Archive of Our Own

"You're looking at a real self-made man," said the guy on Johnny's left, the big linebacker type who kept bumping his arm and making him slosh his beer.

"Yeah?" Johnny shook spilled beer off his hand. "Who's that?"

The big guy laughed. Johnny laughed along with him. All the small-town suits leaning along the bar caught it from each other, giggling like boys at their first smoker.

"Take your pick!" someone yelled over the commotion, and the linebacker shook Johnny companionably by the shoulder. Beer slopped out of the glass; Johnny had absorbed more through his skin tonight than through his mouth.

He hoisted his drink and waved it in the air. "What's your secret, fellas? Huh? Take a little pity on an out of towner."

"Well, listen—" The best-dressed of the men, on Johnny's other side, broke off to gesture impatiently. "Hey! Another round."

The barman topped off Johnny's glass, and this time it was the overflow of foam that got all over his hand.

"Listen," the boss said again, turning to lean his back and both elbows on the bar, chest puffing out like a pigeon in the mating dance. "The self-made man, sonny, he keeps strong. No soft nonsense. He's a lion in the jungle."

"A lion," Johnny echoed.

"Damn right," said the boss, and caught the linebacker's eye. "Remember when that sodbuster came in last year, Howard? Just scraping around for a used motor like some kind of Okie?"

"Yessir." Good old Howard leaned on Johnny, and his eyes glowed. "By the time I got done with him, he'd left in a top of the line sedan!"

It wasn't like Johnny hadn't heard this kind of thing before and sailed right along with the tale. But this time, he had a flash out of nowhere: he remembered Luther's downstairs neighbor Curtis, saving up to get married, penny by penny by penny, and the way those pennies all vanished the day his old delivery truck finally gave up the ghost. Back to the starting line for Curtis. A big payday for the lions.

Johnny didn't trust himself to say anything to his new best pals, so he just gave an admiring whistle.

"You said it, mister." Howard smiled through a long drink of beer. "Unbreakable contract, too. S'a specialty of mine. No yokel could ever get out of it—if he tries hard enough he just gets arrested, and the money comes to us in the end anyway."

"See?" The boss elbowed Johnny. "The lion doesn't weaken. You soften up a second for some poor old dirt-sucking son of a bitch, and who's the king of the jungle then?"

There was a short lull in the overall noise, and just before it got awkward, Johnny bit the tip of his tongue quick and sharp, snapping himself back into the game. "I see it," he said. "Eat or get eaten, right?"

They jostled him around and thumped him on the back and went into the next round of drinks. And thank God, the bell over the door jangled, letting in a whoosh of autumn air and a few dead leaves. It let in someone else, too: a newcomer, good overcoat, fedora tipped forward, sample case in one hand. Natty enough to be the Fuller Brush Man, but not so polished you needed to knock him down a peg.

He made his way along the bar toward an empty stool at the end, hesitated, and came back. His gaze settled easily into Johnny's. Something unwound itself at the back of Johnny's neck, and there was no more need to bite his tongue.

"Why, Byron, you son of a gun!" said the newcomer. "What are you doing here?"

"Finally picking up those properties," Johnny said. He waved away the alarmed look. "Don't worry about these fellows, Mack. I've been getting to know 'em, and they're just the right ones to let in on the ground floor."

Mack tipped his hat and shook hands all round. More drinks, some cigars, and now at last the full tale. Every time Johnny glanced over, there was that gaze, and he knew just what to do.

They worked the rope together, herded their roomful of lions into the chute, and within the week, they were on a train out of town leaving a happy bunch of new investors behind them. Howard in particular was sure he had fleeced the two city slickers and gotten the best part of the secret development deal, spending not only his own money on it but some great big loans and filches he was going to have a hell of a time explaining.

In the club car, Johnny leaned back and breathed in, and in, and in. He was lightheaded, and hadn't even touched his Manhattan yet.

"All right?" Henry asked. His legs were crossed at the ankles, and behind him the countryside sped past in flashes of russet leaves and shabby field-corn.

"Better."

One of the laugh-lines at the side of Henry's eye appeared, and Johnny knew just when he was going to lift his glass and take a sip. In his turn, Johnny took the cherry out of his Manhattan and slipped it into his mouth. Bitter with rye, then just a delicate bite to burst sweetly on his tongue.

Henry re-settled his hat. It cast shadows across his face. "Hungry, huh."

"Mmm hmm." Johnny chewed the cherry slowly. "You know what they say: eat or get eaten."

A long moment of nothing but the rush and rattle of wheels on tracks, filling the space around them like crackling fire, falling water, rushing air. Then Henry said, "If that's what they say, we better get to it."

He rose and headed out of the compartment. Johnny breathed out, and got up, and followed. They made their way to the dining car, Johnny still savoring the taste of lion.

"Right hand this time," Henry said, and Johnny slid his hand past to palm the sugar cube. Henry had been spinning some yarns about playing the Tat, that old-fashioned game of swapping a crooked die in and out of a friendly bar wager. Sometimes the roper loses, sometimes the inside man loses, but one of them always has the high-spotted die in hand to keep the wins on their side.

But if the tat ever slips, if the regular die and the high-spot are ever seen at the same time, that's it. Some places you'll be lucky to make it out with broken fingers. Some places you just won't make it.

Johnny watched Henry's eyes instead of his hands. Palm with the left, the left, the right. Reaching for a drink, a casual stretch, a dollar. He was to the point where he didn't have to guess or even to listen. He knew.

"Light right, tat left," Henry said. Johnny tucked a cigarette between his lips and dug for a match, and by the time he was flicking the matchhead with his thumbnail, his other hand had already done the deed and come up to cup around the flame.

"Let's try it tonight, Henry," he said after another set of smooth passes. "I gotta stretch my legs."

Henry considered, glancing out the window. "Next town's a little small, but I can find someplace."

"I'll pick the marks." Johnny tossed the tat, opened the catching hand to show it empty, lifted the throwing hand to casually scratch his hair.

When Henry looked at him a while without speaking, Johnny knew he wasn't weighing the options. He had already decided, and Johnny could see it. Johnny saw so much more now: like the first time he really looked into a stereoscope as a kid (who cares, he'd thought as he picked it up, it's just two photographs, they look almost the same, how much more boring could it be), and felt his eyes and his mind somehow grip and shift. Now the picture had depth, reaching out for you—you could almost lean into it and look round the corner.

Almost. Any day now, any minute, he was sure he'd get it. The effort warmed and strengthened inside him like a muscle.

"Yeah." Henry ducked his head and picked up his jacket, and the almost was gone again. "Yeah, you'll pick 'em."

Johnny offered him the tat on a flat palm, and Henry took it without any flash or fuss, like a citizen, before he turned away. That night Johnny was the inside man, picking just the right table of marks, and the tat flickered between them like reflecting glances.

The first time they ran into a fellow proponent of the big con on their way through someplace or other, Johnny saw the man's face light up like a flaring match. He called Henry "Mr. Gondorff", he dropped a lot of names Henry seemed to know, they got on smooth as cream.

