CHAPTER 3

I PREFERRED THAT TURK NOT wait in Mrs. Mooney’s drab parlor, so I was downstairs at the door as the hour for his arrival approached. I had been unsure of how to dress for the evening, but finally decided on a dark wool suit, coat, and silk Gibus topper. As the hansom pulled up, drawn by an aging bay and driven by a swarthy man in a shabby black coat, I realized I had blundered. The driver gestured from his high perch at the rear of the coach for me to step in. Turk sat on the far side, dressed in a worsted jacket of broad checks, brown trousers, brown overcoat, and a low derby.

“My, my,” said Turk with a smirk, as I took the seat next to him, “aren’t you the boulevardier? You best take care in that getup, Carroll. Every pickpocket and prostitute in Philadelphia will be after you.”

“You said the theater,” I replied coldly. “Shall I change?”

“No time,” he replied, and signaled the driver to be under way.

“When does the show begin?” I asked.

“Starts at ten,” he said. “We’ll dine first.”

“Ten? What show is it?”

Turk sighed. “Carroll, you are the most incurable prig. We are attending Bonhomme’s Paris Revue. It is not Hamlet, Edwin Booth will not be in attendance, and no one will dust off your seat before you sit down. If someone offers to take your hat, don’t give it to him unless you wish never to see it again.”

The carriage headed north, eventually turning east on Market Street, toward downtown. The electric street lighting and macadam roads of Center City were in acute contrast to the gas lamps and worn cobblestones still in use in most of the city. Streetcar tracks branched off onto almost every cross street and, on Market Street itself, stanchions had been constructed for the imminent conversion of the streetcar line from horse to electric power. Carriage and foot traffic were heavy as we reached Center Square, with city officials, lawyers, businessmen, and younger, less well-dressed clerical and stenographic staff bustling about well after official closing time. As we rode around the square, the still unfinished City Hall, already seventeen years under construction, loomed over us. If ever completed, the monstrous granite edifice was destined to be the tallest and most expansive public building in the nation, larger than the United States Capitol. Mayor Fitler had recently moved in to great fanfare—perhaps to counter persistent allegations of massive graft in the granting of construction contracts—and the entire building was currently being wired for electric lighting.

We continued east on Market Street, passing Independence Hall. When we neared the waterfront, the cab once again turned north. Out of Old City, conditions fell off sharply. After more twists and turns, we were soon into a seamy area, the narrow streets closely lined with warehouses and small storefronts behind which questionable commerce and illicit activity were surely the norm.

Eventually, the carriage pulled up at a dimly lit establishment, with the words “Barker’s Tavern” in chipped paint on each of two large, darkened windows framing a faded green wooden door. I was surprised to see a number of private carriages idling along the rutted street—broughams, even a landau or two.

“Ever been here before, Carroll?” my companion inquired.

I told him I had not.

Turk opened the trap and we alit, our carriage remaining with the others near the front of the restaurant. Once inside, however, I pulled up short. Rather than the den of iniquity I feared, filled with voluble drunks and questionable women, before me lay a bustling eating establishment. Not Society Hill, perhaps, but, with its large, open room, sawdust floors, checked tablecloths, boisterous young clientele, and aroma of broiled meat, Barker’s environment was quite agreeable.

“Well, it doesn’t look like much on the outside, but I’ll warrant there isn’t a better steak to be had in the entire city.”

Turk was obviously well-known, because the man at the door, who wore a striped vest, arm garters, and boater, greeted him with enthusiasm and quickly led us to a table in the center of the room. While most of our fellow diners were male and, like Turk, casually but not inexpensively dressed, there was also a liberal sprinkling of women present. Most were young and attractive. They seemed to be enjoying the atmosphere without inhibition. As we walked through the room, an auburn-haired woman with startling blue eyes caught me staring and smiled back, causing me to avert my gaze, which seemed to amuse her all the more. Her companion, a tousle-haired man with his back to me, did not turn about.

Turk ordered two pints of Pabst. When our waiter left menus and departed, Turk leaned forward slightly in order to be heard and asked what I thought of the establishment.

“A good choice,” I replied, “and a pleasant surprise.”

“Thank you.” He seemed genuinely pleased.

The beers arrived in iced mugs. Turk lifted his. “To the enjoyment of life,” he said.

I nodded, then clicked his glass and drank. The beer was cold and went down smoothly.

Turk downed half his pint with the first quaff. “You don’t get out much, do you?” he asked.

