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Spadros quadrant was divided into 8 precincts,

each with double the manpower of the number below it. Which seemed

odd, considering the closer you came to the Pot, the more crime was

generated.

Over the past twenty years,

Paix had rolled his way down to Precinct 1, the largest precinct in

the quadrant. A place for senior Trainees rotating through for a

month before graduation, Probationary Constables who didn't score

well on their Entries, drug-addled or alcoholic cops on their way

to death in the Pot, and men like him, who just didn't fit.

Precinct 1 police station was

at 24th and Snow, just off Spadros quadrant's Main Road. Paix and

Briscola went to a nearby street vendor for luncheon.

Paix ate his rice bowl with

relish. He hadn't been on a search in a while, and his meager

breakfast was many hours in the past.

"I thought I'd find you here,

Hanger."

Paix set down his thick paper

bowl, lay his chopsticks across it, and turned to the voice. "C.K!"

The two men shook hands. "Want to join us?"

Detective Senior Constable

Cartas Kanhu was a big, balding, somewhat too hard-drinking man in

a three-piece brown tweed suit. "Sure, I'll sit." He plopped a

paper plate containing a burger and fries on the round gray table

then held out his hand to Briscola. "You must be the new

partner."

After a grimace, Briscola took

the man's hand. "Not that new."

C.K. laughed his big belly

laugh. "Just teasing. I know who you are." He patted Paix on the

shoulder and spoke to Briscola. "This is the best cop on the force,

and don't you forget it."

Paix smiled, but when someone

said that, the question always flashed through his mind:

so why

am I a Constable?

C.K. grinned at him. "You think

your job is bad. I got six cases going at once, and I can't go home

until I got leads for all of them." He took a bite of his burger,

relaxing into the gray wrought-iron chair as he chewed. "Damn, this

actually tastes good. I must be hungry."

Briscola snickered.

Paix knew why he was a

Constable. Why he wasn't a detective anymore ‒ why he would never

be a detective again. It meant dealing with the many, many deaths

in this city.

It meant dealing with the

Families.

The thought of letting those ‒

people

was too kind a word ‒ own him made his stomach

turn.

"Are you going to finish that?"

Briscola seemed to be a bottomless pit when it came to food.

Paix pushed the bowl over.

Grease was beginning to seep through. "Be my guest."

When Briscola went up to get

another serving, C.K. said, "Sorry about that."

Paix shrugged. "It's of no

consequence."

"You've had it rough. I mean,

you were here when I rotated through as a Trainee."

"And now you're Detective

Senior Constable."

"Yeah. And you should be Senior

Lead Constable by now, or even have Green's job."

Wolff Green was Commander: the

man who ran the station. "Maybe I should." He prepared himself for

the inevitable line.

"I won't say it, Hanger. I want

to, but I won't."

You gotta learn to play

the game.

Inside Precinct Station 1 was semi-controlled

chaos, day or night: carts of files trundling past, suspects and

witnesses being brought in or led out, clerks bringing this or that

somewhere. Paix liked it.

His desk was on the ground

floor, where Constables and Probationary Constables sat typing like

a sea of secretaries. At the moment, more than three-quarters of

the desks were empty: most were out on their beats. When receiving

a "major case" such as this one, a half-hour was allowed to prepare

reports before returning to duty.

The Lead Constables had a ring

of desks on the second floor just inside a black metal banister.

Each desk faced the back center stair, which was decorated with

threadbare red and green ribbon as a nod to the holiday. The Senior

Lead Constable, the heads of the support departments, and the

Commander had their own offices on the third floor, with glass

windows overlooking from on high. The Commander's office was the

largest, with picture windows spreading over the entire inside

front of the narrow building.

Commander Green, a stern,

ancient man, stood surveying the room.

After his last round of

trouble, Paix had been assigned a desk precisely in the middle of

the room. Paix always imagined it was placed so the Commander could

keep an eye on him.

A pale yellow folder sat beside

his typewriter, containing a single sheet with the messenger's

missing person report and the case number, which was printed on the

folder's tab. Paix unbuttoned his jacket, hung it on his chair, sat

down, opened his notebook, and retrieved three report forms from

his file drawer. Paix didn't like to dilly-dally about with

paperwork. He preferred to have some chance at getting home on

time.

Briscola trailed behind,

setting his rice bowl on the desk to the left. "I hate

paperwork."

Paix ignored him: filing a

report was part of the job. Placing carbon paper between the

sheets, he produced three copies: one for his Lead Constable, one

for his Senior Lead Constable, and one for the file. Paix saved the

best one for the file.

