Chapter Text
In which You’re not so careful what You fish for
You meet the Mook on the sidewalk at 5:30 AM, Monday. He’s got a couple of aluminium-wrapped bagels in a bag and two cups of piping-hot Joe resting on the newspaper box next to him. Damn straight. You didn’t lock every last ciggie You had in the office safe last night for nothing.
He cleans up well, this Mook. Somehow he’s found a trenchcoat and suit combination that simultaneously fits a 6-foot former boxer with a spare tire that could rescue a freight truck, and makes him look entirely inconspicuous. Even his however-many-day growth of beard is neatly trimmed, framing his red round cheeks with a rakish charm.
“Black, with nothing. For tough guys, uh? Hard of asses.”
You don’t correct him. He hands You Your coffee. It’s a cold morning, and it feels just right.
“I am hope you like salmon,” he winks.
You grunt, hoping the caffeine rush will make You more pliable. In truth, You’re damn grateful to be biting into the cream cheese, salty lox and pleasing onion-rich bagel bread this morning, because of the other big change.
You’re...bigger, wider. Zaftig. More solid. More sturdy.
You have put on weight, Jackie.
Now that ain’t regular, is it? You’re getting older, and Lord knows You’ve seen many a faithful newshound turn into a pampered pooch the minute he hits his 40s and starts to afford the expensive hooch and big gala lunch assignments.
They say a gal putting on a couple pounds is downright attractive; in a fella, it's a sign of success. You're not one or the other, and this sudden development is nothing but an unwelcome mystery.
But it’s like the “Big Shot”. This wasn’t something You anticipated hitting You just yet. You’re past the quarter-century mark, sure, but it’s not like You’re not even faintly attached to the desk, it’s practically greased to make a quicker getaway. And You’ve only just started quitting the cigarettes.
So it has to be something else.
Ah, to hell with it, You know what it is.
That's probably why You changed Your mind. In the flurry of anger that took You from the hospital back home on Wednesday, You forgot all about Your little lapse of memory...and surge of appetite for street foods...and by the time You got home, You'd chalked it up to a stressful week.
Called the office, and Your Pa. Told 'em both You'd be taking the next few days to chase some leads. Maybe You meant that. Maybe it was even true.
You don't know, 'cause You don't remember.
What You do remember is waking up sprawled across the bed like a lizard in the sun, clad in nothing but boxers, socks and Your wristwatch. All of them...suddenly very painful. Pinching.
You are not someone who takes care of themselves, Jackie.
You live a sparing, Spartan lifestyle. Always on the move, so anything You have to prepare for Yourself is going to be pre-packaged or easily reheated. You deign to own a freezer for those nights when a complicated story needs chewing over, and even then half Your dinner gets forgotten in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Occasionally some Dame will breeze into Your life and try to fix things up. Now and again, rarer but not impossible, that Doll is a Guy.
Whoever they are, they'll try their hardest. Get regular meals in You, get to the launderette every week, You know the drill. Never does it work out. You can't be slowed down. Inevitably they realise what they saw in You wasn't nothin' but a reflection of what they wanted in themselves, and they go back out into the world, dabbing at their eyes with a handkerchief.
And You get to live for a while in the spotlessness they left behind, before Your bad habits muss it up again.
Yeah, once in a while, along the way, love's been good to You.
This was the opposite, Jackie. Pure carnage.
When I heard, I did feel sorry for You.
You'd tried to roll over and found an unfamiliar obstruction. Some sticky residue was left on Your face and stuck to the pillow, and when You'd wiped at it the acidic taste of citrus was left behind. Marmalade. Somehow...yes, on the side table, a jar of marmalade. Empty.
When did You even buy marmalade?
"Hiccup," You'd said to Yourself, by way of explanation.
Clambering slowly, gingerly against the ball of uncomfortable pain under your ribcage, You'd stepped over pie tins, licked-clean wrappers, empty beer and liquor bottles, discarded forks and spoons, into the harsh light of the bathroom to inspect Yourself. You don't own a scale - You don’t need to be told Your worth - but the results of Your "chasing the leads" sabbatical were clear.
It wasn't a one-off, that "Reel Missing" moment with the hot-dogs. This time both reels had gone on the lam and carried away the projector with 'em.
Jackie Cardinal has a sleepwalking problem.
Jackie Cardinal has a gluttony problem.
Jackie Cardinal has a gut.
That moment at the mirror had felt like something out of a horror movie, a Jekyll/Hyde screecher complete with 3-D effects. You'd turned around, the full 360, to survey the way Your figure had changed from a straight-edged l to a paunchy b.
The damn thing had been...red with strain, and impossibly round, like a globe or a cannonball. You'd poked at it with a finger and regretted it, doubling over in pain as best You could until the gas left with a relieving "Brrraaaapp".