“I don’t have the time,” I replied. “Nor the means.” I glanced down at the menu and saw the prices were extremely reasonable—only fifty cents for a porterhouse dinner, thirty-five cents for pigeon pie or grilled trout. Still, to dine at restaurants with the frequency that Turk seemed to would have placed an unbearable strain on my resources. “How do you manage?”

“I make the time,” he answered. “And the means.” He downed the remainder of his beer. “Go ahead, Carroll. Drink up. I’m paying for dinner.”

“Not a bit of it,” I replied.

“Nonsense,” he said. “My invitation, my treat. You can make it up to me later.”

Turk would not countenance further protest, so I thanked him for his generosity. When the waiter appeared, he ordered a porterhouse with potato and onions for us both, and also asked for another round of Pabsts, although mine was still half full.

We chatted idly for a while, until Turk abruptly asked, “So, what brought you to Philadelphia, Carroll? You’re from out west, aren’t you? Chicago, was it?”

“Ohio,” I replied. “I went to medical school in Chicago and practiced there for more than three years.”

“You must have made an excellent living in such a thriving city.”

“Not really,” I replied. “I worked with a doctor on the West Side. No one had much money.”

“Healing the poor,” said Turk. “Very commendable.”

“Commendable or no,” I said, “the experience was invaluable. I learned a great deal.”

“Then you came here.”

I was about to ask what he meant when our dinner arrived. The steaks were thick, large, buttered on both sides, and prepared to perfection. Turk was correct. I had not sampled a better piece of meat since I had arrived in Philadelphia.

“Where in Ohio?”

I looked over at him, attempting to gauge the source of his continued interest, but the questions seemed innocent enough. Perhaps he simply hated talking about himself.

“Near Marietta,” I replied. “On the Ohio River. It is the only city in America named after Marie Antoinette.”

Turk chuckled. “An interesting distinction. But you don’t sound like someone from southern Ohio.”

“I make an effort not to,” I said.

“Very wise,” Turk agreed. “And what made you choose medicine?”

“It was because of my father.”

“He was a doctor?” he asked, taking a bite of his porterhouse. Turk used his knife to slice his meat in the rapid back-and-forth manner of the lower classes. He chewed and swallowed quickly.

I shook my head. “No, but he was in the war, and was wounded in 1862 fighting with Grant at Fort Donelson.”

“Wounded how?”

“His brigade was caught in a cross fire during a skirmish in the woods. My father and two other men snuck in behind the Confederates and attacked. They were terribly outnumbered. My father was struck by a minié ball above the right elbow. The two other men were killed but the brigade was saved.”

“He was a hero then?”

“Yes,” I said, taking another drink. “I suppose he was.”

“Lucky,” Turk muttered. “I would have settled for any father at all.” He cut and ingested another piece of meat. “So what happened?”

“As they did back then, the wound was ‘laid open,’… large areas of the surrounding flesh were exposed to the air … so barbaric … doctors believed it would promote healing. Just the opposite resulted, of course. Three days later the wound had suppurated and his arm had to be taken off. The field hospital was overwhelmed, so the amputation was performed by an assistant regimental surgeon … a Vermont baker with no formal medical training. They had exhausted their supply of laudanum, so my father lay in that hospital in agony for seven days and, when it was deemed he could travel, they gave him his papers and sent him home. He was determined that the loss of his arm would have no effect on his life, but farming less a right arm is not practicable. I have two older brothers who took up their share of the chores; I did what I could but I was very young. My father never stopped struggling to do his best until he died. It has been more than ten years now.”

“Quite a story,” said Turk.

“Yes.”

“And so,” Turk continued, “you became a doctor to provide better treatment to strangers than your father had received. You are an admirable fellow.”

“Do you consider sarcasm obligatory?” Like the Professor, I was prepared to give Turk a certain latitude, but I would not be made the butt of offensive wit.

He sat back, looking hurt. “Not at all. I was being quite sincere. I think of you always as an admirable fellow.”

“And a prig.” But my irritation had passed. Turk had an uncanny facility to behave rudely without engendering lasting enmity.

“An admirable prig then.”

I shrugged. “As you wish. What about you?”

Turk’s smile vanished. “Me? Carroll, there is no me. I am a creation.”

“A creation?”

“Yes. Just that.” Turk’s eyes went cold. “I am a creation of the base instincts of two people I never knew, and of the guilt and cruelty of others.”

