Poe must die

TWENTY-TWO

Five points.

Figg doubted that the devil himself would have the nerve to show his horned head in this bit of hell. The cabdriver, strong on self-preservation, had stopped on the edge of the slum, refusing to go further. So it was step down into mud shoe-top high and with Poe as guide, trek through narrow streets and alleys lacking all gaslight. There was light, if you could call it that. A stub of a candle flickering in a window lacking all glass. A lantern in the hands of passing, hard-faced strangers. A burning end of a cigar in the mouth of a filthy whore calling from a doorway. Small bonfires of trash in the streets where adults and children in rags warmed their hands, their dirty faces blank with despair. The cold night couldn’t hide the stink; nothing but foul air everywhere. Figg walked past rotting tenements worse than anything to be found in London’s Seven Dials slum or even The Holy Land. He and Poe brushed past men, women and children wrapped in dirt-encrusted rags, most of them drunk and surly, cursing each other and anyone unfortunate enough to be near them. Children fought each other over the last few drops in a whiskey bottle. There was less hope here than in the breast of a man standing on a scaffold with a rope around his neck.

And Figg knew what a man’s life wasn’t worth a farthing in Five Points. Keep your eyes open and your powder dry. Figg’s hands were in his pockets around the butts of his two pocket flintlocks. Lord bless and keep the gunsmith.

He and Poe reached the Louvre.

Inside the smell of oil from lamps attached to wagon wheels hanging from the ceiling was heavy in the air. Figg smelled whiskey and sweat from the crowd of people packed on the dance floor and sitting on long wooden benches against the wall. The dance hall resembled a dark tunnel filled with men and women clutching each other and dancing crude polkas and waltzes, the men bearded and chewing tobacco, the women with pinched, somber faces and bad teeth.

Harp, drum and trumpet furnished the music. A tiny woman with a sad face gently plucked the harp strings, her eyes closed as though imagining herself to be somewhere else. The trumpet player was a lad who Figg guessed to be no older than fourteen. From the sounds of him, he hadn’t had the instrument to his lips more than a few times in his life. The drummer was old, small, bald and had only one arm. Pounds that bleedin’ drum like he was shoeing a horse, thought Figg, hands still in his pockets.

He and Poe found a seat on the bench, the wall to their backs which Figg preferred. He turned to Poe. “Ain’t no tables ‘ere.”

“One comes here to dance rather than converse.”

“And drink, from the looks of it.”

“The waiter girls will indulge your every whim, be it alcoholic or more intimate.”

“Figured more than rum was for sale down ‘ere.” Figg looked at the waiter girls. Young ones, some of them. Babies. Maybe fourteen, fifteen years old and the oldest not much over twenty. Short black dresses, black net stockings and red knee boots with tassels and bells. Waiter girls. Whores for a few coins.

Johnnie Bill Baker of the crossed eyes was not a man to spend much on inside light. Figg could see that and damn little else in the darkness around him. Whale oil lamps hanging from the ceiling, some tallow candles on the wall and behind the long plank-on-barrels bar, but other than that, a man needed good eyes and good luck in order to see his hand in front of his face.

Cheap dresses on the women. No crinoline, no puffy skirts with ten petticoats underneath. Just faded cloth with unwashed flesh underneath. Dark clothes and shirts without collars and cuffs for the men. Worn boots on a dance floor sanded to give boots a better grip. The usual tobacco spitting going on, with more juice hitting the floor than the inside of a spittoon. And on air that reeked of people who didn’t bathe and didn’t care one way or another about it.

Poe stood up to stop a waiter girl, whispered in her ear then sat down. “She will bring Johnnie Bill Baker to us.”

“You knows the gent, you say?”

“I have encountered him during my travels in the lower depths of our republic.”

“What kind of man is he, besides what you been tellin’ me?”

“Shrewd. A killer. Concerned with himself and all that concerns him. If you are not already aware of it, this place does not welcome strangers and the people who populate it are quick to prey on the unwary.”

Figg unbuttoned one button on his black frock coat. “I will bear that in mind, Mr. Poe.”

The young waiter girl returned. She was bone thin, looked younger than her fourteen years and had eyes that were much older. She spoke with a slight lisp. “Mr. Baker annountheth that he ain’t in the habit of talkin’ to people what geth drunk and patheth out in the rat pit on his premitheth.”

