The Under Broker: Part Four

“You,” Portia could barely speak the word. It felt like her teeth were going to shatter from how viscously she clenched. Turning, she saw the bastard, the man who killed her husband.

Damien.

“Mrs. Tegeré,” Damien gave a half-mocking bow, gun still leveled at her skull, “I was beginning to miss you. How long has it been?”

“Not long enough.”

“Mm, indeed. Alas, you need not fear crossing paths with me again,” Damien wiggled the pistol in his hand, “I fear this is the end of the line for you, as they say.”

“Why,” Portia’s vision was narrowing, anger flaring up from every bone in her body like a pot about to violently boil over. She looked around; it appeared Damien was alone. Though little good that would do her with him having a pistol.

Portia pretended to scratch her head, reaching for Jasper; whoever said ‘don’t bring a knife to a gunfight,’ clearly hadn’t been in such dire straits before.

“Ah, ah, ah. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Damien grinned at her.

Portia lowered her hand, worth a try, she thought. “Why didn’t you just kill me when you had the drop on me, hmm? Needed to sate your ego by gloating to my face before you split it with a bullet?”

“Something like that,” Damien seemed to think for a time, “unfortunately, your meddling in matters that don’t concern you. If only you hadn’t gone poking around the children’s home. But I knew you would. Quite an easy trap to spring, I must say. Or… perhaps you’re just getting a bit slower in your old age?”

Portia took a step closer, “I’m not in my old age.” She was shaking now, her mind knew nothing but rage.

Damien took a step back, something as close to approaching fear in his eyes as one can manage facing an unarmed opponent.

“Any last words?” Anger flared across his face.

“No.” Portia looked dejected. So this is how it’s all going to end, she thought, put down like a dog. She chuckled, thinking to herself that at least they wouldn’t have to move her body very far.

“Actually, can I say goodbye?” Portia didn’t indicate to whom; Damien already knew and nodded his consent.

Portia turned away from her executioner, approaching her husband’s grave with a heart full of regret and eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry, my love.” Portia caressed the tombstone with a trembling hand, “don’t worry, we’ll see each other before long.”

Portia closed her eyes and waited for the end.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Tegeré. It’s been a pleasure.”

The crack of the gunshot rippled through the hollow silence of the cemetery.

Portia opened her eyes.

Did it take a few seconds to die after getting shot in the head, she thought, no, that’s not right.

She opened her eyes and saw a penny-sized hole in the tombstone to her left.

Turning, she saw Damien crumpled on the ground, bleeding profusely from a new wound on his right temple.

Not particularly religious, Portia thanked god for whatever divine intervention had just occurred.

She sprang to action, legs carrying her away from the groaning form of Damien. She had to get away before he got his bearings.

All Portia could hear was the hammering of her own heart. She ran, desperate to seize this new lease on life.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Damien emptied the remaining bullets, failing to hit his target.

Portia ducked, not slowing her pace. She had to get away, who would kill that wretch of a man if she didn’t survive today.

Portia thought back on how she had seen Damien shoot a man off the top of a carriage from sixty paces; he was truly a remarkable shot. Whatever wound had been inflicted on him moments before her death, though, had been enough to cause him to miss.

“My lucky day,” Portia ran until her legs threatened to give out beneath her.

She found solace in a small grove of trees, satisfied that she was far enough away from Damien that he wouldn’t be able to find her. She collapsed to the ground. It took naught a dozen breaths from sitting, to her slipping into a deep, exhausted slumber.

Portia began to stir. Someone was close. Her heart raced, but she forced the anxiety down, wrangling it until all that remained was composure.

Still pretending to sleep, she shifted, moving her hand ever so slightly closer to Moyra, the stiletto dagger in her right boot.

“You’re not very good at pretending to sleep, lady.”

The voice didn’t sound threatening, and Portia thought it seemed almost familiar. Was it… no, it couldn’t be, she thought.

Yet, when Portia cracked one eye open, a small, dirty boy of around twelve years sat squatted down in front of her.

“Spoon,” Portia opened her other eye, “shouldn’t you be at the orphanage?”

“Shouldn’t you be dead?”

“How would you know…” Portia trailed off as Spoon produced a slingshot from his back pocket. He waved the weapon in his hand, smiling knowingly at her.

“I see,” Portia furrowed her brow, “so I have you to thank then, do I?”

“You do.” Spoon looked as prideful as any young boy ever had.