“I’m sorry for asking,” I said. “It must be painful to speak about.”

“Painful? Not painful at all,” Turk replied casually, regaining his demeanor as if the previous moment had not occurred. “Merely facts. Someone like Osler might consider it scientific truth. But it turned out not to be truth, because, in the end, I’ve become a creation only of myself.”

I thought of my reading, my practiced speech and dress, my deportment … were we not all creations of ourselves? “I suppose that’s the best way to be,” I agreed.

“The only way.” He drained his glass and signaled for another. “And my creation fully intends to enjoy his life in wealth and comfort.”

“Wealth and comfort have their place, certainly,” I said. “But so does excellence. You could be a fine doctor.”

“Are you implying that I am not a fine doctor now?”

“Not at all. You are obviously highly intelligent with excellent medical instincts….”

“Better than yours?”

“I don’t know.” I considered the question. “Perhaps. You certainly have many qualities that I admire.”

“Thank you.”

“But I have something that you don’t seem to,” I persisted.

“And what might that be?”

“A love of the profession … a desire to heal. Perhaps that is what makes me such a prig in your eyes. We can do things in medicine today that would merely have been dreams even fifty years ago. I want to take the best advantage possible of every innovation, master every new technique.”

“Bravo,” Turk replied. “A fine speech worthy of an admirable fellow. So, what you are saying, Carroll, is that being a doctor is important. For special people in society. A higher calling. With a higher morality.”

“I feel privileged to be a physician, not superior. Morality has little to do with it.”

“In that I agree. Osler is your model, I presume.”

“One could do far worse. Dr. Osler is committed to medicine and the good it can do.”

“For its own sake?”

“For the sake of his patients.”

“His patients?” Turk leaned back. His face had flushed from the beer. “You really think Osler doesn’t care about making money? Then why did he come here in the first place? Weren’t there enough patients in Canada?”

“He came for the opportunity,” I said heatedly. “It was an honor to be asked to come to Philadelphia.”

“A very lucrative honor,” he retorted. “And if he gets a more lucrative honor somewhere else, he’ll go there.”

“No, Turk. You’re wrong.”

“Anything you say.”

I decided to change the subject, to try to determine whether Turk’s invitation had anything to do with his odd behavior in the Dead House, but I was clumsy in execution. “No, I apologize,” I said. “Perhaps you’re correct. Who can know the mind of another? To that very point, I certainly hadn’t expected Dr. Osler to send us all home so early this afternoon. I wonder why he did that.”

Turk shrugged, but our eyes met and for an instant I had a disquieting glimpse of the anger, of the smoldering intensity behind his mask of nonchalance. It was not the beer—this was not a man who would easily be rendered stupid by drink—but I had touched something and for a moment he could hide neither his malignity nor his curiosity.

“Perhaps he had theater tickets, too,” he said, recovering again almost instantly. “He might be sitting next to us tonight, in fact.”

“No,” I pressed. “There was something decidedly odd in his manner with the final cadaver. You must have seen it.”

“Not really,” Turk replied, his eyes sweeping the crowded room. “I expect that he just didn’t want to cut up someone so young and pretty.” He removed his watch from his vest pocket. “It’s time to be going,” he announced.

I thanked Turk again for paying the bill and followed him back through the restaurant. We repaired to the hansom and journeyed south and farther east until, after about ten minutes, we reached our destination, the Front Street Theatre. I again was surprised by the plethora of carriages in the street.

There was a good deal of milling about on the sidewalk under the marquee—no one who could help it ventured into a street where so many horses were idling. The atmosphere was gay and boisterous, quite unlike, say, the Arch Street Theater downtown, where Mrs. Drew demanded decorum even if one had come to witness a comedic revival of Augustin Daly or a Dion Boucicault melodrama.

Turk jumped out of the hansom, gesturing for me to follow. We barged into the lobby, forcing our way past any number of our fellow theatergoers, each of whom, in turn, was endeavoring to force his way past those in front of him. The crowd was a remarkable polyglot—everything from common louts to finely dressed swells, and even a few couples in evening clothes. I’d heard that many otherwise fashionable members of society came to theaters such as this to mix with the more common elements of society, but I’d thought the tales apocryphal. I no longer felt so ridiculous in my suit and hat although, taking Turk at his word, I suspected those in better dress—like me—were at some risk of their possessions from pickpockets who had undoubtedly intermixed themselves in the throng.

