JACK OF DIAMONDS

Artie woke up before the dawn.

His muscles ached from the climb up the wall last night, but he fell to the floor and did forty quick push-ups regardless. He wasn’t getting any younger, he told himself as soon as he finished. Still, it had been an exhilarating climb, even if he felt as if he’d been beaten with a cricket bat. He remembered how the first time he’d tried climbing he nearly fell; since then, he carried a rope in case he ran into any obstacles. So far, that only happened the one time, in London; and he’d broken a finger that time.

I’ve had too many close calls over the years, though.

He looked at his hands, which were rough and calloused, and looked at the finger he’d broken. He’d reset it himself, but it hadn’t set properly, and now it had a slight bend at the last knuckle. He was lucky it had been his pinkie finger, he reminded himself. The fact it was bent at the last knuckle sometimes worked in his favour, but he’d have preferred to forgo the pain rather than reap the benefits of a wider grip. He couldn’t remember a time over the course of the last four years when he wasn’t suffering from some minor bump or bruise.

It was no wonder his hands were hard and calloused.

I don’t remember a night in the past five years when I’ve slept for more than four hours; but I don’t complain about that either, do I?

It's obvious memories of the War are keeping me from sleeping; but understanding what the problem is, doesn’t resolve the issue, does it?

Besides, is it a problem anymore?

He’d sometimes wondered which memory it was that haunted him most, but he knew there was only the one. And rightfully so, he thought. If he’d have come home with a closet full of memories he would’ve ended up like Crockett—shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, unable to sleep, or talk to anyone without crying—finally killing himself because it seemed like the only answer. It was probably for the best, he told himself. But then, Crockett had been utterly insane. You could ask any man who’d served with him, what they thought of Crockett, and they’d all say the same thing. The man used to crawl out into No Man’s Land and come back with the ears of German soldiers he’d met along the way, and killed. They were tied around his neck on a leather thong. They even gave him a medal for his night time sorties. While they should’ve shipped him home and locked him up, they didn’t; instead, they sent him over the top again and again, thinking he’d get himself killed.

He didn’t.

Shell shock they call it.

Small wonder they call it that, he told himself. The thunder of the guns was similar to putting your head inside a metal drum and pounding on it with a hammer all day and night for a week straight. It wasn’t something you could easily forget even if you wanted to. Men were going deaf standing beside breech-loading guns; tossing buckets of water on the works to cool them; slipping in the mud holes they’d made as the guns rolled back and forth in ruts caused by concussive blasts. And you’d watch the German lines in the distance, asking yourself, how they could possibly survive such a bombardment? He remembered how he'd wanted to piss himself in fear when it was time for him to go over the top for the first time.

Carrying seventy pounds of weight, he slipped and fell, not getting up until the bullets stopped digging into the ground around him. And when he looked up the line was a hundred yards ahead of him, marching into a hail of bullets. He reached out to the man beside him, hoping to urge him forward—needing someone beside him—but he man rolled over with dead eyes staring up at the morning sun. There was a hole in his chest the size of his fist; the man looked so peaceful, it was easy to picture himself in his place. But not today, he remembered telling himself. There may have been no turning back, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use the others in front of him as a barrier.

And he did, many times.

And they still made me a Sergeant.

His first day of battle was the single-most frightening day of his life. It would prove to be the greatest loss in British military history, with a record 50,000 dead. All with stats, and records, and names. I may not have suffered through shell shock, he thought, but I certainly suffered; we all suffered. And still, when it was all over, when the surrenders were accepted and all was said and done, a number of them remained in Paris, hiding from themselves by either drinking themselves to death, inhaling extortionate amounts of cocaine, or thinking they needed to write their experiences down in a book, or as a piece of music.

That was the Somme.

For a whole year he’d face the onslaught. Never quite able to conquer his fear whenever he had to go over the top. It was never a matter of him doubting if theirs was the right cause, not until he began asking himself what the point of all the endless slaughter was? He’d been lucky, he knew that. He'd been promoted simply because he'd outlived everyone. The others, they all knew it wasn't for meritorious bravery.

