I Went Down (NaNoWriMo Read-Along)

6 Dapper Jack

Dapper Jack set one hand on the familiar gold script that marked the door of Orlin’s Haberdashery and pushed it open. Inside, he breathed in the familiar scents of leather, cigars, and dried flowers. Orlin kept a few large brass vases of faded flowers in the corners in an attempt to make the shop more welcoming to any women who might wish to choose a hat, a pair of gloves, or a silken tie for the men in their lives. Despite this, the space was overwhelmingly male and Jack had yet to see a woman who had ventured inside.

A thin shop boy came to greet him, holding out his hands for Jack’s hat and gloves. Dapper Jack stripped off his gloves and held them up. “I’d like to replace these,” he said.

The boy nodded, and took them carefully. He studied them while he hung up Jack’s hat. “We have these in stock in a variety of colors, sir,” he said, “if you would follow me.” He led Jack past the rows of polished wood shelves holding boxes of hats to the corner of the store where the gloves were kept. “Would you like them in white again?”

To the boy’s credit, he made no mention of the blood which had stained the old pair.

“Let me see what other colors you have,” Jack said.

“I can show you several options,” said the boy. He began pulling boxes from the shelves. He removed a pale yellow pair of gloves from their tissue paper nest. “If you’d like something more striking, there’s also a hunter green and a burgundy.” 

The yellow was an insipid color. Green was too deeply associated with Ibai. The shop boy had produced a pair of deep brown gloves and Dapper Jack pulled one on. The new leather was smooth and supple. He ran a finger over the palm of his gloved hand and savored the silky feeling. When he turned his hand over to consider the back, he could see the stitching pulled together in a natty zig zag.

“I’ll take these,” he said. “And another white pair.”

“Very good, Mr. Dorsane.” The boy pushed the unneeded boxes back into place with long, quick fingers. “Shall I wrap them both up for you, or would you like to wear one pair out?”

“I’ll wear these.” Dapper Jack put on the second brown glove and flexed his fingers. They fit well, but they would, of course. He’d settled on these gloves some time ago for their fit and style. He took the second pair and tucked them into an inner pocket of his long coat before heading back out to the street.

His hands felt good in the gloves, almost clean. It was always that way, with a new piece of clothing. It added a little spring to his step as he went down the street, even though he still watched the dark alleyways for signs of danger. A little thing like a pair of gloves—were the joys of life really so simple? But of course he wasn’t really looking for joy. He was delaying the moment when he went to report to Jimmy. Baccarat had made further attempts to encroach on the territory that Jimmy held, and Jack had been awake well into the late morning to deal with it. The Ruperts at the White River Laundry were still cowed and recovering but there was the flower shop on the same street, and the noodle shop around the corner. Baccarat was making a push to take the boulevard from the rail station. No doubt he considered that it should naturally be his, the same way he had felt that the Plain of Angiers was a natural setting for his railroad. And on the other side, there was Jimmy, who had clawed his way to the top of the docks and felt equally certain that the businesses along the boulevard owed him for providing the ships’ passengers to them.

That left one Jackdaw Dorsane in the middle, to bloody his gloves until Jimmy Primrose succeeded in sending Baccarat back where he had come from. Only the days kept trickling away, like the blood which had stained his previous gloves, and Baccarat was still here.

He rounded the corner and nearly collided with Keifer. The man was disheveled and hatless. On seeing Jack he stopped abruptly and bent over, hands on his knees, trying to recover his breath. Jack looked quickly up and down the street, but there didn’t seem to be anyone chasing after Keifer.

“Your jacket’s torn.”

Keifer looked up, still red-faced and panting. “There was a bomb,” he wheezed.

“What?” This was more than enough to wipe away the pleasant sensation of new gloves. “Where?”

“At di Ferello.” Keifer managed to straighten up. “Where’s Jimmy?”

Jimmy should have been at the Hotel di Ferello, eating dinner and receiving Dapper Jacks’ report. But Jack was late, on his way to meet Jimmy now. Dapper Jack pulled out his pocket watch. It was nearly a quarter past eight, a full half hour past the time when he should have met Jimmy to go to the hotel. Jimmy might well have grown impatient and gone directly to the sumptuous dining room of the Hotel di Ferello without waiting for Dapper Jack. Or he might be in the parlor of his wife’s house, seething. Jack replaced the watch, noting the contrast of the brown leather covering his fingers with the shining brass of the watchcase.

“When?”

“Not long. I set out running to find someone as soon as I heard it.”

“You heard it?”

“I was just across the square,” Keifer said. “I would have run in but…” he trailed off. “I thought maybe there would be more explosions. There was a lot of screaming.”

Dapper Jack stopped listening. “Jimmy may still be at Rutha’s,” he said. “Go there.”

Keifer’s ruddy face grew pale. “What if he’s not?” The idea of telling Rutha Primrose that her husband’s presence among the living was not a pleasant one. Nor was the prospect of showing up at her home without a hat.

“Then come back to the Hotel.” Dapper Jack continued down the street. Keifer was a fair hand in a fight, but in a situation where there was no one to hit, he was much less useful. Jack glanced back to make sure that the man had started moving, and wasn’t still standing dumb on the street corner.

He walked quickly towards the square where the Hotel di Ferello was—or had been—located. If Jimmy had been there he might not be alive. There was no hurry to meet with a corpse. And if he was at Rutha’s, then Keifer would find him and Jimmy would learn that Dapper Jack was investigating.

If Jimmy Primrose was dead, then Baccarat would be moving quickly to fill the hole left in the power structure that underlaid the economic fabric of Delta Mouth. Dapper Jack quickened his steps. Baccarat, may his mother be burnt in the firebox of one of her son’s ravenous locomotives, would not be strolling leisurely to the square.