Chapter One

Cal

Cal pushed back the blanket and sat up. Light seeped through the curtains like dirty water. Minnie’s insubstantial form hung beside his bed: a shred of fog condensed into human form.

“I’m leaving,” she said. Her voice was clear and strong, despite her lack of physical presence. “There isn’t anything here for me. I’m going to Delta Mouth.”

“You’re in Delta Mouth,” Cal said reflexively. The words came hoarsely. He cleared his throat with a wet cough and got up.

“You can’t stop me,” she continued. Cal stepped through her. She floated after him as he spat in the washbasin and ran a hand through his hair. “There’s no future for me here. There’s no future for us.” The words still made him cringe as he dressed, grabbing the first things that came to hand.

“I don’t care what you do, but I’m leaving,” Minnie said.

But it was she who stayed, and Cal who left, stepping over the lintel and out of her reach. He felt his way down the dark stairwell. The main floor of the club was quiet in the morning, and the empty space made him shiver. The sour smell of sweat and alcohol was a lingering reminder of the building’s nightlife, as familiar as the memory of Minnie at his side.

But Minnie was confined upstairs. She could not follow him everywhere, not anymore. Cal crossed the echoing hall and slipped behind the bar to push open the double doors to the kitchen. Light and heat and the clean live smell of yeast washed over him. Cal stood for a moment, trying to catch a tendril of sun-soaked memory that uncurled at the scent. It had to be a childhood memory, for there had been little sunshine in his life since he came to Delta Mouth.

Helen looked up from the wide wooden counter. “Just barely noon,” she said as he pulled up a stool. “An early morning for you.”

“I had a bad night.” He leaned his elbows on the counter, noticed how dirty his shirtsleeves were, and pulled his hands into his lap instead.

She slid a plate of yesterday’s pastries towards him with one flour-whitened hand. “I’ve never known you to have a good night.”

Cal picked up a raisin bun. “How are the girls?” he asked. “Marietta?”

Helen watched him sidelong, but said nothing for a long moment. Her strong hands pinched and turned the bread dough into soft, springy rounds which she set into proofing baskets. “She went to the apothecary in Old Tarn,” Helen said finally. She set the last boule into its basket and turned her brown eyes full on him, giving him a serious look that reminded him of his mother. “As should you, if you’re not sleeping.”

Cal pulled a piece off the bun. Helen wouldn’t let him turn the conversation that easily. “I did sleep some,” he said. “And I’ve been to the apothecary.”

Helen snorted, a small sound that carried equal measures of disapproval, empathy and frustration. She turned away and rinsed the flour from her hands. “Marietta is as stubborn as anyone else who came down from the Plain,” she said over the brusque slosh of the wash water. “But smart enough to ask for a little help when it’s needed.” She pulled a dishcloth from its hook and fixed him with another maternal stare. “It’s no sin to appeal to the saints.”

Cal looked down at the remnants of the raisin bun, which he had pulled apart into soft shreds. “The saints have already done what they can for me.” He brushed the crumb pile into his hand and tossed it into the open door of the oven.

The sharp smell of burnt toast spread through the kitchen. Helen’s nostrils flared and she wadded the dishcloth in her hands. Her lips twitched but she said nothing.

“I’m going for a walk,” Cal said, but she was still giving him that look.

“There’s a fog,” she said. “Don’t take a chill.”

“There’s always a fog,” Cal replied, but now she waved the towel at him, sending him out the door.

Cal padded down the darkened entry hall where Helen’s brother was dozing on one of the cushioned benches. He raised his head as Cal walked by. “Going out?”

“Yes.”

The bench creaked beneath the big man as he unfolded his muscular arms and swung to his feet. Cal stood to the side while Harlan unbolted the double doors and swung them open. Wet light oozed over the doorstep, gray on Harlan’s dark skin and on the faded carpet stretching away into the shadows of the long hallway.

On the steps, Cal looked up. Delta Mouth’s stubborn fog resisted the pale sun. It gave the sky a dirty woolen look, gathered into water droplets on the sign hanging above the entrance, and dripped slowly down to coat the stairs with a light sheen of algae. The red letters that spelled out “MINNIE’S” were water-darkened and dull. There was an ad from a company that made electric signs on his desk, somewhere in the accumulation of paperwork required to keep the nightclub running.

The mournful sound of a train whistle came through the fog to shake Cal’s thoughts and make him wince, for it reminded him again of Minnie and her reproaches. He shivered—the damp was already seeping into his shirt—and stepped down from the stoop to the midday quiet of the sleeping Torgove District.

 

Chapter Two

Emmy Jane

“You can work for the Pelagoans. They’re always hiring workers for something or another. But I wouldn’t recommend it. They’re strange—don’t listen, won’t even call the river by her right name.” The deckhand paused to pull a thick rope across the deck and Emmy Jane skipped out of his path.

“What do they call it?” she asked.

“Can’t remember. Named it for one of their own people, pretending he was here first.” He moved toward the bow, pushing bumpers out to hang beside the riverboat, and she followed after him. “Now all those Plainsmen, down from Angiers, they know. Can’t say it properly—always trying to make it Tharine when it should be the Tarn—but they know her name.”