A Spencer was never meant to lead troops into the breech, his brother Emerson said one cold night in November. He had to admit his brother was right. There wasn't a painting in the entire house that showed a Spencer leading the way into battle. He smiled at the irony as he half-listened to his father. He told his father there was no need for talk of politics on the Front. If it's politics, it's Russian sympathisers trying to bring on mutiny, or a revolution. The Army usually just shot those type of agitators. No real trial to speak of; it certainly couldn't be called legal, he thought.

It was one of the few times he'd been home to Rolvenden on leave. His mother wouldn't stop crying; his father waxed bombastic--political tripe was all Artie could think to call it--and swore he'd never go back to Rolvenden once he left. He was given a position at headquarters once they discovered he spoke several languages. Five of them, he'd say, should he be asked. No one asked. They needed translators at headquarters, in Paris.

All he heard now was the melody of echoing guns sounding as distant as the thunder, and seeing the flash of bombardments as if they were sheets of lightning on the low horizon.

Why didn’t I stay in Paris?

Aceline was always on his mind whenever he thought of Paris. She’d been the one major affaire de coeur he remembered with fondness. He’d long thought it might be nice to revisit those days: But you can never go back, he told himself. And he accepted that, or else he would’ve gone back and fixed a lot of things. But even so, there was something about leaving Paris that made him feel it wasn’t enough. He could’ve stayed--he should have stayed, in hindsight. The Lost Generation they're calling them now. He told himself he might have to consider living on the Riviera again, just as he had with his uncle all those years ago. Before Oxford; before London; before he was broken.

He could see the stars starting to dwindle through the tiny window high up in the wall. The night was still bright with the light of the moon, but it was fading like a ghost with the coming dawn. There was no knowing which constellations he was looking at out here, he realized. Everything his father had taught him about the stars was lost that first time he saw the stars in total darkness. And while he thought nothing could be darker than the inside of a trench, he'd yet to stand in the middle of the Devon countryside, looking up. The most he could do now was to guess, and while the Romantic side of his brain told him he was looking at Orion’s Belt, the more sensible half of his brain told him there were just too many stars to count.

But thinking of Paris always led him back to London. There was the London he knew before enlisting, during a fit of fervent patriotism most of his generation suffered from as far as he was concerned. He was twenty-one, attending college at Oxford—because that’s where all the Spencers went--but more importantly, exempt from the draft. His was a name with a long line of tradition, and as the youngest son, he was slated to be employed by his uncle’s firm, DODSON & SONS: Litigants & Insurance.

It was a life to feel stifled by, he knew now. The idea of working the same endless hours his uncle and cousins worked was ridiculous. As the youngest of four boys, there were no real expectations for him, except that he follow the family’s tradition. He’d tossed that idea aside by enlisting. His mother was hysterical, as he expected she would; his brothers all had different opinions; his sister, as usual, was told she had none.

That was the London he’d fallen in love with. He was young, single, and attractive. He enjoyed the comfort of the lower classes. He liked the girls, and he'd learned to fight--the hard way.

I guess Roger figured that out last night.

His father made certain he had an allowance, and that it'd last as long as he remained a student at Oxford. It was the sudden realization of what exactly the future held for him that made him decide to enlist. After the war, all he heard from family and friends was how much he'd changed.

No shit, he wanted to say. In fact, I knew that without having to be told. Did you know twenty-four hours ago I had a French whore on her knees in front of me, working me like, well, the French whore she was.

That's what he wanted to tell them. But he couldn't, could he?

I’m a thief, for one thing. Or is that the only thing that should matter?

When he shipped home from the War, the ship docked at Plymouth. He stood at the rail, watching the crowd on the pier. The excitement was palpable. You could feel it in the air. It was as if lightning were building up around him—a static glow that seemed to come from every man, woman, and child on the docks. Women were jumping up and down in excitement as they recognized signs and placards addressed to them. Some were holding bawling babies, waving them over their heads as though banners. He saw his own name on a placard in the crowd and laughed.