Turk pulled me off to the side, where a sallow-faced man with slicked hair in a dilapidated cutaway coat was standing in front of a doorway.

“Ah, Mr. George,” said the man with a small obsequious bow and a distinct burr to his speech. “So nice to see you again.”

Turk produced two tickets, which the man examined. “Box number three,” he said. “Up the stairs on the right.”

“Mr. George?” I asked Turk as we climbed to the mezzanine floor.

“No one knows anything more about me than they need to,” he replied absently. He stopped and took me by the elbow. “To people down here, I’m just ‘George.’ I would appreciate it, if we happen on any of my acquaintances tonight, that you remember that.”

“Of course,” I agreed.

Turk found our box and we took the two front seats. As he had predicted, the cushions were worn and lumpy. The once- burgundy velvet coverings had weathered into a dull brown and the floor had clearly not been swept in some weeks. Over the railing, I could see the crowd below, mostly those of lesser means, shuffling in their seats with anticipation, more like a bacchanal mob than theatergoers awaiting the evening’s entertainment. The orchestra was a squalid bunch whose instruments appeared to have been rescued from the ravages of some great flood or earthquake.

Soon the house lights went down, the arc lights at the foot of the stage went up, and the musicians began to play. The sense of expectation in the air was distinctly primal. The curtain rose to reveal two lines of female dancers, one at either side of the stage, and at their appearance the audience broke into a cheer that sounded to me like a lascivious whoop. The dancers wore short, bodicelike dresses, purplish red stockings that ran in a crisscross pattern up to the middle of their thighs, and shiny black shoes. They danced with frozen smiles, and all were heavily rouged. Holding the front of their dresses up to reveal their legs to the bottom frill of the bodice, the women ran at each other, passing in the middle of the stage.

The audience encouraged every move with a cheer. Although the dancers exhibited scant artistry in their gyrations, there was an odd allure in the way these women flew about the stage; leaping and prancing, robust and ungainly. Finally, they formed a line, each dancer draping an arm over the woman to either side of her, and then kicked their legs in unison to the rhythmic clapping of the crowd below. The scene was at once repellent and fascinating.

The show lasted little more than an hour. The dancers were superseded by a female singer, and then a number of brief scenarios, each featuring a woman and sometimes a man in abbreviated garb, and each with a prurient theme. When the dancers returned to the stage, my eyes were drawn immediately to a tall woman with red hair and long, lean legs, who moved with a lithe grace absent in her peers. I was surprised that someone of such beauty and distinction was forced to work in Bonhomme’s Paris Revue. Once or twice, she glanced up at our box and flashed a small smile.

“Well, Carroll,” said Turk, after the show had ended and the gaslights had come up. He was forced to lean close to me and raise his voice to be heard over the raucous applause and wild yells for “encore” from the crowd. “What did you think?”

“It was very … lively.”

“Tell me,” he asked, “did you like the dancers?”

“Quite talented, I thought,” I said. There was no harm in being polite.

“They are talented, to be sure,” Turk replied. “Do you remember the tall one with red hair? We’re having drinks with her. You are, I mean. She’s best friends with my date.”

I tried to stifle a grin. My experience with women might be woefully inadequate, but it was certainly serendipity to be thrown together by circumstance with the very woman one had been admiring in secret.

When we arrived at the stage door, ten or fifteen men were already waiting. A few appeared disreputable, but most seemed reasonably well-off. Many were older, in their fifties at least.

After about ten minutes, the cast began to emerge. The one with red hair was named Monique, Turk informed me, while he awaited Suzette. I spotted Monique immediately, walking with a dark-haired woman at least six inches shorter than she. Both waved excitedly when they spotted Turk and hurried in our direction.

“Hi, Georgie,” cooed Suzette, who could only have been French if Ireland had been shifted to the continent. She took Turk by the arm. “Let’s go. I’m parched.” She squinted up at me. “Ooh. This must be your good-looking friend. Lucky Monique.”

Monique sidled up and took my arm. She had full lips, a small, turned-up nose, and emerald eyes, an odd assortment of parts that went together well as a whole. “I am a lucky Monique,” she confirmed. “And what might your name be, good-looking friend?” Her voice was husky and sensual. She was apparently from the same part of France as Suzette.

“Ephraim,” I said, taking a hint from Turk and giving as little information as possible.

“Well, Ephie,” trilled Monique, “let’s be going then.”

