Leaden Skies (6 page)

Casey moved between them, blocking Inez from Mrs. Clatchworthy’s intent gaze. “Mrs. Stannert is here on a
legal
matter.” There was a firm current of warning in his explanation, as if he’d raised a cane within the sight of a child who was pushing the limits of misbehavior.

Serena raised her hands, as if in protest. “Mrs. Stannert, I am the soul of discretion. My business and Mr. Casey’s run on separate tracks. Much like our philosophies regarding—”

“Mrs. Stannert was just leaving. Perhaps you might deliver your thoughts on women’s suffrage another time,” said Casey, not unkindly.

“Well, then. Perhaps I will,” Mrs. Clatchworthy said. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Stannert. My brother is the best in the business. You’ve come to the right man.” She retreated across the foyer to a parlor opposite the law office.

Casey ushered Inez over to a walnut hallstand holding Inez’s overcoat and umbrella. These items were now balanced on the other side of the center mirror by a furled purple umbrella rimmed with gold fringe, dripping into the umbrella pan. Purple kid gloves were thrown carelessly on the marble inset shelf beneath the mirror.

Inez caught a glimpse of the parlor’s interior. Mrs. Clatchworthy, ostensibly warming herself by the painted firescreen, gazed at Inez with intense curiosity. A rocking chair held an open book, face down. Inez imagined the book whining at the mistreatment of its spine, cracked and in distress.

“I’ll be back momentarily, Serena.” Casey hastily hung Inez’s coat over her shoulders, shoved her umbrella into her hand, and walked her out the door. He let himself out as well and closed the door behind them both.

“My apologies, Mrs. Stannert,” he began. “Usually my sister’s morning constitutional lasts quite a bit longer. It must have been something truly unusual to bring her back so soon.” He stopped, his brown eyes taking in Inez’s stiff demeanor. “In any case, although we share an abode, I can assure you that Serena—Mrs. Clatchworthy—and my occupations do not intersect. She is completely dedicated to her printing press and her muses and chatters endlessly about work. I do not. She understands and respects the legal code of conduct that I adhere to.” He allowed a small smile to crease his face. “All in all, she’s quite harmless in her enthusiasms. Most likely, you’ll not cross paths again. I just wanted to reassure you that your story and our business remain confidential, as I assured you at the start.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Casey,” said Inez, recovering her voice.

“Your trust is well placed. Now, I’d better return to the office and prepare the paperwork I spoke of. Good day, Mrs. Stannert.”

Chapter Nine

“So, Mrs. Stannert, let’s drink to our partnership.” Frisco Flo held up a glass that, Inez approvingly noted, did not contain an anemic, watered-down version of whiskey, but, judging from its clarity and dark amber color, appeared to be a bourbon of the first class.

Ignoring the shot glass on her side of the table, Inez pushed the two sets of legal papers toward Flo, along with a pen. “Not until we have your signature next to mine on these papers. A signature with your legal name, I should add. No ‘Madam Frisco Flo,’ if you please. I’m not about to celebrate handing over hard-earned cash on this deal before all the i’s are dotted and the t’s crossed. Miss Florence Sweet, isn’t it? Or is that an alias as well?”

The silver bracelets on Flo’s arm tinkled as she lowered the glass and smiled sweetly. “Why, Mrs. Stannert. Do you really think so little of me that you suspect me of trying to pull the wool over your eyes? Here we are, two of the most successful businesswomen in town. Wealthy by our own efforts, at that. I’d no sooner cheat you than my own sister.”

Her smile stayed intact as she picked up the pen and drew the ink bottle to her, dipping the nib. “And actually, Mrs. Stannert, it’s
Mrs.
Florence Sweet. Mr. Sweet being departed a long time now.”

Inez watched, trying to quell a niggle of misgiving, as Flo dipped the pen and signed twice. Inez was still uncertain what force had propelled her to this particular circumstance. Only a few days earlier, Flo had flounced into the Silver Queen’s kitchen, proposing that Inez join her in a “business deal” to move the high-class brothel to a better part of town. “Closer to the mines, the business district, and all that money,” was how flo had phrased it. Inez had put the offer aside.

Or so she’d thought.

