have considered it handsome, despite the scars and his predisposition against razors. I was pretty sure I knew what a ponce was now. Someone had bought him his red vest and it wasnât Daniel Webster Wheelock.
âThrow the sack at my feet,â I said.
He blinked more rapidly. âCapân Danââ
I snapped a slug into the dirt between his feet. He jumped straight up and down like a startled rabbit. Looked down at his boots to count his toes.
âThe sack.â
He lowered his hands. One went into his pocket. I made a motion with the five-shot.
âIf anything comes out of there besides a sack of coins, you can ask Axel Hodge who fitted him with his ball and chain.â
He drew the sack out slowly and gave it an underhand flip. It clanked when it hit the earth.
âEmpty all your pockets.â
Again he hesitated.
âPepper his legs with buckshot.â
Beecher lowered his aim a notch.
âNo!â The Hoodlum turned out all his pockets and threw the contents after the sack: a squat-barreled pistol, brass knuckles, a weighted sock, three clasp knives in assorted sizes.
I asked him if he was expecting trouble.
âJust looking after me regulars. Times are dusty.â
âStay away from the waterfront,â I said. âIf you fall in theyâll need a crane to pull you back out. Whatâs your chant?â
âMy what?â
âYour name. Your monoger. What do people call you when theyâre not mad at you?â
âTom Tulip.â
I took aim at his red vest.
âItâs me name!â
âWell, Tom, tell your friends thereâs a new tax in Barbary. Penny a head for every Hoodlum who shows his face outside the Bella Union.â
âYou ainât the tickrum to collect it! When Capân Dan gets drift of this, youâll be whiffling out the hole in the back of your nob!â
âHeâll want names. Mineâs Murdock. This is Beecher.â
âAnd who in Black Spyâs skipper is Murdock and Beecher, if you please?â
I slipped the deputyâs star out of my pocket and flung it at him. He caught it against his chest in both hands, turned it toward the light.
âTell Wheelock to take good care of it,â I said. âIâm responsible for it.â
âU.S. coves.â He leaned forward and spat on the ground.
âBang on, Tom. Tell him to send the swag to the Slop Chest. Weâre cribbed up there this week.â
âHeâll send the whole bleeding Bella Union! The frogsâll fish your black ointment out of the briny.â
âPut out this spunk,â I told Beecher.
He tilted the Le Mat a few degrees and emptied the shotgun barrel over Tom Tulipâs head. In those tight quarters it sounded like a powder keg blowing its top. The Hoodlum spun on his heel and took flight, coattails fluttering. We heard his pounding feet long after the echo of the blast faded.
Beecher changed hands to blow on his fingers. He was chuckling. âI believe I missed my right calling. How much you calculate we got?â
I stepped forward, picked up the sack, and gave it a couple of shakes. âDollar and a half and change. If weâre going to make a living at this, weâd better hold off till Tom finishes his rounds.â
âDrop the swag.â
This was a new voice. I looked up to see Nan Feeny standing in front of the open side door with her pepperbox trained on my chest. I dropped the sack.
Â
âI offered to topper âem both in their dosses the first night,â Hodge said.
âShut your mummer and let me think.â
The little man stood swinging his iron ball rhythmically back and forth and watching Nan pace the floor of her room. His eyes beneath the brim of his bowler were as expressionless as a sharkâs.
Beecher and I were the only ones sitting. Tom Tulipâs pocket arsenal occupied the bed, along with my Deane-Adams, Beecherâs Le Mat, and the sack
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