Somehow Your cheeks were rosier, Your eyelids puffier. A quick prod at Your armpits and neck showed no swelling, so not glandular fever.
Your chest...well, You were relieved to see only a subtle development there. Just some little...whadayacallit...bee stings? They bounced when You pressed them in, but only subtly. A tight shirt would keep them in check.
A little relief. You'd always taken pride knowing Your disguise kit need not contain "tucks" for both top and bottom so long as Your trousers were loose.
Were loose. A glance over Your shoulder tested out that theory. Huh. Those cheeks were rosier too; Your 'seat' was reinforced; there was a little less definition to those sticks between it and Your feet.
You had become...Plump.
In two days?!
How?
How in two days?!?
"Hic," You'd said again, for want of a better word.
"Uhh...rrurrarp," even.
Picking Your way through the wreckage of Your apartment, You'd found Your fridge to be totally empty, Your freezer likewise, a graveyard of pots and pans left in Your sleeping self's wake.
Even the hole in the wall where You left a tin of red velvet cupcakes had been raided. Figures, since it was You doing the raiding. A shame, though, since You'd been planning on eating one for a treat when You made Your next headline.
You'd turned back, sluggish, to Your simple little kitchen table, enough room for two chairs. One of them the clean centre of a crater of grease stains, ketchup, other splatter.
On the other, a revolver You've never seen before, new from the store, innocently perched in its box with the chamber out. Only four bullets in there.
Four bullets. Four horsemen. You can’t help but notice patterns.
Underneath it, a note, carefully typed.
AND I HEARD, AS IT WERE THE NOISE OF THUNDER...
Underneath that, a wax seal You’ve seen before. The mark of the Throne.
Spooky shit. Putting the fear into You. Bible stuff again.
If You'd had it in You, You'd have screamed all the rage out and bashed the chair against the wall until it was firewood. As it was, all You could do was burp and feel ridiculous about it. And maybe a little lucky that Your...other self had been considerate enough to line Your stomach and avoid that hangover.
You'd thrust the gun in Your pocket, kicked a path thru the wreckage and found the telephone, on-the-hook and not sticky with anything, thank Christ.
Dialled the hospital. Asked for that room.
"My body needs guh, hic, guarding," You'd begrudgingly admitted, over the gurgling strains of your overstuffed middle. "My place, brap, 5:30, tomorrow. Don't make me regret my sudden flights of fancy."
Working alone is a matter of pride, but only if You're sure You are alone.
You always thought a partner would hold You back. Maybe that's why You have one now. In case You need restraining.
Plus, bagels are a nice bonus. Maybe Your bodyguard deserves a bigger cut.
You feel Your thighs rubbing up against one another in what You thought were outsized pants. The result of sleeping through Your food-bender is, impossibly, a layer of thick pudge around Your middle, Your thighs, Your neck and cheeks. Parts of You jiggle now if You turn too quick. Your body, moving of its own accord. Downright disturbin' is what it is.
You really wish it was the stress.
“What now?” asks the Mook.
You slurp back the dregs of Your coffee. Feels good. Oil for the engine. You adjust the brim of Your hat the way Bogart used to do in the movies, stretch out Your shoulders.
“Now...we go to work.”
~~~~
Fifteen minutes after he found the second chair, the Mook gingerly lowers his feet onto it and settles back.
“He is not expecting work to be...well. ‘Work’, like this,” he says.
You sigh, not looking up. “It can’t all be like in the movies.”
Nobody likes heading into the microfiche department, least of all You. Every wordnik who gets sent here is either wise enough to bring along a pack of cards or a yo-yo or something, or...goes into it with thrilling dreams of fitting together the pieces of the jigsaw only to find that God himself has carefully placed every single piece in a separate box and then thrown half of them in the river.
Bottom line: newspapers need every sheet filled, every single day, even a cheap circus sideshow like the Tribune. And despite what all the editors and board members and wise-asses in journo college will tell You, news does not happen every day.
So inevitably Your broadsheets are going to be filled, stuffed to the brim with...air. Letters from outraged housewives about the short socks girls are wearing, or demands that the Mayor send more cops to Little Italy (keep dreamin’, pal), or latest updates on the price of coffee beans.
The kind of stuff You read when You’re stuck waiting for something You don’t want, like the train to work, or a root canal. Distractions. Trivia. Fluff.
Your middle gurgles, soft and low, and You sigh.
Newspapers ain’t the only thing getting filled up with fluff these days.
Relax, Jackie, focus on the work.
So it’s been like this. File thru the filing cabinets. Find the little teeny slices of film. Examine them in all their garish preserved glory through what feels like a 7-goddamn-thousand-watt projector in a room with no other source of visible light.
Make notes while the Mook shifts backwards and forwards on an already decrepit office chair and nearly breaks his neck before You carefully suggest a footrest might be in his near future.
Come up with bupkis.
