‘Enjoying your paper?’
‘As much as one can. Or at least I was.’ Jack loudly turned the page, returning his eyes to the print once more. It was too early in the morning to do anything but relax. On the table before him plates remained dotted with toast crusts. Drained cups or those harbouring a cold inch of coffee had been left. Cole had yet to clean up, but Jack had given him some leeway since his recent performances. Yes, it was a morning fit for embracing a scant few minutes of tranquillity – and not what Blakestone was oh so eager to start.
‘What’s eating away at you, Blake? You’ve got that look in your eyes.’ He corrected himself: ‘Well, eye. You’re either going to throw something or have an outburst and we both know I like my crockery the way it is.’
‘You may not appreciate it,’ Blake grunted in disdain.
‘Out with it.’
‘I’ll be blunt.’
Without looking up, Jack accommodated another one of Blake’s moments. He reached for his cup and went to finish it, only to find it devoid of coffee. Placing it back down he sighed in disappointment, the tranquillity now on the cusp of being shattered for good. ‘Blunt is all I ever want you to be,’ he added.
‘Fine. Blunt it is. You’re putting an awful lot of trust in the kid. Someone, I will point out, who you know absolutely nothing about.’
Jack flexed the paper, not finding anything in this conversation enough to warrant putting it down. Half of his attention was spent scanning column space for any mention of misdeeds – those of the Jackrabbits or others.
‘Think you’ve learnt something about him in my absence?’
‘The kid asked a lot of questions while getting accustomed to a gun. I mean a lot of questions. Wanted to know about us. About me. About you especially.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Enough to get by. Nothing I would call revealing,’ Blake scoffed.
Jackdaw turned the page. ‘Can he shoot yet?’
‘Absolutely. His aim isn’t going to be sharp, but he’ll hit a target at fifteen paces. Past that, it’s sketchy but that’s what experience builds, not that he should be with us long enough to get that …’
Blake paused his pacing in the vain hope that Jack would give him his total attention. Somehow, the newspaper was more of a priority.
‘I know what you’re getting at. You think he’ll do me wrong,’ Jack said.
‘I’m just saying, is all. What if he’s not on the level? Maybe he’s got an agenda of his own? There’s been plenty nipping at our heels so it wouldn’t be farfetched one might have sent a plant to get on your good side.’
‘Then we’ll find out in time.’
‘You’re just going to wait and see what happens?’
‘Why not? It’s as good a plan as any.’
‘I’m concerned that he’s so unchecked. Snooping through our paperwork, roaming around the place! He’s just … Dammit, Jack, can you …’ He lunged forward and swiped the paper down to the table, much to Jack’s surprise, his fingers now clenching air. ‘Can you stop that and bloody listen to me please? Did the thought strike you that he might even be one of Donovan’s men?’
The paper was patiently and neatly folded up and placed to the side. The outburst convinced Jack to finally give him his full attention. His response was blunt and monotone. ‘The thought did occur, yup.’
‘And?’
‘And these are not things you get to fret about. Take him along to tonight’s job to test him. You’ll both be keeping eyes on him, correct? If he even polishes his shoes cock-eyed I’ll be made aware. If he’s not, as you say, on the level, then he’ll be taking a long dirt nap.’
Blake slouched down in the chair opposite, groaning aloud in frustration. There was no use arguing the point, but still. ‘You and I do this trust thing very differently.’
‘And that’s why you’re not in charge,’ Jack stated, going back to his newspaper. ‘Who knows, the day may come when you will be and when it does, you’ll have to remember this conversation when leading by example.’
‘One day, huh?’
‘In the far future, why not?’
* * *
‘Since when was Muskratt a dry town?’ Cole enquired, looking over the map for the umpteenth time. He knew the place certainly: low incomes, troublesome at times. Most of the locals worked in the steel mill that the town had sprung up around like fungus. It was somewhere that had gained its reputation by word of mouth and the words used to spread it were not in the least polite. Jack fielded the question, moving his glass of Boudon’s Bourbon to weigh down one of the map’s corners.
‘Since some big-shot lawman took over the region. He’s cracking down hard on those intolerable types such as ourselves. It was decided that implementing prohibition here would suppress most of the uncouth folk.’
‘The southerners sure do like their drink …’ Blake agreed, a toothpick travelling from one side of his mouth to the other, then back again.