Paix sat for a moment

considering, then opened his file drawer. Recommendation for a

second search tomorrow, assuming the boy didn't turn up today ‒

that one he clipped to the report going to his Lead Constable.

Request a "Keep A Sharp Look-Out For" (KASLOF) notice with a

photograph and description of the child, to go to all taxi-carriage

drivers, train stations, the zeppelin station, the hospitals, and

the morgues. A request for the Clubbs to detain any children

between the ages of five and fifteen attempting to leave the city

(male or female ‒ it was too easy to disguise a child) until their

identities and those with them were verified.

It wasn't that Paix doubted the

word of a Memory Boy, but he wanted it documented that he'd made

the request. Fortunately, these were all check-the-box forms and

could be done in his own handwriting.

The photographer walked up with

a large envelope. "Your photos, sir."

Paix looked up at the man,

surprised. "That was fast."

"If it were my child," the

photographer said, "I'd want these done right away."

"Make a copy for the missing

board, if you will."

"Already done."

It wasn't often you got such

quick action. "Thank you." At a whim, he stuck out his hand. "Paix

Hanger."

"Martin Roberts," the

photographer said. "Pleasure to help."

Paix turned the envelope over

to open it. Unfortunately, a good man like Roberts would soon be

snapped up by a finer precinct. It was the nature of things in

Bridges.

Inside the envelope lay copies

of the boy's portrait, already labeled with the case number, with

photos of the crime scene and evidence: an imposing stack. The

drawing of the red mark on the wall was included as well. Paix slid

the envelope into the folder, attaching one copy of the portrait

photo to his report for the file with a paperclip.

The boy's eyes burrowed into

his soul.

Five hours had passed since

David Bryce disappeared. Paix turned to Briscola. "You done with

your report yet?"

Briscola had his feet up on his

desk, eating. He put his feet on the floor. "What?"

"I want your report on my desk

tomorrow morning. No excuses." Paix got up, put on his jacket,

buttoned it. "Come on, we gotta go."

Paix dropped his reports in the

respective message boxes. A glance over at the Missing Board: David

Bryce's photo was pinned there with the rest.

Glimpsing the board always left

him melancholy: so many children.

Paix signed out a carriage from the pool and

told the driver to make for the bar over on 33 1/3 Street and Scoop

Avenue.

The Backdoor Saloon, like

everything else in the quadrant, was owned by the Spadros

Family.

Leaving the carriage parked on

Scoop, Paix and Briscola went inside. A smoke-filled, black-paneled

room lay before them, silver glinting here and there at the bar

along the back wall. A door past that led to dealings Paix was sure

he didn't want to know about. Round black tables edged in silver

held only a few people: it was Yuletide, after all.

Mr. Eight Howell, one of the

Spadros men assigned to the street, sat smoking cigars with a three

others. Howell was a short man with a big bushy beard. He glanced

up, surprised. "Constable Paix Hanger. It's been a while. To what

do I owe the honor?"

"You got a minute?"

He laughed, resting his cigar

in an ashtray. "Sure." He went to another table and pulled out a

chair. "You boys want anything?"

"No, thank you," Paix said. Not

only were they on duty, he couldn't risk being impaired. A place

like this could become as dangerous as the Pot on a moment's

notice. Paix and Briscola sat across the table from Howell.

"So what can I do for you,

Constable?"

Paix said, "A boy's gone

missing. You hear anything?"

Howell seemed genuinely

surprised. "From around here?"

"2nd Street. But I thought you

might've heard something. A new trafficker in town? A smuggling

sweep looking for kids?"

Howell frowned. "No. We don't

tolerate shit like that in Spadros anymore. The Old Man put a stop

to it."

By "The Old Man" Howell meant

Roy Spadros, the quadrant's so-called Patriarch. Paix had never

seen the man, only his portrait, but he looked ‒ and sounded ‒ like

a truly scary fellow.

"Now I got no idea what goes on

in the Pot," Howell said.

"Our next stop, unfortunately,"

Paix said.

Howell pushed his chair away

from the table and stood. "I'll ask around."

Paix pushed his hand into a

small second pocket he'd sewn inside his right jacket pocket,

palming the five dollar bill he kept there for truly urgent

matters. Then he shook Howell's hand, transferring the bill to

him.

Howell glanced at his palm,

keeping it faced towards him, and smiled. "Pleasure doing business

with you."

Paix stood, tipped his hat, and

left. Five dollars was half his month's salary, but if this got

Howell to take a serious interest in hope of another, it was worth

it.

Now he had to figure out where

to get a five to replace it.

