Read Online The Arcanum by Thomas Wheeler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Thomas Wheeler
Tags: Fiction
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pull of the hunt.
11
HENRY THE KNOB swayed in the cool autumn air outside Chick Tricker’s Fleabag on the Bowery and thought about throwing up. He wiped cold sweat from his deformed forehead—his namesake—and willed his stomach to settle. Then he straightened his crooked tie and stuffed his shirt back in his pants, and strolled down the avenue like a man trying very hard not to look drunk.
A drunk was a mark and, on this particular street, a mark was a bad thing to be. The Knob didn’t need to worry, though; his Tammany connections kept him in the pink with the Five Pointers, and his gambling hall above the Harp House on Park Row made money for the right folks. Still, it was wise to be alert on a Friday night in the Bowery, when every cutpurse and thug was out blowing his earnings at various nightspots like McGuirk’s Suicide Hall, the Plague, and the Dump.
The Knob wasn’t quite ready for the evening to end, however. All that awaited him at home was a wife and twin sons who screamed themselves hoarse. No, the Knob wanted company, and had a wad of dollars in his vest that he was eager to spend.
He weaved his way onto Mott Street to sample the wares parading outside the Inferno club. But it was a sorry lot of toothless hags and he waved them off, disgusted.
In a few blocks, the Knob found his way to Chinatown, which bustled with traffic and stumble-bums trading time at the gambling parlors and opium dens set above the vegetable shops.
The Knob got lost in the twisting byways of Doyers Street until he found himself in front of the old Chinese Theatre—a once notorious and popular spot for gang-fights until it was shut down and handed over to the New York Rescue Society. The Knob gazed up at the upper-floor windows, and grimy orphans stared back at him.
His buzz now in full retreat, the Knob stumbled down Doyers in search of a taxi or rickshaw—or whatever sort of transport they offered in Chinatown.
Then, “Fancy comp’ny, stranger?” a voice asked from the shadows.
The Knob turned to survey a scruffy waif with huge green eyes leaning against the wall of an alley. Her dirty blond hair was bundled up under a man’s top hat, and her small body hidden beneath a rough gray overcoat.
“How old are you?” the Knob asked.
“Old enough.”
Unbathed though she was, the Knob saw promise. She had all her teeth and a pretty face. Couldn’t be more than sixteen.
“How much?” he asked.
The waif hesitated, seeming to think it over. She wasn’t a professional; the Knob could tell.
“What’s the usual?” she asked.
The Knob’s smile spread, displaying crooked yellow teeth. “A dollar a bump,” he said, lowballing it.
The waif ’s brow knitted. “What’s a bump?”
“I’ll learn you, lovely,” the Knob said. He glanced both ways, then pushed the waif into the alley. He backed her against the bricks, his right hand fumbling in his trousers as the waif lifted her chin to glare at him. “I’ll learn you.” He breathed heavily, pushing her coat open, showing off a dirty dress, nice young legs, and breasts pushed up in a bustier. “I’ll learn you good,” the Knob declared as he pushed his face into her chest and his damp hands grasped her buttocks.
“Aren’t you a tiger?” the waif purred as her hands mussed the Knob’s oiled, thinning hair. Her small fingers toyed with his earlobe. Then she took his ear in her teeth and, with a good hard yank, tore it off his head.
“Ow-gah! Agh!” Blood spurted through the Knob’s fingers as he grabbed at the stump of his ear and reared back.
The waif turned to the blackness of the alley, snarling, “Matthew, you shit!”
A young dandy in a bowler hat, not old enough for a full beard, lunged out of the shadows and whipped a blackjack down across the Knob’s face, bloodying his nose. The Knob grunted and landed on his backside.
The waif wiped the blood off her lips, her green eyes blazing as she drove her boot into the side of the Knob’s head.
11
HENRY THE KNOB swayed in the cool autumn air outside Chick Tricker’s Fleabag on the Bowery and thought about throwing up. He wiped cold sweat from his deformed forehead—his namesake—and willed his stomach to settle. Then he straightened his crooked tie and stuffed his shirt back in his pants, and strolled down the avenue like a man trying very hard not to look drunk.
A drunk was a mark and, on this particular street, a mark was a bad thing to be. The Knob didn’t need to worry, though; his Tammany connections kept him in the pink with the Five Pointers, and his gambling hall above the Harp House on Park Row made money for the right folks. Still, it was wise to be alert on a Friday night in the Bowery, when every cutpurse and thug was out blowing his earnings at various nightspots like McGuirk’s Suicide Hall, the Plague, and the Dump.
The Knob wasn’t quite ready for the evening to end, however. All that awaited him at home was a wife and twin sons who screamed themselves hoarse. No, the Knob wanted company, and had a wad of dollars in his vest that he was eager to spend.
He weaved his way onto Mott Street to sample the wares parading outside the Inferno club. But it was a sorry lot of toothless hags and he waved them off, disgusted.
In a few blocks, the Knob found his way to Chinatown, which bustled with traffic and stumble-bums trading time at the gambling parlors and opium dens set above the vegetable shops.
The Knob got lost in the twisting byways of Doyers Street until he found himself in front of the old Chinese Theatre—a once notorious and popular spot for gang-fights until it was shut down and handed over to the New York Rescue Society. The Knob gazed up at the upper-floor windows, and grimy orphans stared back at him.
His buzz now in full retreat, the Knob stumbled down Doyers in search of a taxi or rickshaw—or whatever sort of transport they offered in Chinatown.
Then, “Fancy comp’ny, stranger?” a voice asked from the shadows.
The Knob turned to survey a scruffy waif with huge green eyes leaning against the wall of an alley. Her dirty blond hair was bundled up under a man’s top hat, and her small body hidden beneath a rough gray overcoat.
“How old are you?” the Knob asked.
“Old enough.”
Unbathed though she was, the Knob saw promise. She had all her teeth and a pretty face. Couldn’t be more than sixteen.
“How much?” he asked.
The waif hesitated, seeming to think it over. She wasn’t a professional; the Knob could tell.
“What’s the usual?” she asked.
The Knob’s smile spread, displaying crooked yellow teeth. “A dollar a bump,” he said, lowballing it.
The waif ’s brow knitted. “What’s a bump?”
“I’ll learn you, lovely,” the Knob said. He glanced both ways, then pushed the waif into the alley. He backed her against the bricks, his right hand fumbling in his trousers as the waif lifted her chin to glare at him. “I’ll learn you.” He breathed heavily, pushing her coat open, showing off a dirty dress, nice young legs, and breasts pushed up in a bustier. “I’ll learn you good,” the Knob declared as he pushed his face into her chest and his damp hands grasped her buttocks.
“Aren’t you a tiger?” the waif purred as her hands mussed the Knob’s oiled, thinning hair. Her small fingers toyed with his earlobe. Then she took his ear in her teeth and, with a good hard yank, tore it off his head.
“Ow-gah! Agh!” Blood spurted through the Knob’s fingers as he grabbed at the stump of his ear and reared back.
The waif turned to the blackness of the alley, snarling, “Matthew, you shit!”
A young dandy in a bowler hat, not old enough for a full beard, lunged out of the shadows and whipped a blackjack down across the Knob’s face, bloodying his nose. The Knob grunted and landed on his backside.
The waif wiped the blood off her lips, her green eyes blazing as she drove her boot into the side of the Knob’s head.
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