City of Glory (15 page)

“Tintin,” she repeated, pressing her hips closer to his. “At least that’s the name he gave.” Ah, better. She could feel Adam rising, and the hawk’s thumb had begun to circle her taut nipple. “Forget his looks,” she said. “He had coin, not paper. Enough to make him a gentleman in my eyes.”

“Fair enough,” he whispered directly into her ear. “But five coppers will get you ten he’s a pirate.”

“Tonight he’s a fine New York gentleman. The kind I like best; he’s been losing for an hour.” She moved her buttocks against his groin. “And look who’s playing with him.”

“Finbar O’Toole. The hero of the hour because he brought
Canton Star
to port.”

“Indeed. So it’s as I promised. The brave captain hasn’t been in New York for twenty-four hours and, like everyone who matters, he comes to the Dancing Knave.”

“Exactly as you promised,” he agreed, not bothering to add that he had never required much convincing; the club always seemed a likely investment. The loan had been paid back long since, and every week he collected four percent of the Knave’s profits. They had each kept to the exact terms of their agreement. Becoming her lover was something apart from business. Still, there was a special excitement to taking her like this up in the aerie, with the sound of the gambling continuing below. She’d permitted it only twice before, but he had the feeling she might do so again tonight.

As usual, she read his mood. “I shouldn’t go far from the gaming floor on such a busy night,” she whispered, turning in his arms meanwhile. “So what do you think we should do?”

He answered by pressing her hard against the wall, pushing up the skirt of her gown, feeling the red silk slide seductively over her long thighs and narrow hips. Nothing else was required but that he loose himself. Delight was in every detail dressed like a lady. Her pantaloons were the sort worn by the town’s most elegant and respectable women, without a crotch, in the interests of health and sanitation.

Only a few of the substantial number of coins the man who called himself Tintin had brought with him remained on his side of the table. The rest had been shoved across to Finbar O’Toole. It was, however, once more the pirate’s turn.
Eh bien.
Tintin knew as well as any man alive that everything in life could change on a single throw. He picked up the leather cup, shook it vigorously, then let the dice roll across the green baize surface. Three of the four lamps in the chandelier above his head had burned out. A servant had hurried over to replenish the oil and light them again, but Tintin had waved the man away. Now the single lamp yet lit cast just enough light for him to see that he had thrown a pair of ones, the lowest possible score. “
Merde! Tous les saints
bear witness! I will give a silver chalice to the Church of
Saint Sépulcre
if my luck changes.”

“And who might that saint be?” O’Toole had been fortune’s darling for the past hour. Coins were piled in front of him. He scooped the dice back into the leather cup, clapped his palm across the top, then began the up-and-down jiggle that had preceded each of the session’s winning throws.

Tintin took the pipe from his mouth. “You are all heretics here in New York. It is the holy Church of the Holy Sepulcher in the Holy Land. Where the Holy Savior was laid in the tomb after the bastard Jews crucified him. Only a Protestant would not know such a thing.”

O’Toole continued moving the dice cup up and down. Slowly. Still not ready to throw. “Careful who you’re calling a Protestant. The name’s Finbar O’Toole, born in County Galway and baptized in the True Faith before my first taste o’ mother’s milk. And have you been to see this Holy Sepulcher Church in the Holy Land?”

“Course not, how would I get there?
Jetez les dés!
Throw the dice. You win again, of course. But not until you throw.”

“And if you’ve not been to the Holy Land, and don’t know how you’d get there, how is it you’ll be giving this chalice to this church where Our Lord was three days in the tomb? If your luck changes, o’ course.”

Tintin was halfway across the table before the last word was spoken, holding O’Toole’s shirt in a bunched knot beneath his neck, his face only inches from the Irishman’s. “You accuse me of breaking a vow? You will die, man from Galway.”

The Irishman didn’t struggle against Tintin’s grip. “Aye, no doubt I will. But not tonight, you pirate toad.” O’Toole’s right hand came up and hovered close to the other man’s neck. It held a knife. “Let go of me or your blood will be all over Delight Higgins’s table.”

“Delight doesn’t tolerate fights on her premises, gentlemen. You are both newcomers here, but I assure you, the rule is strictly enforced.” The woman’s voice was low and melodious, but it hinted of iron in its sheath of silk. “If you want to fight, you go outside. Let him go Mr. Tintin. And you—Captain O’Toole, is it not? The man who brought
Canton Star
to safe harbor this very day? Welcome to the Dancing Knave, Captain.” Delight nodded to the chucker-out standing just behind her. “I assure you, Mr. Clifford’s bullwhip is not meant for decoration. Give him the knife, Captain. He’ll give it back when you leave.”

O’Toole couldn’t turn his head, but he could see the huge man standing behind Delight Higgins. Sweet Savior and all the saints, it was the man as had come to the dock to collect Gornt Blakeman’s ebony chest. This time the long leather thong hung free, ready to snap. And Vinegar Clifford wasn’t wearing a proper cutaway and a stovepipe as he had that afternoon; a black singlet and leggings showed every bulging muscle.

“Mr. Clifford, help the gentleman in the eye patch to sit down. Then take Captain O’Toole’s knife out back to be sharpened and shined.”

Clifford put his bearlike hand on Tintin’s shoulder. The Frenchman shoved it away, but at the same time he released his hold on O’Toole’s shirt and sat down.

“Excellent,” Delight said. “Now, the captain’s knife, if you please, Mr. Clifford.”

The whipper took a step forward. O’Toole handed over the knife.

“Thank you,” Delight said. “I truly appreciate your cooperation, gentlemen.”

A crowd had gathered when it seemed there would be blood spilled. They were openly disappointed.

