knew that the news of a bounty for Riley would sweep through the city faster than cholera through a rookery.
If I know my boy, he will follow the pattern of his previous escape attempts. Riley will find himself a bolt-hole, with a view to making a run for it when his trail has cooled. In this case, he will run for the future, and there are only two doors leading that way. One is in the basement of Half Moon Street, but I could be there waiting for him; or I could have simply dismantled the apparatus, so he will give it a few days, then make for Bedford Square. And that’s where I shall be, just as soon as I have myself a little chat with Otto Malarkey.
Inside the Hidey-Hole the revelries continued until the wee hours, when Otto Malarkey called a halt by abruptly losing his temper, as he did, regular as clockwork, just before sunrise, urging anyone who did not wish to bear a stripe of his riding crop to find themselves a hammock out of his sight.
“Except you, Mr. Farley,” he called to the elderly tattoo artist. “I would have you update my price list as I doze.” It was a testament to the man’s tolerance for pain that he intended to sleep while Farley labored over his chest tattoo.
The enormous room cleared slowly as the weary shuffled toward their resting places. Malarkey snagged a bottle of brandy from the grip of an unconscious sailor on the floor and staggered to Farley’s corner.
“How now, my faithful artist,” he said, dropping into the tattoo lounger, which creaked alarmingly under his enormous bulk. “I need you to update my price list. Add a pound to every service. After all, I am king now.”
Farley was tired and his fingers were cramped, yet he knew better than to complain. He provided a valuable service to the Rams, but Malarkey’s moods were unpredictable and a man would do well not to visit his dark side.
“One pound it is,” he said, tapping the ink bottles into a pleasing straight line. “Some will be straightforward enough; the same as previous ones won’t need touching. But may I ’umbly suggest leaving the denomination as shillings? Then all’s I need to do is diddle with the numbers a bit. Save a little on the ink and needles.”
What went unsaid was that Farley’s method would cut down the needle time.
Malarkey uncorked the bottle with his teeth and took a long draft. “As you wish, Farley. It is of little matter to me, hardy as I am. Your needle is like a pinprick compared to the many rapier punctures I suffered on the prison island of Little Saltee.”
That’s because it is a pinprick, Farley wanted to say, but he thought better of it.
“Enough blabber, and on with it,” said Malarkey. “I needs me sleep. Rest is vital for a shining head of hair. Rest and the touch of the fleece. That’s what keeps my mane glossy.”
Malarkey was vain about his hair. It was his weakness, and too many people knew it, in Farley’s opinion.
“Rest and the fleece, boss. You see to your hair and let me work on this chest. When you wake it will be done.”
Malarkey belched almost contentedly, allowing his muscles to relax, then jumped as Farley’s needle made its first puncture. It had been a long time since he’d taken ink, and it was a mite more painful than he remembered.
“Apologies, boss. The sting will ease soon enough.”
Malarkey relaxed once more. Jumping and a-twisting was not a wise idea when taking the ink.
A cove’s T could end up a J.
Farley had spoken true, and soon the needle pricks faded to a dull buzz. Malarkey felt his entire chest assume the numbness that often went with extreme drunkenness. Within minutes he felt at peace with the world.
The surrounding hubbub faded, to be replaced by loud snoring and the occasional squeal of night terror from the upper levels.
I love this time of day, thought Malarkey.
He was on the point of slipping away when he felt the tattooist’s needle slide in uncommonly deep, like an icicle perilously close to his heart. The Ram king’s eyes flew open, and one hand raised itself to knuckle Farley on the crown for his carelessness; but when he tore the fleece from his head, Malarkey saw that it was not the decrepit Farley bent over him but the assassin Albert Garrick, in full evening wear, including a heavy velvet cape that