Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
Time Out of Mind (53 page)
A fifty-center, that is.''
The man in the fleece jacket held the cigar up high, inspecting it in the glow of the
Osborne's lights.
”I can remember when a full day bent over a shovel would fetch me little more than the cost of
this one good Havana.`'
Tilden looked up in spite of himself. The fist came low and hard to his stomach. There was no avoiding the blow;
he took it full beneath his rib cage though he crouched to
smother it as best he could. The cane in his right hand slashed forward by reflex, but it was poorly aimed. The man in the peacoat parried it and countered with a lead
slung sap that tore away Tilden's hat and a flap of his scalp. He saw an explosion of white fire and felt his knee crash
painfully against the pavement. He knew that he was down.
Down and blind. Cover your head, Tilden. Bring your
knees against your chest and your arms against your head.
But the arms had gone flaccid; they could not obey the
command of his brain. Then roll, for God's sake. Don't
give their boots a target. Again, his body did not answer.
speaking to him through the diffusing light.
“You've been
a bad boy, you see. You've been fighting. 'Fess up, now. You've been fighting, have you not?”
He felt an open palm
smash across his cheek. ”
'Fess up, I said. The way we
hear it, a feller can`t even have a quiet drink these days
without you comin
'
in and busting up the place.”`
Carling.
Another hard slap shocked him. Its sound blew through
the glistening cloud inside his head, dispersing more of it.
Yes, he thought. Talk to me. Keep talking to me.
“
Bad boys get punished, don't cher know.”
A third
blow. The same cheek. “
‘First bad boys and then bad little
girls.''
The hand came again. But softly this time. Its fin
gers were caressing the side of his face. “
‘And the way we punish 'em is we mark ‘em. We mark 'em so there's always
a lookin' glass to remind them o' the error of their wicked
ways.''
Tilden felt a thumb slide gently across his cheek
bone until it came to rest at the corner of his left eye.
Gougers. They were going to gouge his eyes and bring
them back for Ansel Carling to see. Now. Now or never.
man's, still gripped Tilden's hair, but the hand of the
gouger was now tearing at Tilden's forearm, then at Til
den's fingers, searching for a hold that would loose the
desperate grip Tilden had on his genitals. Even the hold on
his hair eased as the other man, the peacoat, wondered
through ponderous wits about the source of his compan
ion's agony. Tilden, from his knees, brought up the spike
of his cane, ramming it with all his gathering strength into
the armpit of the peacoat. That arm, too, snapped back,
tearing his hair as it went. Tilden swung the cane once
more, its silver knob finding Peacoat’s ear and staggering
the man. He brought back the cane to strike at the one in
the fleece jacket, but the cane's shaft struck the edge of a
low iron fence and it snapped in two. Before Tilden could
think to use the jagged edge as a thrusting weapon, the
writhing thug in the fleece jacket wrenched himself free
and, enraged, began a dance with heavy boots upon Til
den's body.
It's a pepperbox I'm holding, boys. Stand off.”
The
voice seemed to come from far away. It had a melodïc
flourish to it, a resonance. Tilden knew that voice.
“Back a
way nicely or, by God, I'll spray you both.”
Nat. Nat Goodwin.
“
Tilden, can you stand?''
Tilden nodded that he could, but his legs would not serve
him. A hand took his arm and helped him rise.
“
Careful with that thing, Nat,”
the one in the fleece
jacket said.
“We'll be calling it a day now.”
“
You'll stand where you are,”
the actor ordered.
Tilden could see them backing off toward the darkness.
The peacoat had one hand to his ear and blood was stream
ing from it down into his collar. The eyes of both men
were locked upon the eight small barrels of Nat Goodwin's
pistol.
“
Nothin’ personal, Nat. Just a job of work with us.
Nothin’ we’d deal you into.”
They continued backing
away.
“
Move, Tilden,”
he barked.
“Get inside.”
Goodwin
shoved him up the steps. It could be, he knew, that those
two bummers had enough. But it could also be that they
carried longer guns than his little pepperbox and were back
ing into an advantageous range. Nat Goodwin held his
ground until he saw the outer glass doors swing open and
the frightened night manager ran down for Tilden and took
his weight. Goodwin followed them, backing in, his pistol
still trained on the two retreating toughs.
He was wearing a dressing gown, Corbin remembered. Nat
Goodwin. The actor. It was made of silk brocade and it reached to his ankles. It was red. The collar was of velvet
and Corbin could see dull spots on it where spilled makeup
had been imperfectly scrubbed away.
“
Thank you, Nat. I owe you.” Tilden rested on a lobby
bench.
“
Thank Mr. Peebles here. He came and woke me when
he saw those two closing on you.”
