Page 8 of An Artful Dodge
He shrugged and dealt the cards.
Five hands later, I laid down rummy with two left over.
He laid down his cards, played the eight of spades on my run and had only an ace left over. His eyes brightened with triumph. “Saturday night, then.”
“I can’t. Sarah’s here.”
“Sunday?”
“I walk Sarah back to work.”
“What time?”
“Around five o’clock.”
“So, we could have dinner on the north shore.”
Still, I hesitated. He was a Castle man, born and raised, who’d been in prison. If those calluses on his hands were to be believed, he was still rowing at least a few nights a week, which meant he was back to smuggling.
He leaned forward, his dark eyebrows raised. “It’s just dinner, Kit.”
“All right. I’ll meet you around seven,” I said.
He opened his mouth to protest, then shrugged. “As you like.” He rose from his chair and pulled on his coat. “The Silver Plover.” He gave me the address and took up his empty glass to return it to the bar. “I’ve something to do for Emma. See you Sunday.”
He gave a cheerful grin, and I watched him leave, the burly shoulders under his rough brown coat, the dark hair that curled over the collar. He paused at a table, where a cluster of men urged him to stay for another drink. With a mix of familiarity and deference, he rested a hand on old Dick Yellen’s shoulder, one of the men who had known him since he was “Jimmy” and “boy.”
I couldn’t help but think of the last badger scheme we’d pulled together, the week before Amelia invited me into the ring.
The mark that night was married, which I knew not just because of the ring he wore, a gold band I could fence easily at Mr. Ardle’s. I’d seen him at the inn before with his wife on his arm. This time he was alone and blinked rapidly when I asked if he wanted company. I could tell he was a safe mark; there were some who were flat-out dangerous, the ones who stared bold as brass, smirking as if they expected your attentions all along. This bloke was about thirty or so, with weepy mustaches and a shy, uncertain manner. He finished his supper hastily, and I brought him to Mrs. Donnelly’s lodging house next door, up the stairs to the room James and I rented for a shilling for the hour we needed it.
I eased the mark out of his coat—a bit worn, four shillings—and undid his cravat—another two—and came close, letting him peck me a bit as I shook out my hair. Like most men, he took it as an invitation to run his fingers into it, kissing my neck. I flinched and pulled back.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Oh, no matter,” I said. “Just your ring caught my hair. Here, let’s put it in your pocket, and you can play with my hair all you like.”
He hurriedly slid the ring off and tucked it away, and we went back to kissing, which gave me ample time to transfer the items in his pocket into my own. His hands ran over my back and down to my arse—
“Take off your trousers,” I whispered. “Let me sit on your lap a bit.”
He was out of them faster than a greyhound coursing a rabbit, dropping them in a heap on the carpet.
Trousers nice, almost new, a neat label inside. Six shillings.
I sat down on his lap, put my arms around his neck, held my breath against the scent of Macassar oil in his hair, and kissed him again.
Suddenly there were heavy footsteps in the hallway outside—the knob turned—and James flung open the door, slamming it into the wall behind.
“Who the devil are you?” James bellowed, his eyes blazing, his cheeks red. “And what are you doing with my wife?”
The man leapt up, dumping me unceremoniously onto the floor. James took a step toward me, his hands reaching, leaving the path to the door clear. This mark had the presence of mind to snatch up his trousers and boots before he raced off, his bare feet pounding down the hall.
Damn it, I thought. There went six shillings and four more for the boots.
James closed the door, grinning. “That was an easy one.”
I put out a hand for him to pull me up, rubbing my hip where I’d landed. “Easy for you,” I grumbled.
