The Black Hand

12

Coming out of the Brown Betty, Barker headed north into Poplar following the bend around Limehouse Reach. There was no need to wonder where we were going. He was headed for a tearoom of his own choosing, a clandestine one, run by his closest friend, Ho. Once we’d reached the establishment, we walked down the dark stairs that led along the tunnel under the river. After an inspector had been shot in the darkened tunnel, lamps were placed and lit permanently at either end, though Ho complained about the price of naphtha. There was to be no more walking in complete darkness, which had once been the sign that one was a regular. However, in my opinion, the gloom and odd shadows cast by the flickering lamps were more eerie than mere darkness.

Inside the restaurant, Barker skirted our usual table and made his way to a door on the other side of the room that led to a banquet hall. I followed him through it. Ho was already inside. He is a squat Chinaman with weighted ear-lobes, a braid of hair, and heavily tattooed arms. In his hands was a long length of rope with a metal spike on the end that he twirled about the room. He dropped it to his feet, kicked it across the empty space, and then snapped it back again. At the other side of the room lay a row of shattered clay vessels, and as I watched he shot the dart forward with a kick and broke the least damaged of the lot. Some might have called it a child’s game, but the pointed dart made it look far more dangerous to me.

“We’re going against the Sicilians,” Barker stated, crossing his arms. Ho continued spinning the rope, wrapping it and unwrapping it around his arms again and even whipping it around his head close enough to ricochet off one of the gold earrings he wears. He gave no sign of hearing what Barker had said.

“We’re gathering a ragtag army against them, since the government cannot supply us with any assistance. I was wondering if you might help us.”

“I can feed your troops if you wish it,” Ho said, launching the dart at the row of pots again.

“I don’t need cooks,” Barker said, clearly irritated. “I need soldiers.”

“I have no concern about the Sicilians,” the Chinaman finally remarked.

“You should. They will be taking over London before you know it.”

“Mr. K’ing has reached an agreement with a representative. He will not go against them. Bad for business.”

“What about you, then? You must have a dozen cooks here.”

“Cooks, not soldiers,” Ho continued, winding his rope dart back again. “Cannot run a restaurant with dead cooks and waiters.”

“Not if you’re there, too,” Barker pointed out.

Ho shook his head. “Mr. K’ing would be displeased.”

“Are you his lackey now?” my employer asked. “Is this the same man I fought alongside against the Heavenly Kingdom?”

Ho shrugged one of his brawny shoulders. “If I can help, I will help.”

Barker tossed one of the sharpened pennies he always kept in his pocket at his friend. It could sever a jugular. Without breaking stride, Ho sent the dart after it, deflecting the coin into one of the beams overhead.

“You are slowing down,” Ho commented.

“Come, lad,” the Guv said to me. “Apparently no one in town has the pluck to take on the Sicilians save us.”

Barker walked past me and was gone. I turned and followed. In the tunnel, I caught up with him.

“That’s it?” I asked. “What are we going to do now?”

“We’ll go back to our chambers and see if any new information has surfaced.”

An hour later, we heard a voice in the outer office.

“Is your boss on the premises?”

I recognized it instantly, though on previous occasions it had been heralded by the sound of hobnailed boots. Patrick Hooligan was a gang leader in Southwark, who had crossed our path before. He had a gift for listening closely to the word on the street and brokering his services quickly. Had he a proper education, I’m sure he would have done well as a businessman, not that he was doing badly now.

When last I’d seen him, Hooligan had a donkey-fringe haircut and bell-bottom trousers. Now his hair was shorn close, little more than stubble, and he wore a long black coat over a shirt, whose collar and tie were held in place by a diamond-studded pin in the shape of a horseshoe. One thing hadn’t changed, however; his boots still had brass caps on the toes, all the better to kick agreement out of certain persons.

“ ’Lo, Push,” he greeted, coming into the office with his usual swagger. “May I?”

“Help yourself,” Barker said, waving to the cigar case on his desk.

“Fanks. You allus ’as the real goods, not the stuff that passes for a proper cigar these days.”

“You’re quite the Brummell today, Patrick,” the Guv noted.

Hooligan opened his coat and turned around slowly, allowing us a view of his sartorial splendor. His waistcoat looked as if it had been cut from a Persian carpet, but of course, I wouldn’t tell him that.

“I’m movin’ up in the world,” he announced. “A man of business like you yourself, Push. A little bit of advertisement for me services, a little word of mouf, a kick to the jaw for them what deserves it, and me and the lads are doing well for ourselves. Expandin’ is what we are. ’Member the Ratcliff Highway Boys?”

“Of course.”

“Brought ’em down Friday. Nobbled ’em proper. Them not willin’ to join my lot were ducked in Limehouse Basin, they was. I gave ’em the choice. Almost got ol’ Kingy hemmed in now.”

“Kingy” stood for Mr. K’ing, head of the Chinese Blue Dragon Triad, Hooligan’s personal nemesis, though Mr. K’ing never acknowledged his presence. Hooligan wanted to take over the East End but was not as powerful as K’ing. Still, Hooligan was young; and if hunger and drive were enough, he might make a name for himself in the underworld.

“So, what can I do for you?” asked Barker.

“Word is you’re recruitin’.”

“What word?”

Hooligan shrugged and dropped into the visitor’s chair. He never explained where he got the information that brought him to our door. “Word.”

