“So,
we think these guys are witches?” Calloway asked.
“Warlocks,” Emily corrected.
Sister Cecelia shook her head. “I’m still confused. what do you mean about a man in a
mask?”
“Maybe we should tell her about the
vision,” Emily pointed out.
“We all had the same vision,”
Hawkins replied. “A masked man standing at an unearthed grave, holding a skull.
Then just a series of images. War, famine, disease, death… horrible images.”
“The Four Horseman,” Cecelia said.
“Pardon?” Calloway asked.
“You just named the Four Horsemen of
the Apocalypse, from the Book of Revelation.”
“What does that mean?” Hawkins
asked.
“I’m not sure. Revelations is
supposed by to describe the end of the world. Or it is a narration of the Church’s persecution at the hands of Nero. I’m not sure what that has to
do with this Eigenstolf, though. Do we know anything about him, other than the
fact he wears a mask?”
Calloway cleared his throat. “I…
know a little about Lucas Eigenstolf.”
“Lucas?” Emily asked.
Calloway nodded. “We were in France
together. That’s where he got his face blown off.”
“And so he wears the mask,” Cecelia
said. “Victim turned villain.”
“Why keep us in the dark?” Hawkins
asked.
“It didn’t seem important.” Calloway
finally said. “And I don’t particularly like talking about the War.” That was a
lie. Hawkins knew for a fact Calloway reveled in war stories, true or
otherwise.
“I think I know where we will be
able to find him. But we are going to need more fashionable clothes.”
* * *
“C’mon,
sister, you look good.” Cecelia grimaced and blushed at the same time,
examining herself in the mirror of the cramped department store dressing room,
while adjusting most modest evening gown they had been able to fine.
She
frowned. “Stop checking on me in here, I’ll be out when I am good and ready.
How do you think you are going to pass off an Indian as an Ivy Leaguer,
anyway?” She asked.
“I’m not,” Calloway replied. “He is
going to be my special guest. He is also semi-famous enough to fit in.”
“I hadn’t ever heard of him,”
Cecelia argued.
“You aren’t exactly the audience
that he was going for.”
“Okay,”
Cecelia concluded. “I think this will have to do. I have never attended a ball
before.”
“Benefit Fundraiser Dance,” Calloway
corrected. “Don’t worry, you might have some fun.”
Hawkins stepped out in his newly
fitted tuxedo, a bow tie at his neck, his thick black hair combed back in a
slick part. Emily put her hand to her mouth. “Well, don’t you cut the dashing
figure?” She declared.
“You
look pretty amazing yourself,” he replied. Indeed, she looked stunning in the
blue evening gown she glided towards him in, a sparkling headband wrapped
around her forehead and over her golden locks. He tugged at the ribbon wrapped
around his collar. “I think I cut the uncomfortable figure,” he said. “What is
the point of wearing these things around your neck, again?”
“Nonsense, you look wonderful!” she
said, grabbing him by the arm. She turned to the tailor who was standing at the
corner packaging a suit into a bag. He looked at the tall man in the suit and
surveyed him up and down.
The
tailor nodded. “I’d say you look downright civilized.”
Emily frowned. She clung
to his arm and pulled closer to him. “You look fine,” she said into his ear.
The tailor drew his attention to their interlocked arms. Hawkins pulled away
from her gently.
“How
much is it?” He asked. The tailor named his price, and Hawkins pulled out the
cash and paid the price, including a little extra. The tailor smiled and
happily took the extra money. He and Emily stepped into the streets of Boston arm in arm.
He pulled up his Stetson hat and fit it snuggly on his head.
“Oh,
you will blend in nicely here,” she said. Hawkins smiled and pulled the brim
down low.
They
met up with Calloway and Cecelia in front of the University Ballroom. Dirk wore
his black top hat cocked at an angle and an identical tuxedo to Hawkins, although he
wore it better. Cecelia looked almost as uncomfortable as Hawkins was in her
long black evening gown, a large crucifix prominently dangling over the high
neckline. It was a good thing that they had paired up the way they had. Cecelia
and Hawkins would have made a very awkward couple.
