The drop
It was not unknown for the Morning Star to perform twice, maybe three times a week, depending on how close each location was. Putting on a show that encompassed the day before and lasted until the following dawn could be a logistical nightmare, but with the dedication of the staff, the entertainment ran without trouble.
Mostly.
It’s why Misu had to fight the urge to micromanage every event, even when she had allocated others to do the job for her. Previously, on more than one occasion, those behind the bar had been sent into disarray by conflicting requests from both her and Corinne. It was not a matter of trust, but more one of control. Of course Misu trusted those beneath her to do their jobs; she just felt the urge to witness it personally.
The staff worked around this, more than aware that the fluid nature of their roles required on-the-spot thinking. At least most of them did.
The most recent addition to their menagerie was just finding this out.
Her grumblings were listened to, but not acted upon, as her upbringing had made her boisterous and her attitude grating. Many a time she vented to anyone who would listen about how she would run the show and how improvements could be made. She was trouble from the outset.
Misu endured this, as no matter how irritating the little platinum blonde thing became, her talent was desirable. Maybe it wasn’t desirable to anyone else in the region, as respected skills normally equated to fence building and cattle herding, but for the Morning Star, it was ideal. The little farm girl picked up in the middle of nowhere had become the show’s secret weapon and not without cause. Now recovered from the illness that had plagued her, she was scheduled to be the next act of the night.
Misu looked at her watch, noting how much time, or specifically how little, remained. Tonight would be close, too close in all honestly, but that was a moot point now. The Hare took to the carriage rooftops and confidently strolled along, capturing everyone’s attention. Her appearance brought two spotlights mounted on the platform itself to illuminate her stroll across with the beam. Those who were dancing tonight had run inside two of the carriages for a costume change. Their music had been blaring from conical horns that straddled carriage roofs, music that chattered from a phonograph. Those who gambled at the tables slowed. Those who drank lowered their glasses in unison.
Brilliant blue coat-tails flicked behind with every step, shimmering gold accents all picking up the light and emitting it back. Misu counted under her breath, reaching her mark.
As the music reduced and the lights faded to a single beaming spotlight, silence enveloped the crowd. Misu played the quiet, just enough to captivate those before her. The Hare drank in the gazes upon her.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please – a moment of your time!’ Misu sharply clapped, strutting across the carriage roof with top hat in hand, demanding everyone’s attention. She needn’t have done so. The sea of faces had already turned from their drinks, their games, and gave it.
‘We have something quite special for you tonight. Each one of those in my employ has talents. They’re talents that I respect and ones that I nurture. Most importantly of all, these are talents that we share. In the last month, I found quite the remarkable desert rose, whose voice carries most beautifully in song. Alas, I’m sad to say she has an affliction of shyness.’
The audience roared in amused objection.
‘I know, and I assure you that her voice is beyond measure. Why, it makes my own sound like a pack of dogs howling. While I am her employer, and have asked her to perform for you here, our little Songbird falls flat on my words. A crime, my friends, a crime in every sense of the word.’
‘Mutiny in the ranks?’ A voice drifted up among the collective, encouraging a ripple of belly laughter. Misu strolled along the carriage rooftop, pointing the man out with a gesture of her cane.
‘Mutiny is punished on land, on a boat or indeed on a train, friend, but I cannot force her to perform for you, though to perform is my deepest wish. My fair ladies do not respond to orders, for that is not how we run things on the Morning Star. You do not beg a bird to soar, nor a fish to swim. Rather, you put them in an agreeable environment and watch them revert to their nature.’
Again, she thrived on the silence, gesturing with her fingers in faux thought. Every word was delivered with sincerity, false sincerity maybe, but sincerity all the same.
‘Though a notion have I, and a kind one at that. I think your affection will change her mindset. Encourage her wings, even! Yes, I am sure that that your encouragement may coax her performance. If you would be so kind as to oblige.’
On cue glasses were lifted and calls of approval rose up before dissipating fast.
‘How warming! Do you think that will be enough? I’m doubtful.’
With a rise of her arms, the crowd cheered once more, louder this time.
‘Oh, this is pleasant for certain, though maybe just a touch more may curb her fickle mind.’
The audience roared into the night sky, laughing cheers on the tail end of a crescendo of noise.