‘So would you if you worked out there,’ Jack stated. ‘Drinking is their only pleasure. Make no mistake, no matter how bad any region has it, they got it worse than anyone. New shipping lanes are turning it into a ghost town. Give it a handful of years and it’ll be dead. That’s all beside the point – today is about the here and now. This printer’s, right here, is just a front.’ Jack circled the location with a finger. ‘It’s brewing bootlegged booze and hauling it out to any bars that’ll have a lock-in. Some bright sort gave them an arrangement on supplies and they ship out the brew in the early hours.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ Alvina asked.
‘We hijack the booze, and sell it exclusively to one customer. We sell it for a lot more than most to compensate for having a monopoly on this here illegality. They crank up the prices in turn and both parties make good profit. Take the barrels and drop them off over in this metal workshop for storage. I’ve got someone there ready to stash them.’
‘You have a way of putting things simply,’ she stated, swigging from Jackdaw’s glass before placing it back down for its intended purpose.
‘I’m a straightforward kind of guy.’
‘What stops them from making more?’ Cole asked, raising a hand. When he noticed that this wasn’t the sort of audience to ask attention from, he withdrew it back to his side.
‘They won’t be able to. The means of which are up to your discretion.’
‘Limited to …?’ Blake opened his question hoping for something concrete. He was to be disappointed.
‘Whatever you see fit. We need that liquor and the pay that comes with. Everything under the roof is expendable.’
‘Thought you said these people were at the end of their ropes, boss.’
‘And?’
‘And you’re talking about taking away their only vice. Even their lives?’
Jack sarcastically pouted. ‘My heart is breaking. It’s just business and these people are involved with nasty folks who are not us. Go take a nap, boys and girls – you leave at sundown.’
* * *
The drive out to Muskratt was uneventful. Even the exciting roads, which played havoc with the truck’s lack of suspension, felt like a monotony. Navigating the streets was a little tougher, with Cole reading directions out from the back seat. Muskratt was a maze, its streets winding this way and that. They managed to get lost twice before Blake relinquished the map and looked at it himself while driving them to the printer’s.
They parked up a few buildings back, where the streetlights neglected to administer their light, and they burned the hours away with small talk.
With a grunt of concern, Blake peered beneath the chipped windscreen of the truck cab at the pitch-black sky. His eyes flicked between stars, or the lack of them, drowned by the brilliance of a full moon. For him, this was far from his liking and he voiced as much, in between sips from a silver hip flask. Tucked into the driver’s side door was a paper bag of shelled nuts, from which he removed a handful and began to de-shell and eat them in turn.
‘Trapper’s moon tonight. My old ma used to say that you never did business on a night like this. It’s bad luck. Money will leave you as fast as it came,’ Blake said.
‘I’ve never seen you as the superstitious type.’ Alvina drummed her fingers on the blemished dashboard. ‘Couldn’t Jack have obtained a better vehicle for the job?’
‘Who’s superstitious? I’m just stating a fact. You never listened to your mother?’
‘She was too busy swimming in a bottle to entertain her daughter.’
‘Cole?’
‘Absent for the most part, working for the rest.’ He sighed from behind them, nose deep in a book of some sort. Blake leant heavily back in his seat, the old springs complaining under the stress. His lips met the container once more.
‘My, this time is going to go fast …’
Blakestone took his eyes to the rear-view mirror, spying Cole quite engrossed in the book between his fingers.
‘What are you reading there?’ he probed.
‘Pocketbook.’
‘Of?’
Cole angled the cover towards him. The frayed green cloth was embossed with a faded gold stamp, declaring:
The Yellow Soliloquy
A collection of poetry by an indifferent mind
‘Fascinating.’ Blake turned to face forward again and began de-shelling a new handful of nuts.
‘Stop being so grumpy. There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of civility. Not that you would know anything about that. Or anything else worth knowing.’ Alvina swatted the back of Blake’s head.
‘My mother read to me at bedtime,’ Cole revealed, turning back to his place between the pages. ‘Before she passed from the Rust Cough, my pappy was made to promise to read something cultured other than Settlers’ tales of adventure and legends. He bought this and it was passed down to me.’
‘Oh please just kill me now,’ Blake interrupted. He scooped the shells into a palm and tossed them from the window, with an all too audible groan. Alvina struck him on the side of the arm for his rudeness.
‘The next time you say something so asinine, I’ll take it as an invitation.’
Blakestone patted the wheel like a drum, sending the cab of the rickety vehicle rocking side to side.
‘Look at the bright side. If we encounter any trouble Cole here can recite them to death. I feel safer already.’
