At first, he thought maybe he’d misjudged, being honest. He wasn’t prepared for the tears. A lot of them, this time – coming out of both eyes. Smeared eyeliner and shaky breaths. Somehow, the fact that she didn’t sob made it even worse. Had she really loved him? Or perhaps she was still playing the game – whatever game it was – spilling out more tears to make him vulnerable? Tom was cursing himself for sticking his foot in his mouth. Then, she spoke again – I hated him was all she had to say – and his face went slack and pale with surprise. To say that in front of him, to Anatole’s face, she must’ve believed him.
She believed him. He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling with himself.
He remembered the first golly john he’d ever gone after, in spite of Meggie’s protests. Mung, manly fight-for-yer-honor chroveshit, was all it was. He’d been sixteen and all bluster. Hawke had just found him through the Carlisles, and his new line of work had been treating him well. For once, he’d been able to spread the wealth a little, even if it hadn’t meant much: a gift or two, here and there, for Meggie and Clarke. Made him feel like a provider. He’d sprung up fast, had Tom, and he’d learned early how to throw his weight around; when you were just about six and a half feet, built like a brick shithouse besides, you seldom lost a fight. With another man, that was.
Tom had nearly died that night. He’d been too embarrassed to crawl back to Meggie, embarrassed anyway that he’d put himself in death’s line of sight; she’d worried herself half to death in turn. Remembered that day for years. More importantly, he’d been embarrassed to learn the lesson it’d taught him, the same lesson all humans learned at some point or another, even in the Rose: a golly got what he wanted. A smart human didn’t try to fight back. Not with fists, anyway.
“Clockin’ awful, he must’ve been,” he murmured, trying to keep everything he was feeling off his face. “I hate him, too, the kenser’s erse. Look’it what he’s done to me, eh? I used to be a looker.” Frayed little laugh, then. Humor was the only way he knew how to deal with all this, but he was worried the joke had fallen flat this time.
So Tom reached across the counter, patting her on the shoulder briefly. It was an awkward motion, being as he was shaky and she was just a bit taller than him; he had to stretch. “He’s gone, rosh,” he said firmly, looking her in the face. “Gone.”
Cotted ’im personal. He didn’t say that bit. Still, there was a funny weight about his words, like he was telling ol’ Barkley he’d taken care of a Problem. A funny, serious look in his eye.
He withdrew awkwardly, clearing his throat.
Again, he pressed a hand to his eye, massaged his left temple. She’d composed herself, and she was looking at him expectantly. He tried to think what to say. Start small, hey? “Cooke,” he replied hoarsely. “Tom. Junta. It’s Anatole to everyone else, though, hey? I’m trustin’ you.”
Biting his lip suddenly, Tom cast another furtive look around the shop. He twitched his head toward the door. Rain still pattered against the glass window, but it was slackening; the occasional umbrella-toting shadow drifted by, visible in snatches between the fabrics on display in the window.
He leaned over the counter. “Ms. Weaver, I’m lost. I’ve only been like this for” – he counted it out, mouthed one, two, three… four… tapping each finger on the counter lightly – “six, seven months. There are – gaps. You were one of ’em, an’ this shit only gets worse. Listen, I can’t ask you to talk about it, but if you knew anythin’ about his – involvement—” He put special weight on the word, eye twitching. “But this don’t seem like the place for a talk like that, an’ bein’ honest, I’m shaken to the bones. You don’t look so good, yourself. If you got someplace to sit…”
Tom half-winced, eyes darting away from Ava. He knew what he was asking. He felt obscenely conscious of her eyes on him – of his face, of his grey-streaked red hair, of the timbre of his voice (in spite of the words), all of which he was sure she knew better than he did. A mant manna better. He felt like a viper pretending to be a garter snake.