The setting sun had transformed the tiny street. The windows of the houses reflected the honey-colored light, softening the brickwork and the cobbles and the lines of the steep-pitched roofs. Justy stood with his back to the door, thinking.
“What was that about?” Kerry asked.
“Answers.”
“And did you get any?”
“Some. But I have more questions now, too.”
“For the Bull?”
“Him as well.”
Kerry sighed. “Well, he’ll be ready for you. Your man Terrence will have told him by now.”
“How do you know him?”
“He used to work with O’Toole. He was a right head cracker, until he caught a twelvemonth in stone jug for thieving, a few years back. I heard he went into service after he came out, but I had no idea he was a fart catcher for a lambskin man.”
Justy smiled. A valet was so called because he was required to walk close behind his master. “So you think he went to my uncle?”
Kerry nodded. “Or sent word.”
Justy sighed. “I suppose I should go to him.”
She looked over his shoulder and pursed her lips. “No need.”
It was a trick of the light, but the Bull seemed to take up almost the entire width of the street. The two Galwaymen Justy had seen at his house walked behind him, the right sleeves of their coats stiffened by the long clubs they kept hidden there, ready to slide into their hands at the first sign of trouble.
Justy waited.
The Bull came close. “What are you doing here? This isn’t your house anymore.”
Justy ignored the tightness in his belly. “It’s not yours, either. Mr. Kimball told me he paid you more than the mortgage to get it off your hands.”
The Bull seemed to swell up. “It cost a pretty penny to feed you and clothe you and send you to your fancy school.”
“I’m not questioning you, Uncle. I know you spent a great deal more on me over the years than you got from selling this place.”
The Bull’s eyes searched Justy’s face. They shifted to look at Kerry. “What’s she doing here?”
“She’s helping.”
“Is that what she calls it?”
Justy reddened. “What does that mean?”
“It means you shouldn’t trust people you don’t know.”
“I’ve known her since we were weans, Uncle.”
The Bull shook his head. “No. You knew her when she was a wean. That’s not the same thing. She’s not a wee girl anymore. Are you, lassie?”
Kerry’s face was white.
The Bull smirked. “Away on with you. Unless you want me to tell O’Toole you’re still gladding about dressed like that. He may be my man, but I’ll not be able to stop him whipping the skin off you.”
Kerry turned to go. Justy grabbed her arm. “Don’t listen to him. Stay with me.”
She snatched her arm away. “Get your hands off me. I’m not some piece of property to be pawed at.”
Justy stepped back, confused by the rage in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Touch me again and you will be.”
The Bull watched her walk away. “You’re well rid of her.”
“She’s a friend.”
His uncle gave him a neutral look. “If it’s a little rantum scantum you’re after, I can help fix you up, and no complications after.”
“I don’t want a whore. And I don’t want your nose in my business, either.”
“You’re happy to stick your nose in mine, though, aren’t you?” The Bull’s shout reverberated off the walls of the quiet street. A face showed pale in a window and then disappeared.
“Come on.” The Bull jerked his head. He led Justy back down the quiet street and out onto the commotion of the main road. The noise was like a slap in the face. The clackety-clack of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the rhythmic calls of the night market stall owners advertising the prices of their goods, the screeches of men and women getting an early start on the night’s drinking.
It was as though an invisible herald were walking ten yards ahead of them as they descended the hill. People stepped out of the way and onto the road, fear on their faces as the Bull bore down on them. One vendor picked up his entire stall and moved it back on the sidewalk to let them pass. A drunk man tried to get out of the way but slipped on the ground. He rolled desperately to the side, directly into a pool of manure. The Bull ignored him.
It wasn’t until they reached Front Street that the Bull spoke. “So. What else did that old skinflint say?”
“Did he cheat you?”
“Depends on how you call it. He paid market value. But the market was a wreck back then, which means he was able to beat me down like a piece of warm copper. He got the place for a song. A lot less than what it’s worth now.”
“Sounds like good business.”
The Bull grunted. “I just wanted the debt off my books.”
The rutted street was slick with runoff and spillage. Pools of fouled ale and dirty water reflected the flickering lights from candles in windows and the braziers and grill pans on the street, so it looked as though the ground itself were on fire. This was the heart of the waterfront, and the Bull’s home turf. People waved at him from windows and doorways and called out “good evening.” He replied every time. He knew everyone’s name.
“I’m sorry my father didn’t leave me with any means of support,” Justy said.
“You didn’t need support. You’re my kin. My responsibility.”
“What happened to his papers?”
“Why?”
“I thought there might be something of value in them. Share certificates, perhaps.”
“You think I wouldn’t have sold them myself if there were? No. There was nothing like that.”
“What about debts?”