It was his sister Peg who'd introduced him to the new London. The London he'd once known was changed--a direct result of the War, people said, and he could never tell if it anger, or defeat. The ones making the money now weren’t afraid of acting outside the law. Most of them were battle-hardened veterans who had no trouble killing anyone who got in their way. They were followers, and enforcers, working for the gangs as mercenaries for hire. He could understand the cold bloodedness needed for something like that, and wondered if he’d be willing to cross the line when it came down to it.

The men Peg knew, knew those men.

There was no one she knew who’d ever dare act on his own. No one she knew who thought he might try to run his own gang. It took a man with nothing to lose to rise to the top. The men Peg knew tried to act threatening, even menacing—there were only three of them—but they didn’t have it in them to go all the way. Those who thought they did were usually found weighted down, swollen and bloated in a stream out in the midlands. All three men answered to someone who was a bigger threat--a man who was willing to cross the line. The men his sister knew were no more than shadowy men who enjoyed living life on the fringes of high society. They were willing to sell cocaine and morphine, but that was just to keep their own supply available. They weren't about to cross the line and commit themselves to a cause they didn’t believe in. Instead, they’d over indulge, become addicted, and be dead within three years.

Artie knew the best thing for them would be to meet a woman willing to put up with their inflated egos, and love them in spite of their faults. A woman who was worth giving up everything for. And when you looked back you’d tell yourself you made the right decision. Anything less than that, and they were lost, Artie knew. He wasn’t about to let that happen to himself, all the while knowing it was a possible future.

“I’ll tell you what I’m planning to do now that I've thought about it,” he said.

They were sitting at a small table in the newest “in” place, somewhere in Plymouth. He’d forgotten the name twice since they’d entered. All he knew was that it was somewhere near the waterfront. The waiter was polite, and the beer he’d ordered brought out fast. And it was cold. The place was loud with the raucous laughter of the newer generation. The girls all wore new shimmering, flimsy dresses that caught the soft lights in muted waves. There was a man on a piano in the corner playing English pub songs, and people echoed the songs with raucous laughter. The air was the hazy blue of tobacco smoke, with fried food, and the sweat of a hundred hungry patrons. There were blue and white tiles on the floor, tiles on the walls, and a fan in the middle of the ceiling that stirred the air with streamers of cobwebs hanging from the blades.

“What do you mean, now that you’ve about it? What about Uncle’s firm?” Peg asked, sipping a gimlet. She was serious enough. It seemed that everything their mother had instilled in her about duty and family had taken root. Artie wished he could say the same. He laughed.

“For Christ’s sake, Peg, can you see me sitting behind some fuckin’ desk for the rest of my life?”

“No,” she laughed. “But Peter and Paul? I can see them doing that, and being quite happy with it. After all, it kept them out of the War, didn’t it?”

“Peter and Paul,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “I used to look up to them. They were four years older than me, and when I was ten, they’d beat me up just for the hell of it. If I were to join the firm, I’d probably end up blowing their brains out. That’s a scandal mother would never survive.”

She looked at him for a moment—studied him—before she looked down at the table and picked up her drink. She would look him in the eye and tell him she was calling his bluff. He was just saying what he was saying to shock her. But a part of her could see what was looking back at her was cold and deadly. She tried to laugh again, but instead reached across the table, picking up his hand.

“So what’s this big plan you have?”

“Well, I’m never going to work for anyone again in my life, I can tell you that.”

She laughed outright, and then became serious.

“Father will never let you have your allowance again if you don’t join the firm. How do you expect to live in London without an allowance?”

“Who says I’m staying in London?”

“Where else would you go?”

“The world’s a big place.”

“Again. How would you afford to live?”

“I can always resort to theft.”

“I doubt you’ll be very good at that,” she smiled.

“Do you?”

“What do you plan to steal?”

“Jewels. Money. Whatever I think will be worth something.”

“Stop it,” she said quickly. “I can’t tell anymore if you’re being serious or teasing me.”