So far You’ve been here through the morning and into lunch, with nothing turning up about no throne, no order, no doomsday cults. That-all makes enough sense. The doomsday cult that’s stupid enough to get exposed by the local papers ain’t worth the dough they dropped on candles. But nothing else is turning up either.
You thought You’d start with the Mook’s boxing career. No dice. Somehow Dimitri Belyaev, a healthy, strapping stack of junger mann with (he assures You) seven consecutive knockout matches in a row, “World Champ, this is true”...doesn’t show up in the sports page once, in a year? Two years? Not even that lousy “Any Other Business” column that they kept running, even when Sammy said he’d love to put out his cigar on the thumbnail of the fop what writes it?
You moved on to the records of immigration. It’s only ever name, origin and date-of-birth, and most of those are made up anyhow. Anything to get cheap hired hands. But the coastal offices always copy in the newspapers so they can chase up leads if need be. You hear they have a similar deal with the cops, so it always felt pretty slimy.
(Now and then one of the cub reporters points out to Joey or one of his cronies that arrangements like this seem at best half-legal, and goes home early to rub a package of Rosebud-brand frozen peas against his ear for no apparent reason. Or, when they’re a girl, gets patted on the head and told not to worry about it, darlin’. The sweat content in the average news editor’s palm trickles into the lifeblood of local department stores, specifically the fedora, headscarf, ribbon and hairband divisions.)
Either Dimitri Belyaev is the “Jimmy Jones” of the Russian diaspora in the city or in the last year of foreign arrivals he’s somehow been seventeen different guys at once, and at least one dame who’s incurably bad at paperwork. Heh. There’s plenty of him to go around, but not that much. Not one of those new arrivals weighed much more than 120 pounds, according to records, either.
Stats, marriage records, landlord records (where You can find ‘em)...there isn’t even the hole where a person would be, should someone try to scrub those records out. So maybe whoever knocked out Dimitri Belyaev and shoved him into Your office is really good at keeping people hidden. So good they also knocked him out of public records and shoved him into the role of an amnesiac Mook.
That’s the explanation You oughta go with, because the other one is that he just isn’t real, and You’re trusting a total stranger with Your wellbeing.
You turn to ask the Mook what else he might remember, or maybe when his birthday is, or what animal he’d turn into if he could do it in a minute, anything to keep Your brain from puddling out Your nose. He’s not there any more, but You can hear lumbering out in the archives. Probably patrolling the perimeter.
Bodyguard stuff. You try to forget he’s as long in the job of bodyguard as You are in having one.
Maybe it’s time to switch track. Look for other leads, better patterns. You pull open another filing cabinet drawer and begin again with front pages from the past six months.
Forget about boxing matches, Russian emigres, apocalypse cult nonsense. Just take a punt. Join those puzzle pieces. See if “Big Shot Reporter” can’t earn that nickname. Look...for...patterns…
You should be proud. It only takes twelve or so minutes before You’ve got something solid.
For an unspecified number of weeks, at an irregular pattern that nobody would go looking for – people in this city have been...disappearing.
It’s not always kidnapped-type disappearing. One or two missing person notifications in the back pages, sure, but more often it’s an announcement of layoffs, transfer to a new workplace out of state, or even retirement. No set pattern of person – young or old, ladies or germs, creed or colour or name, it don’t matter, they ain’t there. (Never kids, for some reason, but maybe thank God for that.)
Sometimes it’s a pioneering businesswoman who’s dropping out of the glorious world of work to raise 2.6 kids in Bemidji with the charming owner of a salmon fishery; or sometimes it’s an overachieving college kid getting snapped up by the military to start work on efficient new ways of converting a thriving township somewhere into a slightly-scorched property development opportunity.
Little by little, Your paperwork grows from a simple sheet of names to a multi-page map of connections and coincidences, spread out on the side-table of this cramped room and clustered like pigeons and crows around an overturned bread truck. Every single name makes it into the paper and then goes away, seemingly forever.
No updates, no public records. That businesswoman never gets a new forwarding address in Bemidji; that college kid isn’t listed on any government record of new admissions. The rule seems to be: pay ‘em off, make up a story that no-one would question, put it on the public record.
Swallow ‘em up.
You’re amassing a collection of ghosts.
And You know it’s a pattern, because one name is always at the centre, and it’s a name You’ve seen before.
(You don’t see the other pattern, of course, because these messages are rarely notable enough to come with pictures. That’s rather the point, the writers need them to hit that sweet spot of noticeable but inconsequential. But You will see it, soon. I promise You, Jackie. You will.)
The only detail You haven’t squared is the Mook, because neither his name nor any variation seems to show up recent. Which isn’t discouraging, but certainly distressing: it seems entirely possible that whoever is doing this, “The Order of the Throne” or whatever, was going to put Dimitri Belyaev on their next list of abductions or murders. And then something got in the way. Maybe he fought back. Maybe he wasn’t what they were looking for. If they can mess with a guy’s memory...maybe he saw too much.