Johnny shook hands like a gentleman and even bought the guy a drink. After all, he'd managed to sit right next to the man who'd called the hit on Luther, so why not now, watching someone working to coax Henry into a familiar job with familiar friends. Henry Gondorff may have been king-in-exile, but he was still the king. He had a lot more in his past and on his plate than some short-con tagalong.

But then: "You don't really need a second roper," Henry said thoughtfully. "I see where you're going, but with this job it'll just get you into a mudhole. You'll try getting a third roper to cover the second, and a fourth and fifth. All the marbles slip between your fingers. How we usually handled this back in O'Shea's was—"

Johnny watched the guy's face fall and gradually come up again as Henry split his plan apart and rearranged it, quick and tidy, the tottering card house built fresh. They were done and gone in plenty of time for Henry to get their usual two tickets on the next sleeper. It happened in a few more towns, but never went further than drinks or sometimes dinner with a group of the locals, then off they went on their own, Henry leaving behind friendly wisdom and a few cigars. That's how it went every time.

And then they got to Cincinnati.

He'd never been to Cincy before, and he was sure it showed—he gawked at the railroad terminal like some kind of hayseed. But who could help it, all those murals, the map and clocks, that huge dome that made him feel like he'd fall up into the sky. He kept having to guess which way Henry had gone and then catch up, and the third or fourth time that happened, Henry was already in conversation with someone.

Johnny slowed down and kept his distance, pretending to look at a timetable, in case Henry was warming up a mark. The other man was young and slim, fine-featured, pale, with big dark eyes and a barely-tamed head of dark wavy hair, dinner-jacketed under his cashmere topcoat. Maybe he was in the pictures and Henry was planning a quick touch on the old autograph short-con. Henry's eyes would tell him, once he had the chance to shoot Johnny a speaking glance.

The glance kept not coming.

Johnny strained for the faintly crackling feeling of awareness he'd gotten used to, looked for those tiny shifts of head, hands, stance—but nothing doing. Henry's attention was fully on the matinee idol and the idol’s on him, murmuring in their own closed circle, while Johnny watched them like a stray through a cafe window. Okay, so, this was new. He'd gotten on top of every knuckleball Henry had thrown him so far. You just had to watch, and then you'd see. Nobody ever said it was always going to be a goddamn delight.

He circled, lounged, circled some more. He couldn't quite hear the conversation over the noise of the station, and he knew the second he'd fucked up, stepped just that hair too close. The matinee idol flinched, his big eyes darting toward Johnny and back.

"It's all right," Henry said, and gave a little puff of a sigh. "Hooker, meet Whitney. Whit, that's Hooker."

The worry on the idol's face vanished into blank sociability. He shook hands with Johnny, his grip too tight.

Henry picked up his case. "We have an errand to run, so why don't I meet you back down the line a ways."

It took Johnny a few long seconds to realize the "We" was Henry and Whit, and the "You" being shooed back on the train was Johnny Hooker.

"That place we stayed in St. Louis," Henry went on. "Not so bad."

Jesus, he had that face on, the Shaw face he'd braced Lonnegan with, the face Johnny had never seen directed right at him without a glimmer of Henry shining through the eyeholes. Johnny was stuck to the ground like a mouse in front of a city rat.

The silence stretched out and out. At last, Henry went on: "Same room's probably vacant. Drop in to the Bay Horse, see how the home guard's doing. They'll keep you out of trouble."

Johnny struggled to the surface of the roaring waves in his head. He meant to be reasonable, he surely did. He drew in a hard reasonable breath and heard himself saying, "Who's keeping you out of trouble?" He glared at Whit. "You?"

"This kind of trouble you don't need," Whit said earnestly, and Johnny thought that maybe his dark eyes looked so big because of the smudgy circles underneath them.

On some other day he could have felt sorry for whatever was making him look that way. But today, right now, he stepped toward him and said, "What the hell do you know about it?"

He supposed he was asking to get socked, but Whit only looked at Henry. Henry met Whit's gaze, and there it was again, their little circle and no one else invited.

"Go ahead and run your errand," Johnny said. "Just expect me behind you somewhere, that's all."

Henry glanced over at him, his eyes still Shaw's, opaque, flat as scratched glass. "Even if no one's asking for you."

"Specially then."

Another silence full of something Johnny couldn't quite hear, and exchanges between the other two that Johnny couldn't quite see.

"We should go," Whit said at last, checking his watch.

"Yeah, all right." Henry sized Johnny up as if it was that first day, him towing Johnny into the gents' outfitters. "Front of house."

"Okay," Whit said. He looked both of them over and added, "You can change in the cloakroom."

Henry fell into step with Whit and Johnny steamed along behind. Cloakroom, shit. Their day suits were miles better than anything Johnny had ever worn before in his whole life. Nobody could complain about Henry's tailoring, and if they tried, Johnny would gladly feed 'em their lunch.

Outside the station, in the night-shadow of its grand facade, the wind whipped wet leaves against their shins. Autumn was barely hanging on. Johnny tightened the belt of his trenchcoat and flipped his collar up, keeping his stride long and easy. He knew at least one thing about walking into enemy territory: the most important thing was not to look lost.

The place had a neon sign outside, one of the classy kind, THE QUARTER NOTE up top with some musical notes glittering around it, and underneath in smaller letters DINING and DANCING. Whit led them inside, smoothing the path like he did it for a living: leaning up to talk in the doorman's ear, speaking privately with the immaculate headwaiter before he could step in their way. The gents' cloakroom really was nice, Johnny had to give it that, and he did feel more comfortable once they were in their dinner jackets. Henry's looked crisp and perfect, as ever; Johnny suspected that his own outfit was carrying a few more wrinkles than it should.

Their hats, coats, and cases were whisked away by attendants, and they emerged to find Whit waiting for them. He looked like he had been freshened up and polished. His manner, though, was back to worried, no more of the doorman-sweetening dandy.

"Uh...are you hungry?" he asked Johnny.

Before Johnny could answer, Henry said, "We'll hand him over to Lyle's boost, they'll get him settled out here."

"Oh! Fine, yes. Good." Whit ushered Johnny through the table-space surrounding the high-ceilinged dance floor, where an orchestra hummed smoothly away on "It's a Sin to Tell a Lie". A floor-full of couples were waltzing, their tailored tuxedos and trailing gowns just as fit for Hollywood as anything else in the room. He ended up at a corner full of banquettes and tables, where an elegant group seemed to have settled in for the duration.

"Lyle, here's Hooker," Henry said without preamble.

A big, broad-shouldered redhead waggled fingers at him. "'Meetcha. What'll you have?"

Johnny usually had a quick answer to that question. But this time, he turned and did his best to catch Henry's eye. Henry, unreadable, clapped him on the back.

"Get some grub. Lyle will take good care of you."

Johnny tried to lean in and lower his voice, aware all the time of Whit, Lyle, and Lyle's many friends watching like a night at the fights. "Good care for what?"

"You invited yourself," Henry said, and his kind tone was a punch right in the gut.

"So?"

"So you know how a boost works by now. You get a part, you play it. Right?"

"Right," Johnny said. "Who's the mark?"

Whit didn't seem to like that; he pressed his lips together and watched Henry with those big smudgy eyes.

