A Tricky Business: Chapter 7
Jun. 3rd, 2007 06:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sickle_storiesAuthor's Note: Disclaimers and other info on Chapter 1. This is a work in progress. Many thanks to my beta wildannuette. (Wave your mouse over "mousegun" and the Cockney expressions for translations.)
Walking Through Moonshine
Floyd tightened his pocket holster, checking that his mousegun didn’t show under his vest, before stepping out into the street. There weren’t many people around at this time – those that weren’t in their beds were either in someone else’s or firmly seated at a bar. Humming softly to himself as he walked down Stromsen, he tried to guess how many customers Bessie Mae might have at this hour. Last time, he’d only been off by three.
As he got closer to the docks, Floyd rested a hand on his belt and picked up his pace. Although it’d been well over six months since he’d taken charge of the Red Barrel, some men still held a grudge against his rules, particularly those regarding prices.
There were a few stragglers walking back to their ships, some staggering more than others. A pair of men carrying a large crate between them caught Floyd’s eye and he slowed as the walked towards him. With streetlights sparse in this part of town and prone to “malfunctioning”, care of the seedier businessmen, Floyd couldn’t get as good a look as he’d have liked of the crate. He did catch a glint of metal – a lock, most likely – and the pale curve of writing.
As the men passed him, one grunted and shifted his grip on the crate, revealing a row of holes that had been drilled through the wood. Over the partner’s hissed, “Gorramn it, Jack, keep a grip on it,” Floyd heard something inside the crate shift heavily. Making a note to ask old “Goose” Blake whether he knew of any new live cargo shipments, Floyd slipped a hand into his pockets and fiddled with his lighter.
As he turned the corner, he bumped into something soft. Hands gripped his arms briefly then let him go. Floyd’s own hands rested at his belt, right next to his holster, as he took a step back, running a glance up and down the man in front of him.
“Easy there,” the other said genially “Ought’n go spinning so fast ‘round corners, son.” The man stood to the side to move past Floyd, then disappeared as he turned the corner.
Floyd stood still for a moment, hand still near his mousegun, as he committed the man’s face to memory. It would pay to find out who he was and what his business on Persephone was. Being almost certainly an off-worlder, chances were he was into smuggling.
He wouldn’t be that hard to track either: judging from his breath and manner, he’d been drinking late, probably at the nearest bar, Boon’s Dish and Spoon. Besides, there weren’t that many men wandering around the docks with Independent’s garb. Those browncoats were sure to still catch the eye of more than a few.
Halfway down Stromsen Street, Floyd paused, evaluating the level of noise coming from the small bar to his left. Satisfied at finding The Wishing Well near-empty, he crossed the street to Bessie Mae’s bar. A hand-painted sign hung over the door bearing a smiling crescent moon, lounging inside a red barrel like a man in a hot-tub. Floyd gave it a gentle pat before walking into Moonshine. As he made his way to the bar, grimacing at the heavy smoke that choked the air, Floyd counted the customers. His glance skipped quickly over the three late-night regulars playing dominos and stopped longer on the six others scattered about with their drinks for company. This time he was off by two.
Reaching the bar, he gestured to the short boy drying a clay mug by the register. "Johnny-boy," he called out, "is Macaria about?" The boy of fifteen, so runty he was often mistaken for twelve, tucked the rag into his belt.
"She's out back in the kitchen, boss."
"Bring her ‘round, would you?" At the boy's hesitation, Floyd added, "I'll keep an eye on the bar, don't you fret none."
When Johnny'd scampered through the door behind the bar that led to the kitchen, Floyd walked around the counter and settled on the low barman's stool. Keeping his eyes on the customer's, he slid open a small panel and ran his fingers over the old rifle Bessie'd insisted on bringing along from The Red Barrel. He grunted softly in satisfaction at finding it loaded.
He was examining an unlabeled liquor bottle he'd found beside the rifle when Johnny tugged at his shoulder and pointed behind him. Floyd nodded to Macaria and followed her to a table.
“How’re things, Mac?” asked Floyd as he held a chair out for her. Old habits died hard, especially when they were all a man could take with him as luggage.
Macaria blushed, as she always did around the smartly-dressed youth. “Oh, just shiny, Mr. Rhinehart.” She reached behind her to undo the apron straps, arching her back a bit more than necessary. Macaria also had a few habits from her previous line of work. “Miss Mae thinks we’re putting up a right fight, bringing in most of the Well’s customers, and even a few off from other bars.”
“Yeah, I checked in at The Wishing Well; nothing but dry mugs all around.”
Floyd leaned close to Macaria, but before he could say anything, Johnny came between them, brandishing a wine bottle. “Bessie’s not in, but she’s been saving this for you,” the boy said by way of explanation. “Said she’d like to talk business with you too.” Floyd nodded, muttered a quick “tomorrow”, and watched as the boy gave the table a quick wipe with his rag and placed two glasses before them.
“Is this about the girls?” asked Macaria once Johnny had returned to the bar. “They ain’t back on drops is they? I been telling them to keep their noses clean of that thrupney.”