Emmy Jane looked over the rail at the greasy gray water that still separated them from the shore. “It hardly seems like the same river as at home. Maybe it should have a different name.”

“She picks up things, going downstream,” the deckhand said. “Same as people do. Be careful, Miss Neely. You go over to the Darl Market when we get in and you’ll find a load of friendly faces to help you find a place in the city. Stick to there, and to Old Tarn, of course. But you know that, don’t you?” He peered at her and Emmy Jane nodded as if she did know. He gestured to the east, where she couldn’t tell if it was the true shore or another island. “Stay away from the railroad station. Can’t remember what they want to call the place now, the Pelagoans, but that’s where they’re fighting most. With knives and guns, too, if they can keep them working in the wet, I hear.”

“The Pelagoans?” Emmy Jane asked.

He shrugged. “The Pelagoans and the Plainsmen. But that’s their business, and it doesn’t come down into Old Tarn, so you’ll be well away from it.”

“Oh.” She nodded again and pressed herself against the wall so he could pass her on the narrow outer walkway of the riverboat. Across the rails she could see the city of Delta Mouth, colorless buildings piled up on the islands of the Tarn’s mouth like a child’s discarded blocks. As they steamed closer she began to make out details: high narrow windows, carved stone decorations blackened by moving water, tree limbs heavy with moss. The riverboat slid into the dock between two other passenger boats and the deckhand looped a line over a cleat with practiced ease. Everyone began to crowd at the rails, eager to disembark, and Emmy Jane joined them. The deckhand was too busy now to give her any other hints about the city.

When the boat was settled and the gangplank let down, she picked up her little bag and stepped down onto the waiting dock. Three days journey down the river was over and now she was well and truly in the city. She looked back at the riverboat, small between its larger neighbors now, but the only half-familiar shape on the waterfront. The deckhand looked up from where he was coiling the loose end of a mooring line and caught her eye.

“Old Tarn’s that way,” he said, pointing with his chin, and so she went in that direction, joining the trickle of passengers moving away from the docks. She went four blocks inland, then turned to the left and walked through crowds of strangers until she saw a newsstand full of shining magazines and thick sheaves of newspapers in several languages.

“Excuse me,” she said to the sleepy looking man behind the counter. “Can you tell me which way to the Wave Theater?”

 

Chapter Three

Dapper Jack

On stage, a quintet of girls with cascading feathers overlaying their bosoms and thighs were dancing. Or maybe they were walking, it was hard to tell. For these girls, as far as Dapper Jack could see, dancing consisted of small steps that shifted their hips back and forth. The movement, accentuated by the floating plumes attached to the curves of their bodies, was not unpleasant. What would be better, of course, would be to seize one of them in his arms, and toss her back and forth in the Angiers style to see if the feathers came off. But there were other places for that sort of thing.

He picked up his glass of weak beer and took a quick glance around the room. Male faces grouped around round tables, lit by flickering candles in red-painted glass holders. In the corners, gas lamps added a warm glow. Minnie’s was well worn, but not shabby enough to try to hide it in complete darkness.

That was Cal’s doing. Jack could see him standing watchfully at the end of the bar. He nodded slightly at Dapper Jack’s gaze and Jack returned the gesture. Enough to acknowledge each other, but not so much as to call the manager over when he wasn’t needed. All the men sitting at Jack’s table had full glasses. As with most establishments in Jimmy Primrose’s domain, the wait staff were attentive—and never more so than when the man himself was in the house.

Jimmy, of course, paid no attention to Cal or the waiters who had stopped by the table to ensure that all orders were fulfilled on this monthly visit to the small Torgove nightclub. His gaze was fixed on the chorus. The lieutenants around him glanced away from the stage periodically to gauge their leader’s mood. They didn’t look at Jack; he was the only Plainsman at the table. From the farther corners of the room, though, he caught the sullen looks his countrymen darted towards Jimmy Primrose and his entourage.

On stage, the girls had joined in a circle, linking arms and presenting their tail feathers to the audience as they minced around in a slow circle. When they broke apart, there was a sixth girl in the center. Dapper Jack let her voice blend with the brassy sound of the band and considered her figure instead.

This pleasant occupation, though, was disrupted when he spotted a man approaching the table. Dapper Jack set down his glass. He might have unsheathed his knife and set it on the table, but Jimmy wouldn’t want a scene while he was watching the girls. Jack pulled out his cigarette case instead. He popped the slim silver case open as the man pulled up a chair. The Pelagoans at the table glanced over, judged the newcomer as obviously low class mélange, not nearly as shapely as the chorus, and returned their attention to the show.

“Smoke?” Jack asked, letting his voice slide low under the trumpets and saxophone to the man’s ear.

But the other man shook his head. “Mister Primrose,” he said in a hoarse whisper to the man who had been sitting next to Jack until the newcomer inserted himself in between. “I got news for you.”

