The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1) (18 page)

I heard the door close behind me and poured myself a drink.  Why would Turkish magelings come all the way to New York to march in a parade, and how could they come without my knowing?  One or two visiting magelings could escape my notice, but a score? I would notice that kind of influx in power.

I thought about the Vanderlay’s trip to Palestine. The kidnapping took place before the dignitaries’ ship came in, but there had to be a connection.  I’d have to see for myself.  But that was for another day. I’d have to sleep all day and regain as much strength as possible. On the morrow, I marched to war. 

The battleground was some gambling den in the Fourth Ward called The Bloody Knuckle.

Jonas

The air was filled with tension and French perfume.  Hendricks and I sat upstairs in The Bloody Knuckle.  We commandeered one of the lady’s rooms for our own so we could prepare for Hendricks’s beating.

“Why are you sitting on the floor?” I asked Hendricks, who was sitting Injun style with his back against the wall and his eyes closed.  He didn’t answer right away, so I nudged him on the shoulder.

“I need quiet, please,” he said without opening his eyes.

I paced across the room.  I could hear the crowd underneath us cheering for the undercard.  From the sound of it, the crowd near overflowed the warehouse.  Smokestack was right about tonight’s payday.  All Hendricks had to do was go down in the thirty-seventh round, and we’d be swimming in jack.

“Is this some wizard thing?” I asked.

He opened his eyes.  “You couldn’t be quiet for five minutes?”

“I was quiet…I’m anxious.  This is the biggest night in our lives.  This is where it all changes.  Don’t you feel it?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m sitting here with my eyes closed,” he said.  “Your father taught me this.  It’s harder to channel energy when nervous.  I have to realign myself with my cross.  Now, if you don’t mind?”  Hendricks closed his eyes again and hummed one long note.

There was a gentle knock on the door.  I opened it, and Wythe’s friend—the one he called Mehmet—stood there.  He was dressed the same as at the base-ball game.  The one difference was a silver pin on his vest in the shape of a serpent.

“Excuse me, sir, may I have a word?” Mehmet said in a very quiet voice.  He eyed Hendricks off to the side.

“Where’s your captain?”

“My apologies,” he said, “but Captain Wythe will not be attending tonight.  I am here in his stead.  May I have a word?”  His words sounded forced and practiced.  English was not his
forte
.

I let him in and closed the door behind him.  “May I ask why Wythe isn’t coming?”

“The captain must attend to other,” he paused and muttered something indecipherable, “endeavors.” He nodded enthusiastically, like he just had a personal triumph.  “I am here to place his bet.  You are here to tell me which round.”

“Thirty-seven,” I mumbled.  I couldn’t help but think that something was afoot with Wythe.  Maybe he had more to do with Vanderlay than he was letting on. The thrill of the chase was on me again.  I resolved to follow Mehmet when the fight was over.

“Good luck,” Mehmet said. He turned on his heel and slipped out of the room with nary a sound.  I closed the door louder than I intended.

“Was someone here?” said Hendricks.  “I thought I heard something.”

“The wind.”

I stepped out into the common room.  The ladies were busy tonight.  The couches and chairs were all filled with amorous men and their rented companions.  The sound of horizontal refreshments came from behind the other doors.

Despite the temptation, now was not the time for the ladies.  Now was the time for booze.

I went downstairs and bought a cup of beer.  The opening fight must’ve just ended because the barroom quickly filled up with patrons.  I blew away the foam and swallowed the dark, bitter drink.  There were subtle hints of chocolate, and it was thick as stew.  It sat in my stomach like a stack of oat cakes.

I spied Leenie across the room, ending a dance with some b’hoy in red wool.  I put my mug down and touched her on the shoulder.  “A dance?” I said.

She smiled at me. “Of course, sir.”  I took her in my arms and we waltzed to the music.  She smelled like strawberries.

“Are ya any closer ta findin’ who killed Molly?” she asked.

“No.  I don’t think we’re going to.  Either Smokestack’s the best liar that I’ve ever seen, or he didn’t do it.”

She grimaced and set her jaw.  “I never thought ya’d find ‘em.  I was hopin’, I dunno, I was hopin’ some fairy godmudder would come and make it all better.  That was dumb.  You can’t wish an’ pray fer magic wands and dancin’ elves.  You ken count on yerself an’ tha’s it.”

“If all this goes through, if we’re able to leave and go west, will you come with us like Smokestack offered?”

“It’s a better life than here, an’ I ken get Molly’s baby from the orphanage.  I dunno what your friend expects of me.  I’m not gonna be his personal whore.  I’m not gonna lie on me back and close me eyes for ‘em.  I didn’t do it for Smokestack an’ I’m not gonna do it fer him.”

“Hendricks doesn’t want that.  He’s scared to even touch you.  He wants to court you like a lady.”

She snorted.  “You rich men’re all the same.  We’re either whores or angels.  I’m neither.  I’m meself, and tha’s good enough.  If he wants me, he’ll have ta see that.”

“He’s a kid.  He’ll learn.”

“He’s older than me.  How is it that I know an’ he don’t?”

The song ended, but before a second began, Smokestack cut between us.  “Willis, can I speak with ya?”

He put his arm around me like a brother and guided me away from Leenie.  “Is Preacher ready tonight?”

“He’s a-gittin there.”

“Good. Can he last until round thirty-seven?”

I nodded.  Thirty-seven rounds with the former champion was a lot to ask of him.  I hoped he was up to the challenge.

Smokestack pointed to the side. “You see that big fella over there?”

