The Clarity of Cold Steel
Chapter 8

AFTER BURNING a day and a night staking out Mac Heath’s, Brooklyn and I suss out that the Gremlin with the kukri’s not the only muscle shielding the joint. Like Brooklyn said, the coppers are wise to what’s going. And that’s putting it mildly.

The Gremlin guards the ship and Draegar and his cops guard the neighborhood. A regular protection racket. Are they part of the local syndicate? Or are they the local syndicate? Either way, it’s apparent they don’t give a hang about the transpiring biz so long as they cop their pound of flesh. In this case, nigh on literally. Brazen bastards, they motor right up at first greylight to the side of the Cartagena and tie off, jawing on about pension reform and whores until Mac Heath’s Gremlin tosses them their cut.

Draegar’s got a lucrative deal going on here. He won’t appreciate some wog mucking up the works. To be fair, though, who does? I don’t bother approaching him. Cause as shitty as this life is, I’d rather maw my pills the rest of my days than take a dip in the deep drink.

Brooklyn’s gone the rest of the night, back with his Zulu Breakers or whatever he does in truth. But he’s back come dawn, and I pay him up front for another two days’ worth of eyes on the prize. As he takes the coin, he ain’t looking too chipper about it. I don’t blame him.

Cruising on fumes, I burn the next day canvassing the ships nearby, asking all sorts of uncomfortable questions to disreputable types who’d rather fillet me wide than fess on a neighbor. I tread as lightly as I can, but some eggshells’ll crack if you so much as look at them. Not a mere few of my interviewees unconsciously lay a hand on their flank when I start questioning on about Mac Heath and Gortham. Those that ain’t overtly belligerent just shrug and gawk around, like maybe they’re scared someone’ll see them jawing on to me. Hell, maybe they will.

“Maybe the poor lad just fell into the water?” a valiant old crone mutters. Too old to give a shit what she says or to who. No filter. But nothing useful, either.

I nod. “Maybe, darlin’.” And maybe she’s right. “Thanks.” I press a coin into her leathery claw and move on, leave her to her arthritis and cats.

Maybe Gortham was feeling like a busted flush after his cut and simply took a stumble into the drink. Is it that simple? It happens. Happens all the time. Bodies wash up on the shores of Malabar, the Seep, Gallow’s Tor. With long gaffs, harbormasters fish them out from under docks and boats. Offer a quick prayer to whatever salt-encrusted gods they pay homage to, right before they rifle pockets for coin then drop them back in.

I travel back along the labyrinth of ship and plank, glaring down into the depths, watching tiny waves lapping against the hulls, looking for the corpse of some kid who sold himself to save his family.

It occurs to me that drowning might be the happy ending here. But I need a body and so I keep searching. Checking the channels between massive hulks hundreds of feet long. Eyeballing black water beneath transoms. Climbing a forest of squatter’s crow’s nests for a god’s eye view.

Finally, I check the Boneyard’s floating morgue.

“Fifteen-years-old,” the coroner repeats, taking down her glasses, pulling open the body-drawer. “John Doe. Pulled him out a couple of hours ago.”

Laid out on the cold-slab is a kid about Gortham’s age. But this kid’s white. A shock of blond hair and pigeon chest. An indenture mark for the Jackson-Hewitt Company’s branded across his right cheek. A fleur-de-lis. His throat’s been slit and body tossed in the drink. Something gnawed his leg off at the knee, a ragged, gnarly bite. He smells like the open ocean. Clean. That won’t last long.

“Thanks,” I say.

The coroner nods, lets me know she’ll contact me if anyone of Gortham’s description shows up. I get back to the grind of corpse hunting. It ain’t all the glory it sounds like, and as the day passes and lack of sleep’s gaining on me like a hound on a crippled fox, I can feel eyes on me from time to time. A sense honed sharp by years of consummate professional cowardice. Time to get scarce.

Head down, hands in pockets, I slink along gangplanks and toward the Howard Bazaar, heart of the nightlife in the Boneyard.

In a stained glass cog-chapel window, I catch the reflection of some blocky tough eyeballing me from across a chasm. Waves shush and lap between us as our eyes meet for that instant. Frozen in time. Then he’s gone. I catch a glint at his left breast. A copper. They’re onto me now.

Probably some good neighbor shot a Benedict across my stern. I keep moving in one direction. Toward shore. Don’t need any new troubles with the law, cause old troubles? I’ve got them in spades. And from what I’ve garnered, these coppers don’t seem the type to get stuck on rights or policies or good old folksy morals. Good thing about the Boneyard is it’s a three-dimensional maze and as long as you’re willing to get wet and know how to swim, there’s always escape plan B. But that’s the only good thing: you get a choice between land sharks and sea sharks and get to decide whose teeth are sharper.

The plank bridges bend underfoot. The water’s black and covered by an oily film. Detritus and flotsam swarm below, shark fins cutting through. I’ve cased all of Armada. Topside anyways. There’s more of the Boneyard left and it’s late, but I start racking my brain on indigent submarine captains more in need of coin than breathing and who might hazard a trip beneath unfriendly waters to replace the carcass of a kid the world’ll never miss. A lot of coin to shell out and I ain’t got much. But then I think on what Brooklyn said about using the buddy system when ditching giblets. And then I think on what Catia said about Gortham. He’s a good boy, a smart boy. How smart were you, Gortham? I stare down at the oily water. Did you bring a friend? Did you have a friend? Do any of us?