“In that case,” Portia stood, preparing to head off and mull over the problem. “You have my thanks, Spoon. It’s best for you to head back to the orphanage now though.” Portia had to admire the fact that he had been able to tail her for such a long time, especially while remaining undetected.

“So I can get sold off for drugs?”

Portia stopped, appeasing the boy, “I suppose that’s a fair point. Well,” Portia waved her hand around in the air, “just run along then.”

“Can I come with you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. Besides, where I’m headed is far too dangerous for a child.”

“I’m not a child, and I saved you, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but—”

“So I’m useful.”

“You may have been useful in that situation, but I can’t have you trailing along,” Portia stopped her rebuke, an unwanted thought entering her mind. After some time she addressed the boy again, “Spoon?”

“Yes?”

“Why do you want to come with me?”

A tense silence fell over the pair.

Spoon looked down at his boots.

“Spoon,” Portia squatted down to meet the lad at eye level, “what aren’t you telling me?”

Spoon fiddled with his thumbs for a moment longer, then, with seeming reluctance, spoke, “They took my sister… Emily.”

Portia, still not knowing what became of these spirited away children, put a hand on Spoon’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Spoon brushed her hand off, “She’s alive, I know she is. I—I could tell, if something… She’s alive, okay? I just know it.”

Portia stood, heaving out a sigh, “I’ll find your sister, Spoon. For now, do you have anywhere safe you can go?”

Spoon shook his head.

“I can’t bring you with me, I don’t even know where to begin—”

“Emily, F, seventeen pounds, Five Points.”

“Pardon me,” Portia stared at the boy, perplexed.

“That’s what was in the ledger, the day after she left the orphanage.”

“Okay, that is indeed helpful,” Portia admitted begrudgingly, “but I still can’t take you with me.”

“Even if I remember the whole ledger?”

“Even if you—wait, what?”

“The whole ledger,” Spoon tapped his temple, “got it all in here.”

Portia scoffed, “I highly doubt.” Spoon interrupted her, rattling off various entries from the ledger.

“Billy, M, Eight pound twenty, Digbeth;

Tommy, M, Fourteen pounds, Brindleyplace;

“Sally, F, Sixteen pounds, Five Points.”

Portia raised a hand, “That’s enough, I get it.” She paced for a time, periodically stopping to stare at the boy, a great internal conflict waging within her.

Portia puffed out her cheeks, resigned to the fact she would indeed need this boy’s help, despite the fact she absolutely abhorred relying on anyone.

“You can come with me,” Spoon’s face lit up at the words, “But!” Portia raised a warning finger to the boy, “You must do exactly as I say, no ‘ifs,’ ‘ands,’ or ‘buts,’ got it?”

“No butts, got it.”

Portia groaned, rolling her eyes. She had to turn away to stop Spoon from seeing the small smile threatening to spread across her face; Portia did love some good old wordplay.

When she looked back at him, Spoon was holding out his hand expectantly.

“I’m not holding your hand, literally or otherwise,” Portia scowled.

“Seems to me I saved your life, that ought to be worth something.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. Thank you, Spoon, for saving me.” Portia stared at Spoon, who still had his hand out. “Is my gratitude not enough for you?”

“Can’t buy nuffin with gratitude, can I?”

“So help me God,” Portia muttered beneath her breath, “No, I suppose you can’t.” With that, she deposited one copper coin in Spoon’s hand, then the unlikely partners set off.

“And that’s about where things stand.”

“Hmmm, so to be clear,” Amos took his spectacles off, polishing them with a cloth, “Your attempt to go in disguise to the orphanage was a trap, which you waltzed into. Then not only did you nearly get yourself caught, being saved by a young child, but you subsequently were almost killed by Damien, at which point the young boy saved you again?”

“Yes, that is correct, Amos.” Portia looked petulant.

“Now, we are going off the photographic memory of this young lad again, to plot out the movements of this opium trafficking operation?”

“I’m not drawing on this map for fucking fun, Amos.”

“Of course, my lady.” Amos bowed his head slightly.

“There, I think that about does it.” Portia stepped away from the map. The pattern was clear. They put a pin over the two dozen or so drop points of the drug shipments that Spoon had recited from memory, then connected them all into a curving line. At the end, they had a twelve-mile circle of possible ground to cover.

“It would stand to reason their operation is at the center,” Portia drew another, smaller circle around Digbeth, near the center of Birmingham.