I looked to where he was pointing.  It was the big, hairy man from the other night.  He was decked all in brown, with a brown plug hat resting precariously on his head.  I couldn’t even imagine his hat size.  “I see ‘em.”

“They call him Grizzlemaw.  He put a lot of jack on Preacher, and he’s not gonna be happy when he loses.  Those are his lads with him.  He brought more than I expected.” His eyes fell to my waist.  “That barker on your hip for show, or can you shoot that thing?”

“I reckon I can shoot the wings off a fly, if he’s tryin’ to shoot me first.”

“Good,” he said and slapped me on the back.  “They’re almost done cleaning off the blood from the last fight.  Go get your boy.” 

When I opened the door to Hendricks’s room, he was on his knees and praying.

“Are you ready?” I asked him.

He got off of his knees and shook out the stiffness.  “I’m ready.”

“Gentlemen, take your seats.  This is the moment you’ve been waiting for.”  Smokestack stood in the middle of the ring, which still had blood stains from the previous bout.  He waved his hat as he spoke, emphasizing the right words to work the crowd.

It worked, the crowd sat on the edge of their benches, hollering for action.  I had never seen the warehouse so packed with people: Irish and English, uppertens and roughs.  Several of the local gangs were represented.  I saw about a dozen known Bowery Boys and a few Daybreak Boys, including their leader Slobbery Jim.  I looked for Mehmet and found him next to a pair of sailors.

In the front row of another set of risers, surrounded by very curious companions, was Grizzlemaw.  His friends wore their shirt tails out of their pants, and from the look of the lumps under their shirts, they were well-armed.

Hendricks got my attention.  “Those men in the front, I’m sure they’re Veil Dwellers.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know.”

“Smokestack said that the big one in the middle wagered a mean stack on you.  Smokestack thinks he’s trouble.  Make sure to save some magic in case of calamity.”

Hendricks wiped his brow with his handkerchief.  “You’re asking too much of me.  I can’t take a beating for forty rou—”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Thirty-seven rounds and still weave magic. I’m not as strong as your father, not by miles.”

“Then we might have to make a quick exit.” I looked around, and didn’t see any quick exits.  At least Shadow was sitting near Grizzlemaw and his b’hoys.  If he had to, he could put a bullet in Grizzlemaw’s giant head and end the riot before it started.

Somehow I went from hitting drunks with a daystick to planning an assassination.  Maybe the Munis isn’t the right place for me.

Smokestack continued to work the crowd, finally getting to the introductions.  He pointed to Hendricks, the first time in a long time that he was announced first.

“In this corner, defending the green handkerchief, we have the undefeated phenomenon, the holy terror, the minister of destruction, The Bloody Knuckle’s own defending champion, Preacher Hendricks!”

The cheers nearly blew the walls down as Hendricks stepped into the ring.  Every gang and seedy b’hoy that thought Preacher was a certainty began to cheer.  The ones that came to see Hyer’s return looked very confused.

“And now entering the arena,” continued Smokestack.  “Making his triumphant return to the ring after four years of retirement, the greatest boxer that has ever lived, Tom Hyer!”

The crowd exploded as Tom Hyer entered from a side door.  He was already shirtless, with a belt of handkerchiefs—the spoils of dozens of fights—slung over his shoulder.  He was a slightly balding man, with a trim mustache, sharp beard, and soup bones for hands. I’d seen him box once before, and he didn’t look quite as fit as he did back then.  I suppose that age and retirement will do that to a man.  Even so, a man like that could knock out a horse with his bare hands.

Hyer stepped into the ring and tied off his belt of handkerchiefs.  He shook hands with Hendricks.  He was the first boxer to do so.

“You know the rules.  Today’s odds are two to one in favor of Hyer.  As always, The Bloody Knuckle pays five to one if you name the round.”  Smokestack stepped out of the ring.  He gave me and Hendricks a look and grinned.  The two boxers toed the line, and Smokestack rang the bell.

Hyer waited, waving his left hand from side to side, showing openings for Hendricks to attack.  Once the boos began, Hendricks obliged him with a straight jab.  Hyer slapped the jab out of the way and snapped off two quick lefts.  Hendricks, his magic cushioning the blows, countered with a right, but Hyer slipped to the right and hit Hendricks with a haymaker, the hardest blow that I’d ever seen.  Even with his magic, Hendricks fell to the planks.

I helped Hendricks back to our corner.  “Are you alright?”

“I don’t think I can go forty rou—”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Those too.  He hits too hard.”

“Have faith, my friend.”

He nodded and set his jaw.  “I can do this.”

They toed the line again.  This time Hendricks covered up as Hyer unloaded a series of punches.  He pushed Hendricks into our corner and drove his knee into Hendricks’s belly.  Hendricks slid downward, but Hyer caught him with his left arm.  He pressed Hendricks half over the ropes and brought his right down like a hammer.  Hendricks flipped over the ropes and landed outside the ring.

The next twenty or so rounds were similar. Hyer beat Hendricks around the ring.  He found every hole in Hendricks’s guard and struck his sore spots—the sniffer, the ears, and the bellows—with ease.  I realized that the men Hendricks had fought before were amateurs.  This was a true master, the man that knocked out Yankee Sullivan, a modern day Achilles.

After round twenty-three, Smokestack came to our corner.  “What’re you doing?  The crowd’s turning on us.  You have to at least look like you’re trying to win the fight.”

Hendricks looked at him through purpled eyes and a crimson mask.  “I am trying. I can’t touch him.”