Floyd reached for the wine bottle, wincing inwardly at the barmaid’s heavy east-end accent.
“No, Mac, the girls are fine.”
“Ah, well, that’s a load off, Mr. Rhinehart. You know how I fret over ‘em.” Macaria accepted the wineglass Floyd offered her. “Why, them girls are like me own kith and kin.” She cast a wistful eye around the bar as she took a sip of the wine. “I wish we could do better ‘ere at the Moonshine and afford to bring more of them in. I hate to see them the worse for wear, and t’would do them a sight better than The Red Barrel, beggin’ your pardon.”
“Give it a bit longer and you’ll have Tenbrooke, the Wiberts and even wily Ruan all sitting down for a drink right at the bar.” Floyd swirled his wine and took a sniff.
“Only now we’re near skint,” muttered Macaria before emptying her glass. Catching Floyd’s confused look, she clarified. “On the floor.” Floyd shrugged, not catching her meaning until she rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.
Floyd refilled it but left his own glass untouched. Bessie Mae clearly had no taste in wine. “Lot’s of people around here have heard of Bessie, though. That really helps when starting a business, Mac, you know that.”
Macaria placed her elbows on the table, the wine glass pressed against her cheek. “I’m afraid,” she admitted “that The Red Barrel’s turning out to be more an albatross round our necks than a way to bring in customers.”
“Your name’s still bringing in customers at the Barrel.”
The woman’s cheeks blushed red again. She fiddled with the apron that lay folded on her lap. “That so?”
“Just this night, in fact.”
“He ask for me?”
“Indeed he did. Said you liked him well enough to give him some credits’ discount, even.” Macaria paled and started to apologize but Floyd waved her quiet. “It’s alright, I know how it is. You just want the good ones to keep coming back, isn’t that right?”
The barmaid nodded, tightlipped. Floyd picked up his wine glass and pretended to study it, waiting for the question he knew she would ask.
“Who was it?”
“That’s sort of what I’m here for.” A name, thought Floyd, that’s all I need. His name, his boss’s, his ship, his enemies'. Any name would do.
drops – drugs, (Heart of Gold: “half the girls strung out on drops”.)
keep ones nose clean – to stay out of trouble
thrupney (thrupney bit)– shit (Cockney rhyming slang), where a thrupney was a 3 pence piece before decimalization in UK
East end accent – named for the London East End, an accent of those native to the Dyton Colony.
kith and kin – family
skint – lacking money
on the floor – poor (Cockney rhyming slang)
albatross around/round ones neck – a problem resulting from something you did that stops you from being successful
Resources:
Cockney Rhyming Slang
English idioms
Fireflywiki – Dyton Colony
Floyd tightened his pocket holster, checking that his mousegun didn’t show under his vest, before stepping out into the street. There weren’t many people around at this time – those that weren’t in their beds were either in someone else’s or firmly seated at a bar. Humming softly to himself as he walked down Stromsen, he tried to guess how many customers Bessie Mae might have at this hour. Last time, he’d only been off by three.
As he got closer to the docks, Floyd rested a hand on his belt and picked up his pace. Although it’d been well over six months since he’d taken charge of the Red Barrel, some men still held a grudge against his rules, particularly those regarding prices.
There were a few stragglers walking back to their ships, some staggering more than others. A pair of men carrying a large crate between them caught Floyd’s eye and he slowed as the walked towards him. With streetlights sparse in this part of town and prone to “malfunctioning”, care of the seedier businessmen, Floyd couldn’t get as good a look as he’d have liked of the crate. He did catch a glint of metal – a lock, most likely – and the pale curve of writing.
As the men passed him, one grunted and shifted his grip on the crate, revealing a row of holes that had been drilled through the wood. Over the partner’s hissed, “Gorramn it, Jack, keep a grip on it,” Floyd heard something inside the crate shift heavily. Making a note to ask old “Goose” Blake whether he knew of any new live cargo shipments, Floyd slipped a hand into his pockets and fiddled with his lighter.
As he turned the corner, he bumped into something soft. Hands gripped his arms briefly then let him go. Floyd’s own hands rested at his belt, right next to his holster, as he took a step back, running a glance up and down the man in front of him.
“Easy there,” the other said genially “Ought’n go spinning so fast ‘round corners, son.” The man stood to the side to move past Floyd, then disappeared as he turned the corner.
Floyd stood still for a moment, hand still near his mousegun, as he committed the man’s face to memory. It would pay to find out who he was and what his business on Persephone was. Being almost certainly an off-worlder, chances were he was into smuggling.
He wouldn’t be that hard to track either: judging from his breath and manner, he’d been drinking late, probably at the nearest bar, Boon’s Dish and Spoon. Besides, there weren’t that many men wandering around the docks with Independent’s garb. Those browncoats were sure to still catch the eye of more than a few.
