Page 155 of Dead Beat

“We use it for rusty bits in the clockwork,” the boy pleaded, his lip wobbling. “Can’t never get the smell off.”

“There should be a proper investigation,” Alex said. She knew none of it was real, but she couldn’t help feeling she held the fate of these men in her hands.

The policeman turned to her, and she was looking at Len—narrow face, scraggly blond hair, pretty blue eyes. They’d always been his best feature.

“Did I get a fair trial, Alex? You like to play judge, jury, and executioner. My mother couldn’t even identify my body when you were done with me. So choose. What difference does it make? Get it done and move on to the next thing. Or maybe we can gather some more evidence.” He grabbed the boy by the collar. “How about I slice his eyelids off?” The boy began to scream. “How about I chop off his little hairless balls and serve them up in a martini glass?”

It’s not real, she told herself. That boy never lived.

But how did she know that? What if this was a child’s soul being tortured in hell? What if the pain he felt was real?

“Hey,” said Cregg. “You can’t do that. That’s not the law.”

“What the actual fuck are you going to do about it, milkman? Are you and the wop going to join up for justice?”

He shoved Cregg back and suddenly there was a razor in his hand.

“Hold him,” he shouted at the night watchman. “Hold him or I’ll cut you too.”

His hand flashed out and blood bloomed across Cregg’s gray jacket, the fabric gaping. The milkman’s hairy belly jutted out, the flesh parting in two pink folds, blood spilling over his white pants. “There you go, piggy. Cry wee, wee, wee.”

“Stop—”

“Just pick one. It doesn’t make any difference. That’s the real answer. None of them matter, so stop pretending.”

Alex couldn’t think. There was a puzzle here, a trick, but she didn’t know how to solve it. She needed a real detective like Turner, the priest with clean hands, the man who turned to truth like a compass needle, sought it, believed in it.

Look again, Alex. You’d be a great detective if you weren’t such a complete degenerate.

“You don’t care,” said Len, slashing out with his razor. “No one is real to you, so choose!”

What had she seen when she looked at the fire? Five stories. The fire burning in the back. The boy had believed a job was on offer and her gut—Turner’s gut—said he was telling the truth. They all were. So why would the owner of the building keep on a night watchman he knew was a drinker? Why would he spread word of jobs to be had if they weren’t hiring? To create suspects.

“Who owns the building, Len?”

“Why do you care? You couldn’t wait to leave us all behind. You scraped us off your shoes like so much shit, hoping our stink wouldn’t stick to you. But it always will. So pick one.”

Was it all about insurance money? Could it be that pat?

Look again. See what matters, not the flames but what they consume. She couldn’t read the name of the business, but she could remember the street corner.

Another slash. X marks the spot. The milkman was shrieking trying to hold his guts in.

“She’s not going to save you. She doesn’t care about broke trash. She didn’t bother to fight for any of us, just hit reset and traded up. Pull down your pants,” he told the boy. “I need some cocktail olives.”

Malley’s. Malley’s department store. It stood on the corner of Temple and Chapel.

It was Malley who had been standing across the street, covered in soot. Except for his hands. They’d been clean and white as if he’d stopped to wash them. Why would a man stop to wash his hands when he was trying to save his livelihood?

Alex stepped in front of Len.

“They’re all innocent,” she said, her voice rough from the smoke. His bloody razor slashed downward, but now it pinged off her armor. “Edward Malley set the fire. He did it to gain public sympathy because his son and his nephew were rotting in prison, awaiting trial in Jennie Cramer’s murder.”

They didn’t just go free. They thrived. They threw a party when the verdict came in. Walter Malley sold the sheet music he wrote in prison. Edward Malley rebuilt his store and the family business flourished for a hundred years. All it required was a sacrifice. A girl found floating with the tide.

Len’s face split in a happy grin, his long, dirty teeth spilling over his lips. “You’re going to lose,” he said, “and I’ll be waiting for you. Your old friends remember.”

The tavern vanished, the street outside, all gone instantly.