Jimmy Primrose did not answer until the young would-be diva had finished her song. Only when the man had begun to fidget nervously under the combination of Dapper Jack’s attention and Jimmy Primrose’s lack of it did Jimmy turn to him. He gave the man a brief glance and then turned his gaze to a speck of dirt—so small as to possibly be imaginary—on the sleeve of his suit jacket. He brushed it off. “Yes?” Another brief glance at the man, who was now withering in his seat. “What is it, Maxward?”

There was a brief contortion of Maxward’s scarred and stubbled throat, then he leaned forward. “I just heard this on my way home,” he said, “and I thought, now there’s something Mister Primrose is gonna want to know.”

Dapper Jack flicked open his lighter. The brief flare of light showed a sheen of sweat on Maxward’s forehead. It must be information of some value, or he wouldn’t have dared to disturb Jimmy Primrose during a show, but he was obviously reconsidering now whether he wanted to be the bearer of what must be unpleasant news.

“What I heard was,” Maxward hesitated again. “They was saying that the White River Laundry is gonna go over to Atchison.”

Jimmy Primrose frowned.

Maxward shrank. “I don’t know if it’s true,” he dithered. “I just figured you should know.”
“White River Laundry, you say?” Yes, Jimmy was interested now. He looked across the table at Reinhold, who had charge of the Torgove and the lower Ornette and the White River Laundry by extension. “Do you know anything about this?”

Reinhold’s eyes flicked to Jack. Jack gave a slight shake of his head; he had not passed on news of the missing payment to Jimmy.

Reinhold licked his lips. “This is the first I’ve heard. But they were late recently,” he admitted.

“Were they?” Jimmy pursed his lips. The movement pushed his mustache up into his nose.

“How much?”

“Two days late,” Reinhold said.

“I sent Howser over and he sorted it out,” Jack said, acknowledging his own awareness of the situation.

“That rust-rumped son of a bilge-rat,” Jimmy said. He pointed a finger at Maxward. The candlelight gleamed dully off of his wedding ring. “Who did you heard this from?”

“I don’t know their names,” Maxward said. “I was walking down the street, and I went by a tram station, and there were two of Atchison’s railmen standing around waiting for the car. They was talking kinda loud so I dropped my hat and listened in a little. One of ‘em was saying that his old lady would be real happy when she could take her stuff to White River Laundry and not worry no more.”

Jimmy Primrose was still twitching his mustache up and down and side to side, considering. Finally he let it return to a position of level rest. A decision had been made. Dapper Jack cast a glance at the stage to see what he would be missing. The feather girls had formed a line and were kicking their legs up into the air. The sheer perfection of those limbs and the perversity of fate ensured Jimmy’s decision would send Dapper Jack out into the night.

“Go find Howser,” said Jimmy. “If it’s what he says, fix them.”

Dapper Jack nodded. “Maxward,” he said and watched the man wince. “Show me which tram stop.”

“Of course, yes, I’d be happy to.” Happy wasn’t quite the word, but it was an adequate show of cooperation. Jack stood up and let Maxward follow him out of the hall. As they approached the door, he caught Cal’s eye. “Hey,” he said. “Maxward here had to tell Mister Primrose something that made him a little sad.”
Cal glanced briefly over Jack’s shoulder to the quivering informer. “My condolences,” he said.
“Perhaps you can have the girls sing something upbeat for the next number,” Jack said.

“Like that one about the ticklish sea breezes he finds so amusing.”

“Certainly.” The manager nodded.

Jack touched the brim of his hat and continued into the hallway where a few slouching figures stood up straighter at his approach. Minnie’s big bouncer let them out without a word. On the street, Jack let Maxward take the lead. He bounded forward, glancing back now and then like a dog eager to see that his master still follows the same path.
They cut north across the Torgove district, bridged the canal that separated it from the island that made up the Ornette district, and then continued inland along the boulevard, also called Ornette, that linked the docks to the railroad station Atchison had built.

It was a boon and a curse for the businesses along the boulevard, which had seen traffic increase as the railroad brought in the Pelagoans who chose to make the overland journey across the Plain, as well as the southern Plainsmen who trickled into the city looking for work. With them came Atchison’s men, expecting a portion of the profits their master’s railway investment had created. But Jimmy, of course, had no interest in redrawing the lines he had spent a decade fighting to establish.

“Here,” said Maxward, panting a little. “Right here. I dropped my hat.” He demonstrated. “They were standing right there.”

It was late now, and the evening crowd of workers leaving their dull jobs for their equally dull homes had passed already. The platform was empty save for a ragged old man who had been bedding down on the single bench and now eyed the two men warily. Dapper Jack turned away. “You can go,” he said to Maxward.

The man’s mouth hung open for a long second. Jack did not bother to hide the sneer curling his upper lip as he took out his cigarette case again and handed Maxward a long slim cigarette wrapped in silver paper. “Go smoke that,” he said, “and forget you heard or said anything.”

Maxward scuttled away. Jack stood for a moment on the platform, looking at the torn remnant of the schedule that had been pasted on the wall. Then he left in a different direction from the one Maxward had taken.

 

 

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