‘Unbelievable.’ Misu pressed her hands to her chest, surveying those before her intimately beneath the animal visage. ‘Quite unbelievable. You all warm my heart, my kind, loving people. That most certainly will quell any nerves. Please, do not let the demeanour of our little one fool you. After all, a snake harbours fangs and a wasp conceals its sting. In this instance, our splendid addition sings beautifully. So, without any further pause, I present to you, the Songbird of the Morning Star!’
As the lights set on the Morning Star dimmed, the single snap of a spotlight broke out from an interior window. It was moved forward until the oval luminescence settled upon a lone figure at the opposite end of the carriages. Every head turned. Every pair of eyes was fixed in attention, eyes that now paid no mind to Misu, which was exactly what she intended.
A woman, short and fair, stood in luminescence. In this brilliance, she stood with head slightly bowed, with brilliant blue eyes ever so slightly hidden from the spectators. A frizzy shock of platinum curls framed the porcelain-like face, pale and smooth, broken only with glimmering peach lips.
The mask upon her face was that of a small bird, true to her namesake, with the beak small and pointed and the eye sockets wide. Its edges were feathered in a few layers but gave the illusion of considerable lustre. A multitude of beads hung at different lengths, made from stones few could correctly identify, plunging down the collar of a showgirl’s azure outfit of lace and frills with no permutation. Thin fingers reached to the microphone stand that stood before her and they enveloped it with utmost tenderness.
With a delicate inhalation, Elizabeth began to sing.
I’m lying next to a charlatan,
Yet I’m still thinking of you,
I see your face when he touches me,
Can’t do the things that you do.
Her voice, soft and woefully lingering achingly dripped every word. The faces were stunned, carried away on every soft syllable. Her back arched slightly and her hand stroked the microphone from waist height to the chrome protrusion. It was caressed as if it were a friend, a lover even, with every lyric a moaned whisper.
And if you feel the same as me, baby,
Say you’re sorry, it’ll do,
Just tell me all this doesn’t ma-tter, and I’ll,
Run on home to you!
Her hands rose in triumph and her hips swayed with the thump of the beat.
Let’s just forget these foolish actions,
Feel pity in the arms of these poor fools,
Let’s stop the fighting, it’s got us nowhere,
I crave for you to love me!
Drums burst into a rhythm as the instrumental music beneath, a waltz of violins, rose to be heard. With a swing of her hips in time, the Songbird did what she was born to do.
Oh honey, sugar, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me,
Tell me whatcha wanna do,
I’m tired of the games that we play, dear, they’re o-ver,
Oh baby, baby, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me,
Tell me what we’re gonna do,
I’ll shun the day for just one more night with you!
Elizabeth gave an electric performance, exuding pure charisma to the audience. She bathed in their attention, taking requests as she saw fit. Almost all were charmed, most singing along to some regional songs that she gave a rendition of. She was bathed in the spotlight with arms outstretched, relishing every scrap of applause. This was what fuelled her. This was her calling.
But something bothered Elizabeth. A deep-seated vein of distrust ran through her, directed primarily at their manager. The sheen of entertainment, the dazzling lights and distractions, were nothing but an attempt to relieve people of their money. This wasn’t the subject of her frustration, but the sheer callousness of the process. Misu bathed in tips thrust towards her and sweet talked gamblers into increasing their stakes.
Elizabeth was brought on under the impression that the Morning Star was a legitimate venture. What she was a part of felt more like a hustle and she strongly disapproved. When raising concerns about such worries, she objected to being told, quite eloquently, by her manager to shut up and get on with things.
Then, there was the subject of Misu’s mysterious disappearances.
* * *
Corinne passed between the showgirls on one of the interior carriages. The light threw shadows and dark figures all around, each person in chaotic motion as they prepared for the next spectacle. Some were hurriedly changing into outfits for a dance number, with Katerina adjusting the red plumes on her phoenix-themed ensemble.
‘Eight minutes, everyone! Eight more minutes to go!’ Corinne gave warning.
She pressed through the melee and questioned them, loudly, as to whereabouts of Misu. ‘Somebody must have seen her!’ she protested. Shaking heads and apologies were all that was returned. When Elizabeth’s next song came to a close, and the silence returned, a handful of girls took their cue and dashed through the carriage doors to thundering applause. In the midst of this, Corinne scanned all around and wondered where their manager could possibly be.
* * *
Eight minutes.
Misu checked her watch. It ticked along quite contentedly in its leather and silver housing. The second hand snapped to a stop-start, watched keenly to ensure that it showed no hint of delay nor failure. Eight minutes she repeated to herself. Eight long, damned minutes. Flashes of light reflected from the mask as fireworks popped in greens and reds.