But in some faraway corner of her mind, a little voice had begun whispering, so faintly Inez had barely noticed it in the wide sweep of events before Grant’s arrival. The voice said,
You think you own a portion of the Silver Queen. That was a handshake deal between yourself, your missing husband, and his business partner. So, you want a divorce? What happens when you open this particular Pandora’s box? Will anyone believe that you, or Abe, own any part of the business? Suppose the law decides the business belongs to your husband’s heir, your son, now living with your sister? Or suppose Mark reappears? You could end up with nothing. You need something of your own. Something “just in case.” And what better business in Leadville than one that caters to men’s desires and impulses?

On and on the voice whispered, seductive as a forbidden lover. And then, with her visit to Casey, all those little misgivings flashed over into doubt.

When Flo’s doorman had appeared at the Silver Queen shortly after Inez arrived from her meeting with the lawyer, the whispers rose to a crescendo. So, she went. Splashing along in her galoshes, she ignored the chores awaiting her inside the saloon, wondering what deal Flo might offer. Her impulsive decision to accede to Flo’s request for a visit paid off. Flo was ready to move out of the State Street building, but she needed cash. Inez wanted the State Street building, but Flo was reluctant to part with it entirely. They haggled. Inez had, in short order, driven what she thought was a very good deal indeed. Their signatures, drying on the duplicate contracts, made her a silent partner, owning a third of Flo’s business, in exchange for a stake in the building on State and eventually sole ownership.

“I’d only sell the building to someone I can consider a partner. A person I can trust,” she’d explained.

Inez pondered this. “You trust me?”

“Thanks to you, I was able to take over the boarding house and business last winter,” Flo pointed out. “You essentially ran the previous madam out of town. I’m grateful for that, even though I know your actions had nothing to do with me. Still, I always thought that we had the same goal—to become independent businesswomen. Am I wrong?”

She was not.

As for the moral implications of being part-owner of a brothel, Inez pushed them aside to ponder at a more convenient time.

“One for you and one for me.” Flo slid a copy of the agreement toward Inez. Inez noted that Flo had a hand that would do a schoolmarm proud: the ink showed a careful, controlled pressure on the pen, all the letters even and well-shaped. Even the flourishes looked as if they’d been practiced until perfect.

Flo took her copy and vanished into the back room. When she reappeared, she sat across the table from Inez, brushing her hands together as if to say, “And that is that.”

“Are you ready for that drink now?” Flo asked.

Inez picked up the tumbler. Flo raised hers. The glasses clinked sweetly in crystal harmony. A single sip, blooming in sweetness and vanilla, assured Inez that Flo had chosen to honor their partnership with a good bourbon.

“Thank you for coming here,” Flo added. “I don’t usually conduct business in my own home, but last night’s circumstances made it necessary.”

With the bourbon’s aftertaste lingering in her mouth and the alcohol spreading its heat down her throat, Inez glanced around the small parlor, absentmindedly smoothing her glove in her lap. A glance was all that was needed to take in the sparse furnishings. The ubiquitous warming stove, the table, two straight-backed chairs, a rocking chair by the window. No pictures, no extra furniture, no rugs, only the most basic of curtains to block out light and a lamp to increase it. The room was bare of anything that might make a house a home. Flo’s home—little more than a two-room cottage, a block away from her bordello—put Inez in the mind of a hotel room. Easily vacated, with no hint of personality left behind, once the occupant had left.

Flo, wearing a simple maroon gown, fanned herself with a loose sheet of paper. The air stirred her slightly frizzy hair, damp from a recent rinsing and still streaked from the soot of the fire.

“The parlor house reeks of smoke,” Flo said conversationally. “But it could be worse. The door to the kitchen was closed at the time, so the damage is concentrated in the back. Still, I didn’t think you’d want to meet there. And Lynch’s would not have afforded us the privacy we need for this matter. As for coming to your saloon, the last time I paid a business call I was afraid your cook, Mrs. O’Malley, would chase me down Tiger Alley with her broom.”

Inez shifted in the chair, thinking of Bridgette O’Malley’s propensity for gossip. “Just as well. I prefer that we keep this transaction between us. A private matter.”

