Read Online Metropolis by Elizabeth Gaffney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Gaffney
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the call had a different connotation—but
whyo
was the broadest and most essential term, being used to convey assent and greeting and to time an attack, just before converging on a victim. The whole thing amounted to a kind of song, which came to be known as whyoing. Over the years, the gang had refined those early calls to something approaching a language. A girl gang had eventually been formed within the gang, consisting mostly of sisters and girlfriends of the Whyos, but this was no ladies’ auxiliary. They spoke the language and did their share of the work, too. Our hot-corn girl, Beatrice, and her friend Fiona were Why Nots, and they’d been keeping tabs on the stableman pretty much continuously for the week since the fire. They’d missed his release from the Tombs but then they caught sight of him again back at the museum, giving his silent signal to Undertoe. It was odd, that, Beatrice thought—the two were obviously still working together, despite the fact that Undertoe had turned him in to the cops. It was apparently a complicated scheme they had going. She couldn’t guess exactly what it was, but clearly her man was skilled at playing roles, and she was impressed. He was operating in a manner so subtle and unexpected, with such a good cover, that his stealth rivaled the stealth of the gang that was watching him.
She knew Johnny would want a man like that either in the gang or dead—and certainly not working for Undertoe. Undertoe was a nothing compared to Johnny and the Whyos, but he was a prime snake. The way she saw it, Geiermeier’s main problem was that he was new in town, didn’t know the right people and consequently trusted Undertoe too much. He should have seen a double cross coming. The previous night, she’d tailed him from the hiring office back to a Chinese flophouse and spent a night on an upper bunk, scratching flea bites and watching the stableman sleep. He seemed so innocent, the way he snored, but there was no mistaking him. He was a contract firebug, was the word on the street, a new talent just arrived from overseas. The Whyos didn’t do fires for money—they preferred subtler schemes—but he had talent, unorthodox methods and a certain brazenness that she knew Johnny would appreciate.
The day of the snowstorm she’d been expecting her man to go back from the hiring office to the flop, and judging by his pace through the knee-deep drifts, she’d decided she could risk letting him out of her sight for a minute to warm up by ducking into Billy’s. She was confident that she could track him down again if he wandered off, and also that he was unaware of being followed, which set her up nicely to be flabbergasted when he blundered into Billy’s himself. She had been sitting at the far end of the bar, nursing a hot lemon-gin, and she nearly choked on it when she saw him. Had he seen her after all? Had he seen who-all else was there, including Luther Undertoe? Or was he
still
oblivious to the setup? Did he have some plan of his own? Then he’d started his spiel from the doorway.
So much for warming up,
she thought, gulping the rest of her gin and slapping a coin on the counter. She rose to follow the crowd of job seekers out the door.
“What, you, too, Beanie?
You’re
going to shovel snow?” said Billy. That was what they called her on the street: Beanie. Everyone had a nickname.
She’d just laughed and trailed the crowd to Coffee House Slip, waited in the shadows, taking note of the faces in the crowd, making sure they—especially Undertoe—didn’t see her. Then she followed Geiermeier to Wall Street, where he set his gang shoveling. Oddly enough, he really was doing the job, even throwing a few shovelfuls of snow himself, though it seemed to her he’d more than succeeded in creating a bluff without actually having to bother. As he headed off alone down Broadway to check on the work at the next intersection, she was thinking he really was just some dupe, some fool. Then he
whyo
was the broadest and most essential term, being used to convey assent and greeting and to time an attack, just before converging on a victim. The whole thing amounted to a kind of song, which came to be known as whyoing. Over the years, the gang had refined those early calls to something approaching a language. A girl gang had eventually been formed within the gang, consisting mostly of sisters and girlfriends of the Whyos, but this was no ladies’ auxiliary. They spoke the language and did their share of the work, too. Our hot-corn girl, Beatrice, and her friend Fiona were Why Nots, and they’d been keeping tabs on the stableman pretty much continuously for the week since the fire. They’d missed his release from the Tombs but then they caught sight of him again back at the museum, giving his silent signal to Undertoe. It was odd, that, Beatrice thought—the two were obviously still working together, despite the fact that Undertoe had turned him in to the cops. It was apparently a complicated scheme they had going. She couldn’t guess exactly what it was, but clearly her man was skilled at playing roles, and she was impressed. He was operating in a manner so subtle and unexpected, with such a good cover, that his stealth rivaled the stealth of the gang that was watching him.
She knew Johnny would want a man like that either in the gang or dead—and certainly not working for Undertoe. Undertoe was a nothing compared to Johnny and the Whyos, but he was a prime snake. The way she saw it, Geiermeier’s main problem was that he was new in town, didn’t know the right people and consequently trusted Undertoe too much. He should have seen a double cross coming. The previous night, she’d tailed him from the hiring office back to a Chinese flophouse and spent a night on an upper bunk, scratching flea bites and watching the stableman sleep. He seemed so innocent, the way he snored, but there was no mistaking him. He was a contract firebug, was the word on the street, a new talent just arrived from overseas. The Whyos didn’t do fires for money—they preferred subtler schemes—but he had talent, unorthodox methods and a certain brazenness that she knew Johnny would appreciate.
The day of the snowstorm she’d been expecting her man to go back from the hiring office to the flop, and judging by his pace through the knee-deep drifts, she’d decided she could risk letting him out of her sight for a minute to warm up by ducking into Billy’s. She was confident that she could track him down again if he wandered off, and also that he was unaware of being followed, which set her up nicely to be flabbergasted when he blundered into Billy’s himself. She had been sitting at the far end of the bar, nursing a hot lemon-gin, and she nearly choked on it when she saw him. Had he seen her after all? Had he seen who-all else was there, including Luther Undertoe? Or was he
still
oblivious to the setup? Did he have some plan of his own? Then he’d started his spiel from the doorway.
So much for warming up,
she thought, gulping the rest of her gin and slapping a coin on the counter. She rose to follow the crowd of job seekers out the door.
“What, you, too, Beanie?
You’re
going to shovel snow?” said Billy. That was what they called her on the street: Beanie. Everyone had a nickname.
She’d just laughed and trailed the crowd to Coffee House Slip, waited in the shadows, taking note of the faces in the crowd, making sure they—especially Undertoe—didn’t see her. Then she followed Geiermeier to Wall Street, where he set his gang shoveling. Oddly enough, he really was doing the job, even throwing a few shovelfuls of snow himself, though it seemed to her he’d more than succeeded in creating a bluff without actually having to bother. As he headed off alone down Broadway to check on the work at the next intersection, she was thinking he really was just some dupe, some fool. Then he
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