Chapter 11: Villainy

1866

Mac Holmes licked his cracked lips, stubbed out his thin cigar and took a deep breath. "Whisky," he said to the rotund bar tender, "not rye, Jimbo. Some good stuff. And not any of mine, please." He chuckled.

Holmes looked around the smoky room, found the face he wanted and drained the glass without tasting the liquor. He crossed the room, nodding to several men he knew. "George," he said happily as he pulled out a chair, flipped aside his coattails and sat, pulling down his waistcoat and adjusting the looped chain that flopped across his belly. The man on the other side of the table glared at him, slurping down another oyster.

"Mac," he said gruffly. "Where's that money y'owe me?"

"Storm off the Capes," said Holmes. "Ship hasn't been heard from."

"I don' give a hoot 'bout that," said his companion, leaning forward. "Pay me the interest, at least. T'other's your fugging problem."

"Write you a draft," Holmes said. "Have to date it next month."

"That won' do me no good. An' where's that fuggin' rum and hemp you promised, first of the month you said."

"My new ship is likely in the mouth of the Bay, down near Point Lookout, where, as I seem to recall, you spent many happy months."

"Don' remind me," the man said, scratching at the stump of his left arm. "Thas' where I lef' the rest a'this." His empty sleeve hung freely.

"Meanwhile," said MacNeal Holmes, "you can help me with a task I am sure you will enjoy." He picked at his teeth and raised his bushy eyebrows.

The man grunted and stared at Holmes with bloodshot eyes. "Ain' going to Baltimore with you, never again. Killing that way's no fun a'tall, burning folks up, livin' people. Can still hear 'em." He flipped his last dripping oyster into his mouth.

"No, no. I just want you to help me frighten a dumb Yankee storekeeper out my way. He's got something I want, something pretty I've wanted for a while."

"A Yankee, you mean one a'Lincoln's gutless fools, a bluebelly?"

"Indeed, a few are still left, scum, just scum," said Holmes, "and this one's a local who has a fine-looking young wife, a very young wife indeed, barely ripe." Holmes recalled the day he found out that Caroline French had married a Union veteran and his incipient desire for the girl had turned to burning hate for both the young woman and her husband.

"What d'you want? I ain' gonna burn nobody."

"Just scare her, George, m'lad. Go in the store when her husband is away; he goes down into the city every couple of weeks, like clockwork, a man of habits he is. Just give her a fright, maybe paw her a bit, pop her corset strings. Tell her you'll be back."

"I dunno." He buttered a piece of bread.

"I'll get you three barrels of rum for the price you paid. Think what another forty gallons will do for your income."

"Aw'right," the man said, sticking out his huge hand. "Got nothin' better on my plate. Mebbe I kin do more'n jus' scare her. When?"

"Tomorrow afternoon or two weeks from tomorrow, tomorrow if you can. He takes his books down to his father-in-law every and picks up some stock, down to Georgetown. You'll have plenty of time, time to really enjoy yourself. I don't care what you do to her as long as you frighten her good and proper."

The man smiled and stuffed the crust into his mouth. "Tomorrow," he said, wondering how young she really was and becoming aroused. He had at times, looked on rape as recreation.

When the small bell over the front door tinkled, Caroline turned from her endless dusting to face the new customer. More orange dirt from the street had come in with the one-armed man who stood leaning back against the door, his belly bulging over his belt, a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, britches blousing over his boots. She saw him take the key from the hook by the door and heard the lock click twice. He tossed the shiny key in the air, grabbed it and put it in his vest pocket. Caroline felt bile rise in her throat.

"Sir, what are you doing?" she asked, hearing her voice quaver.

"Jus' come to visit for a spell," the man said with a smile. "Don' need no company this nice afternoon, do we, little girl? Ain' y'glad t'see me?"

"Mr. Williams isn't here just now," said Caroline, backing up along the counter and tempted to call for help, "if you have something to sell." She licked her dry lips.

"Came to see you, missus," the man said, crossing the room. "An' ain' you a pretty l'il thing. Mac was sure enough right about that like he was about the door key." He licked his lips.

"I think you'd better leave," Caroline said, retreating until she felt the shelves against her buttocks. "If you'll just give me the key."