Figg looked at Poe, who mumbled. “There is a rat pit in back and I did-” He stopped, then raised his voice. “Please announce to Mr. Baker that our business with him is urgent and-”

“Little girl,” said Figg behind an unfriendly grin as he grabbed her wrist. “Announce to Mr. Baker for me that it would be best for the peace of ‘is premises if ‘e were to come ‘ere and talk with us. Otherwise I shall get up from where I now sits and seek ‘im out. Announce that, if you will be so kind.”

The frightened girl backed away rubbing her sore wrist, then turned and disappeared into the crowd of shuffling dancers. Figg looked at Poe. “You passed out in a rat pit?”

A rat pit was a circle six feet in diameter and surrounded by a wooden fence four feet high. Several dozen rats were turned loose inside it, along with a starved dog. Bets were then placed on how many rats the dog would kill in a given period of time. Ratting, as it was called, was popular in both England and America.

Poe said, “I had succumbed to my intemperate habits while in this establishment and I passed out. When I came to, I was in the rat pit and Johnnie Bill Baker, along with some of his acquaintances, were keeping amused by tossing dead rats onto me.”

“My God!”

“And you have challenged this man in his own lair.”

“So long as he comes to us, squire.”

“He shall and with an attitude of belligerence. Nor will he arrive alone.”

Figg took a hand from his pocket to adjust his black top hat, then put the hand back into his pocket again. “So long as he arrives, mate. From ‘im to Sproul to Jonathan. Ain’t that your plan?”

“My plan includes survival.”

“You let me do the worryin’ about that, squire. You jes’ think up some more quotes. I finds them fascinatin.”

Johnnie Bill Baker stood in front of them.

And he wasn’t alone.

A path had cleared for him on the dance floor, then the path had closed behind him and two men plus a woman the likes of which Figg had never seen in life or in picture books. The woman was black, gigantic, with dyed yellow hair and fists as big as Pierce James Figg’s. She wore a shiny green silk dress, with a stiletto sticking from the top of a man’s boot (feet as big as Figg’s, too!) and a slung shot-a leather thong with an egg-sized lump of iron tied at one end-dangled from her wrist. The woman was frightening to look at and Figg, who knew the look of people who could kill, knew that this huge Negro woman was a killer.

Johnnie Bill Baker, legs apart, fists on his hips, looked down at Poe. “You can’t be the bucko who talks in such a hard manner. Nor are ye the ugly one the little girl spoke of so-”

He looked at Figg. “It must be you, friend. And I do so want to hear your story, which is why me friends and I have travelled so far. Make it a good one. The last story should always be a good one.”

Figg, hat low on his forehead, stared at him. Handsome, he was, with a face as clean as a baby’s bottom and clothes that cost a pretty penny. Gray suit, gray waistcoat and gray silk ascot, with a fancy white shirt and lace cuffs. Red hair parted in the middle. Diamond rings on both hands. Johnny the Gent. And damn me if he didn’t have crossed eyes. Not too tall, slim and the kind to set a maid’s heart to flutter, but he was as cross-eyed as somebody’s idiot child.

Two men just behind him. Irish thugs by the looks of ’em, with pistols in the belt and both itching for a punch-up. The kind who gouge out your eyes, bite off your ear and put the boot into your temple, then go to church on Sunday. And don’t forget the black woman. Dark as the inside of a mine shaft. Probably more of a hard case than either of the men backing Johnny the Gent.

One of the Irish thugs, a squat, unshaven man with eyebrows that met over the bridge of his nose, spat on Figg’s outstretched leg. The thug said, “It don’t talk much, Johnnie. Sits there like a bleedin’ Buddha. Think I’ll write home and tell me mother it’s ugly enough to curdle milk.”

Baker said, “You have a name, ugly man. Let’s hear it before we apply ourselves to dealin’ with your forward ways.”

“Figg. Pierce James Figg.”

Baker frowned, stroking the side of his nose with a slim finger. “Figg. Figg. Name strikes a response.”

“Figg is a delicate fruit,” said the squat thug. “By the sounds of it, it’s English, though it don’t look too delicate to me. Stand up when you come among the Irish, English swine. We don’t care to be summoned by the likes of you.”

He lifted his booted foot high, preparing to bring it down on Figg’s ankle.

Bloomin’ amateurs, thought Figg.

The squat thug’s foot was on the way down, when Figg slid off the bench and brought his ankle up into the thug’s crotch with all his strength. The thug folded in half, jaw slack, eyes entirely white. Then Figg was on his feet, moving into the thug whose hands were folded across his crotch in a vain attempt to stop the pain.

