He pulled a coin from his pocket, and tapped it on the liquor-soaked counter, grinning. “Fancy a little game of chance? Call heads or tails. Loser pays the next round of drinks. I’ll pick up this one.”
Inez narrowed her eyes. He’d not given her a breath of space nor asked her name. Not that an exchange of names was a given in such places. But such over-eagerness put her on her guard.
A nudge at her elbow caused her to look away from the derby-hatted fellow. The one-eyed bartender had set a shot glass by her arm. “Donovan speaks the truth. Henderson’s the name, mate.” He held out a paw for Inez to shake. His hand swallowed hers. Her knuckles popped as his grip bore down briefly, then released. “We like to give newcomers a little something on the house, encourage them to come back, ye ken?”
He handed a glass of equal measure to derby-hatted Donovan and kept a third in front of himself. “No mariner, then, are ye? I recognize the ones that spend time in the rigging. A steward, I’m guessing? No matter, to your health. And here’s to wives and sweethearts. May they never meet!”
Inez automatically lifted her glass and stopped, the rim hovering at her lips. The stinging scent of cheap whiskey rose into her nose, smelling of danger and nightmares. Donovan had downed his drink and was watching her, eyes gleaming, face hungry as a ferret’s. She glanced at Henderson, who watched her as well. His own glass waited before him, untouched.
In one rapid move, she set her glass down by Henderson with one hand, while picking up his with the other. He jerked, his attempt to grab it back proof enough for her. She tossed the liquor down, its rawness burning her throat, and said, “To your health as well, gentlemen.”
Henderson bristled, balled his hands into fists, and banged them on the counter. “Just who are ye?” He leaned over the stained wood, speaking softly but with menace. “One a’ Roney’s cronies? Out t’break the backs of the likes of us who are helpin’ the seamen find their next jobs? Or are ye one’a the new lads on the force? If the latter, ye be barkin’ up the wrong tree. I’ve paid your taxes and I’ve paid your fees many times over to the regular patrol, so don’t be lookin’ to me to line your pockets.”
Holding up her hand to stop the torrent of words and flying spit, Inez said, “I’m none of the above. Furthermore, I care not what you do here. Either of you.”
She glanced toward Donovan. He had melted away, leaving his spot at the bar empty.
Refocusing on Henderson, she continued, “I have questions, and I can make it worth your while if you answer.” She pulled out de Bruijn’s card, wiped the counter with her sleeve, and set it face-up for him to read. He peered at it. “De B—, de Br—What is this? Inquiry agent? Finder of the lost?” He glared at her with his one eye.
“Call me Mr. Brown. As to what I do, that should be plain. I find what is lost. I inquire until the truth comes out. And I show my appreciation for cooperation.” Locking her gaze with his so he would not assume violence on her part, she reached slowly into her inner pocket, withdrew a two-dollar bill, and pinned it to the surface of the bar.
Now that she was offering to pay him and not demanding payment, his shoulders came down from up around his ears and his fists relaxed. “What d’ye want to know?”
“I want to know what happened between you and Jamie Monroe Sunday night.”
When he glanced toward the piano, she knew she had it right.
Something had occurred.
“There’s naught to say.” The belligerent tone was back.
“You argued. He left. What happened?”
“What’s it to ye?”
So, you want to play it like that, do you? She directed a smile at him, but it was not a friendly one. “You’ve heard about the Long Bridge corpse.”
He scratched one stubbled cheek, cautious. “Aye, of course. It’s been all the talk along the canal, a matter for speculation and wager. Naught know who it is, bein’ his features was obliterated.”
Now it was her turn to lean over the counter, into his face. “Oh, his name is known. It’s Jamie Monroe. And the last place he was seen alive was here. In The Three Sheets.”
Shock poured over his face. He licked his lips and glanced around. “I had nae to do w’ that.”
She repeated, “You and Monroe argued the night he died. What about?”
“I’m tellin’ ye, that had nae to do wi’ anything that happened to him.”
Stifling a sigh, Inez reached into her pocket again. Another two-dollar bill joined the first on the counter. “I am only looking for answers for his grieving family. I work for them. Not the police. Nor Roney and his ilk either, if that’s what’s got you worried.”
He laughed. A deep bark. “Worried! Me? More like they should keep their distance from The Three Sheets. That’s what I told Roney last time he came in here preachin’ t’ the customers about the Seamen’s Protective Union.” A shout went up from the other end of the bar. “Wait here. There’s some who’ve run dry.”
Inez waited, listening to Patrick’s lively rendition of “Darling Nelly Gray” and watching Henderson efficiently refill glasses and take in change. He returned and jerked his thumb toward Patrick. “Hear him? The half-breed? He’s good. So, I’ll tell ye what I told Jamie Monroe: I found a replacement who’d play for less. Strictly business, I told him. Why should I pay more when I can get nimble fingers for less?”
“That someone being…?” She inclined her head toward Patrick.
“Aye. He’d be happy playin’ for free and was willin’ to kiss my boots for a few pennies a night plus whatever he gets from