“Shall
we?” Hawkins proposed. He led them up the long series of concrete steps to the
entrance of the hall.
“You
are sure that you will be able to get in?” Hawkins asked.
“Yeah,
Yeah, I’m sure. And if we don’t, we’ll figure something out, won’t we?” Hawkins
sighed and rolled his eyes at the answer, and decided to shut up and let
Calloway do his thing. They approached the door attendant, who held a small
leather-bound folder close to his chest with one hand, and a black fountain pen
in the second. Calloway stepped up and halted in front of the door attendant.
The attendant looked up expectantly. “Dirk Calloway, and three guests,” he
trumpeted.
The
door attendant took his pen and scanned down the list of names halting and
checking something off with his pen. He then scribbled something down with on a
piece of paper and handed it to a young runner, who carried the note inside.
“Thank
you sir, please step this way.” The attendant gestured to his right to the
door. To the rest of their surprise, they were led right into the ballroom. To
the right were two tables with white tablecloths draped over them. A collection
of Venetian style masks were lined up in rows on each table. The feminine masks
were placed on one table, and the masculine masks on another. The four of them
hesitated, staring dumbly at the masks.
A
helpful attendant stood stationed at the table. “You may take the mask of your
choice, sir,” he explained. Calloway reluctantly stepped forward and stood at
the men’s table of masks, and picked out a random mask, pulling the elastic
band over the back of his head and the mask over his head.”
The
rest of them followed Calloway’s example, choosing their masks and placing them
on their faces. As they entered the ballroom, Emily pulled away from Hawkin’s
side to stand next to Calloway. “Did you know about this?” she demanded.
“No!
I-” he was cut off as they stepped over the threshold to the ballroom by the
man at the door.
“Dirk
Calloway, Alumnus, and Guests,” The doorman announced. The two stopped
bickering and stepped onto the floor, where waiters carrying trays of food and
wine navigated through the sea of masked guests. Ostentatious banners displaying
the University’s blue and crimson colors hung from the ceiling along with
several glass chandeliers. Mingling guests exuded a chorus of chatter and
laughter that merged together into a constant buzzing drone, which was only
barely overcome by the string section which played various classical tones
while seated on an elevated stage in the back of the room. The stage, rather
than drawing attention to the musicians, was set up in such a way that they
faded into the background, letting the dancing patrons steal the show.
Emily
crossed her arms, her silver mask barely obscuring her anger. “Great, a
masquerade. Our whole plan was based on the fact that this fiend sticks out
like a sore thumb. What do we do now?”
“You
might try enjoying yourself,” Calloway responded. “This is just a snag. We’ll
find him, trust me.” He snatched a glass of champagne off a tray carried by a
passing waiter. He held up the glass as if to toast, and then lowered it and
took a sip. “We just have to be patient.”
“Okay,”
Hawkins concluded. “We are guessing that he has a full-face mask on, correct?”
You said that part of his jaw was blown off in the War?”
Calloway
nodded. “That’s what I understand. Although I never saw Iggy after his injury,
so I can’t be sure.”
“Well,
that’s what we saw in our vision, so that is what I’ll go with. Maybe it will
have affected his speech as well. We’ll have to be careful.”
“Okay,
so say we do find him,” Emily posited, “what do we do then? Ask him to kindly
give his mystical skull back?”
“No,
we are going to have to tail him to the ceremony,” Calloway said.
“And
what do we do then?” Cecelia asked.
Calloway stopped
and rubbed some of the condensation off his wine glass. “We take it from him? I
don’t know, we’ll figure something out, right?” He paused while the orchestra
transitioned into a new melody. “Until then, Sister,” he said after doing a
half bow, “May I have this dance?’ He extended his hand to Cecelia.
“I don’t know,” she said, but took
his hand.
“We’ll be on the lookout,” Dirk said
as he led her away.
“I guess we should be too,” Hawkins
said. He could use a glass of champagne.
“Perhaps we should follow their
lead. We can cover more area without raising suspicion.”
“What do you mean?”