The punch was a short, vicious left hook; it didn’t travel far but it had most of Figg’s power behind it. The punch crashed into the thug’s right temple, lifting him from the floor and sending him flying backwards and into the crowd of dancers. Immediately a space cleared around him.

When Figg took the one step which brought him belly to belly with Johnnie Bill Baker, both of the boxer’s hands were again in his pockets and he spoke through clenched teeth. “Mr. Baker, we are needin’ to talk with you. Please accommodate us.”

Baker felt the pressure against his gut. When the other thug and the huge black woman started towards Figg, Baker lifted up both hands to halt them in place. The Irish thief’s smile was forced.

“Suddenly I feel the need to talk with Mr. Figg. And with you too, Mr. Poe, of course. Would you be tellin’ what make of persuasion you have hard against me, Mr. Figg?”

“From this distance, it don’t matter, do it Mr. Baker?”

“You have a silver tongue, Mr. Figg. Figg.” Baker snapped his fingers. “Of course! The boxer. Pierce James Figg.”

Baker’s manner changed. He relaxed and seemed genuinely pleased to meet Figg. He clasped both of the boxer’s shoulders. “Twenty-five years ago in England, it was. I was a lad of ten and me dad took me to see you fight Ned Painter. Fifty-two rounds and you lost because of a broken arm and by God, man, you were winnin’. Winnin’!”

He turned to the crowd. “Keep on dancin’, folks. Meself and me friends here is talkin’ over old toimes.”

Baker said to the man and large black woman behind him. “Give yer greetin’s to Mr. Pierce James Figg, one of the best who ever put a foot in a prize ring.”

“Figg,” muttered the other thug. He blinked, flinched. “’Eard of ’im.”

“Heard of’im, now have ya?” Baker placed his face almost nose to nose with the thug. “’E’s the best, ‘e is, and you were fixin’ to die young by bracin’ the man.” The thug took one step backwards, licking his lips.

Baker said, “Mr. Figg, this here lady is Black Turtle. As you can see she is ample and black as a hangman’s heart. But I loves her, yes I do. She’s my lieutenant of sorts, keepin’ the girls in line and seein’ that peace and harmony reign over these here premises. Fights like a wounded tiger, she does, and she’s put a few men under the earth. No man in Five Points dares stand up to her unless, of course, he has provided in advance for his widow.”

Baker’s smile was easy, filled with white teeth. “I see, Mr. Figg, that you are in the company of that known man of letters, Mr. E. Poe and I say welcome to ye both. Yes sir, welcome to ye both.”

Poe said nothing.

Baker placed an arm around Figg’s shoulders. The boxer sniffed twice at the Irishman’s heavy cologne which smelled of cinnamon and gin.

“Figg me bucko, it is indeed an honor and a privilege to have a warrior like yourself in me place. Yes it is, sir. Your name is legend among those who follow ‘The Fancy.’ You have carved your name high atop the mountain crest of pugilism, sir. Saw you fight twice, twice, and a thrill it was. Bested Jem Ward, you did. Year was ‘26. And him goin’ on to become heavyweight champion of Britain. Good fighter he was, but I heard stories about him.”

Figg’s eyes were on the huge black woman who looked as though she wanted to kill him. The other thug was dragging away the man that Figg had knocked out. Figg said, “Ward had the skill, true enough. But he was a disgrace to the prize ring. He gambled too much. Bet on ‘isself to lose and he usually made sure he did.”

“You beat him fair and square, if I remember.”

“I did. He come into the ring that afternoon to kill me, so we had a go at it, ‘im and me.”

Baker produced another wide, sincere smile. “I was twelve then but by God, I did love ‘The Fancy.’ Lived for the prize ring, I did. The smell of it, the sounds, sights, the blood. All of it. Excitin’ world to a little fella. To a big fella too, let me tell ya. We have our boxers over here, some of ’em pretty good. But ahhh, those from me days as a snot-nosed little mick brat, they were the best I tell ya. Me dad never had a job long enough to tie his shoes but he always had a coin to bet on a prizefight. Tell me, has the game in England gone down as low as I hear?”

Figg nodded once. “It has. Gamblin’s taken its toll. Crooked fights, poisoned water to the fighters ‘twixt rounds, hooligans hired to break up a match if the wrong man’s winnin’. It’s gone wrong, true enough.”

Baker hung his head. “Sad. Very sad. Well now, how may I serve ye?”

