I Went Down (NaNoWriMo Read-Along)

13 Cal

“The rumor I’ve heard is that Jimmy Primrose left town,” Cal said. “Dapper Jack, too. They sailed out of the harbor in the middle of the night.”

“I half expected him to be here, paying respects to the poor sod who died in his place,” Vincent said. “But of course he wouldn’t actually notice. I’m only surprised that he’s abandoned his city.”

It was incongruous to see Vincent dressed all in black, in a complete opposite from his usual chef’s whites. Cal had dug up a black suit as well, to accompany his friend to the funeral for the young waiter who died in the explosion at Hotel di Ferello.

“I doubt he’s gone for good. It wouldn’t be like him to give up to Baccarat so easily, after they’ve been fighting so bitterly for so many years.”

They walked with slow steps near the front of the small funeral procession. If the waiter had had any family, they couldn’t be found. A collection had been taken up to buy him a coffin and a place in the cemetery, but there were no funds for a hearse and the black draped coffin rested on the shoulders of the surviving waiters. Not enough of them had black suits, and so they were wearing their hotel uniforms with a wide black ribbon tied around one sleeve. Marlon had been well-liked enough that most of the hotel staff were there, wearing black or black ribbons on their clothing. A group of sniffling chambermaids was directly behind the coffin and just in front of Vincent and Cal.

“Why wasn’t it me?” Vincent asked suddenly. “How do old men like you and me keep surviving while these young ones are dragged down, one way or another, to die in the streets of the Mouth?”

“Do you remember Linford?” Cal asked.

Linford had been another wanderer in Cal and Vincent’s early days in Delta Mouth, an ambitious young man who’d shown them many tricks to survive. One of his recommendations had been to pick a side, either dock or railroad, and stick to it. He’d been a dockside man himself, until the day when he wanted to keep a little piece of dock territory for himself and his local rival under Jimmy Primrose had objected.

“May the saints preserve him.” Vincent said. “And Gideon and his brother. And Illsley. And Greer.”

“Our turn will come,” Cal said, “but we might as well keep on until then.”

They had left the cold halls of the morgue at two o’clock, the hour that the sun usually burned its way through the fog if it was going to make an appearance at all. Today, though, the weather had been clear since the early morning hour that the nightclubs closed down. The girls had truly sung up the sun, and it hung high in the crisp blue sky, casting stark black shadows on the cobbled street. The mourners followed the pall bearers across a bridge over the Torgove to an island which did not share a name with any canal. The neighborhood on the island of Melisande was populated only by the dead.

“What do you suppose Jimmy’s up to?” Vincent asked as the procession halted and the cemetery’s caretaker scurried forward to pull open the heavy wrought iron gates.

“Does it matter? He’s not around to make a target that will kill more of your staff, and he’s not around to give more of my chorus girls false hopes.”

“Of course it matters. We both know he’ll be back. But will whatever revenge he’s planning against Baccarat make our lives better or worse?”

Cal sighed. “They’re just beginning the hostilities. Jimmy will strike back at Baccarat, and Baccarat will strike back at Jimmy and so on.” He gestured towards the coffin. “He’s the lucky one, to have got out at the beginning.”

“You think we’ll be sleeping on Melisande soon enough?” Vincent frowned and unbuttoned his woolen coat. Cal followed suit. The clear day had brought a mass of cold air with it, but the walk to the cemetery had been enough to warm him through.