Flo fluffed her hair absently. “I’m so glad you were amenable to this partnership. I know you’ve had an eye on my building for a long time, as have many others. I’ve been approached—oh, I don’t know how many times—about selling it. So, you see, we both get what we want here. Once I’ve moved to Fifth, you can take over the State Street building. We remain partners in both endeavors until you buy me out.” She sighed. “I wish we were at the new house now, what with all the visitors in town. Oh well. We’ll air the old place out, apply a little perfume, and be ready to open for business tonight.” She twiddled her fingers in the air, as if waving good-bye to wishful thinking. “Time’s a-wasting, and time is money. Especially in the whoring business. The girls and me are anxious to put last night’s dreadful event behind us. We must make hay while the sun shines. Or,” she glanced out the window at the drizzle falling from a gray sky, “while it doesn’t. So, when can you have the money to me?”

“Just how soon do you plan to move?” Inez countered.

Flo scrunched her nose, calculating. “Today’s Friday. We could clear out next Thursday, after Grant leaves, and be ready for business the Friday after.”

Inez’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s very quick indeed.”

Flo continued, the old twinkle back in her voice, “I’ve been preparing for a while now. With what you’ve promised to me today, along with what I’ve saved and the investment of a third party, I can finally make my move. Me and the girls will start sorting through the house for what to take with us. As for the new place, once I have the cash from you, it’ll take next to no time to sign the papers.”

Inez sat up straighter, frowning at the unwelcome news buried in Flo’s prattle. “You have another investor? Who?”

Flo smiled again. More indulgently. “I promised you I’d not utter a peep about our business agreement. How could I do any less for my other partner? I’m a woman of my word.”

Inez regarded her narrowly.
Who, I wonder, is the third partner. A banker? A businessman or another saloon owner? Lynch, perhaps? I’m not keen on this arrangement.

Further discussion was cut short by a sudden battering at the door. It sounded as if someone was pounding with two fists.

Flo cut a look, sharp as a razor, at Inez. Inez realized that, without even thinking, she’d leapt to her feet and pulled out her pocket revolver.

The staccato beat was interrupted by a feminine wail, which resolved into the words, “Miss Flo! Oh, Miss Flo!”

Flo’s tightened expression relaxed. “One of my girls. Molly. Honestly, they get wound up about the smallest things. Probably one borrowed a necklace and broke it or some such. It was hard getting any sleep at Lynch’s last night, and everyone’s on edge. But just in case—” Flo extracted a small derringer from a hidden drawer in the table, then moved to the door and opened it.

A woman burst in, nearly tripping in her rush. Her red hair straggled about her shoulders, tears tracked through the face powder. The front of her dress, splattered dark by the rain, was buttoned crooked, leaving a gap displaying a white streak of belly. The disarranged female gave Inez not the slightest glance. She grabbed Flo’s sleeve, inarticulate.

“Molly!” Flo’s sharp tone served to stop the wordless gibbering.

“M-Miss Flo.” Molly rubbed her running nose on one sleeve. “Lizzie. She, she…”

“Jesus Christ.” Flo hissed the words with an edge of irritation. “Can’t I leave you in charge for a minute without a crisis? What happened? Did Lizzie show up at last? Is she fighting with Lynch’s whores? She better not have gotten my girls thrown out on the street. If she’s drinking, I’ll—”

“No!” Molly twisted Flo’s sleeve in her fist. “No! Not, not…Lizzie, she’s, she’s…Oh shit, Miss Flo. Lizzie’s dead! Stone-cold dead!”

Chapter Ten

Flo slapped Molly’s face. Hard. The crack of flesh on flesh sounded like a gunshot in the small room. Molly’s sobbing abruptly ceased.

“You’re lying!” snapped Flo.

Molly’s hand flew to her reddening cheek. “I’m not!” She seemed more injured by Flo’s disbelief than the actual cuff. “Lizzie’s behind the house. In the mudroom. Danny caught that mapmaker with his hands on her throat and her tit. Miss Flo, hurry, Danny’s like to kill him!”

Without a backwards glance at Inez or to stop for a hat or coat, Flo hiked up her skirts, showing an indecent length of white calf, and shot out the front door. Molly followed suit.

Thinking of the gun in Flo’s hand and the just-signed deal, Inez grabbed her umbrella and hurried out the door, slamming it behind her. She took off for the parlor house as fast as she could without showing more than her boot tops.

The contract with the lawyer lay in her pocket, rubbing against the agreement she’d signed with Flo. Casey’s envelope with its sharp corners was a stiff reminder of yet another legal promise made, both of which had surprising and unwelcome addenda appearing after the ink was dry.

Will I come to regret them both?