Adrenalin is pumping through Your veins, heartbeat filling up Your ears as You buzz between the Microfiche, the books of records that rest atop the filing cabinets, Your new set of leads, and Your own mile-a-minute inner monologue. You aren’t fishing any more, You’re harpooning and netting with ease, working up a sweat as You take down catch after catch. Six months of convenient disappearances are lifted out of the archives and into the pattern.
So it’s understandable that while You’re bent over the machine once again, absorbing the (faked) details of a notable author heading into a writers’ retreat in Scottsdale...You don’t notice the footsteps behind You, and the object that is suddenly thrust under Your nose and into Your gasping mouth.
~~~~
Goddamnit, You realise in a fraction of a second. It’s a donut.
“Sonuvarrrmmpph!”, You scream, the picture of dignity.
At the other end of the donut now shoved awkwardly between Your lips is the Mook. He grins back at You like the kid with their fist around the pickle at the bottom of the jar. “I uhhh...this is joking,” he mumbles.
Your finger points as threateningly at him as it can manage. Though You must admit, a Mook his size sneaking up behind You is pretty impressive. Maybe he’s got this bodyguard thing covered.
“Duhn doh tha...’gain,” You gracefully concede.
You sit down and take a chomp of the donut anyway. You hate getting surprised, but it is delicious. Not like the kind You get at the grocery stores, it’s got a...roughness to it, under the icing. A nice crumby texture. You want to savour it, for a minute...
You catch Yourself, at the same time as Your hand catches the rest of the donut. You don’t want to savour it for so long You wake up somewhere else.
“Tap me on the shoulder next time, huh kid?” You grumble, licking frosting from the corner of Your mouth.
Once again his head bobs up and down in apology, like a duck in a choppy lake. Reminds You of that lake of Your own.
“Come look,” You beckon him over to the table.
You begin linking up the various names and commonalities amongst Your hastily-thrown-together chart, and without saying a word he helps to sort them out across the table. They’re easily grouped: it’s just a matter of determining who worked for which boss, who was connected to which corrupt cop.
“Is like the water flowing into drain,” the Mook muses, stroking his beard. Quicker on the uptake than You expected. “Or like...tornado.”
“And look at the commonality. The thing that keeps coming up, every third name or so, like a breadcrumb trail.”
In the centre of Your web of names, on the largest scrap of scribbled notepaper:
Sedd Glynn
Immediately below:
Pelinore Trading Co.
“Huh. ‘Pelinore’. This is name of...Knight, yes? Or Saint.”
You blink.
“Spot on, kid. Or best as I can remember, anyhow. There’s people I talk to for that kinda info. How’d you know it?”
He shrugs, his jacket crinkling, as he takes another donut from the bag. “Mmhf. Lucky guess. So where do we go next?”
“My next move was going to be putting together more of these names, see if maybe they belong to a...club of some kind. Shit, I don’t know. I’m working in the fuckin’ dark here in more ways than--”
The Mook suddenly begins choking, spluttering, bashing at his chest. You turn and thump him on the back until the offending crumb is loosened and he nods his appreciation. He collapses back down in the nearby chair, which creaks as nervously as ever.
“Uh, please...not so much with the swearing?” he asks in a timid tone of voice.
Damn. First the ciggies (You hate how much You miss the ciggies), now the language? You’re about to tell him where to shove it, but catch his expression. Something...You can’t put Your finger on...in that expression. You don’t want to say no to it.
“Why?” You say, instead.
“Not sure. It make him...er, me, it make me wince. Pain in chest. Like remember...uh. Unpleasant sensation, you understand.”
Ugh. Fine. You concede with a shrug and make Your way back to the filing cabinets. You’ve got a good thesis going but it’ll need sources if You want to defend it.
The Mook settles back down on his chair, then makes a face. He stands back up, gets a third chair, places it by the first, then lowers himself back down, one cheek on each, probably thanking his lucky stars that the Tribune is too cheap to splash out on arm-rests. He settles the donut bag on the dome of his belly and pulls his hat down over his eyes, resembling nothing more than a bear practicing for hibernation.
“This is bodyguarding to you, huh?”
“Your body is inside four walls with no window. If someone come to get you, they must trip over me first.” He nods to the side, not adjusting his hat. It is true; he’s between You and the door. “Besides, he is technically still rest after medical emergency.”
So he says. Funny thing, as he begins to snore in his chair set-up You start to see another pattern, maybe because Your sleuth-brain is in gear. He took a weekend to recover from collapsing in Your office from what was supposedly exhaustion. And for a guy his size, You sure haven’t been noticing much of the usual kind of exhaustion. He ain’t so hot on research, but he clambered all those stairs without breaking a sweat. Wasn’t he meant to be an out-of-work boxer, for years now?