“That’s more manageable, I think,” Portia was trying to remain hopeful, despite the still very large area that they would need to canvass.

“Oh,” Spoon’s voice came from the far side of the room, “I heard the big bitch lady say sumthin bout a warehouse once.”

Portia and Amos looked over at the boy, both their eyes growing wide.

“My dear boy, I will have you put down that Cackling Goose at once,” Amos stormed over to the boy in a butlerly fashion, a hard thing to do, Portia thought.

“Thank you for the additional information, Spoon. Anything else you would care to share? Say, I don’t know, an address?”

“Nuffin.”

Spoon relinquished possession of the small glass goose back to Amos, who gingerly examined it, making sure no oily fingerprints or, heaven forbid, a crack had appeared during Spoon’s handling of it.

“Right, that does narrow it down. We’ll want to go canvassing at night. The goal is reconnaissance only. We are trying to figure out what they are doing, then we can figure out how to stop them after.”

Portia clapped her hands. “Spoon, any questions?”

“What’s re—recon, what’s that big word?”

“It means we are looking, not interfering. We’re going to observe and gather the necessary information to form a plan. Good?”

“Sounds good to me.” Spoon shrugged.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Amos said somewhat haughtily from his wall of geese.

“What for?”

“Taking care of the legal troubles, it seems the police officers were bribed to raid this office only, not put a warrant out for your arrest.”

“Oh,” Portia recalled she had meant to ask Amos how he got rid of them, “thanks, Amos. I can always count on you.”

“Hmm, yes. If only one of us were actually a lawyer, they could have taken care of it.”

Portia never heard the butler’s snide reply; she was too busy setting off to make preparations.

Night had fallen some time ago, and the two misfits sat in a canal boat, slowly traversing the babbling river Rea. Spoon, much to Portia’s astonishment, had kept absolutely quiet.

They had surveyed the like warehouses first, those without foot traffic in and out during the evening shift change, those without signage, and those with not enough tracks in the mud.

They had a half dozen or so left when Portia narrowed her eyes at the one coming up on their left. Something about it seemed off, though if she couldn’t have said what if asked.

Spoon picked up on the feeling, sensing Portia’s tension in the way her rowing changed.

“Same plan?”

“Same plan,” Portia replied.

They moored the small canal boat, Portia tying it down carefully. Then Spoon went to climb the eaves, and Portia headed to the back doors to try to break into the office and get a glimpse of the paperwork.

Spoon scurried off, and Portia spared a thought for how noble and spry young bodies were; she thought about how every time she got in a fight, her shoulder and back didn’t feel right for a week afterwards.

Looking out for any guards or workers on a smoke break, Portia rounded the back edge of the building. She could still see the canal boat from the corner, still close enough to make a break for it if this turned out to be a trap, too. Damien could never be underestimated, a fact, Portia thought, she had been reminded of far too often.

The lock on the warehouse’s office door gave her little resistance, and inside she quickly moved to a filing cabinet. She grabbed a nearby gas lantern and stoked it to life.

“Thank god it doesn’t have a dial,” she said, admiring the simple little key-lock on the cabinet.

She flinched as the sound of workers still loading cargo came from the main floor of the building. Luckily, the shutter was closed over the office’s one window.

A few moments later, Portia had the lock open.

She was elated, after a few minutes of poring over documents, when something caught her eye.

The letterhead ofSt. Nicholas’s Children’s Home

“Got you, you fucking bitch,” Portia grabbed the document and some proximal loose papers and quickly prepared to leave.

Thud.

Portia extinguished the lamp, pressed herself against the wall, and drew her blades.

She held her breath. Not daring to breathe incase she was discovered.

One.

Two.

Three.

Still no sound.

Portia waited a bit longer and was about to leave the office when a commotion and yelling caught her ear.

“Oh, fuck! Please no,” Portia cracked the shutter open a hair’s breadth, “shit.”

Spoon was being half-dragged by his hair across the warehouse. A burly worker had him and was leading him towards a man in a black coat, hunched over a crate, with a few other men standing nearby in a semi-circle.

Portia should leave; she knew she should, but she couldn’t help but think that the little shit had, in fact, just saved her life not twenty-four hours ago.

“Fuck.”

Portia eased the office door open and slipped into the shadows of the crates and barrels of the main warehouse floor. The dark cracks and dimly-lit nooks of the warehouse were her only concealment as she went to rescue the nuisance of a boy she had brought into this mess.