O’Toole still held the dice cup. Delight took it out of his hand, at the same time leaning forward so her breasts were inches from the Irishman’s face.

He swallowed an excess of spit. God Almighty, make any man’s mouth water she would. Her tits were practically under his nose, magnificent, and the color of golden honey.

“A wager, gentleman,” she said. “To add spice to the evening’s entertainment. Everything on the table against this.” She unclasped her diamond brooch and laid it between the few coins scattered on the Frenchman’s side of the table and the coins in tall stacks in front of Finbar O’Toole. The grumbling voices of the customers surrounding them quieted and faded away. She had everyone’s attention now. “One throw each, my friends. Highest roll takes it all.”

“Fine for you and me,” O’Toole said. “This one,” he nodded toward Tintin, “doesn’t have a big enough stake to make the wager credible.”

A man stepped out of the crowd. O’Toole blinked. Holy Virgin and all the saints. “If the gentleman will permit, I’ll stake him.” Gornt Blakeman flipped a gold ten-dollar piece onto the table in front of Tintin. “You agree, sir?”

Tintin glanced at the coin, then turned his single eye toward Blakeman. “To what? This is not much of a stake, monsieur.”

“It will stand for a thousand. I’ve an auction to take place tomorrow on Pearl Street worth many times that, as most of the town knows. If you happen to have missed that local gossip, I assure you Captain O’Toole here can warrant it’s true. He brought my ship to harbor.” Blakeman looked at the Irishman for confirmation.

O’Toole hesitated. Blakeman and Tintin might be strangers, and then again, they might not. Could be they were somehow in league against him. Why else would Gornt Blakeman be involved? At the moment he had less need than most of Delight Higgins’s diamond brooch. The thrill of the wager then? Didn’t Finbar O’Toole understand that! Still, it didn’t seem to fit Blakeman’s character.

“No question about it,” he said, giving in to the need in his belly, the lure of the gamble. “After tomorrow Mr. Blakeman can back his wager with cash money.”

“Eh bien,”
Tintin said, leaning back, tapping the stem of the pipe against his yellowed teeth, his good eye staring straight at the other man, and nothing to be read in it but the calculation of the moment. This wager linked the three of them, Blakeman and the Irisher and himself. And the half-breed bitch. He’d seen hundreds of her sort on the block in the caves where he and Lafitte and the others divided their plunder and sold the live treasure for which they had no use. Hands tied behind their backs, stripped naked, waiting to see who would buy them and how they were to be used. Would she look so proud then?
Certainement non.
But it was Blakeman who was to be dealt with now. Perhaps the bitch would come later. “And if we win, monsieur?
Maintenant,
now, you stake ten dollars and I have not much, but at least four times that.”

“If we win,” Blakeman said easily, “I add my thousand to the pot, and you and I split equally.”

“And if we lose?”

“We lose.”

Tintin nodded. “
D’accord, monsieur.
I agree. But I roll the dice.”

“I’ve no quarrel with that.” Blakeman took a step back, into the shadows, away from the glow of the single lamp overhead.

Delight went first. She rolled a four and a three. There were loud calls of approval from the onlookers.

Finbar O’Toole rolled a one and a two. His jaw went rigid, but he said nothing.

Tintin dropped the dice into the leather cup, shook them, murmured a curse and a blessing, then spilled the dice onto the table. A five and a two.

“A tie!” Delight said. “We two must roll again.” She sounded genuinely pleased, as if entertaining her customers, all now whooping and cheering, was more important than winning the bet. She picked up the dice, shook them, and rolled two fives.

Tintin fixed her with his one eye and leaned forward to claim the cup.
“Alors, mademoiselle, comme vous dites, vous et moi…”
He scooped the dice into the receptacle, shook it briefly, and tipped it over. Only a pair of sixes or a six and a five would see him the winner. He threw a three and a four.

The crowd exploded in hoots and whistles. Delight wore a silk drawstring bag around her wrist and she loosed it and held it open. Finbar O’Toole pushed the coins inside. Delight picked up the brooch: three leaves and a stem, studded with diamonds and a few tiny pearls. “No flower,” the hawk had said when he gave it to her to mark the first anniversary of their bargain. “Your beauty supplies that.”

She turned to Blakeman. “Will you fasten this in place for me?”

Their eyes met and held for a moment. He smiled and slipped his finger between her breasts to safely fix the jewel to the red silk. “My pleasure, Miss Higgins.”

“No, Mr. Blakeman, the pleasure is mine. Shall I come tomorrow to Pearl Street to claim my thousand, or will you bring it here?”

“I’ll bring it to you personally,” he promised. “Tomorrow evening.” Then he turned and very deliberately stared up at the aerie.

Still in the hawk’s nest, Joyful was convinced he couldn’t be seen from where Gornt Blakeman stood. But the nature of that upward glance had made it a safe wager the other man knew he was there.

“Not you, necessarily,” Delight said. “Blakeman guessed that the balcony was there, a place from which someone could observe the gaming. It’s not an unusual feature in clubs such as this.”

“Possibly,” Joyful said. “But I think we should be very aware of Mr. Blakeman.” It was past three in the morning, and they were in her bedroom. The Dancing Knave was closed, the ladies slept alone in the second-floor rooms, Vinegar Clifford was in the bed that every night was trundled into place by the locked and barred front door, his whip at his side. Delight was eyeing her own bed with longing. Seated at her dressing table, she could see it reflected in the mirror, Joyful stretched on top of the counterpane, still fully dressed. “You’re not tired?” It wasn’t the question she wanted to ask—
Will you stay the night?
—but it was the only one she permitted herself. She was a fool. She should never have given in to him in the nest. Having eaten his fill, he was no longer hungry.