Henry shook his head, and though he was still looking at Johnny, he reached out and put his hand on Whit's shoulder. "Just another Winchell. Don't worry."

"What's the angle?" Johnny asked.

"A man walks into a bar," Henry said. "Leave it to me." He stepped back, nodded courteously to Lyle & Co., and headed away with Whit at his elbow.

Johnny turned to the group, putting on a smile.

"Pal," Lyle said, eyeing him, "looks like you could use a drink. Better siddown."

Johnny did.

Lyle introduced him around to what felt like a dozen people, though only five were close enough to really talk to. Art and Felix, with faces like a cartoon angel and cartoon devil respectively, seemed to appoint themselves the morale committee, nudging Johnny with drinks and little plates of finger-food. And Josephine and Irma, when they heard he'd never been to Cincy before, started regaling him with stories of the place and who did what to who and when. Lyle made the fifth, of course, and he mostly leaned back with his big arms stretched out along the banquette, an ebony cigarette holder in his teeth with an unlit cig at the end.

"I wouldn't have thought you had so much mob here," Johnny admitted to Irma after a hair-raising tale of tommyguns. "I mean, the real heavies."

She hoisted her pencil-thin brows. "So where you think the liquid refreshments came from during Prohibition? Santy Claus?"

"May as well've been," said Josephine with a rich laugh. "We're sitting right in the middle of where they made all the bonded liquor—legal, you know, for medicine? Few little tug-o-wars over that. It was some time, I'm telling you."

"Still plenty for them to fight about," sighed Felix. He gracefully refilled Johnny's glass of champagne, swirling the bottle so not a drop fell on the tablecloth.

"Remember," Art said waspishly, a fingertip on Felix's shirtfront, "we're staying out of it. Especially you."

"Especially you," Felix said, and they exchanged private smiles.

"Especially all y'all." Lyle stirred, stretched, and resettled his arms. His gaze around at the group was warm and sure. "We're front of house. It's a night out, huh? Nothing else." He shrugged. "Maybe your turn to dance, give Mortimer's boost a break."

Josephine bowed theatrically toward Lyle, took Johnny's hand in hers, and pulled him toward the dance floor just as "Moon Over Miami" struck up. A good easy start; he hadn't danced anything but the most rough-and-ready hop and swing in a couple years. Luther had made him learn, though. He had a full-body memory of practicing different kinds of waltz steps with Louise, some high-end orchestra or other on the radio, Alva and Luther watching like contest judges.

"Easy there, darlin'." Josephine's voice snapped him back to the here and now.

"Sorry," he said, and adjusted back to their simple foxtrot. "Had a waltz in my head."

She was about his height, so it was easy for Johnny to keep an eye out over her shoulder. Henry and Whit were at a cozy table for two across the room, not really talking much now, sitting over untouched drinks and watching the entry. Sometimes dancers or waiters got in the way, but he did his best.

Irma and Art sailed by, looking like spun sugar dolls on a wedding cake. Irma and Josephine grinned at each other and Irma stuck out the tip of her tongue.

"Sez you," Josephine called after them as they whirled away.

Johnny steered himself around so he could see better. Whit was taking a hell of a long time to light Henry's cigar. Before he could finish, the pattern of the dance turned them away again.

The orchestra swept into "I Only Have Eyes For You," and Josephine chuckled.

"What?"

"Oh, just fitting," she said, and subtly turned him far enough to keep Henry's table in view.

His ears felt hot. Luckily the tempo of this one wasn't a big departure, and he kept his mind off waltzes, so he didn't step on her toes.

"Sez you," he managed to echo.

"Known him long?"

Her voice was gentle, which only made it worse. Johnny swallowed a couple of times.

"No," he said at last.

Her hand on his shoulder squeezed for a second. When Irma and Art caught up this time, Josephine gave them some kind of look Johnny couldn't see, and off they went, no one sticking their tongue out at anybody.

"Well, I heard him when he dropped you off with Lyle," she said after a while. "Sounds like he don't want you to worry."

"I ain't worried," Johnny snapped.

"Sure, honey."

Right then the next song started up, "I've Got a Feelin' You're Foolin'," and Johnny scowled. Josephine kept a very straight and innocent face, and when Johnny purposely kept himself away from the line of sight to Henry's table, she went along with it like a lamb.

The orchestra extended the last part of this one for a while, the clarinet and then the piano picking up some peppy solos. Josephine pushed their pace and Johnny kept up, though by now he looked forward to a cool-down and some more champagne. But then, at the next turn, he started noticing something. At first it wasn't clear, just a ripple in the patterns: the doorman stepped in to speak to the headwaiter and then smartly back out; the waiters' smooth to-and-froing changed shape. Even the most languid among the various boosts were shifting somehow. Without anybody obviously turning or staring, the attention of the room was sliding into focus.

He gripped Josephine's hand more firmly as a signal and they did a sharp few steps that moved them around so he could see. At Henry's table, Whit was very firmly not staring at the entryway, the effort coming off him like steam. Henry looked the same as always, idly smoking and then ignoring his cigar, not a problem in the world.

The headwaiter bowed to an entering patron and escorted him to a table across the dance floor from Whit and Henry. The man settled in, tall and sandy-haired, built like a tennis pro, king of all he surveyed.

"There he is," Johnny said.

The orchestra finished up in a crescendo and the room applauded; the dancers subsided into a regular crowd, talking and laughing and fanning themselves. Josephine took Johnny's arm, but he wasn't going anywhere.

"Break at last," Irma said as she and Art arrived. "Last one to the punchbowl's a rotten egg."

"There," Johnny repeated. He stood and watched the newcomer as the dance floor emptied out around him.

"C'mon, boy," Josephine murmured. "C'mon."

Irma sized up the situation and twined herself around Johnny's other arm. She was smaller than Josephine, but between them they managed to get him moving, practically lifting him onto his toes, smiling and chatting the whole way. Art followed close behind, one hand touching Johnny's waist.

They made it off the floor before it would've been just them sticking out like sore thumbs. The way they surrounded Johnny against one of the showy white columns might have looked like they were helping a blitzed pal stand up, but he knew when he was stuck.

"I'm all right," Johnny told them. "Lemme go."

The other three exchanged all kinds of looks. "Depends on where," Art said. "I don't suppose you can promise not to jump over there and knock old Dixie down, can you?"

"Dixie?"

Irma said to Art, "Did it sound like Mr. G. wanted the word getting out?"

"Didn't look like that was about to matter much," Art answered apologetically, and turned. "Jo?"

Josephine sighed. "Okay, okay. Listen and we'll tell you a little bedtime story. You listening?"

Johnny nodded.

"Once upon a time," she said, and the nightclub smile on her face didn't match her no-nonsense voice, "there's this son of a bitch from down Louisville they called Dark Horse Dixon. Not such a bright character, but if he notices you, look out. You ever met a rabid dog?"

"You do not grift someone like that," Irma added.

"Not if you like being alive," said Art.

"But maybe," Josephine went on, "he started noticing a sweet kid who can’t get away." She wasn't looking in Whit's direction, but she didn't have to. "Wants him and only him. At best the kid’ll end up hurt, bad hurt, and not his feelings, either. So maybe you whip up a quick show to rope Dixie and send him down a blind alley."

