Jack of Diamonds

iii

“Now, what I want you to do, my dear…?” He let the question hang in the air for a moment, uncertain and unclaimed.

“Hester,” she said with a smile. It was really quite a disarming smile he realized—as much as the name she used; he knew it wasn’t hers.

He almost stuttered when he said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what? You didn’t ask, and I didn’t offer. I do remember how you fucked me all night last night, though—all day today, too. For as long as you’ve been at it—fucking me stupid, I might add—” and there was that laugh again “—not that I minded. But, it’s an act of intimacy all the same; something borne of trust…or almost. And here you’ve been refusing to call me by my fucking name for a day, a night, and part of another day,” she finished and laughed again.

It was a light laugh, nothing that might lead him to think she was upset with him, but at the same time, a reminder that he’d better take note of her. He knew very little about her, other than she’d once upon a time been on the pull, a slap and tickle fanny girl before she was Charlie Sabini’s mistress. A common whore. She still was Charlie’s girl as far as he knew, which didn’t say much about her when it came to loyalty, did it?

She still has to be part of the plan though, even if it’s just for the irony, he told himself—the irony being when he’d told her he was one of the Solomon brothers. It wasn’t an irony she wasn’t likely to understand, but Charlie certainly would.

“Hester? Is that from the novel?” he asked.

“Yes. The American novel.”

“The one about the letter?” he added.

“The Scarlet Letter, yes. I’m surprised you know it. It’s American after all.”

“That’s because I’m almost educated,” he said, putting a hand on his breast and giving her a slight bow of his head. It had the appearance of a curt nod, but when he added a sharp click of his bare heels, she laughed again.

“Your servant, madame. I’ll have you know, I’m not one of those dims who dismisses a book based on the author’s country of birth. I’ll read anything.”

“And you want me to do…what?” she asked, standing and looking out the window.

“I want you to distract that man standing over there,” he said, pointing at the man across the street. He was huddled against the wall. There was a sombre puff of cigarette smoke drifting over the man’s head as if it were a thought bubble about to burst. It was difficult making out his face at the distance they were at; the hard rain and dark clouds only made seeing him more difficult. The man was cupping his cigarette in the palm of his hand, and it glowed whenever he puffed on it.

“The doorman?”

“Not the doorman; the man across the street—over there—smoking the cigarette in the alley. The man can see right into the lobby of this hotel from where he’s standing.”

“Do you know what he wants?”

“Well, if he’s not a fucking Thug, then I suppose he’s a copper, ain’t he?” Artie smiled, letting the sheer curtains fall into place and jumping onto the unmade bed. He laughed, patting the open space beside him. He was still wearing the bath towel around his waist where he’d tied it—quite expertly—on his way to opening the door for room service. He’d still had an erection when he answered the door, and was doing everything he could to dissuade the man from entering; while she was doing everything she could not to laugh. Artie never did figure out whether the bellman noticed his erection or not. Now, having had his tea and marmalade, he was thinking there might be a little unfinished business.

“You want me to distract the man in the alley?” she asked, still at the window, looking down at the man.

His shoulders are probably still hunched up to his neck.

“He’s been watching the building for some time.”

“What’s he watching? Who’s he watching?” she asked, turning to look at Artie.

“From what I gather—just by the clothes he’s wearing and the way he’s hiding—I’m thinking he’s with the Yard—”

“Scotland Yard?” Suddenly, she seemed intrigued.

“I can’t say for sure. They were watching long before I got here. Either way, it’s not good news for me.”

“Why’s that?” She was straining to see the front of the building across the street, standing on her tip-toes. She couldn’t possibly see it, Artie thought, and smiled, seeing her breasts pressed up against the widow pane.

“I don’t want a certain someone to know I’m coming for him,” he smiled.

“Why? Are you planning to rob someone? Is that the business you’re into? Someone broke into my place once, in Plymouth, and took a bracelet of mine. It was a gift.”

“Yes. I know,” he smiled.

She dropped the curtain and turned to look at him.

“How could you…?”

“What?” he smiled again.

“Was it you?”

“What makes you think I’d do something like that?”

“What makes you think I don’t know who the Solomon brothers are? Because, unless there’s a third brother, you’re not one of them.” She folded her arms under her breasts and looked at him, studying him, and he wondered if maybe he’d told her too soon. He couldn’t tell whether she was angry, or simply annoyed.

“My name’s Jack.”