Chapter Eleven

Inez heard the ruckus long before she saw anything. As she approached the alleyway entrance, women’s voices rose and conquered the street noise. A knot of men hovered near the rear of Flo’s parlor house, necks craned for a better look. Inez slowed her pace, debating whether to brush on by and gather information later so as not to embroil herself in the sordid dealings of the brothel.
It’s too late for that! I’ve signed an agreement with Flo. My fortunes are tied to hers, for better or worse.

With a deep breath, she arranged her expression into one of disdainful curiosity and sidled up to the growing crowd.

The scene was not lovely.

The back wall and door of the tacked-on mudroom had vanished into smoke the previous evening along with a sizeable portion of the roof. A more-or-less three-sided, well-charred enclosure remained, open to the sky. One of Flo’s women sat on the plank that served as a stair, weeping loudly, fingers twined in brown tresses that all but hid her face. A coalscuttle lay abandoned by her feet. She blubbered, “The stove went out in our room at Lynch’s. I j-just wanted to see if there was any coal left in the kitchen.”

Flo stood just inside the destroyed mudroom, hand to her breast. The hand with the gun, Inez observed, was hidden in the folds of her dress. Flo sank onto what was left of the floorboards, looking as if she might faint. Her knees hit the damaged flooring, which protested with a loud
crack!
Molly sprang to her side, grabbing Flo’s arm lest she fall through. Flo ripped away from Molly’s grasp and leaned forward, reaching down into a hole in the flooring, reaching for a bundle of rags.

Inez stepped forward to see better and realized that the bundle wasn’t rags, but the body of a woman. A woman dressed in a soiled white wrapper, curled up on her side like an infant, her face obscured by a matted mess of long dark hair.

Up the alleyway, Danny, the brothel’s doorman, had some fellow pinned to the ground. Papers were scattered around, wet and torn, mashed into the muck. The feet and legs of the conquered were flailing as the doorman applied unknown pressure to the upper portion of the man’s torso.

Inez sensed someone even taller than herself step close behind her, nearly breathing down her neck. She turned to find Jed Elliston, editor, reporter, and owner—if one discounted the fact that his father had shoveled out the money for the business venture—of
The Independent
. She was surprised that he was upright and walking, given his plunge from the grandstand the night before. About the only damage she could ascertain was a knife-thin scrape down one side of his long-nosed, aristocratic face. The mark gave the newspaperman a slightly rakish air.

Eyes pinned to the scene before him, Jed pulled out his ever-present notepad and pencil from beneath his waterproof. Ignoring the small spits of rain that pocked the paper pad, he licked the lead with relish and elbowed his way forward through the crowd. Taking advantage of the vacuum left in his wake, Inez followed.

“Press, ’scuse me, the press, pardon. What’s going on?” Jed was now at the front of the throng, near Flo and her women. Inez slid in beside him.

The woman on the step lifted her face. With her hair trailing like snakes, she reminded Inez of a weeping Greek tragedy mask, with a touch of Medusa. “Lizzie’s dead!” she wailed. “And that one,” she pointed at the prostrate figure on the ground under Danny, “done the deed!”

A gargle exploded from beneath Danny.

Flo’s face twisted in fury. “Quit howling, Belle! Go back to Lynch’s. Stay with the other girls.” She turned to Molly and snapped, “Go get a doctor! She’s not dead. She
can’t
be!”

Molly jerked as if touched by lightning, stared wide-eyed at Flo, then turned and shoved her way through the crowd, throwing epithets at spectators who moved too slowly.

Jed took advantage of the chaos to climb the step and peer unchallenged into the hole. Inez followed suit, knowing that the curious masses behind her were also pressing forward, jostling to see better what lay under the floor.

Jed shook his head. He glanced at Inez. “Hullo, Mrs. Stannert. I’m no physician, but I’d wager this one’s left the world of the living.” He commenced his note taking, eyes pinned on the scene before him.

Inez took another step forward, and the deceased came into clear view.

At least, Lizzie certainly looked deceased, bereft of life and movement.

Her face was mottled, either badly bruised, marked by dirt, or both. Flo clutched one unresponsive hand in her own. The woman’s dead-white skin made fair-skinned Flo look ruddy by comparison.

“That’s Lizzie?” Jed’s pencil was poised over the tablet. “Does she have a last name? How long did she work for you, Mrs. Sweet?”