Figg’s hands still did not leave his pockets. “Hamlet Sproul. Wants you should arrange a meetin’ with ‘im.”

“Hamlet Sproul, Hamlet Sproul.” Baker’s handsome and cross-eyed face turned thoughtful.

Poe, impatient with Baker’s hypocrisy, stood up. “Sproul has bragged about accompanying you and the Daybreak Boys on unscheduled visits to country homes.”

Baker’s eyes narrowed. Figg had seen that look before. The mick was measuring Poe’s neck for a blade; but then Baker smiled. “Yes, yes. Now it comes to me. Ham-a-let Sprou-well. I understand he is in the business of removals, of a sort.”

Behind him, Black Turtle snorted.

“Mortal remains and all that,” said Baker, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his gray silk waistcoat. “And what would you two citizens be wantin’ with such a man?”

Figg’s hoarse voice was even. The harp’s plink-plink and the shuffle of boots on sand were a musical counterpart to his words. “We will discuss that with Hamlet Sproul. We prefer you get word to him that Mr. Poe and Mr. Figg wants a face to face with ‘im as soon as possible. Tell ‘im it would be to ‘is advantage to do so. Tell ‘im it could very well save ‘is life.”

Baker nodded slowly, gravely. Cross eyes do indeed make him look funny, thought Figg. He’s slicker than egg white on a tile floor. Mr. Johnny the Gent would kick a nun in the head when she’s down, then charge her sixpence to help her off the floor.

“Save his life,” said Johnnie Bill Baker. “Now that ought to get his attention, eh Black Turtle me darlin’.”

She’d stepped away from him. A fight. Not too far away from where they stood. Without hesitating, Black Turtle waded in swinging her slung shot, scattering men and women before her as though they were driven by a strong wind.

Two men didn’t run. Sailors by the look of ’em, thought Figg, and they want to try her. They’re not the type to bow to a woman, so now she’s being put to the test.

Johnny Bill Baker smiled, gently nudging Figg with his elbow. “Behold, Mr. Figg. You are about to witness a remarkable performance which shall include the education of two gentlemen unacquainted with our ways.”

Now there was a space on the dance floor. The music trailed off and people watched. Two sailors, angered at being hit by the Negro woman, the both of them unfamiliar with her, were ready. They wanted to fight. So did Black Turtle.

“Nigger bitch,” grunted one. “Nigger bitch.” He charged her and Black Turtle kicked him in the knee with her booted foot, spinning him around and to the floor. The other sailor, smaller but as mean, was almost on her when she turned, hooking her right fist deep into his stomach. As he doubled up, she jammed her left thumb into his eye. He squealed, both hands quickly covering the eye.

Figg, who’d seen fighters in his time, was fascinated. She was the equal of any man and better than, most and she wasn’t finished, not by a long shot. The woman fought without heat, without passion, saying nothing and showing no expression and Figg hadn’t seen many with that kind of control or love of bloodsport inside ’em. Black Turtle was that rare one, a fighter empty of all feeling or compassion. Expect no mercy from her, for it was none you’d get.

Bending over, she came up with the stiletto from her boot top. Quick hands, thought Figg. Decisive. No hesitating with this one. The blade was against the temple of the sailor whose eye she’d just tried to put out. Then with one savage stroke, she brought the blade down, removing the ear. He screamed, spun around, spraying those near him with his blood.

Now the unlucky one on the floor had her attention. Black Turtle took her time walking over to him, which was just as well because he wasn’t going anywhere. Couldn’t stand. Figg watched the Negro woman raise her arm, then bring down the slung shot on the man, whipping him brutally, bouncing the egg-shaped piece of metal off his arms, thighs, head, stomach, hitting him again and again. Those watching laughed, pointed, howled, applauded. There was no mercy in Five Points. There were victors and victims and nothing in between.

Baker turned to Figg and Poe with his biggest grin of the night. Stands there like a proud parent, thought Figg, on the day his first born has finally learned to walk without daddy holding her up.

“Devoted to me, she is,” said Baker. “Ain’t nothin’ on two legs or four that can beat her.”

He stepped between Figg and Poe, an arm around each man’s shoulders. “Gents, tonight you will be drink-in’ the finest and it is on Johnnie Bill Baker, none other. Now sit you down and a waiter gal will bring you a small libation-”

“None for me,” said Figg. He hesitated, then, “And Mr. Poe is on temperance.”