He shrugged. “The only debt I cared about was that damned mortgage. Your father put my name on the contract, so some puffed-up pettifogger of a lawyer came around from the Bank of New York, threatening to have me before the beak.”
“Any other creditors?”
“No other banks. There were all sorts of tales about the money Francis owed around Wall Street, but none of those huffs ever had the bounce to try to collect from me. I’d have tied them to a post and used the papers as kindling to light them up, if they had.”
“Did you burn the papers?”
“Read them. Burned them. Forgot them. Until you started whiddling on about them.”
They walked in silence for a while, the two big Galwaymen close behind them. Even with the noise of the street, Justy could hear them breathing.
They passed a two-story tenement that been converted from a warehouse. Like most of the waterfront, it was built on landfill, but the foundation here hadn’t been packed in hard enough and the decrepit building slumped at a distinct angle, like a drunk leaning on a lamppost. Harsh laughter came from inside. A woman screamed.
The Bull stopped. “Get in there, Duffy. See what’s what.”
The big Galwayman with the broken nose walked into the tenement. There was a sound like a hammer hitting a nail, and a moment later two men stumbled out into the street. Duffy was hard behind them, his club in his hand.
“It was Fat Bridie screaming, boss,” he said. “There was a fella trying to tup her, so I cracked him on the swede. These two were waiting their turn.”
The two men stood in the street, their eyes on the ground.
“Do you know who I am?” the Bull asked. They nodded.
A short, plump woman ran out. She wore a too-tight cotton dress with a deep décolletage. The dress was threadbare and stained. She threw herself at the Bull. “Oh Jesus! Ignatius Flanagan! Bless you!”
Her head barely reached the Bull’s chest. He pushed her away gently. “What happened, Bridie?”
She spat on the ground. “Three of ’em. They just came in and started at me. First they said they want a room for the night; the next thing I know they have me tripped up and they’re hauling away at my drawers. Look!”
A small crowd of onlookers had gathered. They gasped as Bridie showed a long tear in the back of her dress.
The Bull ignored the gawkers. He stared at the two men. “Is this true?”
They were dressed like farm laborers, in long woolen trousers and cotton smocks. The taller of the two shook his head. “We paid a half-dollar for the room. Then she said if we gave her the whole coin, we could have her, too.”
“Bridie?”
The woman scowled. “I didn’t mean then and there. And they never paid me. These two just jumped me and held me down while that son of a bitch in there dropped his breeks.”
The Bull’s face was hard. “Did you pay her?”
The man who had spoken looked at the ground. His companion was cringing, almost folding in on himself.
“Well, pay her now,” the Bull growled. “And not the half-dollar, either. The full coin.”
The men looked at each other. The taller man shuffled his feet. “We don’t have it.”
The Bull shrugged. “You’ll pay in broken bones then. Knees and elbows. Duffy?”
The big Galwayman smacked his club into the palm of his hand. It sounded like a fish being slapped on a rock. The tall man cowered. “Him inside. He has our coin. In his drawers.”
Duffy went back inside. A moment later, he reappeared, shaking his head.
The tall man gasped. “He had it, I swear. We sold fifteen barrels of apples today. Fifteen!”
The Bull folded his arms. “Bridie?”
“I don’t know nothing about it.” She tugged her dress, avoiding his eyes.
The Bull waited. The crowd murmured. Someone laughed.
Bridie sighed. She reached into the deep V in the front of her dress and pulled out a grimy woolen purse. She handed it to the Bull.
“This your friend’s skin?” The Bull asked.
The tall man nodded.
The Bull took out a coin and flicked it to Bridie.
“Your man inside there, Duffy. Is he dead?”
“No, boss. He’s still breathing,” the big Galwayman said. “He’s leaking a bit, mind.”
The Bull took another coin from the purse and spun it towards Bridie. “That’s for the mess.”
“Ah, Mr. Flanagan. You’re a topping gent. Thanks for saving me.” She tucked the coins into her bodice.
The Bull looked around at the crowd.
“It’s not about saving you, Bridie. It’s about making sure everyone knows their place. You follow?”
She ducked her head. “Aye, sir.”
The Bull tossed the purse to the taller of the two men. “You come to my part of town, you pay your way. In advance. Get me?”
The man nodded.
“Fetch your pal and be on your way, then.” The Bull glanced at Bridie. “And I’ll see you at the end of the month, girl. Same as always.”
She nodded and scurried back inside the tenement.
The Bull looked at Justy. “Right then, lad. I’ll leave you here. Unless there’s anything else you want to ask me?”
Justy shook his head. He stood aside and watched as the Bull walked on, the crowd melting away in front of him, the two big Galwaymen falling in behind.