"And what happens when he gets to the end of the alley?" Johnny asked.

Josephine shrugged. "Only one answer for a mad dog. He’s always wanted to break into the Cincy mob, see, so maybe you've been working to convince him that all the local mob needs from him is one big favor and then he's in. An initiation, you get me? He should come take charge of delivering the weekly cash from a, uh...specialized establishment of theirs. Idea being, he'll come in on pickup day and go blasting off with their money, but he won't know he's been sent in the wrong direction. Then the actual mob pickup arrives at two in the morning to find the money's already left. And to the local hard guys, that looks pretty much like a robbery."

"They will disapprove," said Irma.

"Disapprove him right into next week," said Art.

"If he ever gets moving." Josephine crossed her arms. "He's laying back tonight, and it ain't like him."

Felix swept in behind Art, carrying two champagne flutes in each hand. "Hello darlings! I brought you a top-up." As they distributed the glasses around, he said quietly, "All copacetic?"

"Just a bedtime story," Johnny said. "About a dark horse." He felt a glass touch his hand and automatically gripped it. Over Felix's shoulder he saw Henry and Whit getting up from their table and strolling through the groups coming back from the dance floor. They were heading along the wall— Whit pushed the damask wallpaper to reveal a hidden door— they slipped through and were gone. The big rangy newcomer watched them go.

"Lyle reminds all good children that we're front of house only," Felix said. "Backstage is already staffed."

Dixon was sipping a highball now, watching the hidden door, making no effort to get up and follow just yet. Johnny snapped his attention back to his companions. "I have to get in there before he does."

They stirred, but Josephine was first to speak. "I know, I know. But he has to."

"Does he?" said Irma.

Josephine took her hand, and Irma sighed, looking down, twining their fingers. Felix leaned against Art's back.

"I guess I do," Johnny managed. His ears were heating up again. "I really do."

"Mother won't be pleased," Felix said with a fatalistic shrug.

"Anyone else feel like walkies?" Josephine asked. Like a chorus on cue, they started drifting toward the far wall, chit-chatting and sipping and smiling, carrying Johnny along. But when he finally laid his hand on the subtle outline of the door and the rest of them were still close behind him, he turned and shook his head.

"I got it from here." He handed his champagne to Felix.

"Going backstage by yourself, with Dixie due to follow?" Josephine didn't look happy. "You got some cure for rabies in your pocket or what?"

"Gotta insist. I'll feel better knowing where you're at."

Art had a grip on Felix's sleeve as if to hold him still, but he looked guilty. "You sure?"

"You could do me a favor," Johnny said, shooting a covert glance at Dixon's table. "Stall him."

Irma grinned. "Don't have to ask us twice. Let's get on it, kids."

They started drifting thataway, Felix murmuring another dry comment about how much Lyle was going to love every bit of this. But Josephine hesitated.

"If you really have to go in, the word is abyssinia."

"Don't worry," Johnny told her, and heard Henry somewhere under his voice.

"Don't you get careless," she answered. "Don't you believe he'd ever want to see you get bit."

He nodded. He abruptly remembered Salino falling down dead right in front of him. He remembered Henry's face going through three changes as he saw Johnny show up alive. He didn't let himself think about that too much.

"See you at the after-party," he said, and pushed the wall open.

It had surely been a backroom speakeasy up till a few years ago. A short corridor seemed to end at a storeroom, and inside the storeroom by the mop rack was a sliding eyehole in the wall. He tapped. It slid.

"Yuh?"

"Abyssinia," Johnny said.

"Yuh."

The plywood wall pivoted just enough to let him through. He saluted the big bald-headed doorman and went down another short hall, emerging into a warm, smoky, low-ceilinged space that felt pretty familiar to a Joliet street kid.

No headwaiter here, and no curlicued neon. Printed in thick chalk letters on the wall were the words QUEEN CITY CLUB. A guitar and a muted horn wailed together in a sinuous rhythm, and though there wasn't a dance floor so's you'd notice, lots of couples were moving together in the middle of the room: mostly pairs of men and pairs of women wrapped up in each other's arms, plus some pairs he couldn't say one way or the other, with someone in trousers and someone in a dress. Everyone was comfortable, not giving Johnny a second glance—no need to look over your shoulder when you were with your people.

"Specialized establishment" was right. Now that you didn't need a speakeasy just to sell liquor, lots of the secret mob-run joints had gone in different directions altogether. A few unattached fellows gave him the glad eye, but they didn't stop him as he moved cautiously into the shadows along the wall, watching the dancers.

And then, there they were, caught in glimpses through the crowd: Whit's hands on Henry's shoulders, Henry holding him by the waist. They danced close and slow, revolving in the close-packed whirlpool. Sometimes Henry was calmly talking into his ear, and Whit nodded; sometimes Henry turned his head in a subtle scan of the room, and Johnny held his breath in his dark corner until the moment had passed.

He didn't recognize the tune. It was something slow and rough-edged, with a hot shivering hum that twined through the bodies and the smoke. Most of the dancing pairs were melting in to each other, hips and backbones gone liquid. But not always: the next time he saw Henry, Whit was talking up at him, fast and faster, posture stiff, his eyes wide pools of ink in the low light. Henry's arms slid more fully around him then. He even patted him on the back, slow and easy, and at that Johnny could see the worst of the panic vanish under the touch of his hand, lifted and palmed like the sugar-cube dice.

Henry was all right. He had everything under control. He had it just the way he wanted it. Johnny's heart said so with every hard, painful beat, under his ribs and in his throat, rising.

He swallowed hard. Sometimes you just had to take the hit. Throw in the towel. He remembered every late-night drink on every train, every long silence, licking the maraschino cherry into his mouth while Henry watched, and knew now that it wasn't decorum or bad timing that had kept closing the door.

If Johnny had had a different kind of life, the embarrassment might have buckled his knees. But he'd cut into dozens and dozens of strangers who didn't want what he was selling, and Luther had showed him how to keep his eye on what mattered. Johnny didn't matter, Henry dancing didn't matter—not even that pat on the back mattered, that fine and tender card-sharp's hand. Dixon was overdue. The rabid dog wasn't following the trail into the trap. And all Henry had by him in case of emergency was the same scared kid who'd come to him for help in the first place.

All at once Johnny had had it. Just had it. Henry was free to dance with a pin-up punk and free to dump Johnny on the side of the road anytime he pleased, but how dare he tackle something so touchy—a mark like this!—without anyone at his back? He had the front-of-house boosts, sure, and the backstage crew, all the toms and queens of the alley world coming together to support the dogcatcher. But they did what he said, and what he'd said when faced with the rabid dog was, leave it to me. When what he really needed was someone who'd say like hell.

Like hell.

Johnny bulled his way through the dancers, using his shoulders, and even in such a mellow crowd there was grousing. He fetched up by Whit and tapped him on the arm—not too hard, but it got a jump like an electric shock.

"Cut in?" Johnny said as pleasantly as he could manage.

To his credit, Whit pulled himself together pretty quick. He loosened the fist he had instinctively clenched around one of Henry's lapels and just said, "Of course."