“I need someone I can trust, to help me.”

“What!”

She took a quick look around the restaurant, hoping no one noticed her sudden outburst. Several of the women looked disgusted with her, and she smiled at them until they turned away. She leaned in closer, lowering her voice.

“You want me to help you? You’re not serious?”

She looked at the tables around them, wary of who was watching them.

There was no one watching.

“Do you know anyone who deals in stolen jewels?”

“No, I won’t do it.”

“What do you mean, you won’t? I’m your brother. If I can’t trust you, who do I go to? Just a name. I promise. I won’t ask you for anything again.”

*

Artie stepped outside, walking to the small pen on the other side of the house where he’d tied the horse up for the night. He reached into his pocket and took out the apple he picked up off the counter in the cluttered kitchen on his way out. Offering it to the horse and stroking its neck gently, he thought about what happened earlier.

All in all, not a bad night.

The big suprise was how Jenny had proven herself a more than willing partner-to-be. He needed someone like her on the inside; someone who knew the details of all the houses. His first thought was that person would be Claire. But he was more than satisfied with Jenny’s willing show of participation. He was looking forward to fucking her, and while he was surprised at how she’d turned on him when he beat her husband—and admittedly he’d gotten a little carried away with it—he knew he had her under his thumb no matter what she did. She has to do what I say, and eventually, what I want, he reminded himself.

Secrets and lies, he told himself. That's what it's all about.

All the same, Reggie hadn’t been too excited at the prospect of being called a horse thief when Artie arrived at the house; Claire even less. They both changed their tunes when he took out the bag of jewels and coins, spilling them across the table.

Then he placed the violin on the table.

“What’s that for?” Claire asked.

“It’s a violin.”

“I know what it is, Mr. Spencer, my question is, why would you take a violin?”

“And it’s a good question,” Artie smiled. He was silent for a moment, as if thinking it over, and then looked at Reggie, who seemed to be waiting for the answer with a lot more ease than Claire.

“And wait until I tell you it’s the solution to all my problems. There’s a man, in London, and he wanted me to find him a violin—a particular violin.”

“A man in London?” Reggie said.

“Why this violin?” Claire asked. “He could get himself a violin anywhere in London for ten pounds.”

“He could. But not like this one.”

“What’s so special about it?” Reggie asked.

“This is a valuable piece.”

“Who’s the man?” Claire asked.

“What man?”


“The man in London who wants the violin?”

“I guess the only way to describe him would be with an Americanism,” Artie smiled. “He’s a gangster. Do you know what that is, or what it means?”

“He’s a thug,” she said, sorting through the jewels on the table. Artie picked a necklace up and told her to turn around; putting it around her neck, he could feel the softness of her skin under his rough, calloused hands. He could smell the freshness on her, of talc and lavender, and took a deep breath before he looked back at Reggie.

“He’s more than just a thug,” Artie smiled, and stepping back he looked at Claire who was all ready looking at herself in the mirror, her hand adjusting the necklace.

“How’s that?” Reggie asked. He seemed to be paying close attention, his eyes drifting over Claire's figure before looking at Artie again. “How’s he more than just a thug?”

“No,” Claire said, letting go of the necklace and reaching her hand out, grabbing Reggie’s arm. “The question you should be asking, is how do you know him?”

“How do you think I know him? I’m a thief,” Artie explained.

“No, I mean, yes, and I make pies, but that doesn’t mean I know all the pastry chefs in London. How do you know this man?”

“When I came back from Over There, my sister met me at the docks in Plymouth. She said she wanted to take me to London—to the London she knew. She was living the social life there as a young flapper, working in my uncle’s firm. Still, she made the trip all the way out to Plymouth just to pick me up, because no one else in the family seemed willing to give up their time for me.”

“Your own parents refused to go?” Reggie asked.

Artie nodded.

“The family home’s in Kent,” he said, “and my parents are getting too old to travel. My father had a stroke some years ago, for which my mother blames me. She said if I hadn’t signed up and left for the war, he would’ve never had the stroke in the first place.”