“I might be recruiting,” the Guv admitted. “It’s all in the planning stage, contingent upon certain conditions. I may require your services at the last minute.”

“Last minute will cost you double. What ’zactly do you need?”

“A handful of your best men, and you yourself, of course.”

Hooligan frowned, considering the request. “Do you want the ones that look dangerous or that are dangerous?”

“A compromise between the two. I’m hoping to scare them off, if possible.”

“Scare who off?” Hooligan cut the end of the cigar with a small jackknife he’d pulled from his boot and lit a vesta against the ceramic striker on Barker’s desk.

“What does the word in the street say?”

“Something I-talian. That’s all I know.”

“Do you know the Sicilians?”

Hooligan nodded. “Dockworkers, mostly, ain’t they?”

“Yes. Have you heard of an organization called the Mafia?”

“Never.”

“It’s a criminal organization based in Palermo. Very nasty. It is a state of perpetual warfare there. They use weapons-shotguns, knives, whatever comes to hand. They prefer weapons to hand fighting.”

“Who wouldn’t? So, d’you ’spect my lads to go in empty-handed against these blokes, or will you provide us some protection?”

“What sort of protection would you require?”

“I dunno. A half dozen pistols wouldn’t come amiss, for starters.”

“I don’t wish to provoke a bloodbath, nor would I want to be the means whereby a London gang, even one such as yours, received firearms.”

Hooligan shrugged. “Can’t blame a man for trying. What about knives, then?”

“I’m sure your lads are well armed, and you’ll receive compensation afterward for any knives you purchase.”

“Not good enough. I need to see the color of your money first.”

“Mr. Llewelyn, give Mr. Hooligan ten pounds.”

I pulled out my wallet, which interested the gang leader exceedingly, counted out ten pounds, then handed them over and entered the amount in my accounts book.

“Now, what about the guns? For my own safety, I’d like to know if we have artillery of our own.”

“We won’t,” Barker stated emphatically. “No guns.”

Hooligan knocked off his cigar ash. Then he puffed and looked at my employer speculatively through the smoke.

“Who else you got workin’ wif us? Will K’ing be there?” he asked.

“Would it bother you if he were? I haven’t decided yet.”

“It might be a problem. The lads are a bit touchy. We’ve had a skirmish or three wif his Mongol horde.”

“And now you’d be working together. It is a basis for amity.”

Hooligan snorted. “Amity? I ain’t looking for no bleedin’ amity. I’ll have to ask my lads if they’re willin’ to work with the slants. Who else are you bringin’ in?”

“It’s possible I may engage another group. I haven’t formalized my plans.”

“But I’m in,” Hooligan said.

“If you’re willing.”

“Always willin’. Now all we ’ave to do is agree on a price. Step into my office.”

So saying, the young gang leader stood, pulled off his long coat, and hung it over his arm. Barker reached under the coat and the two haggled silently using the arcane hand signals originated by horse traders in Ireland. Every time I think I’ve got leverage on what my employment entails, something like this comes along and proves how deluded I am. Where did Barker learn the language of horse traders?

“Done,” Hooligan finally said, “providin’ I can convince the lads. I’ll send word by the end of workin’ hours. Pleasure doin’ business with you gents as always-Mr. Barker, Mr. Llewelyn. I’ll see myself out.”

“This entire Sicilian situation reminds me of the condottiere, the mercenaries that the old city-states of Italy hired when they were at war,” I said after Hooligan had left. “They prospered enough from the killing to purchase large villas and become a threat to everybody else.”

“Exactly,” the Guv replied. “There is nothing more dangerous than a mercenary, trained in the art of war, who is cunning enough to use the political situation to his own economic advantage.”

It occurred to me that Cyrus Barker was something of a mercenary himself. Trained in the art of war, yes. A cunning foreigner, aye, laddie. Economic advantage, certainly, the last I looked at our bank account. And as for using the political situation, it was something we did often in our work, though I’ll say in his defense that he genuinely had the Empire’s best interests at heart. A reformed mercenary, then.

“What are you thinking, lad?” Barker asked gruffly. Sometimes I swear he can read minds.

“I was wondering if there is a Sicilian political group here in London,” I went on, “or an Italian one. Is there an Italian newspaper published here?”

“No, there isn’t. They’re not as large a group as the Jews with their Chronicle. It’s a good idea about the political group, though. You must ask Gallenga about it when you see him again. How did the blade fighting go?”

“You’d have to ask Mr. Gallenga about that, sir. Do you really think it necessary?”

“Aye. My blade has saved my life half a dozen times. Why? Don’t you like the dagger?”

“If you must know, it worries me a little. I can pull out a gun and shoot a man if I know he’s trying to kill me, and I have no trouble defending myself with a stick, but a blade … to gut a man as if he were a mackerel, it makes me pause.”

“Don’t pause too long, lad,” Barker said, crossing his arms, “or he’ll be the one gutting you.”

“Being stabbed would be terrible,” I went on. “I’d rather be shot. There’s something about that sharp blade that sets my teeth on edge, even to think of it.”

“There is,” he admitted. “I think most would agree with you, even though the gun is more fatal. I’ve suffered both wounds, and the former is more clearly in my memory than the latter. Let us be off, Thomas. One more stop before we go home. I want to visit Clerkenwell.”