Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy

‘Notwithstanding this place, you’re not serious, surely? Questionable profit to be made I would say.’ Jacques chuckled.

‘Why not? Invest in a little rut like this. Settle down in a shoebox house, a nice wife, screaming children you only have to see on the weekends. Isn’t that the dream of every man?’

‘Not this one, that’s for sure.’

‘Present company excluded then, you have to agree that the idea is satisfying.’

‘It’s plenty of food for thought; I’ll give it that.’ Jacques sombrely drummed his fingers onto the table in anticipation. Something was making him curiously uneasy.

‘You ain’t the settling-down type,’ Jacques added, starting as his ears picking out a close, obtuse noise from among the sprawling throngs outside.

‘When I figure out what kind of man I am, I’ll be sure to make you aware.’

‘I’ll be planning your funeral accordingly then. What would you like on the stone? Gunshot in the back by treachery, was it? Or shot in the front by our little canary?’

‘Misu may be grumpy with me from time to time, but she wouldn’t do that.’

‘And why would that be the case?’

‘I’m just too pretty to die and she knows it.’

Jacques broke a smile before it sharply faded.

In that moment, a bevy of horses pulled up outside, snorting as if lightning had struck their hides. Six pulled a carriage behind, secured with a canvas marked by the occasional bullet hole. Men straddling another half-dozen horses arrived. They dismounted and tied up reins before unloading the carriage’s cargo. Orders were hollered, liberally sprinkled with swear words and threats, as four of the men rushed inside, struggling under the weight of their prize: a mightily gilded casket in brilliant emerald green, with a sizeable padlock.

Franco tipped his head in question and watched this development quite intently.

The bartender beckoned the group behind the bar, to which the gang obliged.

‘Back here,’ he said, flustered. ‘Back here, in Her name, be quick about it will you.’

The men were agitated, the remains of facemasks at their necks, with sweat at their brows and urgency in their eyes. Franco knew men like these. Hired goons, semi-professional thugs making a living doing difficult jobs. Selfish men who thought nothing to pull the trigger. Bad men.

Franco gave no sign that he sniffed the air, though he caught the stench rising from them. Black powder and blood. This was probably due to one of the gang holding his arm, and another hobbling behind. Through their clenched grips, blood seeped from their wounds, just enough to redden their clothing and stifle breath. These men too were rushed out of view by the bar hand, just a small boy of twelve rushing from the back room to wipe up any evidence of their arrival and lead the horses around back. Within minutes their existence was reduced to the occasional raised voice from behind the drink-laden shelves.

Jacques drained his glass, deciding it best not to have it refilled. ‘Quite the time to be here, boss.’ He spoke carefully, so that anyone else in attendance wouldn’t hear. One could never be too careful as to how many in attendance were just drinkers and how many were paid to keep their eyes and ears open.

‘Seems like the old man was right about this place. Nothing going on here but shady back-room dealings.’

‘That’s a little hypocritical, isn’t it?’

‘I prefer my dealings to be in the open,’ Franco added. ‘Just away from the prying eyes of some.’

‘Our little tag-along Wyld excluded, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Franco agreed.

The back-room door exploded open. Floorboards shook and pounded from heavy boots as the men dispersed, some upstairs to the box rooms where for a small payment you could have a bed for a spell, some out the door, while one with a freshly bandaged leg propped himself onto a barstool. Those who passed patted his shoulder in turn, referring him by name as Two Bits, sometimes patronizingly.

It wasn’t the most glamorous of nicknames, slightly insulting in truth as two bits, or coins, didn’t buy much in the way of luxuries or service. The man ordered a drink with his payment being his tone. Whisky was given, hurriedly. The first glass was gulped down to better the temper; each subsequent glass was slammed down with frustration. His cheeks were dirtied from a hard ride, his face flushed and hands shaking.

Franco tapped his finger gently, gesturing with his eyes to his companion. Jacques’s brow raised in question.

‘Ketan,’ Franco silently mouthed.

When things seemed reasonably settled and Ketan’s presence felt less threatening, Franco slid his chair back and strolled, quite merrily, to the bar. He stood silently, beside his old friend who nursed his drink like the only woman who would love him. Eventually Franco leant forward onto the bar with a devil-may-care grin. The bartender looked at them cautiously.

‘Another rye,’ Franco said gleefully. ‘And a glass of the good stuff for limpy here. He looks like he needs cheering up. That piss-water he’s sipping can only do so much.’

Ketan struck the bar loudly with a fist. ‘Think you’re funny, you sonofabitch?’ he said, turning on his stool with violent rage. ‘How about I cut that mouth of yours somewhat wider?’ Already he was on his feet, a switchblade firmly in his grip with the blade extended. It was scant inches from Franco’s face, in danger of scoring his best feature. Then, Ketan stopped and sank away, stepping back with his eyes bugging out in astonishment.

‘What? Franco, is that you?’

‘In the flesh before you, though not for long I’ll wager.’

Ketan hurriedly retracted his blade, bringing relief to the barman who was now regretting recent dealings to ensure his business’s security.

‘Yeah. Sorry about that, sorry … I just … It’s been a long time.’

‘I think you need to calm yourselves.’ Jacques prompted the barman. ‘Can we get those drinks please? Thanks.’

Franco took a seat beside Ketan, shadowed by Jacques who observed attentively.

‘It’s been long, Franco. Too long, you know.’

‘I’m here now aren’t I?’

‘And I see you.’ Ketan surveyed his friend, disapproving of every facet. ‘Nice teeth, fancy suits, and how. How much did all that set you back? Look at this – shiny buttons and everything.’ Ketan’s hand was patted away by the suit’s owner, who ensured no stray threads were pulled at. ‘You’ve come a fair way away from the train yard.’

‘Looks like we both have. How have things been?’

‘Tough finding work.’ Ketan drank slowly, relishing the taste of fine liquor for as long as he could, as it wouldn’t be repeated any time soon. ‘Isn’t it always, but I’m moving along. Making pay as best as I can. Can’t complain.’

‘Not even when being shot in the leg? And for what, ten per cent?’

‘Six.’

‘Six.’ Jacques whistled slowly in disapproval. ‘You are getting stiffed.’

Ketan stopped his drinking, taking a handful of pistachio nuts from a bowl and breaking their shells in turn. ‘Who’s this?’

‘A friend,’ Franco said. ‘Like yours, only he tends to stick around.’

‘Clever.’ Ketan grabbed some nuts from the nearest bowl.

‘Thanks,’ Jacques muttered.

‘Wasn’t a compliment.’ Ketan chased the nuts with a new mouthful of drink.