She smiled. “Would you care to
dance, sir?”
“I don’t… really know how.”
“Well how else will you learn,
without trying?” She grabbed him by the hand and pulled him towards the dance
floor. “I will take it easy on you. We’re supposed to be looking out for
villains anyway.”
“That could be difficult, while
dancing with a pretty girl.”
“I’ll try not to be too distracting.
Maybe we can actually come up with a real plan instead of waiting for him to
figure one out.” She put his hand around her waist and hers around his neck.
They slowly made their way around
the floor. The masks blended one into the other into a sea of static grinning
faces. The black tuxedos did not help, either. He tried to make note of every
affectation, speech impediment, or any sort of scar or injury.
“Tom,
I’ve been meaning to-”
“Meaning
to what?”
“Hold
on, Eigenstolf was a doughboy, right?”
“That’s
what Dirk said, why?”
She
guided them in a circle so that he and she had switched places. “Do you see
that fella with all the medals?” She asked. He did. The man wore a Venetian
Mask and tuxedo like the rest of the guests, but several prominent medals hung
from his lapel: a golden star and cross, and a violet and gold heart, among
many others.
“We
need to make sure we don’t lose him.”
“What
about Dirk and Cecelia?”
He
looked around. “I don’t even know where they are.”
“They’re
at the bar. Well, Dirk is. Didn’t you see when they passed us?”
He
hadn’t.
“We
should try to keep on of us in line of sight at all times. See if you can’t
catch their attention, though.” She waved at them, but Hawkins wasn’t able to
see if they saw. He watched the man they thought to be Eigenstolf conversing
and nodding, almost indistinguishable from the rest of those in attendance. He
did not have a serious look about him, did not seem to be plotting anything
nefarious. He was simply enjoying the party.
“What’s
the situation?” Calloway asked as he and Cecelia waltzed toward them. Hawkins
nodded towards their suspect, and Calloway mimicked the gesture. “I’d say
that’d be him.”
Their
quarry clasped one of his companions and the back and the walked off the dance
floor and towards a hallway flanked by two men dressed in white.
“They’re
leaving,” Hawkins whispered. Emily instinctively turned to look, making him
cringe. The group of men did not notice, however, and after a short
conversation with the guards, they walked through the hallway.
“Well,
let’s head after them,” Calloway said, and he let go of Cecelia to head in that
direction, leaving her standing awkwardly. Hawkins did the same to Emily, and
she gave Cecelia a knowing glance and shook her head at their manners.
“What
about the guards? Are you just planning on clobbering your way through them?”
She asked.
“Wait,”
Hawkins said, and he pulled a piece of silvery metal from his pocket. The skull
ring from the tomb robbers. He tossed the ring to Calloway. “I thought it might
be useful. See if that can’t get us in.”
Calloway
held it up thoughtfully, and then slipped it on. “Just follow my lead,” he
said. “And don’t screw it up.” Calloway wrapped his arm around Cecelia and
guided her with him. “C’mon doll,” he said with a put on bravado. She shifted
uncomfortably but reciprocated albeit awkwardly.
Emily
sighed.
“What’s
the matter?” Hawkins asked laughing, and brought her closer to him. “Can’t let
you suffragettes ruin our party, can we?”
“Suffragette?
Maybe so. Too many teetotalers in their ranks though, if you ask me.”
“Hey
now, soon we’ll all be teetotalers,”
She
laughed. “I’d like to see that day.” She put her arm around him and followed
Calloway’s lead. “Just watch your hands.”
They
approached the guards side by side and Calloway flashed his skull ring, along
with a Nathan Hale class ring Hawkins had not noticed before. The guards
glanced at each other.
“This
is a new prospect I’m letting tag along.” Calloway said, slurring his words and
gesturing at Hawkins. “And of course, these are the ladies.”
“How do you do?” Emily, giggling sweetly. She put her
head on Hawkins shoulder.
Better not go
overboard, sweetheart.
“You
know we can’t let the girls in.” The guard said. “And did you get clearance for
the prospect?”
