said. It was true, for a time. Ketan used to avoid conflict as best he could, normally being the getaway man or shifting goods around when needed. Truth be told he was very apt at such things, but he never had a taste for the violence, at least he hadn’t some seven years back.
Yet to them both, this was a lifetime away, and time much like the desert sands, covered and uncovered much.
‘Been speaking to the old man, right? Never could keep his mouth shut.’
‘Maybe so, but he’s worried. You’re running in black-market gangs now?’
‘What of it?’
‘That was never our style!’ Franco protested.
‘Our style? Our style?!’ Ketan repeated in an outburst, causing everyone in the bar to turn in unison. ‘Coming in here, speaking about ours. Just look at you.’ This time Franco was surveyed with something he hadn’t been subjected to for some time, and could have lived a good life never seeing again. ‘You don’t know my style and you don’t know who I am. You think you can just talk to me like the years mean nothing? You think that you have some kind of right because we got bloodied noses together for a time? You’re not family, Franco. We ain’t that blood.’
‘I went to find a calling. Do something proper of sorts,’ Franco objected, quite amazed at this reaction.
‘You left!’ Ketan shouted. ‘You locked yourself in that crappy yard with your pappy, shunning the lot of us, working on some scrappy little ride. The next I hear you was already making your way to pastures new without even the notion of a goodbye. You left us; you left me. Dress it up however you want but leaving is what you did. Nothing more.’
Jacques slowly reached across to his holster on his hip, though Franco’s small, otherwise unnoticed gesture, told him otherwise. The fingers retreated.
‘And then you wander on in here,’ Ketan said, ‘talking to my father, talking to me like you’re so above it all, above everyone else. Talking about ours. Damn you. Money doesn’t give you the right, Franc.’ The shortening of Franco’s name caused memories to surface. ‘You need that rolling palace taken away from you, bring you down to the rest of us. Find your roots.’
Franco’s demeanour changed. He was wrong to come here, wrong to see someone he used to call a friend, and exceptionally wrong to expect welcoming arms.
But for what reason was he rejected?
Just because he was discontented with scratching the ground like a chicken, to take the harsh days and call them the norm, should he be scorned? Franco