“So your sister takes you to London?” Claire said, trying not to let Artie get distracted. “Then what?”

“She does,” he conceded. “She takes me to London."

“And she knows gangsters?”

Artie smiled, and sat down. He found a pearl necklace that somehow got caught up in the bag when he’d emptied it. He looked at it, rubbing it against his teeth and nodding to himself.

“My sister doesn’t know gangsters. She did, however—at the time—know three men who knew other men of ill-repute.”

“Your sister?” Claire asked, clearly not believing a word of it.

“I don’t know how she came to know these men. I was a little busy—what, with the War at the time—but my brothers should’ve been watching over her. At the very least, my Uncle and cousins. All I know is that when I came back, she introduced me to these men. Friends of hers, she claimed.”

“Why did she introduce you?”


“I asked her if she knew anyone who could help me.”

“Help you what?” Reggie asked.

“I told her I was going to be a thief.”

“You told her?” Claire said in disbelief. “Why would you tell her?”

“Who better to trust if not my own sister?”

“And she offered to help you?”

“No. Not at first. She didn’t want anything to do with the idea. At first, she wanted me to join the family firm with her.”

“The family firm?” Reggie said.

“Insurance, litigation, that sort of thing. I told her that wasn’t for me. She finally agreed, then asked me what I wanted to do instead?”

“That's when you said you wanted to be a thief?” Claire offered.

“Not in so many words.”

“How many words, then?”

“You didn’t have to,” Reggie said with a slow smile. “You showed her! Didn’t you? You climbed up a building, went in through a window, and when you came back out, you had something you took.”

Artie nodded.

“I gave her a bracelet I found on the dresser inside.”

“So, just like that, your sister says she’ll help you…what?” Claire asked. “Steal?”

“Those three friends of hers I told you about? They knew men who resold stolen property. They set me up with a woman they knew—Angela; Angel they called her—who only dealt with high end goods. Paintings; jewelry; old coins, that sort of thing. My sister asked Angel how much she was willing to give her for the bracelet. We never told Angel I stole it; she thought it was my sister’s, an heirloom I'd imagine. She offered three hundred pounds.”

“That’s ridiculous! For a bracelet?”

“Is it? It was all diamonds and rubies. It probably cost ten thousand pounds, and not a farthing less.”

“Who’s was it?” Reggie asked, suddenly serious. Claire looked at him, taken off guard with the question.

“How would he know that?”

“No, that’s the ridiculous irony of the whole story. The fact is--the window I climbed through--it belonged to the mistress of a certain gangster. Can you guess who?”

“I’m afraid to,” Reggie said with a slow shake of his head.

“You should be. He's the very person you refused to run the streets with; goes by the name of Sabini—”

“Sabini?”

“You know him, don’t you?” Artie said, smacking his hands in a loud clap. He turned to look at him closely “That’s the guy you were talking about that night, isn’t it?”

Reggie nodded.

“And he knows who you are?”

Now it was Artie's turn to nod.

“How does he know who you are?” Reggie asked.

“Remember Angel? As soon as she tried to resell the bracelet, Sabini found out about it. He paid her shop a little visit. He beat the living daylights out of her with a hammer, and wouldn’t stop until she was only too happy to tell him about my sister and me.”

“Your sister?” Claire asked. She all but whispered the word.

“Don’t worry. She’s back in Kent with my parents. I told her she had no choice than to leave London. She didn’t believe me at first, but then I told her about Angel, who Sabini is, and she couldn’t get out of town fast enough. I don’t know how they found me, but they’d already contacted me, and then they told me they were going to kill her if I didn’t do what they told me.”

“What did you say?”

“I told them to fuck off, of course, what do you think I said? I didn’t know who they were. But I wasn’t some fresh wog off the boat they could threaten with—”

“Who were they, Artie?” Reggie asked.

“Sabini’s Hammer Boys.”

“And he wants this violin?” Reggie asked.

“Not this exact one, but one like it. It’s for his son.”

“His son?” Reggie laughed.