"Hooker—" Henry started.

"Cutting in." Johnny slid into Whit's place, though instead of putting his hands on Henry's shoulders, he grabbed him by the hips.

It could have gone badly. He was ready for it—with everything falling apart, why not a dramatic capper? But a breath or two later, Henry's hands landed on his shoulders and Johnny was leading him into a slow step, turning to match the crowd. Not a stumble, not a shift, not a hesitation, just a step and turn, just knowing him. Holding him. Here came that shiver, that yearning for the satisfied click, and he forcibly ignored it as best he could, seeing Henry's blank mask, feeling the huge packed-down strain vibrating in his body.

"So how goes?" Johnny asked, for all the world as if they'd met on a daylight corner.

Henry looked past his ear, his gaze far away.

"That good, huh?"

"I'm kind of in the middle of something, Hooker."

"Don't I know it." Johnny turned them just in time to avoid a collision with a laughing couple.

"You want to help? Is that it?" One of Henry's hands formed a fist, tapped Johnny's shoulder. "I told you how you can help."

"Lyle, front of house," Johnny said.

"Right."

"Even better: back to St. Louis!"

He felt more than heard Henry sigh. "Just because you don't like it doesn't mean it's wrong."

"Don't see you sending him to St. Louis," Johnny heard himself say, and there was an edge in his voice even under the music and noise.

"Would if I could."

Johnny watched him closely, but he still wasn't giving anything back. "You weren't like this with Lonnegan, and I guess he's killed more guys than I've had hot dinners. So why now?"

Henry shook his head.

"I know enough. It's getting late, and he's not taking the bait in time. Henry. Henry!" Henry wasn't meeting his eyes, still sliding his gaze right past Johnny's head, and Johnny tried to lean into his line of sight. "Come on! How do we get him on his way?"

"We don't. Look, I appreciate the thought. But you don't get anywhere near this character."

"No?" Johnny snapped. "You think I'm gonna pass out the first time he pinches my ass?"

"He'll do more than pinch it."

"I don't care!"

Henry's mouth closed tight. Against what, Johnny didn't know, though he'd hoped for something.

Sometimes you just had to take the hit, yeah, but maybe sometimes you had to hit back. He stepped close, pulling him in, their bodies pressing together. Henry flinched, but Johnny held him tight. And he said into Henry's ear, "Hey. You know I used to hustle pinball in Joliet. Luther must've told you."

Nothing.

"What do you think I used to do," he went on, lips against Henry's skin, "some late nights when I didn't have a dime and no one was there to play? Not to play pinball, anyway."

Henry wasn't holding on to his shoulders so much as bracing himself against them, ready any second to jump away.

"Huh?" Johnny prompted, more of a breath out than a word.

"Exactly," Henry said, his voice heavy. "Exactly right. Wasn't that enough?" He stopped dancing and pushed back out of Johnny's hold, looking sick. The dancers around them bumped and jostled. "Enough wolves for one lifetime."

"That's not why I told you," Johnny said, managing to keep one hand on Henry's waist. "Wait, wait. Listen."

"Go on, kid." Henry actually put his hands behind his back—Johnny could almost have laughed. "For God's sake get out of here."

"I told you because it taught me a few things about wolves, that's all. I can help."

There was a loud twang and crack from the little band, a string snapping, and Johnny habitually glanced over. Good thing he did: past the musicians was the little hallway, and just stepping out of the hallway was Dixon. The guitarist laughed and the band swung into a new tune, brighter and quicker but with a sway and a bump to it: “What Wouldn’t I Do For That Man”.

"If you trust me," Henry said, stepping back through the dancers, "you'll keep off."

"That ain't fair! You can't—"

But Henry was going and gone, and though Johnny went for him, somehow the crowd, one large swirling creature, seemed to welcome one of them and block the other. Henry made it back to Whit and took his arm. Of course.

Johnny squeezed through the dancers in the other direction, cursing himself. What for? For everything. For not trying to push Henry sooner, some quiet charged night on a train—for pushing him too soon, with his boyhood among the wolves—for dancing with him, holding those flat-muscled hips and breathing right next to his ear so that now he knew how it felt. For not being able to resist that "if you trust me," so ridiculous, so impossible to escape.

He finally fetched up at a trestle on sawhorses along the far wall. Sweat had run all down his back, and he untied his bow tie, letting it dangle. If he leaned just enough he could see Henry and Whit in the corner. And there was that ruffled sandy head approaching them, easy enough to spot. He did the only thing left: he bought himself a bottle of beer and some pickled onions, and he looked.

He saw Dixon grinning at them with a mouthful of teeth. He saw Dixon leaning, looming, and delicate Whit seeming to get even smaller somehow. But Henry, though not a tall fellow himself, stayed the same size, upright, hand in his pocket. A few conversational back-and-forths. Then with a move ten percent play and ninety percent threat, Dixon roughly tousled Whit's hair. Whit shrank back and Henry slid a protective arm around him, socking him in against his side like a wolf who'd scored himself a god-damn curb chicken.

Johnny took a few long gulps of his beer, and breathed, and rubbed his eyes hard.

He looked again. He saw Henry holding Whit warm and natural against him, talking calmly up at the rabid dog.

For the first time Johnny found himself wishing he really had turned back and gone to St. Louis. Maybe Henry would've met him there and maybe not, but at least Johnny wouldn't have to stand here and burn with humiliation all up the back of his neck. He wouldn't have to have that image scorched on his eyes, Henry so sleek and fine, facing down the worst of marks without a twitch, doing what he was made for and doing it alone. When push really did come to shove he played a single-hand game.

And that space right by him, up against him, the space Johnny thought they'd created together...he could put anyone in there.

It was just a hell of a lot to swallow. He chased it with the rest of his beer and bought another.

A couple-few guys made passes, offered to buy him drinks or have a dance. Johnny stayed right where he was, though, eating peanuts and dropping the shells on the floor. By now he had his jacket off, sweating freely, watching the pantomime across the room. Such a slow pantomime. Hadn't Josephine said the mob pickup for the boodle was two a.m.? Henry had to get Dixon out the door with it, and soon. But there they were in their same vignette, Dixon looming, Whit close to Henry. What was the play?

Johnny stopped just looking, and let himself watch. Made himself watch. It was a lot harder now with everything that had passed tonight: like squinting through a stinging fog, one of those sulfurous clouds you passed through at night in the Hoovervilles, the burn barrels full of God knew what.

But still Johnny stared, trying like hell to open up to the stereoscopic image the way he'd learned. And for the first time he noticed just how far into the corner Dixon had them penned, and the way Henry had slid himself in front of Whit. Dixon was leaning into Henry's space, thumping his hand hard onto Henry's shoulder in another one of those kidding-but-not-really maneuvers, but his eyes were past Henry and on the kid.

Was it as simple as Dixon getting too distracted? Seemed like Whit was there as bait, but the point of the bait was to finish leading Dixon to the deadly errand. If Dixon was hung up on the bait itself...maybe he didn’t care as much about Henry giving him the money just now as he did about getting rid of Henry so he could have a dance with the pretty punk.