‘I find it ironic you speak of feeling safe when we have a satchel of dynamite rattling around in the back,’ Cole retorted, his book clapping shut in annoyance, spying the bag with as much concern as the numerous times before.
‘What can I say, young blood?’ Blake leant back until his seat springs complained. ‘You and me are just two different people.’
‘It’s not a concern to you? The prospect that you may be blown up on the job?’
‘Keep on jabbering away and you just might. I’ll personally see to that.’
Blakestone drew back his cuff and spied the hands on his watch. ‘Okay. It’s going to get light in an hour so we’re on. Keep sharp and keep quiet unless you have a reason to talk.’
‘To think of the life of luxury I gave up for this …’ Cole murmured to himself.
* * *
The loading bay was accessible by a single entrance with two large double doors with a single door between them. Keeping to the shadows, the trio slinked along brickwork before trying the single door. It failed to open.
Alvina pressed at various points, measuring the light breaking out from the inside.
‘Triple bolt, top, bottom and waist-high. Do you want to do the knocking?’
‘It would be my pleasure,’ Blake stated.
Blake rapped his knuckles on the wood and waited. The door swung inward, only for the doorman to observe those same knuckles launching at his face, the solid punch causing him to sprawl out on the floor.
Taking the lead inside, Blake strode onto the factory floor, weapon brandished, looking for the first sign of trouble. Thankfully their trespass was unnoticed. Cole locked the door back up.
The reports were correct. Instead of a printing operation, large vats and the stench of brewing dominated the space. Gantries and walkways haphazardly snaked around the room’s circumference, manned by workers. The loading bay was already busy with oak caskets full of product all lined up and ready to be shipped.
‘Can I have your attention please, gentlemen?!’ Blake called, asserting his authority. These were working folk, gutter born, shackled to backbreaking labour until such backs gave way with age or wear. They were his kind of people.
Any discord was brought to a halt as two shots rattled off into the air.
They listened.
‘That’s more like it. We have scant time and every time I have to speak, the more agitated I get. Now I’d kindly appreciate your cooperation in a little matter my friends and I have to attend to.’
The foreman crossed the floor, grey-haired and quite unimpressed at this display.
‘Whoa, whoa now, we’re paid up for the month. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Fleecing this here operation.’
The foreman rolled his eyes in amusement. He stood too close, his posture too confrontational. ‘You’re crazy. The moment they realize you’re doing this, you’ll be shot to pieces! You hear me? Do you hear me? You’re dead already! You’re food for crows.’
Unimpressed, Blake angled his weapon down and yanked the trigger. Immediately the foreman fell, clutching his kneecap, tossing side to side. Cole and Alvina had begun to corral the workers into the middle of the work floor. Paid peanuts, they had no intentions of risking their lives with heroics and they submitted willingly.
‘Now I’ve already wasted three bullets and that cuts into my profit. Even still, my friends and I have enough for the heads of every one of you who wants to drag this out any longer than it needs to be. Do what I say, all tidy, nobody try any bravado and things will be just fine. Do I hear any objections?’
Nobody disagreed, leaving the mewing of agony from the floor the only noise made.
‘Well all right then. Let’s have everybody file into the offices, all orderly like, with no undue fussing.’ His gaze fell to the tossing figure before him. ‘And somebody please scrape this chump up from the floor.’
* * *
The office door heavily snapped to a close with the handle upturned and pinned to lock. Vague objections were made from inside, along with some cursory swear words, but they were ignored. It would be some time until they were found and by then the trio would be long gone.
Cole showed an unusual amount of concern. To him these were innocent individuals – floor workers, loaders, low-paid menial workers. They had no investment in whoever was running the operation here. They just needed solid work and corresponding pay, something difficult to come by. They weren’t crooks by any stretch of the imagination and certainly didn’t deserve to be treated as such.
‘Are they going to be okay?’ he asked, surveying the sturdy oak door. This completely threw Blake’s attention, who had checked the gantries for stowaways and came back, gun drawn and jumpy. He had no time for such ridiculousness.
‘Do you want to go in there with them? It’s mighty dark and cramped.’
‘No.’
Blake struck the door with the flat of a fist, a stern threat that this wasn’t a conversation worth entertaining. Not here. Not now.
‘Are you sure? Because I’m hearing you want to go in there. You’re asking to keep them company. Is that what you’re saying?’
He struck it once more, this time his gaze burning right through Cole who attempted to hold his nerve – and succeeded.
