The Dead Gentleman by Matthew Cody Read Free Book Online Page B

I’d heard them several times since then, in back alleys or cellars I’d mistakenly thought empty. Always, I’d be warned just in the nick of time by a low whistle from Merlin. I had to admit, without the bird I’d have been snatched up a long time ago. That clockwork canary had a knack for anticipating trouble, especially trouble of an unusual sort.
    Not that the bird’s gift excused anything. Because of him, I was now reduced to sleeping under an overturned iron bathtub, wrapped in a moldy coat, with the rest of the crazies who squatted beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. The sounds of the East River, the bells of the barges and the swell of lapping waves, mixed with the smells of campfires and the people there. Few voices competed with the river; mostly it was just hushed whispers and sickly coughing, but every now and then someone would break down crying or burst out in hysterical laughter. The bridge folk were nuts, mostly, but at least they didn’t have the wherewithal to chase a bribe, and they were already so far down in the pecking order that you couldn’t really threaten them with less. It seemed that the bridge folk were the only ones
not
looking for me, and therefore they were my best bet if I wanted to disappear for a while—at least until the saner folks forgot about me and the stupid bird.
    “Hey, you put a deposit on this here tub, or what?”
    My eyes popped open as my hand reached instinctively for my missing razor, which was on the floor of a dead man’s coach somewhere. A shriveled prune of a face was talking to me, flapping lips working on toothless gums. The face belonged to one of the bridge folk, a well-seasoned one judging by the smell.
    Prune-face was tugging hard on my makeshift blanket, trying to get me to move. I tugged back, harder. “Clear off, will you? I’m not looking for any trouble, you crazy old … person.” I honestly couldn’t have told you whether I was talking to a man or a woman. Merlin let out a short whistle that was absolutely no help at all.
    Prune-face let me have the blanket but didn’t quiet down. “Hey, I’m talking at you. You hear? You gotta leave a deposit with the Duke if you want to sleep here in this tub. So’s you don’t ruin it. Maybe you leave me that shiny parrot there and I won’t tell him.”
    I glanced over at Merlin in his cage, then at the cracked, muddy, weed-encircled tub I’d squeezed myself under for shelter. It didn’t seem like much of a trade. “How am I going to ruin rubbish?” I asked. “And who are you talking about? A duke owns this tub? I suppose that makes you some sort of baron? Or maybe you’re the pope himself, right?” I slowly inched my fingers toward the one weapon I did have—a stout ax handle I’d nicked off a lumber cart. So far this crazy seemed harmless enough, but you never knew when they might turn. Then it pays to have a nice piece of hickory at your side.
    “Do I look like the pope? I’m just trying to give you some good advice, friend. That there tub belongs to the Duke Under the Bridge, and you don’t want to be caught sleeping in it without leaving him a little something. Else he’ll take a little somethingoff of you.” With that, Prune-face held up a hand, wriggling the stumps of three missing fingers in my face. “Get my drift?”
    I got it. This “Duke” person must have been one of the bridge folk who thought of himself as a kind of boss. Maybe he was a thug who was slumming it for a while, bullying the crazies for kicks. Whatever the case, the last thing I wanted was a run-in with him.
    “Yeah, well, thanks for the tip,” I said as I began rolling up my things. “Like I said, I don’t want any trouble, so I’ll just be moving on.”
    Prune-face’s face scrunched up even more, if that was possible. “No, you don’t get it, friend. There’s no time for moving on. The Duke’s here now!”
    “What’s this squatter doing here?” asked a voice full of stones. “Lazy sack o’ bones