And then there’s all the rest of the mysteries, clambering around those big powerful shoulders of his like mountain goats over the Alps. Where’s his memories gone? Why’s he got a name that doesn’t match him, and why’s he essentially a walking violation of public records?
Also, why his is hair so long? You didn’t understand the fashions in Russia being so unconventional as to let their men wear it down to their shoulders, or tied up in a bun concealed by their hat. You’re no stranger to anti-conformity Yourself, but the mix of his beard and his hair makes You curious. Something about it...
You need to get to the bottom of all of this. What’s he not telling You? It takes You five or so more minutes of listless name-gathering, but eventually You look over Your shoulder as You sort through files.
“So, Dimitri...I gotta ask...”
He jerks back to consciousness, lifts his hat and You meet his eye. There it is again. He’s smiling, innocent, in a way that reminds You of the way Your cousin Noel’s labrador retriever ‘Carol II’ used to whine at the back of his throat when You’d throw him a snowball to catch during winter school break. There’s no way You could hurt that sweet smile, let alone interrogate it. But You have to.
“Yes, Jac--”
“Uh, why donuts? Not exactly the most nutritious lunch.”
Oh, Jackie. That poor heart of Yours. Maybe next time You can ask in a dark room, or invest in some kind of blindfold.
He shrugs. “No good deli in area, and he not want be away so long, because not safe. But bakery is good.”
“Well don’t keep ‘em all for yourself, ya big lunk,” You smirk, crossing the room to jab Your hand in the bag. As luck would have it, jelly-filled. Not like You have a favourite or anything like that, but as donut kinds go, this one ain’t bad. You take a hearty bite.
He clears his throat, turns away and starts to get up. “Maybe not time for sleep anymore. Finish lunch and ehhh, we go for walk, yes?” he mumbles. “Chase leads. We are maybe getting too, uhh, bored in here.”
Cripes, did You moan? As You were biting into the donut, did he hear You...moaning? Nobody bakes that good, Jackie.
So that means You were moaning because...You bite into the donut again, close Your eyes automatically. It’s like that hot dog the other day. You cannot imagine how You lived so long without it. Maybe can’t picture what it’ll be like when it’s gone. Raspberry jelly oozes onto Your tongue and coats it, a pleasant layer of powdered sugar dusts Your lips. This donut gets You somehow. It’s exactly everything You need.
There it is. As much as eating it overwhelmed Your senses, there was a definite moan arising from the back of Your throat, the kind that usually accompanies sinking into a warm bath at the end of the day...or other kinds of sinking.
You swallow the rest of the still delicious donut as quick as You can. Enh, he’s right. Maybe You could use the walk. Work off some of this squirrely feeling.
You go to get Your coat. He’s already up and fetched it for You. Sly sonuva...
“You sly...devil, how’d You get to be so fast?”
“Boxer always moves on his toes, Ma’am.”
“Tt. What’d I tell you? If I gotta clean up my act, you gotta give me less of the ‘Ma’am’, not to mention 'Sir'. Just Jackie or Jacks will do. Maybe ‘Boss’.”
No, that feels wrong.
One of those fascinating eyebrows of his arches.
“Or try ‘Friend’. Can you do that? We’re in this together.”
“If this works for you. Like you say, ‘Put ‘er there, pal.’”
His hand clasps Yours. It’s a little sweaty but cosily warm.
“Glad we got that sorted. And don’t fetch sh...stuff for me neither, I’m a grown adult.”
“She would want me to be gentleman. Kinder.”
“Who would?”
“Uh...” he clouds over again. “I not remember. Someone from boxing ring, maybe? Coach? But no...not woman coach...confused.”
That tickles You, a little. Not ha-ha kinda tickle.
You pat him on the chest and gesture at what You’ve built so far.
“Don’t worry about it. We’re going to get to the bottom of this. Tell you what, get one of the shutterbugs to come up here and take a photo so I don’t lose nothin’ of this. I’ll meetcha down there.”
You wave him off, munching a little on the last cruller he left behind.
The instant the door closes You’re back at the microfiche screen and know exactly where to look.
New arrivals. Last year. A couple months ago. It takes You an almost criminally small amount of time to hone in on it.
Mi Cha “Mae-Linn” Hyun. Landed from Korea last July. And...flipping back to those marriage records...
Bingo. She ain’t Mae-Linn Hyun any more. She’s Mae-Linn...huh.
Huh.
Now what does that mean?
~~~~
Before You meet up with the Mook again, You take the time to do a little experiment. You have a disused closet in here marked out with Your own private padlock, since no chief yet has been generous enough to spring for lockers. The revolving-door employment policy would make them a waste of cash anyhow.
When You step back out onto the streets, the Mook does a double take...and whistles. You stiffen, raise Your eyebrow, readying an imperious glare.
“No joking this time,” he smiles. “Just impress.”