When they were back in the

carriage, Briscola said, "I thought they wouldn't talk to

cops."

"They usually won't." It'd

taken a long time to get Howell to trust him.

"So why's he helping you?"

Paix leaned back. "I already

heard Spadros was cracking down on kid trafficking. So him helping

me is of mutual benefit."

"I don't understand."

"I just told him there's a

child snatcher in the quadrant. That's valuable information, might

even help him gain points with the guy he reports to." He shrugged.

"Sounds as if they're finally serious about clearing out the

vermin."

"Plus you paid him."

So he had seen it. "Plus I paid

him."

Briscola blinked. "Won't his

buddies be angry that he's even talking to you? I thought there was

some rule or law about talking to cops."

Paix grinned. "Naw. I know all

of them."

"How's that?"

Paix jerked a thumb backwards.

"I grew up over there."

As far as he knew, his parents

still lived at their little house on 30th, three rooms for them and

their seven children, now grown. But Paix hadn't seen any of them

in twenty years, ever since his father disowned him.

When Paix joined the police

force, his father beat him, told him he was a disgrace and a

traitor. His older brothers and sisters didn't lift a finger to

help.

Everyone said Paix was a

strange child. Instead of idolizing the swaggering Associates and

their Acey-Deucey beat-down boys like the other children did, Paix

admired the police. He liked the crisp blue uniforms with their

brass buttons, the sense of rightness about devoting your life to

help others.

The reality was very

different.

The Bridges police force was

full of weak men. Everyone eventually ended up on the take. Party

Time, booze, cash, girls ‒ each form of payola depended on the

man's weakness.

Paix was determined never to

let himself get that way. He refused to be bribed or look the other

way ‒ even when he'd been beaten within an inch of his life. He'd

never back down on a case just because it involved some mobster.

They were men, like him, and they needed to follow the law, like

anyone else.

Too bad his superiors didn't

feel the same way.

So here he was, in a job a man

with a tenth his experience could handle, with the worst beat in

the worst precinct in the city.

But growing up in Precinct 1

did have its occasional advantages.

"I grew up off of 98th,"

Briscola said.

"Yeah," Paix said, amused. "I

can tell."

The carriage entered the Rathole, a gap in the

east side Hedge wide enough for a carriage to pass through the

wrought-iron fence. First melted by ray cannon during the early

hours of the Coup, then sawed larger by enterprising folk looking

to increase trade in the early years thereafter, the Rathole was

the most popular way into the Spadros quadrant's section of the

Pot.

The shadows were beginning to

lengthen by the time they got to the Cathedral. The whores living

in that magnificent ruin seemed to know everything that went on in

the Pot.

Paix ordered Briscola to stay

with the driver at the carriage, and keep his nightstick ready. He

didn't intend to stay long.

Two massive, heavily tattooed

men stood guard at the bottom of cracked steps leading up to a wide

entryway missing its doors. The most massive one glared at him.

"Not open til dark, copper."

"I'm looking for a missing

boy."

"What's he lookin' like?"

Paix wished he'd brought the

photo with him. "Dark hair and eyes, round face, light skinned.

Looks about ten. An outsider, from Dickens."

The man shook his head. "Not

seen him. Not heard a him neither. Outsider boy'd be talked of

minute he opened his trap."

Paix had always only spoken to

the girls outside. But this was a serious matter. "Can I ask

inside?"

He folded his arms. "Not open

til dark."

The last thing Paix wanted was

to be anywhere near here come nightfall. "I'll be back."

"You want them to talk, bring

something to eat."

Paix already knew that.

When he returned to the

carriage, Briscola said, "Well?"

"We got here too late."

Sometimes if you came early enough, the girls would be out front,

and would talk to you for a penny, or a smoke. "Let's get back to

the station."

By the time they got back,

night was falling. Paix left Briscola to finish his report, telling

him he'd be back in an hour, then he caught a wagon home.

Paix lived in a tiny one-room

on Market Center. Servants' quarters, really, but once he crossed

the bridge from Spadros quadrant over to the island, he felt a

weight off his back. He felt safe and free. Which made the cramped

accommodations well worth it.

His mother's cousin by marriage

had turned in his cards and left the place to her. The day Paix

told his mother he planned to sign up as a constable, she got very

pale, then brought him the deed to the room. "The man who owns the

building is your cousin Bluff's father. You own the room in it.

You'll pay part upkeep, if the roof fails or the pipes leak. Other

than that, it's yours, free and clear, to do with as you like." She

hesitated, then said, "Don't tell your father I gave it to

you."

At the time, Paix didn't

understand.

She knew what Papa

would do, even then.

