Out of work

[Eoin McDaniels]

Eoin walked down a side street in South London towards Tower Bridge. It was noon and it just stopped raining. The sky was grey and the wind was cold, and the river smelled like putrid shit. He spat on the cobblestone. Eoin was sick, but not very sick. He smoked just enough. He wanted to smoke more, but he needed to find a job to pay for his food. If he could not do this, he would not get the room in the East End the priest had promised to him. Bloody fool Luc, he made his life difficult.

The warehouse he was looking for was now in sight. A brick building with a drab façade and faded signs. Spices, tea, things like that were advertised outside, but it all looked like not a lot of people went in and out. If he had the right hints and the right hunch, all of this was a front. Eoin was looking for Achille Quemper.
What a name, he thought, and lit a new cigarette.
"'Lo," he said to the guy who hung around the entrance. "Lookin' for Mr. Quemper."

The man looked at Eoin with wary eyes. Eoin was clean today; his clothes were obviously ill-fitting and he was bony and mean-mugged. He had dark eyes and a brutal mouth. Nothing good was following in his footsteps. His hammer was hidden away in his jacket. The weight of it was a simple comfort.
"Mr. Quemper expecting you?"
"No. Can I see him?"
"Wait here, Mister," said the man and went into the warehouse. Eoin, left on the sidewalk like a dog, morosely smoked and waited.

[Achille Quemper]

It had been a late night overseeing a shipment that was due in the wee hours of the morning. And the task did not go without its own issues. The cold winter weather had encouraged ice to cover most of the dock behind the warehouse, going as far as the surface of the squalid shore. The fences did all they could to keep themselves from sliding off into the Thames. And in the dark of the night it was damn near impossible. But they saw it through, and the captain made a mental note to invest in spikes. At the end of the night Achille hadn’t the time to return to Kensington, so he curled up in the armchair of his office and mulled over the work to be done. He did not sleep that night… Nor could he ever sleep properly. Not since the time he’d spent in the Orient. Not since the night terrors had rallied even in his waking hours. So he’d sit like that for hours musing silently until the dim grey crawled into the room like a nasty fog and the raucous din of Shad Thames resumed.

The rest of that morning was one of practiced orchestration. First was the paperwork and Achille was quite careful with this. He kept two sets of books. One was for legitimate transactions consisting of manifests, bills of lading, and other such documents. The other compiled a record for contraband. Next, he would walk the warehouse floor, checking for efficiency, orderliness, and above all signs of tampering. He’d keep an eye out for unusual behavior between his staff and visitors. And after organizing inventory he would meet with the informants, men of all stations. They were oftentimes dockworkers and sailors. Achille would take them in for a cup of coffee and in low tones they would discuss when the next inspection was or what Achille’s rivals had in store.

So far the day was going like any other. Achille had just returned from an errand of diversion to keep up his appearance of a respectable businessman. He had a meeting later in the day with a client and was just about to draft rates for storage when a flustered knock rang out on his door.

”Enter.” Achille shifted the papers on his desk lifting his amber eyes to the threshold. The door opened and quickly his man Barbeau entered followed by Jones. Barbeau was twice Achille’s size, strong and able. While Jones was a mere twig beside him, but quick and antsy. The two were nearly inseparable. If Achille assigned Barbeau a task Jones would finish his own quickly to join him. It was a flaw that would soon be corrected. Otherwise Achille would have to anticipate affairs being incomplete all across the woodwork. ”Yes?”

”There’s a man outside waiting for you, capn.” Barbeau spoke first, somewhat breathless. It was clear he’d run from his station to bring this news.

Achille would consider his pocket watch, it was a quarter past noon. He was almost relieved that time hadn’t escaped him. But this oddity still remained a question. Was this an inspection? Has someone finally cornered him? ”The meeting today is at three… This is too early. Did he leave a name?”

”Er… No,” Barbeau shifted uncomfortably under Achille’s haunted gaze. And Achille shifted his eyes towards Jones instead.

”Did you get a look at him? Did he look like a peeler?” Achille’s accent grew thicker as the paranoia built up inside of him. What good was having security when they were useless at times like these? Achille was on his feet now, slipping on his peacoat and throwing his hair from out of the lapels. Jones and Barbeau would follow him onto the floor, their footsteps echoing out.

”Dunno. He’s washed but his clothes smell foul, even the coppers undercover won’t have committed to the ‘guise that far. I reckon he’s a layabout asking for alms. Bet he heard of the sums you donated to the charity.” Jones called from behind Barbeau. Achille doubted what he said was true. Even if the man wasn’t here to arrest them, it was unlikely that a street rat looking for alms had traced him to this address. There was something more at play here.

”I will speak to him, but tell the others to lock up. I want nothing out in the open, tu comprende?” The men nodded to his words and scattered in separate directions to spread the order. And Achille was left at the door, without further preamble he would step out into the cold wind and set his eyes on the man for himself. At once, he understood Jones’ meaning. He could not have been a cop. His eyes were impenetrable and knowing. The mouth clenched tight around a cigarette, billowed an acrid cloud that wafted intrusively up Achille’s nose. And the hair that framed his face was overgrown, unkempt. He was far from the standards of a police officer. ”And to what do I owe the pleasure, monsieur?”

[Eoin McDaniels]

Achille Quemper came out of the door of the warehouse. He was a good-looking fellow who was not from around, with long dreadlocks. Eoin looked at him sideways. Quemper did not offer him his hand and Eoin kept his at his side. Quemper's lackeys were around somewhere in the dark warehouse, he felt them. One was big and daft and the other scrawny and wired.