You exhale, nod Your own appreciation. Lipstick and blush ain’t always easy to apply in the dark of a closet, but Lord knows You’ve had practice. That goes double for shimmying out of Your pants and into a sensible skirt, even if said skirt is pinching a little more than You’re used to.
It pays to play angles, whatever work You’re in. On top of that, it’s a known fact that the common man is less likely to suspect a no-good busybody of sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong when that busybody is a “good-lookin’ gal” in a practical-but-revealing jacket-and-skirt ensemble, rather than looking ratty and genderless in slacks and suspenders. It’s a shame that the world makes good and bad people this way, but if it helps You get Your leads, it’s an angle You’ll always be happy to play.
You toss Your head, letting Your freed, hastily-brushed curls catch the sunlight. Feels good after a day or two with Your bun under Your hat.
You start making up a cover story in the back of Your head in the back of the cab. Put-upon P.A. to some Hollywood Mogul looking for a nice shooting location. Or maybe hired hands for taking apart a set. You can never have too many big strong guys in the movies. It's one of the reasons the movies themselves never appealed to You. Somehow a person can only take so many oiled biceps, chiseled jaws and brooding looks before they start drifting off and wondering what to order for dinner.
“Nothin’ like the bracing sea air,” You sigh as You step out of the car.
"For me, is only smell of fish." The Mook's been quiet for the journey. You had assumed he might be resuming his nap, but on second thought, it can’t have been too comfy in there – too cramped for someone of his generous frame. He’s stretching his neck back and forth, cracking his knuckles. As he arches his back, his belly surges forward under his crinkled shirt. Maybe it’s that salt smell everywhere, but it makes You think of a sail catching the breeze. Pleasant and simple.
There’s a crowd bustling around as morning drips into afternoon. Clouds are on the distant horizon, and rolling fog. Harder to get a good day’s work finished off in the fog, so no doubt the bosses are going to be pushing to finish it off now.
Apart from a near-endless supply of muscly guys and gals in overalls or vests hauling supplies around, there’s also hopeful lobster fishermen strolling slowly out to haul in today’s cages; gangs of kids setting up their marbles and dollar-onna-string wherever opportunity finds them; a couple of ladies of the evening perched on the bollards, nodding at the cars and trucks as they pass by, bathing in a chorus of wolf-whistles and waiting for an obliging soul to buy them a malted and commence an evening’s hard work.
The Mook’s keeping You in line of sight and You’re doing the same for him. Now and again, You catch the eye of some strapping cabin boy or girl with a crate on their shoulder, or some flat-capped palooka lighting a quick smoke (grrr, don’tthinkaboutit don’tthinkaboutit) before he gets back on the road. They all interest You. They all have stories.
“Not your kinda party, then, slugger?”
“No, maybe not. He is not like you. Not so...flexible. Too many people here. Remind him, me, of the boxing ring.”
You pass by a couple cops, each with one hand on a burger and the other resting on the nightsticks in their belts. The picture of innocence, You just can bet. You wish You had some way of signalling those gals on the bollards to make a hasty exit.
“Oh, and how ‘bout me, then? If I’m not so like You, what’s the appeal?”
"You like docks because is no people there," he sighs.
You take a minute to hear him, too focused on eyes to catch and conversational snippets to overhear.
"Dock workers count as people, last I checked. Pretty sure hookers are human, too.”
“To newspaper? Nicht. Newspaper see only helpless pawns or angry attacker. Worker want roof over his head and daily bread, prostitute want to sleep safe, and they are lazy, discontented rabble instead of thrifty working class. Workers see workers, and boss sees sheep with not much wool.”
That makes You look back at him. He’s not bristling, just resigned, as stoic as old Hercules with his shoulder at the wheel. If You were less experienced in interviews You’d challenge that assertion, insist that’s not how You see it; but the instinct is always to work out why they do think that way, not why You don’t. Admittedly, it ain’t exactly an unexpected sentiment from a Russian fella, but there’s something else there under the surface, something You can’t quite put Your finger on. Does he know exactly what he’s saying?
“...How long’ve You been this side of the Pacific, again?”
“A couple years. Since...eh, ‘52, maybe.”
Uh-huh. You file that little mystery away for later. Probably a coincidence. Better not to let it get to You.
The stroll along the dock is the work of an hour and a half. Plenty of potential leads swallow Your story, but only a few of them recognise any of the details You have to offer, much less have anything to give You back. As reassured as You are to have the Mook hanging around, there is a timer on these things - the more questioning You do, the more likely You are to get overheard, or followed.
If someone isn't already following You.
Two hours in, Your flats are killing You and the Mook's huffing and puffing from fatigue when You at last hit jackpot. A dockworker by the name of Sanders glances at the seal of the Throne and nods instantly.
“Yeah, I seen it...that is to say, I saw it,” he says. “Sometimes got one printed just like it on the crates. Only this one’s upside down.”
