2
2
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."