“He’s a good father, I suppose. How would I know? What father wouldn’t get their son a Stradivarius if they had the opportunity?”

“And you took this Stradivarius out of Bedloe Manor?” Claire asked. She was stunned by the revelation.

“You know about it, then?”

“Everybody knows the violin. It's The 1848. The oldest son--I don't know his name anymore, it's been a long time--he used to play it."

"I thought he was going to be an artist?"

"I wouldn't know anything about that."

“Tell me the truth, Artie, but take your time. You know, like you always do when you lie. Did you come out here to steal the violin for Sabini? Or to see me?” Reg asked.

“I came out to see you, Reg. Honest. I just needed to get away from London for a while. Things weren’t working out the way I thought they would. I didn’t know who Charlie Sabini was; I didn’t know the Hammer Boys—”

“Who are the Hammer Boys?” Claire asked.

Reggie looked at her and smiled.

“A London Street Gang.”

“And you know them?”

“I used to pal around with them back in the day,” Reggie smiled.

“And he knows that?” she asked, looking at Artie. “I don’t even know that! Why does he?”

“And why would you?” Reggie asked, his voice soft, almost menacing. “I told you I’d take care of you. That’s all you need concern yourself with. You needn’t worry about what goes on out there, or what I did in the past. Artie doesn’t know everything what I did.”

“But I got a pretty good idea, Reg, and you know that,” Artie smiled.

“I do. Now, what is it you want me to do? I know you want something, or you’d’ve never brought the fiddle out.”

“I want you to give it to Sabini for me.”

“Me?”

“Are you insane!” Claire asked, taking the necklace off and throwing it down on the table.

“This has nothing to do with you,” Artie said slowly.

“Anything to do with him, has to do with me,” she said with a note of defiance.

“No. It doesn’t,” Reggie said slowly.

“What are you saying?”

“There are some things a man owes another, and there can’t be no denying it when the favour’s called in.”

“And you owe him a favour?” Claire asked.

“I owe him my life.”

“Of course you do,” she sneered. "How fuckin' cliché."

“I wouldn’t ask you Reg, but you know him.”

“I fought with him and his brothers; that doesn’t mean I know him any more than I know you, Artie. I fought a lot of geeks back then. Jews, Wogs, whatever. It’s what we did.”

“He’s not going to do anything to you. Not like he would to me. I'll send him a note telling him you’ve got his fiddle. You’ll just be acting as the middle man, Reg, I promise.”

“And if I do this, what’s in it for me?”

He looked at Claire and nodded slowly.

“I’ll help you get your pie business off the ground. I’ll help you find a place in the village, and help you get set up.”

“You’ll give me the money?’

“I’ll give you the money.”

“I’ll do it.”

“No! I won’t let you!” Claire said.

“Him helping us doesn’t mean we’re in his debt, dear. We’re never going to afford a place in town if I'm driving around the countryside with a truck on its last legs. Right now, I'm delivering one or two pies at a time, and that's by word of mouth more than anything. We should be driving from town to town, sellin three dozen pies a day. This way, we’ll get a shop with a proper kitchen, and you'll be able to bake your pies, and sell them, right there in town. That’s how it’s got to be, Artie. Right?”

“Right as rain, Reg. You help me with this, I help you. It’s win/win, for both of us.”

"We could have a telephone and take orders."

*

Artie stood under the fading light of the moon, relieving himself. He’d return the horse and ingratiate himself with Jenny’s father, hopefully convincing the man that he deserved an invitation to the evening’s Costume Ball. Then when he could, he’d trap Jenny somewhere and get her to tell him who was who.

Maybe I’ll make her fellate me again? After all, I have to know if she’s still loyal.

And it being a Costume Ball, he could dress up as Zorro and n0 one would look at him twice. It was an open invitation to help himself to whatever he wanted, he thought, stuffing himself back into his pants. He turned to look at the horse again, admiring its sleek coat in the soft light of the coming dawn. Running a hand around the withers and patting it gently, he thought she was a fine specimen of a horse.

I should've never taken the Strad.