Where the Morning Star pulled into the station, she had snuck over the opposite tracks and down into one of the tight, shadow-soaked alleyways.
A series of thumps in the darkness announced the arrival of a simple cart that creaked before jerking to a stop. As she looked up from her timepiece, examining the newly stacked load of red bales, she watched its entourage hastily hide the load with canvas. The cover was hurriedly tied down and checked once more. The pair of horses that pulled the cart behind were discouraged from stomping their hooves in impatience, though they were clearly uneasy. A woman took hold of their reins, and attempted to soothe them with her voice.
Smart animals, Misu told herself. It was comforting to know that she wasn’t the only one anxious about this whole affair. The alleyway was devoid of gaslight, where few would willingly walk down – ideal if you wished to make a secretive transaction such as this. The busy folks who swarmed like ants over this whole trade slowed themselves after loading the last of the secret cargo from the back of one of the freight cars. It was the one that, curiously, remained permanently out of bounds, especially to staff: Car Six. Sure, this had been noticed by some, even commented on, but these were all brushed aside by its owner. What Misu said, people accepted, no matter the circumstance. Her word, whilst aboard the train, was law.
The last figure that sauntered past dropped a small iron key into Misu’s open palm. She in turn threaded it into a chain fastened around her neck.
‘All locked?’ she asked with no small measure of authority.
‘As requested. Nobody knew we were even here.’
Misu narrowed her eyes as the man stood, quite awkwardly, staring at her. He examined the mask before settling on the eyes peering beneath.
‘You hide such a pretty face I bet.’
‘That’s none of your concern.’
‘Cold. Is that the lot?’ he enquired.
Misu defensively crossed her arms. Cheeky bastard. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, it’s just awfully small and you have plenty with you.’ Weaver smiled, ever so contentedly. Michael, or Weaver as he was commonly called by those in the know, was thin in stature but unpleasantly imposing, with a parting of soot-coloured hair and a well-trimmed beard mirrored in colour. He was given his nickname for his tendency to formulate well-constructed plans. His constant thoroughness and prediction of possible dangers had kept him and his crew alive on more than one occasion. Here tonight, and unbeknown to him, his diligence would be revealed as not as complete as it could be.
‘Six bales. That’s the arrangement – no more, no less.’ Misu tried her best to keep her composure with a staggered exhalation, letting her disgruntlement enforce each word. ‘What you do with it is your business, whatever mark-up you put on it is apparently your own. We never spoke and you never obtained this from me.’
‘You honestly have bigger balls than me doing this under the nose of …’ he waved his hand behind at the event in motion ‘… all that spectacle. Personally, I would be considerably more cautious.’
‘Make sure you apply some of that caution getting on out of here. The last thing you need is to be seen with so much contraband.’ Misu made it quite clear she was in no mood for dawdling. A hand was placed out before her, holding a small manila envelope.
‘What would this be?’ she asked, sceptical.
‘Your receipt,’ Weaver offered with a disconcerting grin.
She snatched it away and tore at the edging. There was no paper inside. Her fingers searched around vigorously for its contents. Eventually they set upon something else, something wrong, and withdrew it between pinched fingertips.
It was hair. A tuft of hazel, glued together with blotches of tacky crimson.
Misu stuffed it back inside and slid the envelope into her suit pocket. Her exterior was that of stone. To her, it was business as usual.
‘A reminder of the importance of your work.’ Weaver retained his off-putting smile. ‘When you see our mutual friend next – and you will see him, I assure you – you can tell him I fulfilled my obligations to the letter.’
Misu’s neck snapped towards him. Her eyes narrowed in disgust. ‘Do I look like his messenger?’
‘No.’ Weaver shrugged. ‘Just his courier.’
‘You need to leave.’
‘And next time?’ Weaver enquired with curious enthusiasm.
Five minutes. She yanked her suede jacket sleeve back to cover the timepiece. ‘There won’t be a next time.’
‘You say that, but there is always a next time.’
‘I suggest you follow that cart on out of here in case we get spotted. Your talking is likely to get us all into trouble.’
Weaver nodded in the gloom, tightening his waist-length jacket. His attire reeked of money, ill gotten no doubt. This disguise was easily transparent to Misu. She had seen many men like him before and would see plenty after too.