Flo looked up, tears straggling down her face. Then, as if just noticing the one-sided fight in the alley, she struggled to her feet and propelled herself toward Danny and his captive. Inez saw the small nickel-plated derringer flash in her hand as she crouched in the mud beside the victim. Inez, hurrying toward the trio, heard Flo say, “What did you do to her? Tell me!”

The barrel of the small two-shot pistol pressed deep into the soft skin under the older man’s jaw. His face was covered in mud; his mustache slimed with blood from what Inez presumed was a broken nose. Danny held him in a chokehold, looking within an inch of breaking his neck. It was clear the fellow lacked breath in his present position to say anything in his defense. Or to confess.

Men pressed Inez on every side. A rough elbow to her side, so sharp she felt it through the protective cage of steel corset stays, caused her to snap, “I
beg
your pardon!”

The transgressor, oblivious, wedged himself in beside her. Inez had to tip her head back to glare at his profile—young, with a dark wisp of a mustache, no detectable beard, dark pools of eyes in a face so pale that she immediately placed him as a tenderfoot from out of town. She gave him the once-over, taking in the elegant stovepipe hat, the expensive cut of his waterproof coat, the fine kid gloves and silver-headed umbrella held high. Not the sort of attire one associated with Leadville’s grimy back alleys. From the East Coast, she guessed, or perhaps San Francisco. The rapt eagerness with which he drank in the squalid scene was distinctly off-putting.

“I
never
.” Inez considered jabbing him with her umbrella to give him a taste of his own medicine.

“Pardon, ma’am.” The apologist wasn’t the young upstart, but someone behind her. The speaker squeezed between Inez and her unwelcome neighbor. Her tactile impression was of solidity, a man with muscle on him. Other than that, there was the ubiquitous bowler, rain-soaked, and a carefully curled thick brown mustache.

“Mr. Wesley.” He addressed the noisome youngster firmly, but with a certain obsequiousness. “You’re expected at the Clarendon. Your mother said that General Grant requested that everyone be ready to leave on time.”

Young Wesley gestured impatiently with the umbrella. “Just a moment longer won’t make any difference, Kavanagh. You can tell the old girl you did your level best to get me back on time, like the professional minder that you are, but the crowds didn’t allow. That’s why I provide you with a handsome bonus on top of whatever she pays you. I mean, look at them. Like pigs in the mud.” He sounded delighted.

The man named Kavanagh glanced at Inez, his face full of apology and distaste. Whether for the scene or for his employer’s behavior was unclear.

“Put him down like a damn dog, Flo!” shouted someone from the crowd. “Danny caught ’im, red-handed. One hand round her neck, other on her boobie. He don’t deserve any better than to have his head ventilated for desecratin’ poor Lizzie there.”

A chorus of “yeahs” and “rights” swirled about Inez. She sensed the mob shifting, pressing in, restless, a living breathing unity, hungry, and eager for blood.

The blast of a whistle echoed off buildings up and down the alley.

“Everyone. Back!” barked a gravelly, hoarse voice, hard, commanding. “Law. Coming through.”

Kavanagh inadvertently shouldered Inez as he turned to check the commotion at the rear.

The same voice that had called for blood now said, “Dadgummit. Party’s over. It’s The Hatchet with reinforcements.”

The Hatchet.

Dismay bit the back of Inez’s throat.

Somewhere in the rear, the solid
thwut
of a policeman’s sap hitting flesh was followed by a yelp.

Kavanagh turned to Wesley. “Mr. Wesley. The police are here. Your mother and the general wait.” The politeness was gone, the words, sharp as a whip, were made civil only by being near whisper-level.

Wesley jumped at that, glanced about guiltily, and smoothed his mustache with a gloved hand as if to gain comfort from its presence. “Oh, very well. Guess we shouldn’t keep them waiting.” His superciliousness sounded off-key, strained.

Kavanagh and Wesley eased away.

The pressure of bodies behind Inez vanished suddenly, and she stepped backwards to regain her balance. A hand closed like a steel band around her arm.

She looked up into the glowering face of The Hatchet: Patrick Ryan, Leadville policeman and duly appointed city collector of fines, fees, and taxes.

The Hatchet was a tall rail of a man. The crease that split the length of his forehead, stopping only at the bridge of his nose, looked as if it had been put there with a hatchet. A sharp nose, curved and long provided another axe-like echo. But his appearance was only part of the genesis of his nickname. The Hatchet had no compunctions about cutting down any fool who dared stand up to him and his authority. A State Street businessman or woman who refused to pay the requisite fees, sometimes several times over, was in danger of experiencing the same fate.