“Of
course I got clearance. Why else would I bring him? Do I need to talk to Lucas?
Why don’t you get prettyboy out here and show him why you’re making a big
scene.”
The
guards stiffened. “Okay. But we can’t let the broads in. Sorry.”
Calloway
shrugged. “Sorry girls, looks like this is a gentleman’s only scene.”
Emily
pushed away from Hawkins. “Really, now. I’m going for a smoke. She turned and
marched off. Hawkins could not tell if she was putting on a show.
“Wait,”
Cecelia said as she chased after Emily. “Meet us at the entrance when you’re
finished with your boys club?”
“Sure
thing, doll” Calloway said in dismissively.
The
short hallway led to a solid oak door hinged in iron. Another doorman in white
greeted them. He nodded at them and pulled open the heavy door with a groan,
unleashing the music and chatter that had been boxed inside. Idle talk and
laughter was periodically punctuated by the clack of billiard balls. A haze of
cigar smoke demarcated the entrance to the room. Calloway broke through the
smoky seal, and Hawkins’ flared his nostrils as he stepped through the portal.
A
gramophone trumpeted a jazz tune to their left, and a fully stocked bar with
prominently displayed top-shelf liquors made up the entire left wall of the
clubhouse, where a bartender dropped some ice cubes in a tumbler. Leather
chairs circled one corner, where several men puffed on freshly cut cigars
pulled from the humidor on the far wall. A pair of waiters ran back and forth
serving drinks and lighting cigars. One man stood at the edge of billiard table
sat in the dead center of the woven carpet floor, lining up his shot wall
another held a cue across his back as if it were a yoke, swaying back and forth
slightly. To the immediate right corner sat a bright-red felt poker table with
multi-colored poker chips laid in neat stacks in a ring around two brand new
decks of cards.
Calloway
stopped at the entrance and pulled off his mask. “I think I might have picked
the wrong side,” he muttered. Hawkins pulled his mask from his face and glared
pointedly. Calloway grinned sheepishly and shrugged. Then he raised two
fingers. “Two scotches,” he said.
Making himself at home.
Better than looking like they didn’t belong, he supposed. Hawkins planted himself
into one of the leather-backed bar stools next to Calloway, but his eyes caught
the figure standing beside the humidor. Unlike the rest, his mask remained on,
and he seemed to be watched their every move. The tiny medals pinned upon his
chest glittered in the soft light.
Eigenstolf.
The
bartender set two tumblers of scotch in front of them. Hawkins tried his best
to be discrete. “I don’t see any sign of the skull.”
“I
guess we wait and see. And enjoy ourselves.” He took a swallow of the dark
caramel liquid, lifting it as if to toast.
Hawkins
glanced back at the poker table where two of the VIPs broke the seals on the
decks of cards. He sipped at his scotch. “Do you want to take some college boy
money tonight?”
“Hey,
I’m a ‘college boy’ too.” he glanced at the players. “But sure thing, as long
as you don’t get me into a brawl like last time.”
“As
long as you don’t have any cards up your sleeves, I think we’ll be okay.”
“I
can’t promise that.”
“Just
don’t expect me to bail you out.”
They
approached the table. “What’s the buy-in?” Calloway asked.
The
two looked at each other. They were both were younger than Hawkins and about
the same age as Calloway, perhaps recently graduated, or even seniors. One was
clean-cut, and had grown a thin pencil mustache. The other had his hair parted
down the middle in a curtained fashion.
“Twenty-five, like always,” said Curtains.
“Ease
off, they might be alums,” said Pencil-stache.
“That
we are,” Calloway said coldly. He pulled out a roll of cash and threw fifty
dollars into the center of the table. “Why don’t you deal and maybe we’ll teach
you something about respect.
The
two looked at each other once more and nodded, placing their own money into the
pile. Hawkins had done pretty well in his show business days, but he never
would’ve bet that much on a poker game. Not until recently. He chose the chair
with the back facing the corner. Calloway sat to his left, and the two
college-boys left a chair in between them with Pencil-stache next to Calloway
and Curtains next to Hawkins. Hawkins watched Eigenstolf standing at the wall
while Pencil dealt. Hawkins had second thoughts about drinking their scotch.
