The Good Thief (7 page)

Vendors were selling their goods right on the street, barking and haggling as money was exchanged and the buyers sorted through the wares. A fisherman took hold of a wriggling octopus and ripped off a leg before adding it to a scale set up on the dock. A sailor lifted a monkey over his head. A group of women dressed as if they were going to a party, in satin gowns and lace shawls, broke open a crate of glasses and began inspecting them, right there on the ground. A soldier opened an umbrella and held it against the sun. The painted green paper changed the color of the light. Above the crowd the masts of the tall ships shot straight to the clear blue sky. A group of dirty children were climbing from one mast to the other, and shouting, and balancing on the ropes and swinging off them into the harbor. Hovering over it all was the stench of fish.

Ren had smelled the fish from miles away, before they even reached the town itself. The horse and cart had rounded a corner and they were suddenly surrounded by the rotten scent, as if they had stepped into a fog. The odor pushed away the image of the farmer’s wife, which had been haunting Ren since they’d left the farmhouse, and by the time they reached the wharf he could no longer distinguish the smell from anything else.

The sun reflected off the water, and Ren lifted his hand to shield his eyes. He had never seen the ocean before, and now it laid itself out before him, the waves rippling together in patterns of light, spreading out toward the horizon, a giant roiling creature of openness and space. It was as if Ren’s forehead had unlocked, and the breeze coming off the waves was channeling through him, pushing all the cluttered thoughts in his mind aside, clearing room for something new and exciting to move in.

He peered over the edge of the dock. Clumps of brown seaweed swayed back and forth in the tide, like fields in a storm. Mussels and periwinkles covered the rotting wood, along with bands of sharp white barnacles. Seagulls rested on the tips of pilings or dove overhead, screeching and fearless.

Benjamin led the horse away from the water, and they crossed three streets, cobblestones giving way to dirt and sand alleys. Wooden row houses lined up on either side, the homes of sailors in port for a few weeks only, or fishermen waiting for the next trip to the Grand Banks. The road squeezed close as it wove between the buildings, until there was barely space enough for the cart to fit through.

Ahead two women were talking to a soldier. They were dressed in colorful layers, with low-cut bodices and painted cheeks. One of the women was lifting her skirt, and the other had her hands around the soldier’s waist. Benjamin had to slow the wagon to fit by the group. He kept his face hidden as they passed, but Ren was curious. He had never seen women like this before. He turned around so that he could keep watching, and the soldier grinned at him, then winked.

They stopped the cart two streets down, in front of an abandoned building. The windows were boarded up and the brick blackened, as if it had been through a fire. Benjamin handed Ren the reins and opened a broken wooden gate into a small yard. He tied the horse and led Ren to the back, where they stood before a rusted door that didn’t quite fit on its hinges. He knocked. They waited. He knocked again. There was a sound of shuffling inside.

“Who’s there?” A low voice came through the cracks.

“It’s only me,” Benjamin said. “Let us in.”

Ren heard a fumbling of metal locks. A heavyset man with a full red beard opened the door as carefully as a prison cell, then stood in the entrance, blinking at them. His shirt looked like it had been slept in, and there was a stain down one side of his pants.

“You’re looking good,” said Benjamin.

“Liar,” said the man. “Who’s this? Another victim?”

“My son,” Benjamin said.

“Ha!” said the man.

“Are you letting us in or not, Tom?”

The man muttered something to himself, then stood aside and let them pass.

There was a small flight of stairs down into a cellar room. The floor was hard-packed dirt, the walls whitewash over stone. There was a shoddy sunken bed and a table with two chairs. On the table was a candle and several pipes knocked out onto a plate. Next to the bed was a row of bottles.

“Entertaining?” Benjamin asked.

“Not lately,” said Tom. He eyed Ren warily.

Benjamin picked up a pipe and cleaned out the bowl with his finger. It came out black with soot and he used it to write on the table— A, B, C.He turned to Ren. “This man used to be a teacher.”

