Christian stared at him, wide-eyed. The words might be new, but the idea was utterly familiar, the same idea that haunted him on these nights when he tossed and turned on his small mattress. Killer or not, he had never thought of himself as bad.
“There’s plenty of misery topside, too,” Arliss remarked. “Whole goddamn world’s drying up this summer, and people are starving. They’ll need my wares just as much as the girls in the Alley. More, maybe.”
Arliss stood, the expensive cloak dropping to cover him, and in that moment, Christian realized that the gangster was actually quite small. The aura of the successful dealer had made him seem much taller, even seated.
“I’m easy to find, boy, if you ever decide you want to take up my offer.” Arliss paused, then, unexpectedly, put a light hand on his shoulder. “There’s a better world, you know. So close we can almost touch it.”
Christian didn’t respond, only stood motionless as Arliss left. Several shadows detached themselves from the doorway to follow him: bodyguards. Arliss had left them outside.
Christian returned to his mattress in the far room, but no sleep waited there. His mind was too full of the picture, the damnable picture that Arliss had painted for him. Topside . . . he would not dare wish it for himself, perhaps, but if he could truly buy Maura’s freedom and take her with him—
Christian realized then that he had been seduced, just as Arliss had intended, by the mere possibility of freedom. A seduced man was a fool, a mark; hadn’t he seen as much in the stables, in the wet and rolling eyes of the johns? But Christian couldn’t help himself. The better world, Arliss had said, and that was a laugh, this worst of dealers taking the Blue Horizon’s words and turning them to his ends. But now Christian wondered whether there wasn’t a better world out there after all, one just for him and Maura. Blue sky, dry air, a small house that would be their very own . . . and suddenly he was up and out of his den, heading toward the Alley.
* * *
The enforcer on Mrs. Evans’s door was new, but he seemed to know who Christian was; his mouth dropped open as the fighter approached, and even though the enforcer was half a head taller, he let him by without a murmur.
Mrs. Evans was nowhere in sight, which seemed a mercy. Christian waved to several of the girls who sat in the common area, waiting for clients, then headed down the hallway toward Maura’s room. When he knocked, however, it was not Maura who answered, but a childish, lisping voice.
“Come in.”
He ducked through the curtains and found the little girl, Gwyn, kneeling by the side of the bed, dabbing Maura’s face with a dry rag. Maura’s eyes were closed; she looked to be unconscious. A single candle burned weakly on the bedside table, but it was quite enough to illuminate Maura’s pulped cheek, and a split lip that had swollen to twice its normal size.
“What happened?” Christian whispered hoarsely. He leaned back, moving out of the light, for in that instant it seemed important that no one should see his rage, not even the nine-year-old girl who knelt on the floor.
“Her special client,” Gwyn answered, with all the naive candor of the child who does not know which things are meant to be secret. “He hit her last time, too, but Mrs. Evans said it was nothing, and she gave Maura some poppy. She looks much worse this time, though.”
“Who is this client?”
“Nobody knows,” Gwyn replied pertly. “It’s always Arlen Thorne comes and takes her away, and brings her back too. Maura told Jilly the john has a tattoo—”
“What kind of tattoo?” Christian asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
“A clown,” Maura said. “On his hand. Do you have any poppy?”
“No,” Christian replied slowly. “No poppy.”
“That’s too bad.” Gwyn turned back to Maura, dabbing at her swollen lip. “It made her all better last time.”
Under Gwyn’s ministrations, Maura moaned softly. Christian longed to go to her, but he also knew that Maura wouldn’t want him to witness this . . . any of it. She always tried so hard to pretend on his visits, to make believe that they both lived pleasant lives. She would be mortified if she knew that Christian had seen her this way. He could go and find Arlen Thorne, get the client’s name, and