‘I suppose we should get out of here.’ He clicked his fingers and on signal the cart began its slow departure along the cobbled road before being engulfed in darkness. It was accompanied by a handful of bodies though two remained to ensure the transaction was completed with no altercations. Ever the businessman, Weaver saw further opportunities here and suggested such.
‘Why stop here though? This is all very lucrative. I’m sure I can find other ventures of profit with your cooperation.’
Misu checked the alleyway behind her and her route across the bare train tracks. No Bluecoats, no spectators. Four minutes.
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I’m sure your girls could make a bit of coin with other sorts of work. A city like ours has plenty of folks needing comfort, if you catch my meaning. What say you stop living on the rails? Settle down here. I’ve got somewhere you can set up, a cosy little place you can make your mark on. You can keep all the girls under you, maybe even find some more. I can see you doing well, very well indeed.’
Misu snapped. ‘We’re not a brothel, little man. The girls are not for sale. Not at all. Don’t you dare suggest such an endeavour in my presence. If you have a taste for such women, then go and toss coin at one on the game. In the meantime, this was a one-time deal, understand? Our business is over.’
Weaver held his arms open and cheered in amusement. ‘Oh, come now, come! You’re being woefully short-sighted! This could the beginning of a wonderful, wonderful relationship between us all. A family of sorts, one might suppose!’
Family. How dare he tarnish such a word with his ambitions of indecency, Misu thought. She had seen vermin like him before, a foul individual who preys on others to further squalid ambitions. Family was a concept lost on the likes of him.
‘Our relationship is nothing. You’ve got the goods, now get on out of here.’ The fiery outburst was met with a sudden retort delivered with spittle. Weaver succumbed to his nature.
‘You’re in my town, girlie, and I don’t take kindly to threats. You best be watching your tongue.’
Before Misu could respond, an interruption came from behind.
‘The lady doesn’t need to watch a thing, and I think you’ve had quite enough of her time. As for what you’re hustling, you can just be on your merry way, otherwise we will have a problem.’
Barrel-chested with arms as thick as tree trunks, Ferry stood a good foot and a half over anyone else in the alleyway, utterly dwarfing Misu who swallowed any trepidation away. The train’s resident driver, being the only individual on board with the girth to provide strong-arm protection, took the role of security as his own, despite being told otherwise. Thankfully, he was there to even the odds, despite the calculation being against Misu’s favour.
Ferry easily made up for a handful of these pests. His appearance wasn’t for show – he worked hard to keep the Morning Star running, toiling no matter the circumstance or condition, forging his already imposing frame into something incredibly intimidating. Misu may have told him to remember the terms of his employment – that he was to drive the Morning Star, not protect it. The others never objected though, finding his persuasive techniques useful when patrons stepped over the line of courtesy or sense.
He grinned, a flash of ivory white parting a thick dark beard, thick skin like leather folding under the expression. His towering presence was imposing in itself, but the blunderbuss that was half cocked and over his shoulder added an extra dimension of fear. He growled from the deepest part of his throat in annoyance. ‘I will repeat myself as there seems to be a shortage of answers. Is there a problem?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Misu answered, pondering in the moment. It was her turn to repeat herself, much louder this time. ‘I’m not too sure. Is there one?’ she asked, challenging the brave to step forward. There was, understandably, a lack of takers in this action.
Weaver laughed, conveying what an absurd situation he thought this was, all over a harmless little comment. He tipped his hat and signalled his men to vanish into the alleyway. Checking his jacket toggles were fastened and shirt cuffs neatly straight, he made his own excuses to leave. Their transaction was done and now the situation had changed. There was no reason to linger further.
‘Perish such a notion. I think we’re done indeed. Time is pressing on. A pleasure to meet you, miss, and a shame we can’t continue doing business.’ While his words spoke of defeat, it was impossible for someone of his nature not to have the final say. The alleyway became empty apart from Misu and Ferry and what passed for an offer between them with Weaver’s last words: ‘But if you change your mind the proposal stands.’
* * *
Ferry escorted Misu back. She seemed to be uncharacteristically quiet on the whole affair. This wasn’t the first time that his manager had gone missing and his curiosity found her in an unfavourable situation. It was an action that Misu had warned him against, and indeed reprimanded him for, despite being acting security for their little entourage.