"Know nothin' about pleasure, Mr. Quemper. Am lookin' for work. Yer goin' ta want to talk to me," he told him and turned fully towards the man.

"Eoin McDaniels," he added. Achille Quemper's face looked tired. His eyes flickered alert above pooling dark shades. Eoin assumed that he was a haunted type. He could do with that; he looked over his shoulder, then up the street towards Tower Bridge.

"Is a French habit t' talk on the sidewalk?" he asked. "Is a cold day, Mr. Quemper. Ya mind takin' it inside? Proper lookin' place yer havin'."

The insinuation lingered between them. Eoin dropped the stump of his cigarette on the cobblestone and stepped on it. He was impatient to drive this forward and off the street. As soon as he was in, he was in. It was not so easy to get rid of Eoin when he wanted something. And did he ever want something. He thought about it all the time. Heavy in his hands. Now that he cut back on the black smoke, his dreams got vivid and flashbang and muzzlefire was sharp behind his eyelids most mornings. Quemper was going to give it to him, sooner than Donoghue.

[Achille Quemper]

So he was looking for work. Quite a bold errand to be sure. Achille still didn’t have an opinion of the man beyond the fact that he seemed impatient to get inside. There was a hunger in his eyes beyond his words. He wanted something more. Achille decided to give it a chance. To see where this would lead. He did not speak for a time, but traveled down the front step at a measured pace. He’d look along the cobblestone street then back at McDaniels. ”You must forgive me for my French habits, Eoin.” Achille pronounced the name with difficulty and the statement was not without a touch of sarcasm. ”But I hope you will oblige me for a little while longer. There’s a pub just down the way called Mayflower. They serve lovely smoked eel and delicious soups. Am I wrong in thinking that you could use something to eat? Trust me when I say it is far warmer by the fire surrounded by whiskey and beer than inside the warehouse. You’ll join me for le déjeuner? We can discuss these matters there.”

And without listening for words of ascent from his new acquaintance, Achille would walk into the street towards the Mayflower. Shad Thames was at its peak hour, horse drawn carts were pulled down the cobblestone laden with large crates of goods and merchandise, while far above the lattice work iron bridges rattled and clanged as heavy barrels rolled across between the upper warehouse doors. All around dockworkers and merchants called out to each other, dog’s inspecting cargo barked, and sailors milled about returning to their ships. This gap would allow Achille a moment’s thought. Drawing McDaniels away from his place of business was a helpful start. Achille felt there was no point in inviting him inside when there was still so much up in the air in regards to his true intentions. Achille had no fliers out around the town for hiring new hands, so where had Eoin gotten this address? And just where did he come from?

”Where are you from? Your accent is so different from the typical Englishman. It is difficult for me to place.” Achille would strike up a conversation with the aim of getting to know the man better. If he was to consider hiring Eoin, he might as well start there. After shouldering past a newsboy attempting to sell the day’s column, Achille would open the pub door for Eoin and in stepping inside himself, felt the warmth of the fire waft upon him.

The Mayflower was a cozy place that smelled of seafood and potatoes, dim lantern lit tables backed by black painted benches were crammed haphazardly into the space. And along the walls were a collection of portraits and paintings. Upon the low ceiling hung large wooden beams. The bar was already quite full for the luncheon hour so Achille would swiftly snag a table by the small window where a taxidermy deer leered over them. At this point the captain would sit back in his chair to give McDaniels an appraising look. ”Now we may speak freely. You say you are looking for work, yes? But I am already fully staffed. What skills can you bring to my business that I do not already possess?”

[Eoin McDaniels]

"Not wrong, as long as yer pickin' up the tab. Haven't got a brass farthing t' spare," Eoin told Mr. Quemper. Going to a pub instead of into the warehouse was a way to keep him away from the guns, surely. It only assured him that his information on Quemper was correct — and that the man was paranoid. Eoin skulked alongside Quemper and looked at his leather boots and his sturdy woolen trousers. Money, he thought. Must not be going so bad for him.

Eoin threaded through the carts and workers with ease. He had a way of walking the streets like he was cruising on a wave. He got faster and slower in a peculiar rhythm, that either got him out of the way of immovable obstacles like crates and carts, or made paperboys and other passers-by scurry out of his way to avoid being checked by his broad shoulders. He was not a man most wanted to bump into, for various reasons, but mostly because he seemed to project a dense and repelling field around him, about two arm's length in diameter.

"Born in Dublin. I've been 'n town since I was a wee boy, makin' it down east. Yer not from around." It was a statement, but also a question. Quemper opened the door of the pub for him and he stepped inside. It smelled good. His stomach cramped and growled immediately.

Eoin walked through the parting crowd and sat down at the small table on the wall. His hands remained deep in his pockets. He was suspicious they would soon start to shake. He counted the hours in his head and accounted for the amount of opium he carried on him. He almost missed Mr. Quemper's question, but caught it by the tail end.

"I know t' score an' am neither daft nor a gabber. Pair mannin' yer front's no use, not when trouble's afoot," he said. He knew because trouble had been afoot when he showed up there and neither one of them handled it how they ought to. For once, they left him on the sidewalk with none of them to keep an eye on him, and with the warehouse door kept ajar, even if just a crack open. Eoin was fast, he could've made the run as soon as he heard both of them tipper tapper up the stairs to report to their boss.

"Simply said, I make it happen, Mr. Quemper. An' I keep yer halfwits in line. Takes off of yer headache."

He started eyeing the plates on a nearby table. Eel and mussels.