The room was up four flights of

narrow, poorly-lit stairs then down to the very end of the hall.

The place was quiet even in the busiest times ‒ most servants were

too exhausted by the end of their day to do much carousing. But

tonight, most were gone to stay with family for the holidays.

Paix knocked, then used his

key. Reina sat at the table, turning to him with a smile like the

sunrise, her long, straight black hair flowing around her smooth

brown body like water.

She took his breath away, every

time he came home to her.

Paix closed the door as she

came to kiss him. He gave her a long hug, savoring the feel of her,

then kissed her cheek. "I can stay for dinner."

She drew back. "Is it bad?"

Paix loved that he didn't have

to tell her it was a case, or explain why he had to leave. She knew

all too well how it worked. And she trusted he wouldn't leave

unless he absolutely had to. "A boy missing since this

morning."

Reina put her hands to her

mouth. "Oh, gods." She turned away, her manner brisk. "Don't worry.

Dinner's almost ready. It won't take long."

Paix went to where his clothes

hung and changed out of his uniform into comfortable house

clothing, hanging the uniform to air out. Even though he wouldn't

be home long, he couldn't stand to wear his uniform here. This was

their place, where he left the job and all that came with it

outside.

He slumped into their other

chair as she chopped carrots. "How do you feel?"

She glanced over her shoulder

at him. "Still a lot of cramping, and some blood, but not nearly so

bad as it was."

He felt relieved. "I'm

glad."

She put the knife down, turned

to face him. "Jake came over."

"What did he want this

time?"

"I think someone told him I

went to the apothecary. Or he followed me there."

Paix stood. "This has got to

stop." He went to her, put his arms around her. "I'm sorry. He

shouldn't have come here, especially now. I thought I made that

clear last time. I'll talk to him again."

"I don't want any more trouble

‒"

Paix pulled away, put his hands

on her upper arms. "No. He needs to know he can't just come here

like this. I won't have it. It's not fair to you, and ... it's not

good for him."

She slumped a little. "Gods,

Paix, I wish it hadn't happened like it did."

He pulled her to his chest, a

deep sadness right where her head lay, and caressed her hair. "I

wish that too."

They ate in silence. Paix

wished he could take Reina and leave Bridges, go somewhere that

wasn't run by criminals. Get married. Have children and a

future.

Yet he just gave half his pay

to a mobster. He put his fork down, his head in his hands.

"Paix? What's wrong?"

"We're never getting out of

here, are we?"

She stretched her hand across

to take his, her eyes moist. "All will be well, beloved. Things

have to get better." She chuckled then. "It couldn't get much

worse."

He looked around the tiny room,

the remains of their sparse dinner, her lips pale from the bleeding

she'd endured. "Come here." Paix held her gently, a great wave of

emotion filling him.

I must not despair.

She'd given up

everything for him. "You're right." He kissed the top of her

head.

As they sat there together,

weariness swept over him. The old siren song returned, as it did

every time:

stay with her, rest, lie down

. He'd already had

a long day, begun with an hours-long search on foot. Did he really

need to go out into the cold darkness and leave her alone?

It was in those moments Paix

understood the weakness the other men faced, the pull towards

comfort. Towards the quick and the easy.

But he'd given Briscola his

word. Paix kissed her forehead quickly then helped her stand. "If I

get back before the Plaza closes, I'll buy meat for Krissmiss

dinner."

When Paix returned to the station, Briscola was

sitting on the edge of his desk laughing with a group of other

cops. "Report's on your desk."

"Good. Let's go."

The Pot was very different at

night. Revelers walked the rubbish-strewn streets, lights blazed in

the buildings.

The quadrants use these people,

Paix thought, then despise them for it.

A large crowd had gathered

around the Cathedral's entry, and the two men he'd seen earlier

were busy. Two other men and a few boys assisted them, bringing

each party in once they'd been checked. A huge shallow wooden box

of weapons, neatly lined up, sat on a table beside the stair. Three

more boxes were stacked on the ground behind them, the top one

full.

Paix didn't approach them at

first. He said to Briscola, "What do you see?"

"Busy night."

Rather too busy for Yuletide,

Paix thought. Did none of these men have families? "What else?"

"Might be hard to get to talk

to someone."

Paix had an instant of regret

for leaving Reina, then he shook himself. He couldn't get

distracted, not here. Men died that way. "Come on."

As they moved forward, a six

year old boy with dark brown skin and curly blond hair glanced at

them and ran inside.

Paix approached the men. "Is

your mistress available?"

The man who'd spoken to him

earlier didn't even glance his way. "Depends on what you want her

for."

