The soles of George’s shoes were completely worn by a few days’ walking. He journeyed through the Bowery all day, looking for any clue that might help him find Holly Quine or Lew Mayflower. The Times office was still empty, as was the Woodrat. George had one place left to look: the home of Big Jim Dickinson.
Two guards were posted in front. Neither of them would allow George passage.
“I work for Big Jim. I need to see him,” George told the guards.
“A limey foreigner like yourself looking for Big Jim? You must mistake us for fools.”
“It is the truth, sir,” George said. “I come with an urgent message. Can you let him know I am present?”
The two guards looked at each other. One of them spoke. “All right. I will let Jim know that…”
“George Krook,” George said.
“… George Krook is here.”
“Thank you.”
The first guard now whispered to the second. “Grab him.”
“What?” George tried to ask. The second guard forced back George’s arms and put a pair of cuffs around his wrist.
“Like I said, I’ll go talk to Big Jim Dickinson,” the first guard sneered. “If he says he never heard of you … well …”
“The cuffs won’t come off,” the second guard said. “Least not as long as you’re alive. Which won’t be for very long, if Big Jim don’t know the name Krook.”
The first guard went inside, while the second guard watched George. If George was caught, he had nowhere to run to.
After a few agonizing minutes, the first guard opened the door and beckoned to the second guard. They exchanged whispers and then turned to George.
“Come on in, son. Big Jim is expecting you.”
They removed George’s cuffs and led him inside, slamming the door behind him. George still sensed trouble. He moved slowly through a long hall, toward the main living room. The door that led to the basement staircase was closed from view.
Inside the living room, Big Jim was reclining on a long leather couch. “Come in and sit down, Mr. Krook,” he said. “Or should I call you Mr. Choogart?”
George froze. He did not sit down.
“My men followed you home last night, George. They had a few conversations with your neighbors. Care to explain?”
George had to think fast. “It’s like I told you,” he said. “I murdered a man in my home country. To escape, I needed to change my name and hide fast. So I called myself Krook.”
“The exploding man from Bleak House, right?” Big Jim held up the book that had been stolen from George’s room earlier in the day. “Here, have it back,” he said.
George took his book back and gripped its pages in his hands.
“I may not look it, Mr. Choogart, but I am a cultured man. I know my Dickens. You would have been wise not to deceive me. I do not like being deceived. In fact, those who try rarely stay alive.”
“I swear, Big Jim, I am who I say I am.”
“If that is so, why do I hear your neighbors were so unwilling to name your occupation? What is it you do, Mr. Choogart?”
“Whatever you want me to do,” George lied.
Big Jim smiled. “Loyalty. Such a lovely human tendency. Sometimes I visit Tweed in prison and ask him for advice. You know what he says about loyalty?”
“What’s that?” George asked.
“Anyone can fake it.”
“Let me prove my worth to you, Big Jim. Please.” George was no longer sure if he was pleading to maintain his cover or pleading for his life.
“Lucky for you that I do have a task,” Big Jim said. “It is interesting that you came here when you did. Do you know Holly Quine?”
“No,” George said, trying to sound like he was telling the truth.
“She writes for the New York Times. Have Tweed tell you about her sometime.”
“What do you want with her?”
“This morning, the Times printed a story accusing me of running underground fights.”
“But you do,” George said.
“Yes. And by themselves, the reported rumors of a woman scribbler are not enough to mean anything. But this woman has been following me for weeks. She knows about … other operations.”
George knew what was coming next.
“I want you to find Ms. Quine, kill her, and throw her corpse in the East River.” Big Jim said this flatly, as if he were ordering breakfast.
George suppressed his fear. “How do I find her?”
“I suggest you use violence and intimidation, Mr. Choogart. They’ve always worked for me. The office of the New York Times might be a start.”
“Fine,” George said. “Am I still scheduled for tomorrow’s fight?”
“You are, Mr. Choogart, but this is your first priority. I would not worry about preparing for tomorrow’s fight.”
“With Al Stevens?” George said. “How can I not be prepared?”
“Leave it alone, Mr. Choogart. As I said, I am confident you will win.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is what I say I mean,” Big Jim said. “Now, please, deal with Ms. Quine. I will be waiting here for confirmation of her death.”
George left Big Jim’s house knowing he had to do what the big man said. He had to go back to the New York Times Building.
When he returned to his place of work, George found Van Thomas at his usual desk.
“Van, I need to see Holly Quine now.”
Van looked up from his work. “Not happening. Holly is in danger. I’ve placed her in a safe house that only I know about.”
“I know Ms. Quine is in danger,” George said, “and I think I know what Big Jim is hiding.”
“What is that?”
“Tomorrow, I’m supposed to fight a man who has no compunctions about beating me to death. But Big Jim seems confident that I will win.”
“You went to talk to Big Jim?” Van asked.
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to find and kill Holly Quine.”
Silence hung in the air.
“And you want to find her, eh?” Van said. “Listen, George. You already know that a good journalist protects his sources. And a good editor protects his journalists.”
“Van, please. Give me her location, or I will have to find it some other way.”
“With my fists, if necessary.”
Van Thomas sat back in his chair. “I will do anything to protect the location of Holly Quine. You sure you want to start something?”
George had no choice. So be it, he thought.