Halfway down Stromsen Street, Floyd paused, evaluating the level of noise coming from the small bar to his left. Satisfied at finding The Wishing Well near-empty, he crossed the street to Bessie Mae’s bar. A hand-painted sign hung over the door bearing a smiling crescent moon, lounging inside a red barrel like a man in a hot-tub. Floyd gave it a gentle pat before walking into Moonshine. As he made his way to the bar, grimacing at the heavy smoke that choked the air, Floyd counted the customers. His glance skipped quickly over the three late-night regulars playing dominos and stopped longer on the six others scattered about with their drinks for company. This time he was off by two.
Reaching the bar, he gestured to the short boy drying a clay mug by the register. "Johnny-boy," he called out, "is Macaria about?" The boy of fifteen, so runty he was often mistaken for twelve, tucked the rag into his belt.
"She's out back in the kitchen, boss."
"Bring her ‘round, would you?" At the boy's hesitation, Floyd added, "I'll keep an eye on the bar, don't you fret none."
When Johnny'd scampered through the door behind the bar that led to the kitchen, Floyd walked around the counter and settled on the low barman's stool. Keeping his eyes on the customer's, he slid open a small panel and ran his fingers over the old rifle Bessie'd insisted on bringing along from The Red Barrel. He grunted softly in satisfaction at finding it loaded.
He was examining an unlabeled liquor bottle he'd found beside the rifle when Johnny tugged at his shoulder and pointed behind him. Floyd nodded to Macaria and followed her to a table.
“How’re things, Mac?” asked Floyd as he held a chair out for her. Old habits died hard, especially when they were all a man could take with him as luggage.
Macaria blushed, as she always did around the smartly-dressed youth. “Oh, just shiny, Mr. Rhinehart.” She reached behind her to undo the apron straps, arching her back a bit more than necessary. Macaria also had a few habits from her previous line of work. “Miss Mae thinks we’re putting up a right fight, bringing in most of the Well’s customers, and even a few off from other bars.”
“Yeah, I checked in at The Wishing Well; nothing but dry mugs all around.”
Floyd leaned close to Macaria, but before he could say anything, Johnny came between them, brandishing a wine bottle. “Bessie’s not in, but she’s been saving this for you,” the boy said by way of explanation. “Said she’d like to talk business with you too.” Floyd nodded, muttered a quick “tomorrow”, and watched as the boy gave the table a quick wipe with his rag and placed two glasses before them.
“Is this about the girls?” asked Macaria once Johnny had returned to the bar. “They ain’t back on drops is they? I been telling them to keep their noses clean of that thrupney.”
Floyd reached for the wine bottle, wincing inwardly at the barmaid’s heavy east-end accent.
“No, Mac, the girls are fine.”
“Ah, well, that’s a load off, Mr. Rhinehart. You know how I fret over ‘em.” Macaria accepted the wineglass Floyd offered her. “Why, them girls are like me own kith and kin.” She cast a wistful eye around the bar as she took a sip of the wine. “I wish we could do better ‘ere at the Moonshine and afford to bring more of them in. I hate to see them the worse for wear, and t’would do them a sight better than The Red Barrel, beggin’ your pardon.”
“Give it a bit longer and you’ll have Tenbrooke, the Wiberts and even wily Ruan all sitting down for a drink right at the bar.” Floyd swirled his wine and took a sniff.
“Only now we’re near skint,” muttered Macaria before emptying her glass. Catching Floyd’s confused look, she clarified. “On the floor.” Floyd shrugged, not catching her meaning until she rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.
Floyd refilled it but left his own glass untouched. Bessie Mae clearly had no taste in wine. “Lot’s of people around here have heard of Bessie, though. That really helps when starting a business, Mac, you know that.”
Macaria placed her elbows on the table, the wine glass pressed against her cheek. “I’m afraid,” she admitted “that The Red Barrel’s turning out to be more an albatross round our necks than a way to bring in customers.”
“Your name’s still bringing in customers at the Barrel.”
The woman’s cheeks blushed red again. She fiddled with the apron that lay folded on her lap. “That so?”
“Just this night, in fact.”
“He ask for me?”
“Indeed he did. Said you liked him well enough to give him some credits’ discount, even.” Macaria paled and started to apologize but Floyd waved her quiet. “It’s alright, I know how it is. You just want the good ones to keep coming back, isn’t that right?”
The barmaid nodded, tightlipped. Floyd picked up his wine glass and pretended to study it, waiting for the question he knew she would ask.
“Who was it?”
“That’s sort of what I’m here for.” A name, thought Floyd, that’s all I need. His name, his boss’s, his ship, his enemies'. Any name would do.
drops – drugs, (Heart of Gold: “half the girls strung out on drops”.)
keep ones nose clean – to stay out of trouble
thrupney (thrupney bit)– shit (Cockney rhyming slang), where a thrupney was a 3 pence piece before decimalization in UK
East end accent – named for the London East End, an accent of those native to the Dyton Colony.
kith and kin – family
skint – lacking money
on the floor – poor (Cockney rhyming slang)
albatross around/round ones neck – a problem resulting from something you did that stops you from being successful
Resources:
Cockney Rhyming Slang
English idioms
Fireflywiki – Dyton Colony