‘I said no, didn’t I?’
‘Then shut up and get loading those barrels on the truck. We don’t have all day.’
The front doors, immense wooden things, with the single doorway spliced between them, were swiftly unbolted and heaved open to allow the truck to back inside, then they were closed quickly. Bald rubber tyres squeaked up the loading bay incline before coming to a stop. The truck rested on its chassis with a heaving groan, its tailgate snapping down and threatening to break at the hinges.
Oak casks full of illegal liquor were tipped to their sides, rolled along the floor and into the truck bed where Alvina hauled them into position in turn. The brewery was only a small operation and their output equally slight, but their stockpile filled the truck two high.
Without warning, the doors shook violently as if an almighty fist crashed against it. All eyes turned to the commotion.
‘What is that?’ Cole staggered his words whilst attempting to deduce what was going on.
The doors shook once more.
‘I hear it too. Blake?’ Alvina swung herself up over the truck bed’s side to secure the cargo, her rifle at the ready. She knew trouble when it presented itself.
The truck cab door had already slammed shut and its struggling engine spluttered into life. It rattled and coughed in protest at the prospect of doing more work for the evening. Blake checked his revolver for the umpteenth time before reaching into the truck cab. From behind the driver’s seat he slacked the drawstring on the bag of dynamite, producing three the pale brown sticks. Despite previous aloofness, he noticeably exhaled in trepidation, extending the wicks. Each was stubbed with his cigar until they erupted in a cavalcade of sparks. Each was tossed towards the large metal stills, either rolling beneath or landing on a walkway beside them. Blake and Alvina fell behind the truck, covering their ears.
‘Heads down!’ Blake demanded.
Cole turned pale. Only one thing ran through his mind, enough to distract him.
‘Wait, you maniac, those people are still in there!’ Cole protested.
Three simultaneous explosions shook the building, launching fireballs to the ceiling. If Cole hadn’t been pulled down by the pair he may have been knocked off his feet, as even the truck tilted slightly with the blast.
He rose to his feet, surveying the carnage before him.
Fire rose from each of the stills, irreparably damaged by wide splits in their forms. Supporting beams and gantry had been either warped and detached, or in some cases blown away completely, reduced to shrapnel on the factory floor.
The workers were safe, much to Cole’s relief. The wall hadn’t collapsed from debris striking it and though his ears rang from the detonation, those behind had already begun to charge against it in the hope of escape. Despite earlier warnings to the contrary, the workers had no desire to die here.
‘Get in the damn truck, Cole! It’s time to go! Come on, you’re driving!’
The engine gasped out puffs of black smoke with every push of the accelerator pedal. The passenger door to the cab slammed to a close, as Blake thumbed three new bullets into his revolver, coughing from the spreading fire.
‘Where’s Alvina?’ Cole asked, gripping the wheel tightly.
‘Right here!’ she called. In the rear mirror, Cole saw her nestled in among the barrels, checking and rechecking the ammo in her possession. Whatever was waiting beyond the bay doors was going to make this matter much noisier.
Cole’s foot pressed down again and again, the engine revving in restraint, begging to be let free.
‘Are you ready for this, Little Fish? You’re big-time, now.’
Blake deposited a pile of bullets into his lap before rolling down the window. He courted the most bizarre of smiles, as if he relished what was about to happen. Not that any of them was aware what was about to happen of course, but the thrill of it was what Blake lived for.
Cole’s nails bit into the steering wheel. The truck exhaust roared over and over in frustration.
‘Suppose we have to find out some day, right?’ Cole mumbled.
The doors crashed apart, a bevy of tin whistles signalling Bluecoats to storm inside. They all yelled for surrender to whoever was running this illicit liquor operation but to their horror only saw the flames on the rafters and the shattered distilleries. Inside they spread out, aiming for the workers who had managed to break the door down and escape their makeshift prison.
Yet before the Bluecoats could get a grasp on the situation, a deep roar coupled with screaming tyres forced them to dive aside. The truck hurtled forward at speed, the horn blaring around the factory floor. Cole yanked the temperamental vehicle this way and that, demanding the wheel to obey quicker. Any demands to stop were ignored and almost immediately cracks of gunfire begun. Blakestone slinked down onto the seat and blindly fired out the passenger-side window.
‘Go, go, go!’
