Boston Noir

“And?” she repeated.

“And.” He leered. “I want to see what you will do.”

The bad times were hard for everyone, but it was the good times that brought real trouble, she thought. A pretty young lass with no family and a thriving business on the waterfront. She might as well have hung out a sign.

A

The Queen was a neighborhood place on Fleet Street. “The burying ground up behind you, and the deep, dark sea ahead,” her father used to say, but in between was a place for a man to drink his beer after work-or before, as may be the case-the occasional whiskey, if he was feeling full and fat. Or three or five, if he was broke and buggered.

She stumbled over the cobbles in the street, but recovered and hurried along, needing to reassure herself the place was still there, that it hadn’t vanished, hadn’t been whisked away by magic from the crowd of buildings that lined the narrow streets above the harbor. Or been burned to the ground, more likely. She never doubted that her husband, stupid as he was, would find a way to rob her for Miller, if that’s what Thomas imagined he wanted.

Had Thomas Hoyt been content with hot meals twice a day, too much to drink and ten minutes sweating over his wife on Saturday night, church and repentance Sunday morning, A

Until she discovered Thomas was ambitious, in his own way. While she poured ale, rum, and whiskey, he sat in the corner. Ready to change the barrels or quell the occasional rowdiness, he more often read his paper and smoked, playing the host. His eyes followed his pretty wife’s movements and those of all the men around her.

There were two men he had watched with peculiar interest, and A

The other man he watched was Seaver, but even Thomas was smart enough to be circumspect when he did it. When one of Miller’s men drunkenly pulled Seaver from his chair one night, claiming his looks were souring the beer, Seaver left without a word. But he came back the next night, and Miller’s man never did. That man now drank at another house, where no one knew him. Three fingers from his right hand were broken and his nose bitten off.

The other men left Seaver alone after that. A

Thomas was scrubbing the bar when she arrived. He looked up, smiled as though he remembered nothing of what had happened the night before. Maybe he didn’t.

“There’s my girl. Shopping done?”

“I forgot something.”

“Well, find it and I’ll walk you to the dressmaker’s myself. It’s getting dark.”

He said it as though the dark brought devils instead of the tradesmen who came regularly to her place. Who worshipped her. She had married him a year before, after her father died, for protection. She ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek, felt the swelling there, felt a tooth wiggle, her lip tear a fraction.

“I won’t have you be less than the best-dressed lady in the North End,” he said expansively, as if he emptied his pockets onto the counter himself. A

She pretended to locate some trifle under the bar, and Thomas wiped his hands on the seat of his britches. She forced a smile; her mouth still hurt. Better to have him think she was stupid or in love. Even better, afraid.

“The best news, A

It was still less than half the value of the place. Under no circumstances would she consider selling to Hook Miller and give Thomas the money to invest and lose.

She nodded, as if her refusal to sell had been a joint decision.

“I think we’ll wait until Friday, see if we can’t drive the price a little higher,” he said, patting her hand. His palm was heavy and rough. She saw the faint abrasions along the knuckles, remembered them intimately.

She nodded again, kept her eyes on her feet, shoes peeping out from under her skirt, as she moved briskly to keep up with Thomas. He raced across the cobbles, she a half-pace behind.

Friday, then. Three days. Between Miller’s desire for her tavern and Thomas’s wish to impress him, she was trapped.

Friday night came despite A

When Miller came into the tavern, Thomas got up immediately, offered him the best upholstered seat, nearest the fire. Miller dismissed him outright, said his business was with A

“Why won’t you sell the place, A

A

“And if I did, what would I live on then?” she asked gaily, as if Miller had been revisiting a long-standing joke.

“Go to the country, for all of me,” he said, draining his glass. It might as well have been Go to the Devil.

As if she had a farm to retire to, a home somewhere other than over the barroom. “I promised my father I would not,” she said, trying to maintain the tone of a joke, but the strain was audible in her voice, her desperation a tremor in her answer.

“Well, come find me-” he set his empty glass down. “When you’re ready to be reasonable.” He tipped his hat to her, ignored Thomas, and left.

After that, the other regulars filed out, one by one. None wanted to see what they all knew would come next. A

It was late, past the time when Thomas generally retired. It was obvious he wasn’t going to bed.

Seaver stood up. A