Port Hazard by Loren D. Estleman

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 wasn’t Daniel Webster Wheelock.
    â€œThrow the sack at my feet,” I said.
    He blinked more rapidly. “Cap’n Dan—”
    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.
    â€œThe sack.”
    He lowered his hands. One went into his pocket. I made a motion with the five-shot.
    â€œIf anything comes out of there besides a sack of coins, you can ask Axel Hodge who fitted him with his ball and chain.”
    He drew the sack out slowly and gave it an underhand flip. It clanked when it hit the earth.
    â€œEmpty all your pockets.”
    Again he hesitated.
    â€œPepper his legs with buckshot.”
    Beecher lowered his aim a notch.
    â€œNo!” 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.
    â€œJust looking after me regulars. Times are dusty.”
    â€œStay away from the waterfront,” I said. “If you fall in they’ll need a crane to pull you back out. What’s your chant?”
    â€œMy what?”
    â€œYour name. Your monoger. What do people call you when they’re not mad at you?”
    â€œTom Tulip.”
    I took aim at his red vest.
    â€œIt’s me name!”
    â€œWell, Tom, tell your friends there’s a new tax in Barbary. Penny a head for every Hoodlum who shows his face outside the Bella Union.”
    â€œYou ain’t the tickrum to collect it! When Cap’n Dan gets drift of this, you’ll be whiffling out the hole in the back of your nob!”
    â€œHe’ll want names. Mine’s Murdock. This is Beecher.”
    â€œAnd who in Black Spy’s skipper is Murdock and Beecher, if you please?”
    I slipped the deputy’s star out of my pocket and flung it at him. He caught it against his chest in both hands, turned it toward the light.
    â€œTell Wheelock to take good care of it,” I said. “I’m responsible for it.”
    â€œU.S. coves.” He leaned forward and spat on the ground.
    â€œBang on, Tom. Tell him to send the swag to the Slop Chest. We’re cribbed up there this week.”
    â€œHe’ll send the whole bleeding Bella Union! The frogs’ll fish your black ointment out of the briny.”
    â€œPut out this spunk,” I told Beecher.
    He tilted the Le Mat a few degrees and emptied the shotgun barrel over Tom Tulip’s 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. “I believe I missed my right calling. How much you calculate we got?”
    I stepped forward, picked up the sack, and gave it a couple of shakes. “Dollar and a half and change. If we’re going to make a living at this, we’d better hold off till Tom finishes his rounds.”
    â€œDrop the swag.”
    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 
    â€œI offered to topper ’em both in their dosses the first night,” Hodge said.
    â€œShut your mummer and let me think.”
    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 shark’s.
    Beecher and I were the only ones sitting. Tom Tulip’s pocket arsenal occupied the bed, along with my Deane-Adams, Beecher’s Le Mat, and the sack