Dusky Fellows

II. Oil and Smoke

Candles and lanterns of every flickering, pale color lit the dim bunkhall. A wash of faces in varying shades of orange moved in and out of shadow, smiling and talking over a dinner of hash, hard bread, and oil-fried pigeons. The few that collected them got the eggs. Many cracked them straight into their gullets. Carver watched them with disgust.

Pillaged merchant booths and salvaged benches and picnic tables made up their dining hall. When the gang wasn't feasting, the tables were stacked haphazardly against the walls and sleeping mats and blankets were pulled from where they were bunched in the corners. There were beds on the upper floors where in-resident employees once slept. While the Barbers occupied the refinery, everyone was on a nightly shift of rotating between bed and floor. Twenty beds up stairs, twenty-five or so mats downstairs. It worked out. Carver got his chance at sleeping in a bed almost once every other night.

He sat at a table nearest the main entrance, where the air outside brushed in past them and carried away the scent of hot, unwashed bodies and oily food. A Barber or two stood just outside of the doorway, puffing on a single cigarette that had been tucked away in a pocket for weeks. The smell was a small comfort for Carver, but also reminded him of days that he could never have again.

Slackjaw was seated at the head of them all, at a desk made of riveted iron and oak. His little brother Daggermouth sat next to him, as silent and brooding as the dead, pink pigeon on his plate. Carver watched him with muted fascination. Daggermouth rarely attended their odd, cramped dinners. His presence marked something important, and every Bloody Barber in the room reverberated with excitement from it.

Carver picked at his dinner. He ate most of his hash, and some of his pigeon. The saltiness of the meat was nice, but the bitterness of it reminded him of the polluted river it drank from, and the trash it had probably consumed. He didn't touch his stale bread.

As Slackjaw cleared his throat, the din drifted to silence. Eager eyes turned toward the tall man at the desk. He looked gruesome in the lamplight. His dark hair looked black around his face, and the shadow thrown behind him was hulking. "I've managed to glean the location of our shipment out of that bastard watchman," he said.

He few cheers followed. Many heads nodded their satisfaction.

"It's in a warehouse in Ganmark Harbor. Probably won't be there long." His voice was deep. It reached through the cracked concrete beneath their feet, and vibrated through the tables. In the bunkhouse made of steel and glass, it was near-deafening, and Slackjaw rarely spoke above a whisper. "I'd like to keep operations quiet, so instead of a full raid, I'm sending five of the best to get it and head back in one piece." Murmurs rippled through the room. Slackjaw raised his fist, and silence resumed. Slackjaw continued. "After losing one of the few guards with the shipment schedule, I'm sure the watch will be on high alert for potential gang activity. We have to be in and out within an hour. No trails. No blood.

"I've decided to send Shy Derrik, Carver, Ada, Firefingers, and Daggermouth."

The uproar was mild, but worse than Slackjaw suspected. Daggermouth threw a grin at his older brother and crossed his arms triumphantly. A pale-faced Shy Derrik received a comforting pat on the shoulder by the pretty blonde Lashes. A few glares were sent Carver's way, while some tipped their heads to him. The whispers turned into shouts. Questions, protests, and some cheers. Slackjaw had only to stand, watching his gang with steeled eyes, until they quieted again.

"That being said, I'll need each of you to come to my quarters after dinner. Enjoy." He pushed his chair away from the desk and rose. As he shouldered his way out into the balmy night, the noise rose again, and dinner resumed as normal.

Carver glanced about at his to-be partners. Ada was nowhere to be seen. Firefingers licked at the grease on her plate, smiling at the young Barber sat across from her through her thick mass of red hair. Shy Derrik was staring straight into Carver. As he met his stare, Derrik grinned and inclined his head toward Daggermouth. When Carver swiveled his head about, they locked gazes.

Shy Derrik stood, stretched, ran his fingers through Lashes' hair. Carver abruptly got to his feet. Daggermouth followed suit, but gracefully. With a whistle, Firefingers was hot behind them as they moved out of the dining hall and into the night. None of them spoke. Shy Derrik led them around the brick building and scaled the steel steps.

The balcony overlooked most of the oil refinery, but the pale brick buildings around them were far too tall to see over. The opposite direction granted them a view of the winding river, the abandoned district they called home, and the city lights beyond. A train chugged steadily over a distant bridge. The bridge that connected them to the rest of the city. To the lights. To the harbor. To a forgotten past.

Shy Derrik knocked twice on the door. Its red paint was peeling. It once read, "Office," but the yellow lettering had long faded under the stare of the sun. Derrik twisted the knob and held it open as he went through. One by one, the group filed after him. Daggermouth came in behind Carver and closed the door. 

The room smelled of old furniture and lemons. Ada, to their muted surprise, was already in the room, lounging in one of the fine chairs. Slackjaw granted himself a deal of luxury as leader of the Bloody Barbers. Although the furniture in his office was faded and worn, the grandeur and expense of the past was easy to discern in the graceful carving in the chair backing and plushness of the couch cushions. Mismatched tapestries covered the holes in the walls. Oil lamps had been strung from the ceiling. Much of it had been there when they moved into the refinery. Having it made Slackjaw happy, and a happy Slackjaw was a happy gang.

"We need to discuss a general plan," said Slackjaw. He was standing at the far side of the room, staring out the grimy window and over the river. His hands were clasped behind his back. For the first time since Carver had met him, his pistol and holster were laying on the couch a few feet away. He was unarmed and trusting. "It will undoubtedly take a day or two to get through the city to the port. I've sent Ada out today to fetch some more... civilian-friendly clothing. It's not anything fancy, but it will keep the watch from suspecting anything. Waltzing through Northeast Tandem reeking of body odor and dressed in leathers is a one way ticket to prison."

Boiled whale leathers, Carver recognized, were favored by the rough men and women who made their trades in knifing and pickpocketing. It was tough, flexible, and cheap. Watchmen recognized it too.

"I'll get you over the river. You can change out of your clothes there, and bathe if you can find access to clean water. It shouldn't be hard to come by. I'll supply each of you enough money for food and shelter. But don't spend it like you're rich. All of our funds are resting on getting this shipment." Slackjaw turned to address each of them. "I trust every single one of you, but some of you I trust more than others."

With a fluidity that was unfitting of his form, Slackjaw moved across the floor and to his desk. A map was sprawled across it, adorned with notes and arrows. He beckoned his crew to gather around. He tapped the map. "This is where we are. He drew an invisible line across the river and over countless buildings and roads. "This is where you need to be. And to get there, each of you..." He moved his gaze across each of theirs, pausing briefly on everyone." And I mean each of you need to be oil and smoke on this mission. Do you understand?"

"Oil and smoke," everyone murmured, except Daggermouth.

Oil and smoke, Carver Williams thought.