“Okay,
it’s five-card draw,” Pencil said as he dealt. The masked man in the back
turned and walk towards them. Hawkins took note of the full white facemask,
flat material where the mouth should be. As he approached, Hawkins returned his
cold stare in kind.
“Hey
Mike, are you gonna ante up?” Curtains asked.
Hawkins
ignored him, and Eigenstolf leaned on the back of the empty chair. “You gents
mind if I join you?” He slurred. It sounded as if he had a mouthful of jerky.
Pencil and Curtains glanced at each other and shrugged.
“Not
exactly fair if we can’t see your poker face,” Calloway muttered.
Hawkins
elbowed him. “What’s the point in playing if there’s no challenge? Besides, I
reckon I’d like to get to know some more of the gang before I join,”
“That’s
the spirit,” Eigenstolf laughed, which was barely distinguishable from a
hacking cough. He threw his cash into his pile and took a seat.
“A
round of drinks for everyone at the table!” Calloway called to the waiter, and
he winked at Hawkins.
Hawkins
could not voice his protest, but these players did not strike him as easily
swindled as the Garrety Brothers. He merely shook his head, which Calloway of
course ignored. The dealer token rounded the table several times, and each man
drained his drink and two more after, all except for Eigenstolf, who did not
take a single sip. Hawkins followed his example. Calloway and the other two
Headsmen had no such thoughts of restraint. Curtains reached over and took
Eigenstolf’s glass, commenting that he would not let good scotch go to waste.
As they drank, their tongues began to loosen, and they began spouting off on
the opportunities available now that Wilson was incapacitated.
He
noticed Eigenstolf tense up as they continued to prattle on. They talked of the
war and the income tax, and the nine-game World Series. Hawkins searched for
something to grasp onto, he could not recognize anything especially relevant,
and nothing of the skull.
They
were discussing the central bank when Eigenstolf finally interjected. “It
occurs to me that we haven’t been properly introduced. I am Lucas Eigenstolf,
high Headsman of the Nathan Hale chapter of the Death’s Head, soon to be a
member of the Deadly Seven. And this,” he gestured at Dirk, “is my good friend
Dirk Calloway. Dirk Calloway, the All American, born and bred to be a hero. We
were bedmates at the war hospital.”
Calloway’s
face darkened.
“I
know what you’re thinking.” Eigenstolf said. “He looks fine. Where was he hit?”
The
masked man leaned closer. “Seems he was hit in the guts. Shell shock, they call
it.”
Hawkins
waited for Dirk to respond, but he did so in vain.
“He
pales in comparison to the Red Man here.” Hawkins ears began to burn. “A great
sharpshooter, who even travelled ‘round the world displaying his skills. Had a
personal audience with the Kaiser, and a soft place in his heart for the Hun.
Couldn’t put those flashy skills to use when it really counted.”
“I
wasn’t dumb enough to put my own face into a cheese grater, you mean.”
Eigenstolf
stiffened. “A man without a country. This is why you are entirely
inconsequential to this, or any Universe.” Hawkins bristled. He fought the urge
to flip the table over onto the man.
Pencil
and Curtains leaned back from the table, glancing back and forth nervously.
“The charade was too much for my nerves,” Eigenstolf said. “Headsman, please
get my bag.” He nodded at pencil, who promptly stood and scurried across the
room. He emerged from behind the bar with an old brown sack. He tossed it to
Eigenstolf, who caught it in one hand.
“I
was thinking we should put some real skin in this game,” He said, as he reached
into the small cloth sack. “Or, bone, rather,” he added, as he pulled the
yellowish-brown object, sowing thousands of dust particles in the wake. He set
the decades old human skull carelessly on the pile of cash in the center of the
bright crimson poker table.
Hawkins stared deep into the empty
orbs encased in yellowed bone, mesmerized. He was not certain how long his
mouth hung agape before he snapped it shut. He glanced at Calloway, who merely
cocked an eyebrow.