But of course Henry wouldn't let that kind of simple snag get in the way of the goal. He knew what a mark wanted, but more than that, he knew how to turn that want, how to get it to the target. Something else had him stuck. Johnny had never really seen Henry stuck before, and he found he couldn't stand it.

He whirled and gestured to the barman for two more beers, overpaid, hurried into his dinner jacket, and was heading slantways across the room before he knew what he was thinking. He was just a guy out for a good time, bringing a drink to a special friend, past the crowded corner where the big man grinned and leaned and barked. And as he squeezed behind Dixon, he slowed way down, and listened.

"Well," Henry was saying reasonably, "they're expecting you to be by yourself. If someone else is with you, they won't like it."

"They'll like getting their money." Dixon reached around Henry and flicked Whit's neat bow tie. "And I'll like having a little company on the way."

Well, shit. That was all it took: the picture formed right up. Dixon wouldn’t step away from the punk toward the money only because he wanted to take him along on his errand. And why not? But Henry knew that it would be a killing chute—and the slaughtermen wouldn't really care if they ended one robber or two. Of course, Henry did care. And maybe he'd gotten so used to keeping others out of the soup that he couldn't see when it was the only way.

Whit seemed to be coming to the same conclusion, because he licked his lips and said, "Yeah, all right. Let's, uh...get a little fresh air."

His voice was thin, but determined. Johnny felt like patting him on the back. He also felt like kicking Henry Gondorff right in the ass. It wasn't that he had everything the way he wanted it, no matter how it had looked. Henry was the king, sure, but the king knew very well when he was in check. And even though he was literally backed into a corner, he wasn't sending for help.

If you trust me, he'd said. Well, Johnny did trust him. In most things. But could he trust Henry to reach out if it meant someone else might have to pay?

Nope. He'd learned a few things by now, and that was one.

He'd also learned a lot from his wolves, as sick as it might make Henry to think about it. He knew if you wanted to get them running, the best thing for it was to show them someone else about to take their toy away. He himself, leaning on a pinball machine, looking carelessly out onto the street: No way, mister, I'm waitin' on my ride, and even if the wolf hadn't really been hungry beforehand, the idea of losing out would make him chase.

And in this case, the main toy for chasing wasn't really Whit. It was...

He barged right in to the little corner tableau, shoving, elbows out. The dismay on Henry's face did him good; it fed him like a bite of steak.

"Where've you been?" Johnny demanded, waving his two bottles of beer like clubs. He ignored Dixon entirely, which felt great, and glowered right into the eyes of Henry's mask. "Still talking to your little friend?"

It was a coin flip, a swan-dive into the dark, and Johnny had no idea how or where or if he'd land. But then:

"I said I'm busy," Henry snapped. "Understand? Some people have work to do, Kelly."

The electric charge that thrilled through Johnny nearly lifted him onto his toes. "Oh, yeah, work." He eyed Whit up and down in the most insulting way he could manage. The poor kid had gone greenish-white, but that was for the best, fitting right in to the new story.

"He said he's busy, boy." Dixon's voice was a low rumble. "So step off."

Johnny kept ignoring him, even though the defiant pleasure was dangerous. There were two things he had to do, and he did them.

First: "Nice try, you fuckin' gosling," he sneered at Whit, and flung one of the bottles at him so the beer splashed everywhere. Then a palm on Whit's chest and a hard shove, and off he went, knocking into people and tumbling onto the floor. In the general uproar, Johnny was comforted to see the bystanders snapping into action. In the guise of picking Whit up and complaining and sorting out the chaos, they moved him farther and farther away, swallowing him up into the crowd. The backstage players were no slouches.

He didn't have time to enjoy it, though. Even as Whit was being moved out of harm's way, Johnny was solidly in it: a powerful hand snagged him by the collar and hauled him around. Dixon really was strong.

Johnny didn't get sidetracked. He went right into part two, yelling to Henry, "You said I could take the bag to the guy, the accountant guy! You promised!"

Henry eyed him disdainfully as he hung on tiptoe in Dixon's grip like a wet kitten. "So?"

Dixon shoved a hand under Johnny's chin and gripped his throat, tipping his face up. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"No offense, brother—" Johnny managed against the choking pressure. "Just—he said I could—it's time for me to—get going—"

Henry, solidly in his mask, sighed. "All right, all right. You may as well. But you should learn to behave."

"I know it." Johnny scrambled to keep his toes under him, thinking like trade, the rougher the better.

Dixon was looking at him closely. How often had Henry Gondorff had eyes like that boring into him—not like equals or something near, not like Lonnegan at Shaw, but like the midnighters browsing the corners for meat? It must've been a while ago, before Henry ever had all his skills and all his friends. Whenever he might've been scrambling in the mud with the other peasants, way back before he got turned out on the big con.

But Johnny'd been there not all that long ago. He knew how to throw the kind of smile up at Dixon that Whit wouldn't have been able to give—smug, rough-edged, a dish already going rotten and guaranteed to leave a bad taste. It earned him a brisk smack across the face that made his eyes water.

"Watch it," Dixon said. His warning tone had something thick and eager underneath.

"It's all right, Dix," Henry said without any particular feeling, like he was talking about a smudge on his toecap. "He's harmless."

"If you say so. Spose you collect 'em." Dixon pulled Johnny up high enough that when he abruptly let go, it guaranteed a stagger. "Good fucks, huh?"

Henry shrugged, already turning away. He headed off toward the trestle-bar, where the money must be. If Johnny knew his speakeasies, runners from front of house had been bringing the big money backstage and handing it in all night.

Johnny adjusted his collar and jacket while Dixon hesitated. His first punk had gone off who knew where, and this second one was both interfering and not easy to scare. If they'd played it right, the money should have a good chance to edge ahead in the temptation stakes.

"C'mon, friend," Dixon said at last, taking Johnny painfully by the arm, his fingers curled in to jab like spikes. "Let's get you on your way."

"Gee, thanks," Johnny answered, earning a clench from Dixon's fist that ground tendons against bone. He felt lightheaded, but it wasn't so hard to keep his face easy and cocky when they were going in the right direction.

The barman was nodding to something Henry'd said. He crouched down for a minute, maybe unlocking some kind of floor panel, then came back up with a dark blue canvas satchel. It was thick and sturdy, with leather grips and edging and a locking flap, not an easy target for a slit-and-run. Henry took the bag, nodded, and led the way to the little entry hall. Dixon and Johnny followed right behind, Johnny's hand tingling with pins and needles.

At Henry's approach, the big doorman in the hall raised his eyebrows and turned. This time he pushed a different panel open, one in the side of the passage instead of the end where front-of-house guests dined and danced and wore satin slippers. They had to go single file, edging past one more door with about five locks on it. Dixon had Johnny in front of him with the arm twisted awkwardly back: real pally.

Out in the alley autumn was turning to a crisp and biting winter, and it felt good, the wind drying the sweat on Johnny's neck, cleaning the smoke from his lungs.

"Here you go, Kelly." Henry offered him the satchel. "Don’t fuck it up."

"You say the sweetest things," Johnny grinned, batting his eyelashes. He reached out with his free hand and took it.

