The Broken Lands (22 page)

“Mmm.” She folded her hands primly while Oliver set an empty cup and saucer on the bar before her. Sam stared at him. He had put Jin's coffee in an actual coffeepot, and was now pouring it out for her like a proper waiter. Then he presented her with a plate of rolls and scones and tea cakes arranged with what looked like an attempt at artful placement. And then, while Sam watched in utter disbelief, he set out little matching pots of butter, honey, and red jam, and a little silver butter knife and coffee spoon on an honest-to-God folded linen napkin.

“What?” Oliver demanded.

“I didn't know this place had silverware, is all,” Sam observed mildly.

By way of reply, Oliver sniffed and put a pair of tongs in the bowl of sugar cubes. “I don't bring it out for heathens like you, is all, Sam.” He waved his hand at Jin as she dug a little purse out of her bag. “It's on the house. Sam's a regular. Yell if you want anything.” He walked to a chair at the opposite end of the bar where he promptly disappeared behind a newspaper.

“A regular?” Jin said, eyeing Sam dubiously. “This is a pretty fancy breakfast to have every day.”

“It's not my usual.” Sam refilled his cup from the coffeepot. “Oliver's just trying to impress you.”

“What on earth for?” she asked, spreading jam on a scone.

Because he's my friend and he can tell that I like you.
“Darned if I know. What kind of jam is that?”

“Strawberry, I think. When do you usually start playing cards?”

“Normally I'd be set up already, but today, who knows?” Sam nodded across the plaza. “There's a guy who's trying to take over my spot. We're working out what to do about it.”

Jin turned and followed Sam's gaze. “In the crowd over there?”

“Yep. The guy in the porkpie hat.”

“Shall I blow him up?” Jin asked, eyeing the sharper while she took a bite of scone.

Sam turned to stare at her. In the corner, Oliver dropped his newspaper and any pretense that he hadn't been listening in. “Can you do that?” he asked incredulously.

Jin patted her pockets, then reached for the rucksack and peered inside. “Well, no,” she admitted. “Probably not with what I have on me right now.”

“Thanks for the offer anyhow,” Sam said, reaching for a roll.

“Wait a minute,” Oliver interrupted. “What
could
you do with what you've got on you right now?”

“Let's see.” She peered into the rucksack again. “I have the fixings for several sorts of loud noises, a few good flares and flashes, and a fair quantity of smoke. Can you think of any way that might be useful?”

Sam considered for a moment. An idea began to take shape. It wouldn't get his spot back, but it would cause some trouble and humiliation for the sharper, which was something.

“Hmm. Maybe.”

 

They ate their breakfast, then Sam strolled casually over to the betting table, hands in his pockets, and waited until the sharper looked up at him and smiled a self-satisfied grin. “You here to play, kid?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied. “You got a minute for a game?”

“Sure, sure. Have a seat.”

Sam let go of the little cluster of firecrackers he'd been holding through the lining of the left pocket. He shook his foot unobtrusively as he slid onto the stool opposite the dealer and felt the crackers slide down his pant leg and out onto the ground. He toed them into place under the table.

“Good of you to stop by and say hello. Guess you know a few of your colleagues stopped by this morning, too,” the man said, flipping the three creased cards face-up on the table to show the queen of spades, ace of hearts, and ten of clubs, then flipping them back over. “Thought you might do something stupid like get bent out of shape.”

“Nah.” Sam sat with his arms folded while the dealer manipulated the cards in a halfhearted effort to hide the queen, the first-round move that was meant to let the mark win easily. “Best man wins.” Sam tapped the left card when the dealer finished.

“Jacta alea est,”
the sharper said with a grin. He flipped it over to reveal the jack of clubs—which hadn't even been one of the original three he'd put on the table.

Holy Mother of . . .
Sam could only hope he managed to hide his shock.
When on earth had he performed that switch?
Sam had actually been watching for it, but when he hadn't seen it, he'd just figured the dealer was going through the standard routine, allowing Sam to choose correctly in the first round of play.