Cole stamped his foot over and over on the pedal and willed it to accelerate faster. Finally, the truck’s rear end drifted out, sliding out of the factory doors and bouncing along the cobblestone. Plumes of smoke followed, masking the getaway though not as much as was hoped. A single bullet punched through the windscreen glass with thin cracks threading out from the intrusion – too close for Cole’s liking.
Blakestone leant out his window, ducking quickly once again as soon as he had caught sight of the thundering lawmen on horseback who were giving chase. Shots whizzed overhead, some thudding into the weak metal bodywork and a couple striking the wooden barrels.
‘Trust our luck to do a place over when it’s getting raided! Alvina, do you have any plans to get rid of our new friends?’
Alvina, squatted between the barrels, in the midst of formulating a plan. There were too many to shoot down and she certainly lacked the ammo for such a confrontation. On top of that, the bouncing would have made aiming impossible. No, this would require some improvisation. She punched on the metal panelling behind her.
‘Already on it. Cole, do you know where you’re going?’
‘Where I’m going? Wait, what’s the plan?’ he asked, only now worried as he was told to drive and didn’t know where to exactly. Blakestone hurriedly reloaded, managing to spill his ammunition onto his seat in the process.
‘The plan is you drive, dammit! Follow the roads north. I’ll direct you. And keep this thing steady!’
Blake’s revolver chamber snapped, full once more. He leant out and lined up the closest Bluecoat. The weapon bucked, as did the horse the lawman rode. Alvina rested her rifle on a casket and lined up her shots. It wasn’t ideal but it gave some stability at least. After every shot was fired, she yanked back on the rifle bolt, the spent casing ejecting violently. Few missed their intended target.
Dark streets blurred past, dotted with only a handful of morning traders going about their business. The truck rattled violently on the uneven road, with the Bluecoats on horseback still in pursuit.
‘Take this left!’ Blake said.
Cole spun the wheel, sending the rear of the truck swinging out, dangerously close to fishtailing. Luckily – and Cole wouldn’t admit it was anything but – the truck kept its composure enough to not spin out completely.
‘How much further?’ Cole asked, now quite aware of his shirt stuck to his back with perspiration.
‘Cross the bridge. We’ll lose them through here and we’ll make a break for the drop.’ The barrels bounced and rattled as the truck’s wheels lifted from an arched bridge, settling with a hard impact. Rubber squeaked, tossing Alvina about.
She rapped the cab in protest.
‘Careful! Do you know how to drive?!’
‘Of course I do!’ Cole kept his attention on the dim streets, slapping the vehicle’s horn to disperse onlookers.
‘Well you seem to be unable to put your foot down, so floor it unless you would prefer spending the next five years in the slammer! Take a right here, quick!’
From a side street more Bluecoats emerged, filling the air with the din of tin whistles.
Lead whizzed overhead, with some of the luckier shots punching into the tailgate. As the truck rattled its way through tight streets, taking this turn and then that, everything fell silent. A glance to the rear-view mirror confirmed that the passing streets were finally void of anyone following.
‘Is that the last of them? I can’t see them,’ Cole said.
Blake reloaded and leant out of his window. Without warning, the wing mirror beside him exploded, peppering him with fragments of glass. Eight Bluecoats lurched out from up ahead, thrashed their animals onward, and they began firing. The windscreen gained new holes.
Blakestone frantically waved his arm to his left.
‘Down the alley! There, there, there! Go!’
Cole complied, throwing the stubborn vehicle into the tight gap between two rows of houses. Immediately he called out to the woman in the back, beating on the vehicle’s horn.
‘Alvina! Get your head down!’
She slouched down between the barrels and just in time too.
A series of boxes and market stalls exploded into pieces as the truck smashed its way through the morning market that was in the process of being set up, chunks sailing overhead and missing Alvina by inches. The truck’s horn beeped over and over while various foods erupted upward, leaving behind a wake of destruction and debris. Stallholders screamed obscenities, shaking fists, but leapt aside as the Bluecoats navigated the obstacles, taking their shots while they could.
‘Shit! They’re still on us!’ Blake cursed aloud, watching a succession of fresh fish slap against the glass before shooting overhead.
Alvina wiped a mound of shredded cabbage from her hair and formulated a plan. She leant around and reached inside the back of the cab before calling out.
‘Blake! Give me your lighter!’
He complied without a thought, slapping it into an open palm before watching her weave her way between the tight barrels to the tailgate. Bullets whizzed overhead, dangerously close.
‘What’s she doing?’ Cole asked, the steering wheel shuddering like crazy as he attempted to keep the truck in a straight line.