Turk led us to the ever-faithful liveryman and gave him directions to someplace called “The Fatted Calf.” The ride was brief, but we were four in a seat meant to accommodate three. To the giggles of the women, we squeezed together, Monique’s arm thrown over my shoulder. She was uncorseted and I could feel the supple line of her breast against my chest.

Even from the street, The Fatted Calf emitted a din. The man at the entrance, an enormous, pink-faced ruffian with thick muttonchops, smiled at Turk convivially and swung open the door. As soon as we stepped inside, what had been a muddled roar became more distinct as loud conversation and hoarse laughter.

There was another man at the entrance to the large room, similar in look and bearing to the giant outside, only half his size. He yelled hello to “George” and led him through the packed tables. A film of dust hung in the air, diffusing the light and giving the room a translucent, netherworld haze.

As we negotiated our way forward, we were unable to avoid jostling those seated at the tables on either side of us, but no one protested. Many of the patrons appeared to be seamen, most of the lowest stripe, although I was sure that rogues of all occupations were amply represented. A goodly number of cheap and heavily made-up women were interspersed throughout the bar, and caused the room to reek of an odd mixture of sweat, stale beer, cigar smoke, and flowery perfume.

Suzette kept both of her arms grasped around Turk, pressing against him, and Monique took the same attitude with me. The soft flesh of her breasts and thighs now fully rubbed against me and I felt the beginnings of arousal, which, even in these circumstances, was highly embarrassing. Monique noticed it as well, and pressed even closer. As much as I wanted her to continue, I hardly wanted to announce my condition to the other patrons. I kept looking forward, following the other two, hoping it would pass before it became more obvious.

Finally, we reached an empty table at the far corner of the room, one which ordinarily would have been barely comfortable for two. Monique released my arm, and, mercifully, the fullness receded. Turk slipped a coin into the small man’s hand and I thought it ironic that someone would pay to get a table in this establishment.

A thickly rouged young woman in a plunging white blouse and black bodice appeared immediately to take our order.

“Let’s have champagne,” decreed Turk gaily. “Ephraim here has generously offered to pay.”

I hadn’t, of course, and I suspected it would be costly, but it seemed only fair after the expense Turk had gone to for the tickets and dinner.

“Indeed,” I said, “champagne it shall be.”

Monique reached out and clasped my hand. “Oh, Ephie, I knew you’d be nice.”

The bottle seemed to be at our table the next second. We toasted to life, and drank. The “champagne” had a tart, acrid taste, but none of my companions seemed to care. The first glasses were downed almost instantly, even mine, and then seconds. Soon, the bottle was empty. Another swiftly replaced it.

Monique, who admitted she was not French, claimed to be nineteen. Like Turk, she had been raised in an orphanage, where she had danced so avidly that the administrators had actually engaged an instructor to teach her the rudiments of ballet. She had shown promise and, two years ago, had gone into the world to seek employment with a dance company.

“I tried everywhere,” she said, shaking her head in dismay. I realized that she was far more attractive than I had first thought. “It’s just too hard for a girl like me … who doesn’t know anyone …”

“One more?” I looked up; the waitress was holding up an empty bottle.

There are two types of inebriation. With the first, one knows one is drunk and attempts to be on guard, albeit with varying degrees of success. With the second, far more dangerous, one has no idea that one’s decisions and behavior have been slurred and thus proceeds as if nothing at all were amiss. At that moment, as I peered at the blurred bottle in the waitress’s hand, I passed from one type to the other.

“Certainly,” I agreed. “Let us have another.”

The more Monique confided her travails in the world of dance, the closer she moved to me. She leaned forward, offering me her breasts. I could feel the heat come off her and she smelled of roses, yet slightly musky. Her lips shone and when they parted, I was aware of nothing else. I felt I would reach for her on the spot, when suddenly she leaned back with a smile.

“Suzette and I are going to the powder room for a moment, Ephie.”

I was watching them move through the tables toward the rear, Monique’s hips moving back and forth liquidly, when Turk interrupted my reverie in speech that seemed to slur. “I’ve been thinking, old boy, perhaps you were right about Osler. Why do you think he refused to autopsy that girl?”

I still retained just enough of my wits to remember that he was asking the same question I had put to him earlier. “You were probably right,” I said, with a wave of my hand. “He probably thought she was too pretty to cut up.”

“Yes,” agreed Turk. “That must have been it. Still, you must have seen him jump … say, you did see … you told me.”