Exasperated, Paix said, "I want

to talk to her about the missing boy."

"She don't know nothing about

it."

"Perhaps I should speak to her

myself."

"All's well, Benji." A woman's

voice, commanding. She stood in the entryway regal, a well-formed

brown-skinned woman near his age in a too thin, glistening dress

and robe of pale gold which clung to her body around its high

points. It was clear she wore nothing underneath.

Paix felt his body respond to

the sight of hers, and willed his eyes on her face. Her hair, black

with tight curls. Her cynical brown eyes reminded him of

someone.

"Come in, constables," she

said. "We'll speak."

Paix glanced back at Briscola:

the younger man's cheeks were flushed, his mouth parted. "Steady,"

Paix said. "We have no friends here."

Briscola licked his lips, eyes

darting, face pale, and nodded.

Inside was a lobby, leading to

a second set of doors, this time on their hinges. A wave of heat

struck them as they entered the vast chamber. Tan linen draped the

long, wide passageway to eight feet high, the building curving

above it to a ceiling several stories up.

One only need use the nose to

discern what went on in this establishment. The sounds confirmed

it. Here and there, a woman in the same thin, shimmering, clinging

sleeveless dress ‒ without a robe ‒ drew back the linen to reveal a

narrow cot, neatly made.

Paix handed the paper sack he

held containing leftovers from dinner ‒ potatoes and carrots ‒ to a

blonde young woman, who took the bag and curtsied low. Her dress,

cut to reveal the upper curve of her high breasts, from this angle

let them see all the way down to the golden curls below her taut

belly.

Briscola let out a soft

moan.

Without looking back, Paix

whispered, "Get hold of yourself, man. Remember the boy."

The linen stretched on and on.

Boys were here too, and girls, much too young to be in such a

place. Yet none looked anything like the one they sought.

At last, the linen ended. The

robed woman led them up a set of steps which ran the width of the

building to a large, flat, raised area with a huge circle of

stained glass in the wall above it. She then went to the right, to

a room that while smaller, was still quite large: an office, with a

desk which wouldn't be out of place anywhere.

Paix laughed in spite of

himself.

The woman frowned. "You find

the Cathedral of the Blessed Dealer funny?"

Paix felt abashed when she put

it that way. "Forgive me. I never expected a ‒ a desk here."

Amusement spread across her

face. "This

is

a business." She glanced at Briscola,

speaking as if to a child. "You want a girl to play with?"

Briscola stiffened, face pale.

"No. Thank you."

"Or perhaps you want a

boy."

Paix felt annoyed. "We're here

about a missing child. An outsider. Your men said they described

him to you."

She made a dismissive gesture.

"I know nothing of it."

"Have you heard someone asking

for a boy like this? Someone you had to turn away?"

The woman gave Paix a sharp

look. "You think

that

kind took him?"

"We can't afford to rule

anything out." The image on the wall flashed into his mind

unbidden. "Does a mark of a dog in red stamped onto a wall mean

anything?"

This sent her into a moment of

pondering, and Paix watched her. She knew something. Would she tell

them the truth?

"We in the Pot don't speak with

police," she said. "You know why."

Paix nodded. A century of abuse

and betrayal bred cold enmity.

"But here, child-harmers earn

death. What will you do with this one when you find him?"

"If someone took this child

he'll be sent to the Prison. If he's harmed the child," and

suddenly, Paix felt that it was so, "then he'd surely hang."

The woman nodded, her head held

high. "Then I'll have my men look for signs of him. If he's in the

Pot, I'll know."

This is a queen

. This

desolate place was her queendom.

"Thank you, mum," he said, and

her eyes widened even before he bowed. He'd treated her as not only

equal, but his superior. Paix didn't know why he did it, but it

seemed right.

Then cynicism returned: she

believed him to be mocking her. Had he ruined their chances to find

the boy?

Her face hardened. "You may

leave now."

Even though Paix stopped by the station to file

an updated report, he'd gotten back to Market Center in time to buy

the meat, which lay in its wrapping on the outer windowsill, a

light snow covering it.

"The Cathedral's a remarkable

place," he said as he lay next to Reina. "It's as if the most holy

and the most profane came together and ... touched somehow."

Reina smiled at him in the

darkness. "My poet."

His face flushed in pleasure at

her praise, but he felt troubled. "Children were being sold there.

The sight horrified me."

"Can nothing be done?"

Paix sighed, relaxed into her

arms. "Too many people want it. The Pot rags claim the children act

willingly, but ‒"

He felt her nod.

"If it's that or go hungry,"

she said, "there's little choice."

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