Henry did not grin. He also didn't seem to notice or care that Dixon still had Johnny in his grip. "If you can keep your mind on business for once, there'll be something in it for you."

"Course!" Johnny let himself sound how he felt: impatient. He bounced the satchel a little. Come on, come on, even a rabid dog was first and foremost a dog, and a dog wanted to chase...

"Well, now." Dixon looked down at him with a smile. "Sorry and all, but you gotta know it's my turn."

Johnny blinked from Dixon to Henry and back again. "...What?"

"The club offered it to me first. And first come, first serve. Right?"

Johnny didn't actually know if Henry was Shaw, or Mack, or any of a dozen road names they'd cycled through. So he just said—bleated, even—right at Henry's impassive face, "But you said! You promised! If I was good!"

That made Dixon laugh. "Didja?" He eyed Henry with respect. Wolves of a feather.

Henry put his hands in his pockets. He seemed bored with everyone involved. "Guess you should've been better."

Giving a forceful back and forth yank, Johnny managed to get his arm free, and he jumped at Henry with a roundhouse swing. "You son of a bitch!"

It wasn't a fake swing, either: nothing stagey to alarm the mark. But as if they were right hand and left hand, Henry sidestepped perfectly. Johnny stumbled, and Dixon caught him by the same arm as before, pressing on the same developing bruises.

"Hey, slugger." Dixon dragged him close. "Hey, hey. You don't want to lose your—"

And without any visible warning, as he finished "—temper", he punched Johnny in the stomach with a hard hook. All Johnny's air went out of him. He could almost call himself used to it—this hit wasn't too much harder than Lonnegan's had been—though it was never any fun.

While he was busy wheezing, Dixon hoisted him up. His arm shrieked—and this time so did his leg, as Dixon socked a good hard grip on his inner thigh high up and gave a wrenching squeeze. He had Johnny in the air like a doll. Everything was pain and sickness, whirling, laughter, and then a hard cold slam all along his back as he crashed into the ground.

He couldn't really hear over the sound of his nerves screaming and his inability to take a full breath. But someone was murmuring and someone was laughing, and then he got kicked in the side, once, twice, and managed to use the momentum to roll away and curl up like he should have before. He clutched his hands over the back of his head and only then vaguely realized he still had hold of the satchel.

Not for long. It was yanked away, twisting one of his fingers as it went.

Footsteps receded, sauntering and slow. Johnny concentrated on breathing for a while, first only just a whistle as if sucking through a straw, then a little more, and a little more. His arm throbbed and his stomach hurt from his groin to his breastbone. His head and thigh and one foot complained too, though from a distance.

After a long time there were finally some faint noises, and someone was crouching down next to him. He peered out through one protective arm at Henry and croaked, "If anyone says 'are you okay' I can't vouch for my actions."

"I'll try to duck." Henry touched the back of his head right where it hurt, examined his fingers, and showed them to him. Clean. "Gonna have a goose egg back there."

"Here, too." Johnny uncurled and lay on his back, his hands on his lower belly. Waves of nausea fluttered, but always fell again, fading down and down.

Henry reached as he had for his head, this time for his body, and Johnny fended him off. "Buy a boy a drink first."

He should've guessed how that would land, Henry jerking away like he'd been touched with a red-hot poker.

"Hey," Johnny said. "Quit it. Here." He grabbed one of Henry's hands and pulled it to his stomach, right where he'd first been punched. It hurt, but he wouldn't have skipped it for a thousand bucks, not with that guilt still on Henry's face.

"I don't know what you're looking for," he went on, letting go and stretching his arms up over his head. "But if you find it, lemme know."

After a frozen moment, Henry seemed to come to, and he pressed gently on various spots, probing. "Here?" he asked, and Johnny said nuh-uh, and "Here?", and "How about here." All much the same, the kind of spot-bruising you felt in the muscles, nothing spiking or tearing or rupturing down inside.

At that thought he was suddenly sure that Dixon had meant to grab him directly by the balls, not just the thigh, and he shuddered at the memory of that crushing grip.

"Something?" Henry said, lifting his hand from a spot on the left side of Johnny's stomach.

"Nope. Go on." He folded his hands under his head and lay still.

"What is it?" Henry checked a perfectly fine patch along Johnny's ribs.

He couldn't help it—he thought about how it would feel for one of those talented hands to slip down to the bruise tucked up in the crease of his thigh. Then he said wistfully into the cold darkness of the Cincinnati sky, "I was just wondering if you wanted to take turns."

Henry settled warily back on his heels. Johnny imagined stretching him out, pressing gently along his body and listening to his murmurs until he found his bruises. They must be deep, wherever they were.

"Better get you inside," Henry said.

Johnny propped himself up on his elbows. "Settle down. That's not what I meant." Of course it was. It was going to bother him for a long time, pressing in the backs of his eyes and his throat. "It's just, you know you're dying to say you told me so before I say it to you."

"You think we can take turns on that, huh."

"Want me to start?" Johnny gave him a smile that felt pretty mean.

"Dixon had a buck knife in his pocket," Henry shot back. "Did you know that?"

The smile dropped. "No."

"I knew it." Henry's eyes were strangely desperate. "He could've flat-out unzipped you if he'd felt like it. He's done it before. Where do you think the first guy is who tried to run this job?"

Johnny stared. He'd never even thought about it. He'd never wondered how this whole elaborate setup could've been there already for Henry to step into at a moment's notice. He knew Henry meant it as a well-earned "told you so", but he looked past that immediately. Heat surged through his neck and into his face, and never mind the oncoming winter.

"Oh," he said numbly, and he was up and on his feet like he'd levitated there. "Oh, okay. My turn? I told you so, you trying all this without letting me know. Without letting me in. I asked—I begged you!—and you tried sending me to St. Louis. And then nursery school. It was only because I stopped listening that I found you out: you, stuck there in that corner and no one on deck to turn the mark."

Henry was shaking his head, trying to start with something, but Johnny didn't want to hear it. "Luther said I could learn from you," he cut in hard, and Henry flinched. "You know what I learned? Someone's got to watch you every fucking second!"

"Sounds familiar!" Henry said right back. "What the hell do you think I learned from you!" His voice was as strange as his eyes, and even in the cold alley shadows, Johnny could see that the desperation was spreading through his whole face, his expression cracking open right down the middle.

Johnny had no idea how his own face looked. He could only think again of that hoarded memory, walking in to the wire store just before the sting. Henry seeing him. Henry seeing him.

He took a step forward and the nerve in his thigh twanged, making him clumsy. Of course Henry put out a hand to brace him without even thinking about it. Johnny leaned against that bracing hand and reached out to take Henry firmly by the hips.

"Sorry," he said. "Sorry, Henry." And he pulled him in the way he had on the dance floor, not too gentle, not much room for argument.

Henry moved in against him the way he had on the dance floor, too: obedient, and afraid, and meshing so perfectly. His hands slid automatically onto Johnny's shoulders. One curled around the back of his neck, and his fingers were cold.

Johnny took his mouth, kissing hard, no hesitation, trying his best not to be the punk going at the wolf. If Henry panicked now, Johnny might have to trip him or something, and he was too sore.