The outrageous way he'd stacked Sam's deck the day before yesterday had been impressive. But
this
. . .

The sharper gave him a narrow smile. “You got one thing right, kid. Best man wins. Now, did you want something?”

Sam swallowed his disbelief and leaned across the table. “I came to warn you. There's going to be a sweep of West Brighton today. The cops are doing a nice big visible roundup of suspects for some big bugs from Gravesend. You picked a bad day to set up.”

“And why on earth would you possibly want to warn me?” He swept up the cards and tossed them back down. Queen of spades, ace of hearts, ten of clubs, just like before. “That's baloney.”

“This was my spot, and I haven't given up on it,” Sam hissed. That much, at least, was true. “You get pinched here, everyone's watching whoever deals here from now on. It's spoiled for everyone.” He looked down at the table and rolled his eyes. “You really need me to go through the motions? There's no queen to find.”

The dealer grinned and flipped over all three cards to reveal three queens of spades. Then he hid them and flipped them once more: queen of spades, ace of hearts, ten of clubs.

He'd done it so fast, any of the five or so folks watching would have doubted their own eyes, wondering if they'd even seen the row of queens in the first place.

“Now you're just showing off,” Sam protested, dumb­founded.

“Yeah. Look, kid, thanks for the warning, but no thanks. I'm pretty sure you're full of it.” The sharper sat back again, eyeing Sam from under the narrow brim of his hat. “Now, put down a bet or get up and let somebody who wants to win some money in. I'm here to play cards, and you're no challenge.”

“I'm no challenge, but some guy on holiday's gonna be?” Sam shrugged and stood. “I tried.” Then he turned and left, playing out a whisper-thin length of fuse through a hole in his pocket and down his pant leg as he went.

Fifteen yards from the betting table, Jin passed behind Sam, heading for the waterfront, and as she did, he felt a tug on the fuse he was still playing out. He let go of the end he was holding and kept on walking. When he reached the nearest bench, he sat and leaned back to watch the proceedings.

At the betting table, another player was just sitting down to try his luck. Midway between the sharper's table and the spot where Sam sat, Jin crouched. She appeared to be making an adjustment to her shoe. Her bent knee would keep the sharper and his marks from seeing what she was really up to, but from his angle Sam could see her pocket lighter flare as she touched it to the end of the fuse.

She straightened and kept walking toward the water. Sam began to count silently.
One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand . . .

The spark burning its way along the fuse toward the table was all but invisible.

Eight one thousand, nine one thousand, ten one thousand.

Sam stood up and stretched. In the saloon across the plaza, Oliver let out an earsplitting whistle.

The holidaymakers and honest customers just clapped hands over their ears or shot glares of annoyance toward the saloon, but the man in the porkpie hat knew a warning call when he heard one. Right about now, he would be wondering if Sam could possibly have been telling the truth about the police raid.

Sure the sharper would look at him first, Sam hammed up a panicked reaction and sprinted into an alley. He looked back just in time to see the payoff: the spark reached the end of the fuse, and the little cluster of crackers exploded into a burst of smoky staccato reports that sounded exactly like gunshots.

Never mind that the “gunshots” were coming from under the table, or that smoke was pouring from there, too, and a lot of it. The sharper reacted to the sound and confusion just as Sam had figured he would. He plunged out of the smoke, sprinted through the crowds, and disappeared into the alleys west of Culver Plaza, leaving his abandoned mark and a few onlookers staring after him and coughing in confusion.

 

Jin, who'd had to make an about-face to run after Sam, caught up a moment later. “It worked!” she said delightedly, grabbing his hands gleefully and without thinking.

Sam smiled and winced at the same time. Of course, she realized a second too late, she'd just squeezed his burned fingers, which was only very slightly more embarrassing than the fact that she'd grabbed them in the first place.

She let go and composed herself. “Well. You do find interesting ways to entertain a girl.”

Sam bowed. “I do what I can. Of course, now we're going to have to avoid Culver Plaza for a bit. How about a walk by the water? The beach isn't far.”