“That so?” says You.
“Sure. The chair, I mean. Usually ‘s’ got the legs onna floor.”
You swap expressions with the Mook. Some more notes to compare later. Rivals trying to put You on their enemies’ scent? Cops or Feds putting a smuggling ring on a silver platter for the papers? Or just somebody with a screwy wax stamp?
“Who’s in charge of managing shipments? The Meyers-Tanning company might want to have a word with them about...future prospects.”
“Ah, the boss-man? That’d be jolly Misser Woodburne, up at Warehouse 17B. Just off lunch, so he’ll be in a right cheerful mood,” Your new contact winks. “And if’n you manage to get a good deal outta him, I’m sure there’s other...prospects in store...”
His hand is barely hovering near Your thigh before the Mook has it in an iron grip. “No touch,” he rumbles. The dock worker has already turned sour and is shaken off, his under-the-breath swearing drowned out by the knowing laughter of his pals. The Mook nods, and You nod back. Earning his keep, and in such a charmin’ fashion too.
Warehouse 17B is near scraped empty. The last few boxes and barrels are being man-handled into the trucks as fast as the last rummies at closing time, the shelves lay bare, and in one corner sits a makeshift desk constructed hastily out of broken crates. It’s all the way across from the entrance, and covered in stacks of paperwork, so all You can make out of the person behind it is a fine musical rumbling.
“Come to meet the adminnysater?” asks a kid at the door, and You wonder not for the first time that day if a fellow or lass needs to take an entrance exam in slang before they get the job aboard a boat. He must be 19 and a half, tugging at the braces of his overalls and sneaking an unsubtle look at Your chest, oblivious to the man-mountain following You close like some kind of a 300-plus-pound duckling.
“Ain’t got an appointment,” You smile, gesturing upward to Your eyes. “Thought he could answer some questions.”
Your blushing guide bows a little out of bashfulness (the Mook, charmingly, does just the same), and You are led across to the desk. There is seated – or so the hand-written cardboard name-plate on his desk says – Darius Woodburne, former captain and current paperwork-jockey.
He’s a cheerful soul, still dressed in his captain’s jacket over a modestly-priced suit, with a combination of well-oiled beard and characterful eyebrows that give him the countenance of a beloved ship’s cat who’s plied his trade on many an unfortunate rat. He’s humming a tune to himself in a bass that would rival the great singer and stage actor Paul Robeson, and from the good looks of him he could very well be Paul’s cousin.
...give or take a few ounces. He’s clearly enjoying his life not being on the high seas, and like the Mook has taken to perching himself on two crates rather than the one. You try not to look too directly at him once You notice. So as not to upset him, of course. Doesn’t pay to, er, stare.
He’s sorting through paperwork when You approach, but the Mook bowing deferentially at the waist, and inadvertently knocking over a stack of invoices, turns his leaden concentration into a grin of pure gold. A smile cracks over his wide face.
“Why if it isn’t the Gentle Giant! Come to claim that drink I owe ye?”
You blink. Clearly Mr. Woodburne’s spent long enough on the high seas to absorb some of the lingo; between the accent, the stout frame and the pitch of his voice he seems like the mysterious progeny of Captain Ahab and his foghorn.
He remains seated, but gestures to the Mook to come close and bend low, and he gives him a happy hug. The bewildered Mook is pressed against Woodburne’s shoulder and patted warmly, and when they separate the Yard-Master is gripping his arm like a proud father.
“This here unlicked bear is the reason me nieces each got a present of their very own last Christermass, ‘a dainty doll all the way from France”, and all. Made me a tidy packet, ‘e did.”
You didn’t recognise whatever shanty he was just quoting, and the Mook is still bewildered. He gestures his bewilderment at You emphatically.
“My associate Mr. Belyaev is...a little confused, of late,” You gently explain. “We’ve been looking for information about some missing memories of his, as it happens.”
Woodburne’s good mood fades as quickly as it rose, a familiar fire dying into meditative embers. “Mister…hm. Well now, ‘missing memories’, eh...Giant, seems like yer took the ol’ one-two a one too many times!” He roars with laughter, holding his shaking belly with one hand and propping himself on the Mook’s with the other. “Sure, I’ve heard’a prize-fightin’ men going punch-drunk, but never did I meet a man who got punch-hungover!”
His mood is infectious, and while tidying up the spilled papers next to his desk (most of which are fairly innocuous – damn, You were hoping for a glimpse of the seal of the Throne!), You can’t help but crack a smile.
“Mr. Belyaev has made a new pivot in career. He’s my private security, for now.”
“Ah, congratulations, m’boy. Seems we’ve both made a step sideways in the wide world. And if’n yer still forgetting, allow me to reintroduce – ” he sticks his hand up, still seated – “Darius Woodburne, temporarily de-captained commander of the S.S. Phoebus, at yer service.”