Anyone else would be thankful that his intervention prevented escalation. Not Misu. She insisted that he remained on the Morning Star at all times. She preached that if security was needed anywhere, it was at the show. Shadows receded to gaslight as they came out onto the tracks, walking closer to the increasing roar of celebration. Music played through the air, mingled with cheers of success, wails of defeat, and everything in between.
‘What was all that about?’ Ferry asked with the weight of his weapon still resting over a muscled shoulder.
‘Nothing in particular. Our friend there was under the impression that we were interested in buying some knocked-off ammunition. Naturally I declined, told them to move on by, but they attempted to convince me. Like I said: nothing.’
Ferry cocked a brow. ‘It didn’t look like nothing. You should remain where I can keep track of you all. I’m no use stretched so thin. That is why you need to have security, so you don’t have to endure that. I can drive the train, but I can only do so much to protect its occupants.’
‘That’s not your job.’
‘I don’t see a vacancy for the position so in the meantime I’m going to have to do.’
Nothing. Misu remained flat-faced, wearing the same thoughtful scowl she had embraced since his entrance.
‘Shall I go back? Convince them to behave themselves?’
He didn’t even receive a smile.
‘That’s unnecessary. Things are fine.’
‘Fine or not, the set is ending soon, so you’re going to be needed.’
‘Thank you.’ She didn’t need the reminder, knowing this full well.
‘How about I tell the law that these animals are sniffing around instead? A night in the cells would teach them some manners I’m guessing.’
Immediately Misu dismissed the idea, perhaps deciding on a much more suitable punishment for Weaver and his brigade.
‘No, leave them be. Let them wallow in the gutter where they belong.’
* * *
The end door to carriage three was opened swiftly, causing Corinne to leap in surprise. Music that crackled through conical speakers engulfed her yelping but she almost crashed onto the floor in a half-dressed state. She was one of the last to change her attire. With Misu missing, yet again, somebody needed to direct the other showgirls to their positions.
Bodies had trickled onto the platform, mingling with the patrons with warmth. Their expressions were tender and kind, though this was something far from Corinne’s mind when their manager crashed into the carriage. Corinne was already half inside a frilled gold and red satin dress that barely clung to her shoulders, though this was secondary to her outburst.
‘Where have you been? We’re due to close in the next fifteen minutes and nobody could find you!’
Ferry lingered momentarily for the response until he returned to his duties on the platform for crowd control. The door clattered once more, leaving just the pair of them, allowing Misu to talk freely.
‘It was nothing. I went to check on the carriages for peace of mind.’
‘During a show?’ Corinne bunched her hair up and slipped in pin after pin after pin to retain its shape. The face in the mirror before her was flushed, though beyond that was striking perfection. ‘Zip!’ she requested.
Misu had already stripped herself to the waist and began to button up her more formal tunic, almost military in appearance, tight across the bust with gold tassels on the shoulders. With a single sharp inhalation and jerk from Misu, Corinne relaxed herself into the dress, adjusting her bosom firmly.
‘During a show,’ Misu affirmed. ‘I just figured someone may have used the noise we make to break in. It’s always worth being attentive to these things. That way one is never caught out.’
Corinne scooped up Misu’s top hat with floral flair and placed it over its owner with a pat.
‘Never happened before.’
‘Don’t want it to happen ever but I am a cautious sort.’
‘Ain’t you just.’
‘It’s to my credit. Keeps us all alive, dear.’
‘I’ll leave the scolding to Franco. He’s the one who wanted everything to be regimented. What would he say about such things?’ Corinne paused whilst changing her earrings to tap the pinned piece of paper on the wall. It was another telegram, sent a few weeks back. Its edges were rough and worn but the message was still encouraging. Corinne insisted it be placed there for all to see. To inspire the others, was her excuse. It became a lucky charm of sorts, birthing a superstition that if the showgirls touched it before their performances things would go faultlessly.
She smiled with enthusiasm, reciting the typed sentiment like she had done many times before. It was bright and encouraging, kind words to the showgirls that lit the fire in their bellies to excel. It had become a mantra to most beneath the roof. Corinne finished enthusiastically narrating Franco’s correspondence.
‘He would be less tolerant than I,’ Misu conceded. ‘Consider my wrist slapped.’
Corinne and Misu both assessed one another, ensuring no collar was crooked and no hair was out of place. When each was satisfied with the other’s appearance, and nodded to one another in approval, they took to the door to greet the waiting audience.
‘Let’s put this one to bed, shall we?’ Misu asked.
‘Let’s.’