He has the better poker face. Not
as good as Eigenstolf, still.
“How do we even know this is the
genuine article?” Calloway asked.
Eigenstolf chuckled. “You don’t, but
if you don’t want it, you are free to take your chips and leave. I won’t stop
you.”
“And what would we be wagering?”
Hawkins asked. That was the more important question. He would gladly risk the
skull being a fake if they stakes were right. Weighing risk against reward was
a constant of life, no matter the particularities situation.
“Right to the heart of the matter. It
seems that we have an opening in our organization after a mishap in St. Louis. If
you win, you get the skull of your dead hero. If I win, you give your soul to
the Death’s Head. Renfield was unfortunately the brawn of our operation. Your
skills would fill in the gaps nicely.”
“Don’t
do it.”
“Deal.”
Calloway
stared at him incredulously. “Hawk…”
“We
may not get another chance.”
“How
do we know he’ll keep his part of the bargain?”
“I am offended, but if you need reassurances,”
Eigenstolf stood. “If my friend here clears the table, you are all to allow him
to leave with the savage’s skull. Is that clear?” The room stopped mid revelry
and regarded him curiously. Each of them nodded obediently. “There, are you
satisfied?”
“There’s
got to be another way.”
“No,”
Hawkins replied. “I have been shot at, nearly blown to pieces, and thrown from
a moving train, among other things. Let’s end this now.”
“If
you lose, it won’t end.”
“Not
for me, maybe. I reckon you’ll figure something out.” He smiled. “So, what are
you waiting for? Deal the cards already.”
Calloway
sat back in his chair, his mouth tight. Then he snatched the deck and began
shuffling, just as Hawkins knew he would.
No reason not to stack the odds. “So
what are we playing? Same as before?”
Hawkins
held up his whiskey glass. “I’ll have another. And for these gentlemen also.” The
two headsmen had remained silent since their inconvenient introduction.
Calloway
flipped the cards skillfully at each player, on either side of the grinning
skull, a macabre and profane prize, once a more courageous man than he. Hawkins
hoped that he would forgive him. He doubted it.
He pulled up his hand close to his
chest and grimaced. He thought Calloway would have dealt him better cards. He
glanced at Eigenstolf, realizing how greatly he relied on facial expressions. Eigenstolf
threw some chips into the pot and Hawkins threw his cards back in and folded to
his opponent’s gurgling chuckle.
A bluff. He
was almost certain. Still, not a total loss. He learned a tiny bit of
information about his opponent. Calloway shook his head and gathered the cards
to shuffle once more. Hawkins and Eigenstolf traded bets and folds back and
forth; their chip stacks trading places as if in some sort of tug o’ war. Headsmen
began to gather around the table to watch the ensuing duel. Hawkins had to make
sure not to get complacent. One overbet would all but give away everything.
Betting
was all about audacity tempered by caution. Being bold at the right moment, and
timid the next, was the key to having a chance at winning. He would have a
decent chance if he kept his head, along with some help from his hustling
companion. So far, that had not exactly panned out. Eigenstolf was a shrewd
player- Hawkins could not be certain who was cat and who was mouse. When
Hawkins bet small, he folded. He would tempt with small bets and taunt with
large bets, even risking everything, but the High Headsman refused to pull the
trigger, no matter the target.
Calloway dealt the cards once more. King
high. Nothing. He bet a sizeable chunk of his stack, only high enough so to
seem as if he were daring Eigenstolf to call his bluff. In reality it was to
steal the ante.
“Call.” Eigenstolf pushed an equally
high chip stack forward. Hawkins masked his displeasure with an almost
imperceptible smirk.
“One
card.” Eigenstolf picked a card from his hand and set it in the middle of the
table. Calloway flicked him a card. He ran his fingers through his coppery red
hair.
Interesting.
“I’m
good.” Hawkins said when it was his turn to exchange cards, maintaining a stony
expression. Eigenstolf put forth a nominal bet. Hawkins returned with double
the entire chip stack.
No big deal. Just my eternal soul on
the line.