“Is pleasure,” the Mook mutters bashfully, “name is Dimitri Belyaev, uhh...bodyguard.”
Woodburne turns back to You, nodding thanks for helping tidy up the Mook’s mess.
“Well if that’s the case, I do wonder ‘oo’s really doin’ the protectin’, eh? Fine lass like yerself could do a landlubber like this a power o’ good, eh?”
“Not, er, lass,” the Mook mumbles, though You shush him. You didn’t discuss defending Your boundaries in the agreement to defend Your body, though You do appreciate it, and You’re happy to keep up the illusion of feminity for now. It’s useful for keeping interviewees relaxed. Clearly You have an ‘in’ with this old sailor, and You’re thankful for that, because...because...something is going on with You, Jackie Cardinal.
This man is at least seven years Your senior, and he has a photo of his little woman and three tall daughters on his desk. He is also roly-poly, with the broad frame of one of them Japanese wrestlers You read about, the kind who go to matches only wearing a loincloth and could give someone a concussion with a simple belly-bump.
There the resemblance ends: his clothing is well-fitted, though it looks as though they're a dinner or so from falling away from him. Beneath his shirt and waistcoat, his belly is the prow of a mighty schooner itself, plowing over the waves of his lap with true mastery. Even the chain of the pocket-watch in his waistcoat completes the look, resembling the anchor soon to be weighed.
He might be the biggest, widest, fattest man You ever saw, face-to-face. So why is he simultaneously one of the most gorgeous, desirable human beings You ever laid eyes on, so much so that You know You can’t look him directly in the eye? Why do You wonder if he’s been weighed lately, never mind his anchor? Why did You get one look at this proud, wide ship of a man and become overwhelmed with the desire to clamber aboard?
Wait...he said nieces too, didn’t he? So that may well be his sister in the picture. Probably is. So he’s free. Probably married to the sea. One of those who has someone in every port. Damn. Damn.
You clear Your throat.
When I hear about this later, I'll smile, Jacks. Seems You spent too much of Your time committing other people to print, and it's gotten considerably difficult to get a read on Yourself.
You explain Your investigation to the stout fellow before You, and show him all the clues You have to go on. He tuts thoughtfully at the hasty assemblage of names You scribbled on Your notepad before leaving the office.
“A name or two I recognises...and now, even if it ain’t me place to betray a client’s confidence, I won’t say I haven’t heard tell of the men from Pelinore.”
“Men?”
“Operators, under-secretaries and the like. You know the type.”
“Seen any of them lately, around these docks?”
“Used to on the regular. But if yer talkin’ lately, I’ve had to change the circles what I move in. Allow me ter demonstrate.”
Pushing back on the laden desk, and causing a few more of those paper towers to wobble precariously, Darius Woodburne makes the room to turn a rough 45 degrees on his wooden seat and show off the recently-refreshed cast wrapped around his left leg up to the knee. His cut-off trouser leg bulges against it, as does the flesh of the leg itself; which tells You that he’s gained all this weight recently.
In point of fact, now that You’re brave enough to look at him directly despite Your blushes, there are a few tell-tale stitches and patches laid across his smart clothing, indicating recent alterations. And even then, You could hear the creak of those dark trousers against the crates as he moved...God, there is so much of him in those, and You have no idea how he must get them on in the morning, never mind take them off…
“I am sorry to see this. You are...comfortable?” the Mook asks, mercifully breaking Your reverie.
“Sure, there’s a tidy bed waitin’ in the shed out yonder if that be your meaning,” says Woodburne, though he’s looking at You. "After all, 'm used to me own company. A pipe o' baccy and a moment or two with the guitar, or settled down with a good book. Ain't no wife to speak of, nor any regular visitors...at the moment."
Are You staring? Does he know You’re staring? Is that at all appropriate?
“And me lads are always obligin’ with their shoulders to get allll o’ this heavin’ to and from every day. Ain’t yer, lads?”
You only take a second or so to imagine how many of his men he must need to lean on to get him up, because he jiggled his belly when he said that.
He jiggled it! It was not even at all subtle! He knows, dammit!
You massage Your temple as though tired, hoping it helps the blood flow somewhere other than Your cheeks. Your hand is soothingly cold as the autumn evening chill begins to settle into the docks. What You need is for a block of ice to descend from the ceiling like in the cartoons and knock You outta this situation. An anvil, even. Something spontaneous.
“Right we are, Cap’n,” the teen who guided You in sighs. “Even when we’ve been tirin’ ourselves out with all kindsa heavin’ and unpacking all day anyway.”
“Ah Davey boy, I’ll learn ye ter keep that smart damn mouth of yers shut by the time I’m on two feet again, see if I don’t,” he smirks back, honey-sweet.
Enough of that honey-sweetness. You've got work to do and answers to find.
"Can we have the room?" You ask.
~~~~