Ren was afraid, suddenly, that Benjamin would leave him here. “I already know how to spell.”

“See how smart he is?” Benjamin took one of the bottles and poured out a drink. “I thought we could use some help.”

“With what?” said Tom. “We need to move on. We can’t be dragging a child along.”

“This isn’t a child.” Benjamin took hold of Ren’s sleeve and pushed it up, revealing his scar. “This is a gold mine.”

Tom squinted, then shook his head. “For God’s sake, Benji,” he said.

“This boy’s been mine for twenty-four hours, and I’ve been given a good meal, a smoke, a place to sleep, and come into possession of a horse and wagon.”

“You’re going to use him, then, for what—bait?”

“He’s going to open doors. Enough for us to get in.” Benjamin reached over and took the whiskey away, just as Tom was about to pour a glass.

“You don’t know anything about children,” Tom said. “They’re nothing but trouble. Little monsters.”

“He’ll be our little monster,” said Benjamin.

Tom slumped in his seat. He offered no more arguments. Benjamin waited another minute, then returned the whiskey to the table. The schoolteacher snatched it and poured a drink for himself.

“It’s decided, then.” Benjamin gave a nod, and Ren could see that his staying had never truly been in question. Tom sulked and sipped at his drink, and Benjamin cleaned his glasses before folding them carefully and slipping them into his pocket. “Now I have to unhitch the horse before somebody else steals it,” he said, and he turned and walked back up the stairs.

As soon as they were alone, Tom emptied out Ren’s pockets. There wasn’t much to be found. The three stitched letters of Ren’s name were tossed on the table, along with the rock that Ichy had given him. Then The Lives of the Saints came out from his sleeve. Tom took the volume over to the candle and studied it. By the light Ren could see that the man was younger than he’d thought. His lips were chapped, his beard stuck out in tangles, and his eyes were a deep sea-green, like the water they’d passed along the harbor. Tom checked the spine, ran his fingers along the leather, then opened the cover and began to read. He frowned as he turned the pages. Ren wished that Benjamin would return.

“Do you actually believe this?” Tom said at last.

“No,” Ren said, although he did.

Tom turned the book over and ran his palm across it. “Could be worth something.”

“I don’t want to sell it.”

“That’s not for you to decide.” Tom reached underneath his beard and began to pick at the skin there.

Ren looked around the room at the painted stone walls, the empty bottles, and the caved-in bed. “Do you really live here?”

“For the past month I have.” Tom put the book on the table and now thrust his other hand underneath his beard and continued scratching, his fingers lost in the mass of red hair. “We go from place to place. Wherever the job takes us.”

“What job?”

“Hard to say,” said Tom. “It’s always changing. As Ophelia said, We know what we are, but know not what we may be. ” He pulled something from his beard and rolled it between his fingertips before flicking it onto the floor. “Mostly we sell things.”

“What kind of things?”

Tom leaned over so that his face was level with the boy’s, his green eyes searching, as if he were deciding whether or not to trust him. When Ren did not look away, Tom pointed to a suitcase in the corner. “Go on,” he said. “Open it.”

The case was made of wood, with leather straps to hold it together. Ren brushed a bit of dust from the top, then pushed the strap through the buckle and undid the pin. The case fell open with a crash. It was full of small glass bottles, about two dozen, each stopped with a cork and each with the same handwritten label: Doctor Faust’s Medical Salts for Pleasant Dreams.

“Is that all that’s left?” Benjamin stood in the doorway.

“All I could save,” said Tom. “The rest are the property of the state of New Hampshire.”

Benjamin picked up one of the bottles, uncorked it, and sniffed the top. “I think we may have used too much opium.”

“I don’t think that’s even a question.” Tom nudged Ren with his elbow. “He turned the last mayor’s wife into a hop fiend.”

“Not on purpose,” said Benjamin.

“All the same,” said Tom. “I don’t think we should sell any more.”