Baker’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead in mock shock. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Well, Mr. Poe, I do hope the distilleries of Manhattan refuse to panic at this sudden news. And all this time I thought the most wondrous sight of all would be that of a camel sashayin’ through the eye of a needle. I offer me finest spirits and I am refused. Well, no matter. Take a pew the both of you, and I will have Mr. Sproul summoned and your business with him can be concluded. Johnnie Bill Baker knows how to treat a guest. Yes sir, that he does.”

From where they had originally been sitting, Figg and Poe watched Baker, Black Turtle and two men talk out of earshot several feet away. A dancing couple came between both groups, then moved on.

Figg, both hands still in his pockets, wished the lad with the trumpet would lay it down and go milk cows. The lad was a sorry mess and had no more music in him than a pig could fly. The lady harpist knew what she was doing and the one armed drummer appeared to have gotten drunk and passed out. As Figg shifted his eyes to Baker’s group, a hideous looking old woman, tiny and dry as a dead sparrow, crossed the dance floor, miraculously managing to avoid dancing couples. Her hair was sparse and white and she barely had a handful of teeth in her tiny head. She’d been somewhere in the darkness behind Baker.

Standing in front of Figg and Poe, the old woman began speaking softly in French.

Figg whispered from the corner of his mouth. “A nutter, she is. Balmy and around the bend. You takin’ charge of ‘er life, too?”

Poe answered her in French. Ain’t that nice, thought Figg. The two of ‘em carrying on like they was in Paree. French ain’t no language for a grown man. All them foreign words in it and you speak it from your nose.

The little old woman swayed, smiled at Figg, then continued speaking in French to Poe. Looney, moonstruck old biddy. They only come to the little poet when they are crippled in some manner. Cripples. They’re drawn to him like flies to rotting meat.

Poe’s southern drawl was respectful. “Mr. Figg, have you a coin to spare?”

“For this one? Give me a good reason why I should.”

“She has just warned us. Baker plans to betray you and me. No, do not stand, do not move. Stay as you are and listen.”

Poe sighed. “This dear woman is called Montaigne, though it is not her real name. It is the name of a sixteenth-century French philosopher. Her own name? A mystery to us, perhaps even to her, for her mind has been ravaged by alcohol and drugs. The sorrow that brought this on was great. She is French and once she was tutor to the children of the King of France. How she came to fall this low is another tale for another time. Life has treated her with contempt and disdain and to most, she is only a pile of rags in a doorway or under a bar, something to be ignored and discounted. Which is what happened tonight. Baker and others ignored her and she heard him plan our destruction. Baker knows where Sproul is, but will not lead us to him.”

“Did she learn why Baker is against us?”

“Does it matter?”

“No it don’t.”

Figg took a hand from his pocket and stuck it inside his coat. When he brought the hand out, it held a gold sovereign.

Poe said, “A suggestion, Mr. Figg. If you give her the gold coin, there is the chance that someone in here will see it and cut her throat for it. In Five Points, children are stabbed for their pennies. I suggest you buy her two or three bottles of liquor. She would be most appreciative, I am certain.”

“Ask her.”

“She understands English, Mr. Figg.”

“Yeah, I guess she does.” Figg tipped his hat to her. “You will ‘ave it, miss. And I am thankin’ yew muchly.”

She smiled. Her eyes were too bright, Figg thought. She’s addled, but thank dear Jesus, she ain’t too addled. “Mr. Poe, please find us a waiter gal for Missus Montaigne.”

The old woman spoke in French to Figg.

Poe said, “ ‘Sit we upon the world’s highest throne, sit we upon our own asses. ’It is from her namesake, her way of telling us that we have no right to look down upon her, for all of us are mortal and ordinary and none too elevated, despite our vanity.”

Figg nodded to her. She nodded back.

Poe leaned closer to the boxer. “We could leave now, Mr. Figg. Flee before plans are finalized for our destruction.”

“If we do not find Mr. Sproul, your lady friend is that much longer in the clutches of Jonathan.”

Poe sighed. “Too true. Then what are you suggesting we do, sir?”

“Continue sittin’ on this ‘ere bench and listenin’ to that sorry lad with the horn in his mouth.”

“We shall die if we remain, sir!” Poe leaned away from Figg.

“Mr. Poe, get one of them waiter gals so’s we can get Missus Montaigne her just desserts. If we flee, we learn nothin’. And about dyin’, well, I got me own thoughts on that. Yes, squire, indeed I do.”