She smiled, remembering the wonderful feel of sand under her bare feet. “All right.”

They cut between two buildings and through a little grove of painted bathhouses. When they reached the spot where the wooden walkway ended and the sand began, Jin stopped. “Sam. Is it permissible . . . do people walk there without shoes?”

By way of answer, he just held out his hand.

She took off her slippers. Then she hesitated. “You want to look, don't you?” she asked quietly.

He did—she could tell he did—but he lied and shook his head. “Nope. I just want you to enjoy the sand while you're here.”

“I'm missing toes,” she said casually. “Still curious?”

“I'm not going to—” Sam stared at her.
“What?”

“It's a result of the binding.”

Sam stopped in his tracks and looked at her. “Why would you tell me that?”

Jin balked. “I . . . well—” It occurred to her a moment too late that what she should've said was “I said it because it's true.” The problem was that it
wasn't
true.

“Are you really?” he persisted.

“Missing toes?”

“Yes,” he said patiently.

She hesitated again. “I said it,” she began, “because I wanted to make you ashamed if you thought of looking.”

“And I am. I was trying to be polite, but of course I thought of looking, and I'm properly ashamed now. So tell me, are you really missing toes?”

She took a deep breath. “No. I'm not,” she admitted. “Girls do lose toes to bound feet, but I didn't. I'm sorry. I just wanted . . . I wanted to make sure you—after last night . . . I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied—”

“It's okay,” Sam interrupted. “Give me your shoes. I'll carry them for you.”

Jin stared at him. “That's all?”

He shrugged. “What else am I going to say? I won't look. I told you I wouldn't. I will, however, carry your shoes if you let me.”

Jin did, and they walked on.

“By the bye, you should probably not mention to my uncle what I've been up to,” she said as they threaded a path through beachgoers in woolen bathing costumes and other folks in summer suits and dresses strolling to the water's edge.

“You mean he wouldn't approve of your being barefoot on the beach, or he's really convinced I'm too big a fool to be trusted with anyone's safety?”

Jin gave a little snort. “He absolutely thinks you're a fool, but that isn't what I meant. The explosives. The way I used them today, and yesterday with those boys.”

“I won't tell him anything. I guess today's adventure might've been a little questionable, but why yesterday? You were defending yourself. Sort of.”

“Sort of.” Jin hopped out of the way of a wave, and her feet sank into the delightfully cool, wet sand. “But Uncle Liao would not be proud of how much I enjoy doing things like that, so it's probably best not to mention it at all. When one is forced to use weapons, one isn't supposed to do it with relish. Uncle Liao already loves to tell me about what a disappointment I would be to Lao Tzu. Anyway, don't mention it.”

“Who's Lao Tzu?”

“Uncle Liao's favorite philosopher.” Jin let the next wave wash across her ankles and smiled down at the receding water. Then the smile faded. “Should we check in with your friends at the Reverend Dram? In case they have any sort of news?”

Sam looked at her sadly. “I was really hoping to keep you from thinking about all of that.”

“I know you were. But you can't take that memory away.” Jin met his gaze. “That isn't the only reason I came to meet you today, though.”

“Really?” Sam asked, smiling a little foolishly.

“I also felt like blowing something up,” she said, keeping her face perfectly straight.

Sam blinked. Then he burst into laughter. “Fine. Come on. But I'm telling your uncle you said that.”

Mammon's Alley was quiet, almost peaceful—but then again, Jin thought as Sam shouldered open the door of the Reverend Dram, it was early by saloon standards.

“Hello?” he called.

Walter Mapp looked up from where he sat, leaning against the piano and reading the paper. “Ahoy there. You two looking for a beer already?”

“We got customers?” Jasper Wills called from behind the bar.

“No, Jasper. Stay where you are. Someone,” Mapp said, winking at Sam and Jin, “dropped a case of bottled beer back there, and now has a bit of a mess to clean up.”

“We were hoping for news,” Sam told him.

Mapp folded the paper and leaned on his knees. “I wish I had news for you, Sam.”