“Jack? Just Jack?”

“Just Jack,” he nodded.

“Well, just Jack, it is JJ? I like JJ. Sounds American. What’s in this apartment that’s so important to you?”

“It’s not a matter of what; it’s who.”

“Who? All right then, I’ll admit you’ve got my attention. And by that I mean I’m in. Who are you going after?”

“This is Soho. Well, that’s Soho, one block over,” he said, jerking his thumb at the wall behind him. “You ever been to Soho, Hester?”

“Soho?”

“It’s the centre of old London. Did you know that? Everything that you could possibly want to see, as far as Culture and history are concerned, is within walking distance from there.”

“Do I strike you as the kind of girl interested in Culture, Jack? I take it that’s Culture with a capital C? Would I be wrong assuming that? I’m sorry Jack, but when I think about culture, it probably has something to do with gardening.”

“That’s not Culture; that’s horticulture. Have you never heard of the British Museum?”

“The Brit? Of course. Everyone has.”

“It’s a fifteen minute walk from here—from Soho, I mean.”

“It is?”

“Buckingham Palace? The Mall? Trafalgar Square’s a short walk. Fancy a play? You’re in the heart of the beast for that. But I need to be in Soho. I’ll give you a fiver for helping me, if you can distract our friend over there long enough for me to slip in behind him and get to that first floor balcony off to the side, there.”

“He’ll be sure to hear you if you use the fire escape,” she said with a quick nod.

“I won’t be using the fire escape.”

He knew distracting the man had to be worth at least ten. He thought maybe he’d offer her half and see how she stood with it. What harm could it do? If she’ll do it for five, what else is she willing to do? How far is she willing to take it? How far did he think he could push her was probably a better question. Not an easy question to ask anyone, even the woman he’d been fucking for the last twenty hours. It was harder remembering the last time he slept, he realized.

“God woman, for five pounds I’m not expecting you to let him fuck you up against the wall. Just break a strap on your shoe, or loose a heel and fall so that he comes over to help you. Maybe you could carry some packages?”

“You mean like I was out shopping…? Except that I don’t have that kind of money to actually do that kind of shopping, do I?” she laughed. “And really, what can you buy for five pounds these days?”

“A decent whore, I should think,” Artie said with a grin.

“Then maybe I should go work for your Uncle?”

“My uncle? How do you…? You know my uncle?”

“I don’t,” she said, looking confused and suddenly laughing. “At least, not yet,” she added with a smile. “It was a joke, Jack. Don’t you get it? Well, obviously you didn’t. But it was a joke. When I asked you what you could get for five pounds, and you said a good whore, I answered with what I thought was something funny—not thinking I’d have to explain it to you. My father always said, if you have to explain something as simple as a joke, it’s obviously fallen flat. As flat as a ten years old girl in a lingerie shop.”

It’s just a coincidence, he told himself.

“You still haven’t told me who you want to see,” she reminded him.

“Charlie Sabini.”

“You know Charlie?” she asked, suddenly suspicious. “Well, of course you do if you stole my bracelet.”

“That’s the first time I had anything to do with Charlie. We go way back, me and him. Right to the time his boys beat a woman half to death with a hammer, just because she was trying to sell your bracelet.”

“They beat her?” She put her hand to her wrist.

“She was a fence,” he added, watching her reactions.

“So meeting me on the train? You meant to? That wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t,” he smiled. “If it’s any consolation, fucking you all weekend has been the highlight of the weekend.”

“What does that mean? Am I supposed to be flattered?”

“It’s just me telling you that I’ve had the best—”

“Stop,” she said, holding up her hands in mock arrest. “What is it that you want from me?

“I’ll still give you five pounds, as well as take you out shopping. That way you’ll have full boxes when you distract the man for me to get to the building unseen.”

“Charlie’s office is in Soho. How do you expect to get there?”

“Well, you see,” Artie smiled, and jumping off the bed reached under it to pull out his rucksack. He’d carried it from the station and placed it on the cart with her bags. It had all been delivered to the room.

He opened the snaps and took out his equipment. His boots and gloves; his vest; his thick, leather pants; his rope and various hooks.

“A thief? I was thinking more like a pick-pocket.” She tried to smile.

“You still get to go shopping. The guy across the way will see us leaving together, and when you come home alone, and then trip in front of him, what choice will he have but to help you? But first we go shopping.”

“Where?”

“Soho!”