Blake took another few shots at the pursuers as the realization dawned on him. He spun to the back seats, finding the brown satchel missing.
‘The dynamite. The frigging dynamite! Alvina, are you crazy?’ he called above the commotion.
‘I think we all know the answer to that!’ she yelled with a smirk.
Tossing her rifle to the side, she withdrew a knife from inside her footwear, tipped one of the closer barrels on its side and prised out the wooden bung. As soon as it gave, pungent fumes hurriedly escaped, but were quickly hauled with one of the sticks of dynamite being wedged in place. Next, she threaded in a length of fuse wire and cut it off, brought out Blake’s silver-plated lighter and snapped it to a flame.
Finally, she called back to the men inside. ‘Just so we’re clear, Blake, this is coming out of your cut!’
Blakestone yelled over the engine noise in disbelief. ‘Mine?!’
The fuse vomited sparks as it was lit. Finally, Alvina dropped the tailgate and, with both feet, heaved the barrel out into the street. The gate was brought back up and she fell flat in its space for cover.
‘Heads down!’ she cried out.
The Bluecoats thundered onward, their mounts weaving this way and that whilst giving chase. By the time they spied the barrel, it was already too late.
An explosion ripped through the alleyway, igniting the alcohol inside and turning it into a crescendo of noise and blinding flame. A river of fire spread across the street turning the dull dawn sky into brightest day. Windows spat fragments of glass, roof tiles dislodged from the blast sliding down as slate knives.
The Bluecoats’ animals all reared away, some bucking their riders immediately, neighing in panic. A chunk of the barrel’s lid and metal hoop whistled through the air and bounced off the back of the cab, shattering the rear windshield glass, sending the pair down into their seats.
Cole’s hands felt as if they could slip from the wheel at any time.
‘Are they still following?’ he stammered, the last of his nerves now well and truly shattered. Blake looked through the broken glass, the air whipping around them both. Finally, he gave the all clear.
‘We’ve lost them. That was …’ He exhaled, unsure why he felt the need to erupt with laughter. ‘That was more intense than it had any right to be. It’s not over yet. Take the right up here, the one after the church. Let’s get to the safe house and unload this stuff pronto.’
Tucked down in the tin district, so named for the copious amount of metal manufacturing that took place, the truck spluttered its way into a back alley workshop and its doors hastily closed up behind. The shipment was welcomed inside by the owner, who ordered a couple of the shop boys to keep an eye out for any sign of the law.
Cole leapt from the truck cab, only to find his legs bending beneath him. His stature forced him to desperately embrace the door and the floor spun beneath him. Blake marched along and encouraged him to sit momentarily on the side of the door, which he did with an unceremonious thump.
‘I’m not feeling so good,’ he groaned.
Alvina patted her gloves together, taking pity on their latest recruit. She knelt and pinched his jaw, then twisted his head up. When satisfied she patted his cheek and let his head roll forward once more. Cole proceeded to unceremoniously heave the contents of his breakfast before him.
‘Is that your first run from the law?’ Alvina asked, unloading the liquor barrels from the tailgate. Cole wearily nodded and spat into a handkerchief to clear the last of the foul taste that had travelled up his throat.
‘That’ll be the excitement then,’ she called, removing another barrel, making five in total so far. ‘It gets to the best of us at the start. Get something to drink in you and you’ll be right as rain. As right as rain can be. I don’t know, I never understood that expression.’
The workshop owner, who organized others inside to roll the barrels to the cellar, noticed Cole hanging over the newly deposited pile of vomit.
‘He’s cleaning that up, right?’ he asked Blakestone upon passing.
‘Oh, he’s cleaning that up. I’ll make sure of that.’
‘Good going not getting us all killed out there, Little Fish,’ Alvina commented as she passed. Her hand lingered on the newcomer’s shoulder. Cole wiped his eyes and thought upon the words.
‘Is that supposed to be a thank you?’
‘No, but it’s as good as you’re going to get.’
Blake, embracing a barrel, watched this unfold in astonishment. He placed it down and rolled it to a shop hand, so forceful that it almost knocked him from his feet.
‘Wait, don’t I get a well done? Where’s my pat on the back, huh?’ he called, stretching his arms out. ‘Thanks, Blake; bang-up job, Blake; don’t mention it, guys – all part of the service.’
Nothing.
He loudly dragged his boots along the ground.
‘Talking to myself here …’