He didn't seem panicky yet, anyway—just holding on with those graceful hands, eyes tight-shut, gasping in short stifled breaths. Once when Johnny let him up for air he said something voiceless that no one needed to hear, and their next kiss started soft, so soft, like the passing touch of two pickpockets. Not a wolf in the place.

"You cold?" Johnny said eventually, breathing the words over Henry's lips. Henry shook his head, and Johnny slid both arms around his shivering back and pressed him into the deepest shadow of the alley wall. Their hips, tight together, said how hard Henry was, and Johnny's kisses watered with the urgent desire to drop and put his mouth there. He sure wasn't too sore for that. But if you wanted to snap Henry out of it and send him running, that was the perfect way.

Henry's knees, as Johnny pushed him against the wall, were nearly buckling. He'd be dropping on his own account any second. But Johnny, woven so close against and into him that he anticipated every breath, could see the future. Henry would kneel and have his way, and of course Johnny wouldn't want to stop him. But after, Henry would pull back. Not seeing wolf and punk anymore, maybe, but some kind of trade for sugar.

That couldn't be the first time. He couldn't let it be. Let them get past it, and still be who they were, and later on wrangle it all out together in some dark and rushing sleeper car.

Thinking so much, all while he was tasting Henry's mouth and going dizzy from the rasp of his whiskers and the heat of his body, made Johnny's head ache. He'd just have to do what he'd been doing, what he couldn't keep from doing—reach out to the emerging picture, and see.

"Here," he said, guiding Henry's hand, but not to a bruise. And as Henry unbuttoned Johnny's fly, Johnny mirrored him perfectly. Only a second of cold air against his cock and then Henry's hand, holding him, stroking, not too hard. Henry in turn throbbed against his palm, skin sleek and burning hot.

At first Johnny was determined to let him set the time. But they were still in that place together, the one that was only theirs, and he was somehow setting it too. Their kisses got clumsier as they lost themselves in the rhythm; their breaths puffed out hard in a mingling cloud of vapor. As Johnny felt the muscles of his belly and legs starting to tighten up, he heard Henry make a stifled little noise and lean into him. He closed his eyes. Heat pulsed in their hands.

Henry sighed, long and easy. Then he stirred. Then his shoulder flexed under Johnny's resting head, and he was already clear-minded enough to pull out a handkerchief, the lousy rat.

Johnny groped for his own, and ended up having to resort to the little pocket square he'd started wearing a few towns ago. Henry gave him a look and Johnny shrugged, but he sure did pay when he tried using it to tidy up the way Henry was using his big cotton hanky on himself—the pocket square had been double-starched.

"Jesus," he said, fastening the last of his fly buttons. He tossed the soiled little scrap of fabric on the ground. "Remind me to—"

"Trouble, gentlemen?"

Johnny jumped like he'd been scalded, and before he knew it was happening, he found he'd stepped in front of Henry—to fight? To give a line of chatter? Or was it that he couldn't be sure Henry's buttons were done up?

A plump little man stood there, wrapped in a luxurious fur topcoat and a fur-edged hat, cozy as Santa Claus. Two huge figures flanked him, peering down with a stolid lack of expression.

"I hope no trouble," the little man went on, as warm and earnest as before.

And from behind Johnny, Henry spoke: "I'm sorry to say yes trouble."

The man squinted, and smiled. "Why, isn't it—is it Mr. Graves? Whom I haven't seen in some time?"

"Evening, Mr. Benjamin," Henry said, moving to stand by Johnny's shoulder.

"I notice you don't say good with your evening." Benjamin examined them both, and under the amiability were a pair of sharp little eyes.

"Well, sir, it isn't good. Not for the Note and the Queen."

"Inside," Benjamin said at once, and while he bowed them through the alley door with great courtesy, they were preceded and followed by the big men, and Johnny didn't think those guys both kept one hand in a pocket because of the cold.

Benjamin made short work of the door with all the locks and led them up a set of stairs. Inside were leather club chairs and a well-stocked bar cart, but they stood respectfully before Benjamin's desk while Henry spun the tale. Once or twice Johnny stepped in front of him again, sometimes literally, to show the choking-bruise on his throat or the purpling spots on his belly. But he didn't run his mouth, and in the end the robbery story was simple enough.

So was the mobster's response. "Off you go," he said pleasantly to his attendants. "Our satchel to the accountant, our uninvited guest to the river. The usual receipts for each." They thumped away down the stairs as Benjamin poured three whiskies.

Johnny didn't want to know what the usual receipts might be. It was past two in the morning, he felt like he'd been run through a laundry mangle, and inside his shorts he was sore and sticky. That was plenty for now.

And thank God, when Benjamin finally got a phone call and his friendly expression relaxed into something sweet and satisfied, he patted them both on the back and released them from the Cincy mob's hospitality.

The bald doorman was still in the little corridor. That was it, though—when they went back out into the Quarter Note, it seemed vast and silent, clean and white as a movie-set wedding cake.

"Is the coat check still open?" Johnny said, tucking his arms around himself.

"What do you think, handsome?" came Josephine's voice from behind a pillar, and what do you know, there was one familiar little group seeing the last of the night out. Whit was there too, his perfect tie undone, slumping on crossed arms by a row of empty glasses.

"It’s done." Henry settled down by Whit.

“I’m so—” Whit said, and cleared his throat. “I know this was—”

Henry touched his shoulder and the words stopped. “Listen. You did good. And you were right to let us help.” He smiled with just his eyes, deep down, like he’d told a private joke. Whit didn’t react, but Johnny saw it easily.

“I know it could’ve been bad for you,” Whit said. He looked shyly over at Johnny. “Are you all right?”

Johnny didn’t see a matinee idol now, but Whit himself, young and unsure and wrung out. “Never been better,” he said honestly.

“I even learned a thing or two,” Henry added. Johnny heard the same honesty there and nearly broke out into a grin.

Henry gave another smile, eyes and mouth and face and all. Whit did see this one, and he rested his chin on his crossed arms again, peaceful this time.

"Mr. G.," said Lyle.

"Lyle," said Henry, and helped himself to a triangle of toast with caviar.

"You look terrible," Art murmured confidingly to Johnny.

"We can't all have your tailor." Johnny took the offered champagne glass.

Irma told Johnny about their stalling technique, and Felix explained how much trouble they'd been in with Lyle. Whit fell asleep on the table. Finally they stuck the last empty bottle neck-down in the melted ice bucket, and retrieved coats and hats and cases from the depths of the cloakroom, and spilled out into the last of the dark that called to the first glow before the day.

"Write when you get work," Josephine laughed, her arm tucked through Irma's. "And fat chance."

"Sez you." Johnny touched the end of his nose.

He and Henry went their way. Their footsteps tapped and scraped on the sidewalks, their shadows blended and parted and blended again from streetlight to streetlight.

“So what’d you think of Cincinnati?” Henry asked as they crossed behind a cruising taxi. He sounded a little tentative.

Johnny considered.

“I think it’s a start,” he said at last, and when Henry shot him the tiniest of sideways glances, he bounced it right back.

They made for the station, and the next sleeper car to anywhere.