Vienda -Burbage's Gaming House, The Painted Ladies
The Twenty Sixth of Hamis, Night
The Twenty Sixth of Hamis, Night
B
urbage’s Gaming House, Marlowe street, and the clatter of glasses and the rattle dice. The smell of coffee and spirits filling the place, the atmosphere obscured in drifting clouds of tobacco smoke. Tinny and jangling music coming from some old out of tune piano. Popular songs, badly written and worse performed. Drinks going around on trays carried by lush young ladies in too much paint on their faces and too little cloth around their bosoms. Colorful, laughing, and eyeing up their marks. He knows them, knows their kind, knows enough to offer them coin and airy banter. Know their kind well enough to offer no more. Clever lasses. Sometimes clever lads. They watch the cards, the dice, and the level of drunkenness of the patrons. The house always wins, and the ladies at Burbage’s are part of that reason. Wonderful distractions, to those distracted by a pretty face and a prettier laugh. A few years back he worked a sly gig with a lass here. Called herself Lily. It might have been her real name. It had served her well enough. She’d hover about the tables where the sozzled customers played rooks, serving strong drink too most, and watered down gin to him. She watched the cards as they moved about the table, laughing and paying especial attention to any particularly plump pigeon.
They would split their winnings and stand money for loans and losses. A favorable and profitable partnership. She’s gone now, gone off to work in one of the fancy dens Uptown. A position well earned. Dealer and croupier now, and still pulling in the punters. Still, the house always wins, and for all her skill and cunning, Lily took up living in a tenement along the Embankment. A step up in geography, but a step down in comfort.
The cards are not the same without her. He is not here to play cards. The cards may be in his hand, he may be at the table, coin may be passing, but more than one game is played at Burbage’s. He is here to play several.
Fucking Bill Dravis up and vanishing, leaving Lydia and little Violet in the lurch. When he finds the man, in whatever gutter he chooses to call home, a lesson on family loyalty will be justly taught. Messrs Hobnail and Toecap will be the opening lecturers, then will come more advanced lessons taught by professors Guilt, Extortion, and Obligation. A fine syllabus. Still, he has to find the man first, and find him before he scarpers off to some other kip. News will have to be gathered. That is the first game. A careful, delicate, and patient game.
He can wait all night in the rain watching a house, taking its measure, and then, quick as can be, lifting all the easily fenced and transported items. Patience he can do. Still, the work is different here. Here he has to be seen, to be heard. Lifting news from a kov’s head is harder than lifting the silver from his dining room.
“Seven of Moons and the Lady of the Tower showing.” Padget, no-necked and scrawny, a man who seems to have been assembled of leftover parts, turns the cards over on the table. Ash drops from the putrid cigarillo he has balanced with preternatural skill on his lower lip. “Place your bets ladies and gents, though it won’t do you no good.”
The cards in his hand are middling. The cards showing aren’t much better. Then again, he’s not exactly playing this game. “I see the bet,” he says, voice as flat as he can manage,and casts coins into the pot. They hit the table with a dull thud and play moves on. Four others go about their betting, playing Rooks as blithe and airy as you please. Padget is cheating and cheating without much skill. The bandaged thumb is an old trick for marking cards, and Padget has been particularly clumsy it seems. No, he and Padget have moved on to playing the more precarious game of ‘cheating at Rooks’. So very obliging of Padget to provide a marked deck.
Hands pass, acrid smoke clings about the table. Already the play is shifting slowly toward Padget. Her has enough subtlety for that, at least. The man’s grab-bag face is a mask, impossible to read. It makes no difference. Four hands in and the markings on the cards are clear enough. Clear enough that he can win or lose with equal facility. The stakes are not over-high, he can afford to lose.
A loss is necessary. His inquiries require an opening, and better opening than a little misery, and a few complaints?
“Bugger this for a lark,” and that is true enough. Five concords-worth of funds, funds he could have snapped up easy as pie, and he lets them go. It is necessary. It is still painful. Best to play his first card now. “Well, there goes the wee one’s milk money.”
“Since when you got a tyke to mind Squeeks? What doxy would keep company with you long enough?” Noted ladies-man “Potato” Joe Erskine, such a charmer he is too. More handsome than his moniker indicates, less handsome than he thinks. Still, he’s taken the thread quick enough. Chalk up one point for Potato Joe.
“Ain’t mine Potato. My sister Lydia’s. Her useless lump of a husband did a bunk and now I’ve the joy of helping with the finances. I could punch the man in the nose. Repeatedly” The finances, the damned grocery shopping, and sometimes minding Violet. A sweet little thing, mostly just toddles about, plays with wooden blocks, and roars, pretending to some Mythic Beast or other. Other than that she sleeps curled up like a particularly agreeable cat. No, Violet’s no real trouble. Time’s the only drag.
Time and money. And the latter’s the other game he’s on about. Da’s debtors and creditors, a few pass through Burbage’s, gambling away their chance at repayment for the most part. How in several hells is he supposed to collect on it all? Donnelley, the bookseller and printer might be a soft touch. Decent kov, and most of his debts are business outlays piling up, one atop another. Ink, paper, and books. Books. And idea forms. Tally dreadfuls are outlays as well, and outlays pile up, one atop another.
“Ain’t seen Dravis in, gods it must be weeks now. Hard to miss that kenser of a man.” Padget is grinning over his winnings, but joining in all the same. A cheater to be sure, but not an altogether bad fellow. “And don’t go punching that idiot. For one, you’d break your fist. Then he’d beat you to a fine paste.” True enough. A stevedore’s strength was something to behold.