And no one, no one called The Hatchet “Pat,” “Paddy,” or any other diminutive. It was “Ryan” by those on the force, “Officer Ryan” or “Sir” by all others, and “The Hatchet” when he was out of hearing range.

Inez had taken care to cultivate a neutral relationship with the local law: the city marshal, county marshal, the deputy federal marshal, the ordinary beat police officers, and the local merchants’ Protective Patrol deputies, who, to the dismay of the city council, stopped crime more effectively than the city’s police force. However, The Hatchet was another matter. As city collector, he had staked out State Street as his own private fiefdom. Given that the city’s biggest source of revenue came from fees and fines imposed on prostitution, gambling, and various aspects of the liquor trade, The Hatchet’s near constant presence was expected, and dreaded, by most State Street denizens and merchants.

Right now, The Hatchet stared at Inez, suspicion narrowing his dust-colored eyes into slits. He moved her incrementally to the side, out of his path, and released his grip, before continuing his advance on Flo, Danny, and their injured prisoner. Officer Kelly, one of Leadville’s finest, trailed in The Hatchet’s wake. Inez recognized Kelly by his beacon of red hair and his cheerful demeanor, maintained even when dealing with obnoxious drunks and hysterical dancehall girls. He stopped when The Hatchet stopped, examined the scene with bemusement, and looked to his partner for direction.

The Hatchet spoke. “What’s the trouble here, Flo? Molly was near hysteria, running half-clothed down the street. That kind of thing don’t make a good impression on the bigwigs visiting town.”

“To hell with them! And to hell with you, too!” shouted Flo, sounding more and more frantic. “I sent for the doctor. Where is he?”

The Hatchet dropped his voice, which still had volume enough to carry into every straining ear in the narrow alleyway. “Too late for the doctor, Flo. I told Molly to get the undertaker. Now give me that pistol.” He held out his hand.

She dug the business end of the small revolver further into her victim’s neck. He coughed, spraying blood and mud onto the knees of her skirts. “Fuck you, Hatchet.”

“Flo, don’t make this worse than it is. You’re disturbing the peace. Don’t add murder to it.”

Flo turned on him, teeth bared. The look on her face put Inez in mind of a cornered dog, fear and madness warring in the eyes. “You
dare
take his side!”

She jerked the pistol away from the prone man and toward the city collector. The shot echoed off the boards and bricks of the surrounding buildings.

The Hatchet, untouched, yanked the gun from her before the echoes had died. He gestured Kelly over, who grabbed Flo by the waist and hauled her to her feet, even as she swore and kicked.

The tiny gun disappeared into The Hatchet’s pocket as he addressed his partner in a voice loud enough to be heard by the avid crowd. “Add assault on an officer to the list, Officer Kelly.” He turned to Danny. It wasn’t necessary to say anything to Flo’s doorman. He let go of his victim, after first mashing the hapless fellow’s face into the mud for good measure, and stepped back.

Hatchet looked at the injured man and said, “Get up.”

He got to his knees, coughing, hand covering his nose. Blood dripped between his fingers. Inez got a good view of the top of his head, the thinning brown hair streaked with gray.

“On your feet.” The Hatchet hooked an armpit and hauled the battered man upright.

Recognition dawned for Inez as she registered the face beneath the mud and blood.

The man that almost got his head kicked in by Lucy last night. The man I saw behind Lynch’s during the fire.

The Hatchet recognized him as well. “Cecil Farnesworth. That’s your moniker, right? You’re making maps for that fire insurance company back East.”

“How, how do you know me?” His voice was faint with pain.

“I know everything that goes on in this part of town and the folks that’re doing it. That’s my job. And if something’s going on that I
don’t
know about, I get real testy. I don’t like mysteries, like finding you here. So talk quick and don’t leave out anything. What’re you doin’ behind Flo’s burnt-up building with your hands all over a dead whore?”

“The damage. To the structure. From last night’s fire. I came to see. Also, I need to finish my maps of the building.” Cecil dabbed his nose with his sleeve, attempted to straighten his muddy celluloid collar, half torn and hanging from its collar studs. “I’ve nothing to do with any of this.”