“We’ll dilute it.” Benjamin turned the bottle over in his hand, then held it to the light. “We’ll call it something else. Rewrite the labels.”

“I’d rather rob a bank,” said Tom.

It was clear that the men had known each other for years, maybe longer. They spoke easily and cursed without losing their tempers. Tom was full of bluster, but Ren could see that he constantly wavered, and it took only a breath from Benjamin to decide the place he was going to fall.

“We’ll wait until the spring,” said Benjamin. “When we’re ready to move on. Then we’ll start selling again.”

Tom wiped his face. “Fine.”

“Is there any money left?”

There was an awkward silence and then Tom began to laugh. Benjamin smiled too, as if he had been expecting this. He reached for one of the pipes on the table. He took a bit of tobacco from the pouch in his coat and pressed it into the head of the pipe with his thumb. “Then we should go fishing. Before the ground freezes.”

“We’ll need another shovel.”

“What happened to the one I bought?”

Tom lifted the bottle.

Benjamin shook his head. “One day you’re going to sell your soul.”

Tom poured out another drink. “Yours, too,” he said.

“Why do you need a shovel to go fishing?” Ren asked.

The men looked uncomfortable for a moment. Then Tom pointed a finger at Benjamin. “I told you,” he said. “Little monsters.”

Benjamin lit the pipe in his hand with the candle. He drew on the mouthpiece, and a thin stream of smoke passed through his lips. “We need a shovel to find the worms.”

Ren leaned against the table. The smell of the tobacco made him feel faint. He hadn’t eaten anything since their meal at the farmer’s. He’d been hoping for some supper, and now he realized that he probably wouldn’t get any that day, or maybe the next, if Benjamin didn’t catch any fish. His stomach growled at the thought and the men stopped talking.

“It’s hungry,” Tom said.

“There’s got to be something here.” Benjamin searched through the empty cupboards, pulling out drawers.

Tom tried to pour another glass, but the bottle was done. He scowled. “So big when you were setting off. I knew you’d come back empty-handed.”

“I’m not empty-handed,” Benjamin said. “I have a boy.”

T
he sign outside the shop read:MR. JEFFERSON’S
NEW
,
USED
&
RARE
. It was a dusty storefront, the paint worn thin from the salt air. Ren tried to peer in the window, but it was blocked with books, the pages rumpled, the spines faded and torn.

A small bell rang as they opened the door. The room was dark enough that there were candles lit, even though it was the middle of the day. There seemed to be no shelves in the shop. Just piles of books of various heights, all the way up to the ceiling, leaning against the wall, scattered across a table or underfoot.

“Buying or selling?” The voice came from somewhere on their right, behind a mound of anatomical sketchbooks.

“Selling,” said Benjamin.

“Well,” said a stout black man, now climbing over the pile. “I hope it’s interesting.” He was of average height and perhaps sixty years old, with long white sideburns and a well-made but worn charcoal gray suit. There were several pins affixed to his jacket, a starched collar around his neck, and, tucked into his vest, a bright green handkerchief.

“Is Mister Jefferson in?” Benjamin asked.

“I’m Mister Jefferson,” said the man.

Benjamin paused for only a moment. Then he reached into his coat pocket and handed over The Lives of the Saints .

Jefferson moved a pile of biographies and a set of dictionaries from the table and put them on the floor. Then he brought several of the candles and arranged them around Ren’s book. He did this all very carefully and surely, and once everything was settled he took a pair of glasses from his coat pocket and began to inspect the volume, checking the seams of the leather, turning the pages, slipping the tip of his smallest finger into the spine and wiggling it back and forth.

Ren felt cheated as he watched Mister Jefferson determine the price. The Lives of the Saints belonged to him, and he did not want to part with it, even though it was all they had to bargain with. He strayed to a table nearby, piled high with small leather-bound volumes. One of them had an etching of an Indian on the cover, with a necklace of bear claws and two feathers dangling from his ear. Ren turned his head and read the title— The Deerslayer.