“Well, I’d still like to put the fear of the Seven Bells in him. Better than the gods, that is. Our portents of ill omen are deserved.” If Bill Dravis were ever found, he’d have to dance a mighty fine jig to prevent him from being tossed in the river with weighted boots. “And speaking of omens, how about another few hands? My luck can’t be so bad all night.” He gave Padget a significant look. The man failed to respond.
He picks up the deck, gives it a cursory shuffle, and does a little cheating of his own. Might as well, it’s likely to be a long night.
They would split their winnings and stand money for loans and losses. A favorable and profitable partnership. She’s gone now, gone off to work in one of the fancy dens Uptown. A position well earned. Dealer and croupier now, and still pulling in the punters. Still, the house always wins, and for all her skill and cunning, Lily took up living in a tenement along the Embankment. A step up in geography, but a step down in comfort.
The cards are not the same without her. He is not here to play cards. The cards may be in his hand, he may be at the table, coin may be passing, but more than one game is played at Burbage’s. He is here to play several.
Fucking Bill Dravis up and vanishing, leaving Lydia and little Violet in the lurch. When he finds the man, in whatever gutter he chooses to call home, a lesson on family loyalty will be justly taught. Messrs Hobnail and Toecap will be the opening lecturers, then will come more advanced lessons taught by professors Guilt, Extortion, and Obligation. A fine syllabus. Still, he has to find the man first, and find him before he scarpers off to some other kip. News will have to be gathered. That is the first game. A careful, delicate, and patient game.
He can wait all night in the rain watching a house, taking its measure, and then, quick as can be, lifting all the easily fenced and transported items. Patience he can do. Still, the work is different here. Here he has to be seen, to be heard. Lifting news from a kov’s head is harder than lifting the silver from his dining room.
“Seven of Moons and the Lady of the Tower showing.” Padget, no-necked and scrawny, a man who seems to have been assembled of leftover parts, turns the cards over on the table. Ash drops from the putrid cigarillo he has balanced with preternatural skill on his lower lip. “Place your bets ladies and gents, though it won’t do you no good.”
The cards in his hand are middling. The cards showing aren’t much better. Then again, he’s not exactly playing this game. “I see the bet,” he says, voice as flat as he can manage,and casts coins into the pot. They hit the table with a dull thud and play moves on. Four others go about their betting, playing Rooks as blithe and airy as you please. Padget is cheating and cheating without much skill. The bandaged thumb is an old trick for marking cards, and Padget has been particularly clumsy it seems. No, he and Padget have moved on to playing the more precarious game of ‘cheating at Rooks’. So very obliging of Padget to provide a marked deck.
Hands pass, acrid smoke clings about the table. Already the play is shifting slowly toward Padget. Her has enough subtlety for that, at least. The man’s grab-bag face is a mask, impossible to read. It makes no difference. Four hands in and the markings on the cards are clear enough. Clear enough that he can win or lose with equal facility. The stakes are not over-high, he can afford to lose.
A loss is necessary. His inquiries require an opening, and better opening than a little misery, and a few complaints?
“Bugger this for a lark,” and that is true enough. Five concords-worth of funds, funds he could have snapped up easy as pie, and he lets them go. It is necessary. It is still painful. Best to play his first card now. “Well, there goes the wee one’s milk money.”
“Since when you got a tyke to mind Squeeks? What doxy would keep company with you long enough?” Noted ladies-man “Potato” Joe Erskine, such a charmer he is too. More handsome than his moniker indicates, less handsome than he thinks. Still, he’s taken the thread quick enough. Chalk up one point for Potato Joe.
“Ain’t mine Potato. My sister Lydia’s. Her useless lump of a husband did a bunk and now I’ve the joy of helping with the finances. I could punch the man in the nose. Repeatedly” The finances, the damned grocery shopping, and sometimes minding Violet. A sweet little thing, mostly just toddles about, plays with wooden blocks, and roars, pretending to some Mythic Beast or other. Other than that she sleeps curled up like a particularly agreeable cat. No, Violet’s no real trouble. Time’s the only drag.
Time and money. And the latter’s the other game he’s on about. Da’s debtors and creditors, a few pass through Burbage’s, gambling away their chance at repayment for the most part. How in several hells is he supposed to collect on it all? Donnelley, the bookseller and printer might be a soft touch. Decent kov, and most of his debts are business outlays piling up, one atop another. Ink, paper, and books. Books. And idea forms. Tally dreadfuls are outlays as well, and outlays pile up, one atop another.
“Ain’t seen Dravis in, gods it must be weeks now. Hard to miss that kenser of a man.” Padget is grinning over his winnings, but joining in all the same. A cheater to be sure, but not an altogether bad fellow. “And don’t go punching that idiot. For one, you’d break your fist. Then he’d beat you to a fine paste.” True enough. A stevedore’s strength was something to behold.
“Well, I’d still like to put the fear of the Seven Bells in him. Better than the gods, that is. Our portents of ill omen are deserved.” If Bill Dravis were ever found, he’d have to dance a mighty fine jig to prevent him from being tossed in the river with weighted boots. “And speaking of omens, how about another few hands? My luck can’t be so bad all night.” He gave Padget a significant look. The man failed to respond.
He picks up the deck, gives it a cursory shuffle, and does a little cheating of his own. Might as well, it’s likely to be a long night.