“
Yes. Thank you.” Tilden nodded gratefully. “But
please, no word of this.”
“
Come along, my friend.” Nat Goodwin helped him to
his feet. “Let's see if I can piece you together.”
“
Nat, you knew them,” Tilden whispered when he was
out of the night man's hearing.
“
Just another pair of toughs, Tilden. New York's full of
them.”
Who were they?” Tilden allowed himself to be led into the elevator. Neither man spoke during the short ride to
Goodwin's floor. Then Tilden asked the question again.
It's no good calling the police, Tilden,” the actor told
him. “The fellow you nearly gelded is thick with Captain Devery and Clubber Williams.” Goodwin pushed open his
apartment door and guided Tilden through to a large mir
rored dressing table he kept in his bathroom.
Williams?” Tilden repeated the name as Nat Goodwin took a wet sponge to his scalp. “They were sent by Ansel
Carling, Nat. Why should Williams have a hand in it?”
I don't know that he does. Except that Carling works for Jay Gould and so does Williams when he's needed.
You're sure Carling is behind this?”
The man as much as said it.” Tilden winced at the
touch of a chloroform swab to his cut. “Nat, he meant to
take my eye.”
Goodwin frowned.
“
That doesn't sound like the Clubber's style. It's his
stick that got him his reputation and got him hob-nobbing
with his betters. He wants people to fear him well enough
but not to turn from him in disgust as they would a gouger.
Ask me, Williams knew nothing of it except perhaps to pass
on a name or two.”
“
I'll have that name, Nat.”
“
There are a thousand like him.” Goodwin stepped to
his tub and turned on both taps. “As he said, it's just a job
of work with him. Why go after a hireling if you know who's paying the freight?”
Because he talked like he was paid to hurt Margaret as
well. ‘Bad girls get marked,’ he said. Carling made the
same threat.”
Nat Goodwin chewed his lip.
“
What do you mean to do, Tilden, given the man's
name?”
“
He spoke of me, and Margaret, looking in a mirror
always and remembering what he'd done to us. I mean to
have him remember me.”
“
You'd go after him alone? If that's your plan, my
friend, you'll get no name from me.”
“
Perhaps John Flood will back me.”
Goodwin sighed deeply. “And perhaps my pepperbox as
well,” he said.
Pepperbox ... Big John Flood.
It was done the next day, Corbin knew. It seemed to him
that Tilden should have waited longer, until he was healed
or at least not slowed by the bruises on his back and thighs.
But Corbin could smell a foul yellow mixture, which Nat
Goodwin had plastered upon his welts after another soaking
in a tub of salts. And he could see in his mind the gloves
that John Flood had brought for him. Tight, fingerless
gloves of thick piled leather. They had little pockets sewn
into their palms to hold either sand or birdshot, and there were strips of rough canvas stitched across the knuckles.
Have you seen to Margaret? Tilden asked him. Give her
no thought, John Flood answered. She's safer by half than
you will be if you don't keep your wits full about you. And John Flood gave a nod and wink to Nat Goodwin, which
Tilden saw but did not question.
learned, playing poker with two fat cats from Tammany and a pair of rubes down from Buffalo who'd be nearly
blind on O'Gorman's liquor within the hour. Goodwin en
tered first and took a place at the end of the bar where he
could watch the two bartenders. John Flood entered just behind Tilden, a handkerchief at his nose, and quietly took
a stool near a pool table where two rough-looking men with
short cropped hair were intent on a game of nine-ball. Stay cool, lad, he urged to himself. A cool head keeps 'em off
balance.
Tilden walked to the center of the bar and stood surveying the half dozen tables and the score of men who were
lounging there, some hard, some more like ferrets. He
stepped to the nearest table and pushed it several feet far
ther from the bar. Next he moved the chairs, lifting one of
them with a ferret still seated in it. The two bartenders
exchanged glances. The larger one took a step closer to his
bung starter. Nat Goodwin rested a hand upon the butt of
his pistol. Tilden moved another table, its two patrons look
ing at him more with curiosity than annoyance. They no
ticed his hands, which were covered with wool knit gloves
stretched tight over outsized palms. He would not be the
first man to come in doing songs and tap dances for free
drinks and a sandwich, or to do a juggling act, or to take
on the toughest man in the house for a pass of the hat. This
last seemed the more likely given the look of the man's
nose, except he wore the clothes of a swell. At a far table,
a man with a bandaged ear reached from his seat and took
a pool cue from its rack on the wall.
“
What's your pleasure, sir?” the larger bartender asked.
“
Mr. Billy O'Gorman, please. Tell him Mr. Beckwith is
here to see him.”
O'Gorman? You got ambition.”