“Did I?” I replied. “I don’t remember.”

“You did,” Turk said, and then he paused. “We’re friends now, right?”

“Absolutely.” I nodded for emphasis.

“You like Monique?”

“Absolutely,” I repeated. “She’s beautiful.”

“She likes you. I’m glad I got you two together.”

“Absolutely.”

“What did you see of her?”

“Who?”

“The girl in the morgue.”

“Oh.” I put a finger to my lip. “Roughly handled. Big bruise on her left arm. Didn’ you see?”

Turk shrugged. “Does he ever talk about me?”

“Who?”

“Osler.”

“Talk about you how?”

“C’mon, Carroll. Friends don’ lie to each other. Did he say anything about me?”

“Nope.”

“You sure? I know he talks to you.”

“Absolutely.”

Turk’s eyebrows turned down, as pondering some question, but then he shrugged as if to dismiss the question entirely.

The girls returned a few moments later. They seemed to glance at Turk before resuming their seats. Monique had renewed her scent and I started to lean toward her, when the man from the door, shorter muttonchops, appeared at our table and put his hand on Turk’s shoulder. “Someone to see you,” he said gravely.

“Can’t see anyone now, Haggens. Having far too good a time.” Turk waved in mock gaiety.

But Haggens did not leave. “Better see this one,” he said.

Instantly, Turk seemed to sober. He looked up at Haggens, their eyes held for a moment, and then Turk pushed back his chair. “Only take a minute, Carroll,” he told me. “Entertain the ladies for me.”

“I wonder what that could be about?” I asked, addressing the question to the table after Turk had moved across the room.

“Oh, his fixing, no doubt,” replied Suzette hazily.

“His fixing?”

“Oh yes. Georgie’s a great fixer. If you need something you don’t have, he’ll get it for you …” She giggled. “And if you have something you don’t want, he’ll get rid of it.”

Before I could inquire further, I heard the sound of shouting, loud enough to pierce the din. I turned and saw a highly agitated man with a turned-up mustache and beard arguing with Turk. I could not tell what the squabble was about, but the older man grabbed Turk by the coat. Turk pushed him and then moved forward, wagging a finger under his chin. Haggens appeared, seized the older man by the arm, and said something in his ear. The older man drew back, still furious, but reluctantly turned for the door, Haggens close behind to make sure he arrived there.

As they reached the exit, another man was waiting, a small man wearing a bowler hat, but otherwise obscured by a post. He moved forward for just an instant to take the older man’s arm.

I bolted upright, the effects of the drink gone. Although it could not possibly be true, it appeared that the man in the bowler was Dr. Osler. I started to push out of my seat to get a better look, but the crowd had swallowed him up. No, I decided, after I was sure they were gone, I had been mistaken. Surely, this was a datum I had misread—Philadelphia is filled with small men in bowler hats.

My head swiveled back to Turk, who had remained at the other side of the crowded room, waiting for Haggens to return. They spoke, leaning close to each other. Haggens nodded, as if in grudging acceptance. Then he made his way across the room, vanishing somewhere against the far wall.

Turk returned to the table in a dark humor. His eyebrows were knotted together so acutely that he looked raptorish. “Come, Carroll,” he said brusquely, without sitting. “We’re leaving. Sorry, ladies.”

“But it’s so early,” moaned Suzette.

“Stay,” said Monique, looking languorously at me. “Let’s have another drink.”

“It’s not that late, Turk,” I heard myself say. “Why must we leave?”

Turk grasped me under the arm and pulled me to my feet. His grip was extremely strong. “Carroll, when I say it’s time to leave, it’s time to leave. If you wish to get home with your health intact, I suggest you listen. Pay the bill and come with me.”

The bill was somehow already on the table, and my stomach roiled when I saw that it was ten dollars, as much as I made in a week. I barely had enough to cover the cost and as I fumbled for the coins, Monique grasped my wrist. Her hand was warm and slightly moist. “Don’t listen to him, Ephie. Stay. Have some fun.”

I wanted very much to do as she suggested but Turk still had me under the arm. “I’m very sorry, Monique. You are lovely, but I must go. Perhaps another time.”

Before she could respond, Turk had dragged me from the table. “Get a move on, Carroll. We have to leave now.”

All the way across the floor, Turk looked around, as if waiting for someone to appear. He did not relax until the carriage had put some considerable distance between us and The Fatted Calf.