Eigenstolf shrugged. He pushed his
entire pile of chips into the center. “You’re bluffing.” He said knowingly.
Hawkins glanced at Calloway for only
an instant. It was enough. His icy blue eyes told him all he needed to know. His heart pounding, he could feel the throb
in his forehead. He squeezed his left hand into a fist to avoid any tremor. Looking
once more at his cards thoughtfully, dragging out the moment, he replied, “So
are you. I call.” He flicked the single King into the center of the table. “King
High.” He held his breath.
The masked man was a statue for an
eternity before he finally came to life, tilting his head ever so slightly. His
gloved hand pushed his cards face down in front of him. The crowd that circled
them collectively winced, and Hawkins finally exhaled.
Calloway
grinned and leaned back in his chair. Hawkins reached to the center of the
table and carefully grasped the skull by the base, staring into it as if in one
of those Shakespeare plays. He held the culmination of months of effort and
hardship in his hand, and the victory had not sunk in.
Calloway, on the other hand, smacked
Hawkins on the back and let out a whoop before downing the contents of his
tumbler. He stood up, carelessly letting the chair fall to the floor and tugged
on Hawkins’ arm.
“It
was nice playing cards with you gentlemen, but it seems we have worn out our
welcome. I think I can speak for both of us when I say I hope we don’t cross
paths again.”
Hawkins stood up and nodded with a
muted smile. “It was fun while it lasted.” Hawkins turned to meet a wall of
tuxedo clad skullsmen blocking his path. “Why don’t you call off your
frat-boys.”
Eigenstolf remained seated. “You all
know I am a man of my word. Lieutenant Calloway and Mr. Hawkins are to be
allowed to take their winnings.” The skullsmen hesitated, but begrudgingly
parted ways. As they did so, however, Eigenstolf added, “I don’t think you’ll
be leaving here with my skull, however.”
“And why the hell not?” Calloway
asked.
“Because that skull is, by
coincidence my price for revealing the location of your attractive companions.”
He
produced a sparkling ribbon of cloth and dropped it on the table for them to
see. Strands of golden hair clung to the inside of the familiar band. “Perhaps
I’ve miscalculated. Is the price too high?”
A sharp pang shot through Hawkins
chest, and he could feel hot blood flow to the surface of his skin. He gripped
the skull tightly and held it up at ear level. “How about you tell me, and I
don’t smash your precious trinket to bits?”
Eigenstolf stood up from the table,
putting his fingers to his metal chin. He remained silent for a moment, and shrugged.
“Such a an act of desecration would be an annoyance, but it is yours to do with
as you will. What is your decision?”
Hawkins grasped the skull with an
iron grip, and extended his arm, opening his eyes. His fingers brushed the
leather of Eigenstolf’s extended glove as the skull passed between them,
causing him to fight back a shiver. Eigenstolf contemplated the skull in his
grasp.
“My
judgment of your character was correct. I am a man of my word. Your friends are
on Elk Isle.”
“Where the Hell is that?”
Eigenstolf shrugged. “I’m not your
guide. And while I’d love to sit and chat about geography, I have to agree with
you, Lieutenant. You have worn out your welcome. Escort him and Mr. Hawkins
outside.” Four of the larger headsmen stepped forward and grabbed a hold of
each by the shoulders.
“Hey,
get your mitts off me, pal.” Calloway threw his shoulders back. He was answered
with a sock to the jaw and a bloody lip. He spat on the carpet and smiled. “That’ll
leave a stain. What a shame.” That got him a black eye.
Hawkins
stiffened. He had taken lumps on Dirk’s account plenty of times, but he was not
so sure this should be one of those times. The Death’s Head were not the
Garrety boys. Luckily, Calloway kept his mouth shut until they threw Hawkins and
him onto the streets. Calloway began screaming curses at them, while Hawkins
stood up and dusted himself off, and briskly walked towards the intersecting
main street.
Calloway
stopped mid-tirade. “Hey, where’re you going?”
“To get my gun.”
“What'll you do when you get it?”
“I’ll
figure that out when we get there.”