My Favorite Thief (16 page)

“Come here, you little bugger!” shouted the enraged shopkeeper, his fury rendering him oblivious to the fact that he had just deserted his store.

“Somebody trip him!” yelled another.

“Look out—he's getting away!”

A veritable mob was now charging after the boy, but its very size made it clumsy. Soon the incensed members at the back were huffing and clutching their chests and dropping off, deciding one troublesome urchin wasn't worth apoplexy. Archie forced himself to keep going, even though a needlelike pain was jabbing his chest and his lungs felt as if they were going to explode. He could just barely see Flynn up ahead. Cursing and praying that he wouldn't drop dead at the same time, he forced himself to run faster.

“Got you, you filthy little bastard!” roared an elated gentleman, grabbing Flynn by his coat.

“Sod you!” The boy twisted around and kicked him hard in the knee.

“Bugger it,” the man swore, releasing the lad as his leg buckled painfully beneath him.

Flynn was off again, darting this way and that as he threaded a path through a maze of startled shoppers. A few brave souls thrust out hands and feet in an effort to either grab him or trip him, but Flynn was light and quick enough to slip from their grasp or leap over their legs. When that didn't work, a solid kick to their shins invariably did. But the excitement of his escape was drawing more attention further down the street. A half-dozen youths quickly arranged themselves into a blockade. Flynn turned and whipped down the nearest lane leading off the street. A few resolute souls from the initial mob ran after him, shouting at the leader of the pack to not let the boy get away.

Archie arrived just in time to hear an outraged streak of high-pitched cursing.

“Let me go, ye friggin' old toff!” raged Flynn, struggling mightily to get free of his captor.

“Hold fast, you filthy little tooler, or I'll knock your bloody head off!” returned the man gamely.

“Sod you!” Flynn kicked the man in the shin.

The man responded with a powerful blow to the side of Flynn's head, stunning him.

“Do you want another?” he demanded, shaking the slight boy by the scruff of his neck.

Flynn shook his head, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“You're nothing but a pissing little scrub,” muttered the man, easing his grip slightly.

Flynn smashed his skinny fist into the man's nose.

“Jesus Christ!” The man's hands flew to his bloodied face. “I'll kill you, you little shit!”

Flynn was already dashing away, heading toward the sunlit opening at the opposite end of the alley.

Archie ran a few steps then threw himself forward, stretching his arms and back and legs as far as they would go. “Got ye!” he barked triumphantly, knocking the boy to the ground. He pressed his knee into the boy's back and pinned his arms beneath him.

“What have ye done this time, ye rotten scalawag?” he demanded furiously, swiftly rifling through the boy's pockets before anyone else drew near. He quickly removed two silver cigarette cases, three handsomely carved pipes, and a small box of cigars, which he dropped into his pocket. “Ye'll be the death of me and yer ma, and that's the God's truth of it. Have ye nae shame?” he railed as a small, angry crowd gathered around them. “What'll I tell yer poor ma, who's still grievin' since yer wee brother died just last month—that her only livin' son is off to the coop now, an' she'll just have to make do without him as well?”

Flynn regarded Archie warily. Archie gave him a conspiratorial smile and patted his pocket, indicating that he would help the boy in exchange for a cut of his booty. Flynn nodded curtly, accepting his terms.

“Ye'll be lucky if the peelers dinna haul yer scrawny arse away for good,” Archie continued, jerking the boy to his feet. “An' if it weren't for yer poor ma, I'd be of a mind to toss ye in jail myself, ye soddin' little prig!” He cuffed him smartly on the side of the head, knocking off his cap.

“Is this your son?” The shopkeeper was huffing mightily as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd. His face was an alarming shade of purple.

“Aye, I'm afraid so,” Archie replied, removing his own cap respectfully. “I'm sorry about all the trouble he's caused ye, sir, an' I'm willin' to let him have whatever punishment ye think is fittin'. Ye can call for a peeler, if ye like, though if he goes to the pound it'll break his mother's heart—maybe ye could throw a poke or two at his chops, if ye think that'll make up for the terrible thing he's done.”

Flynn regarded Archie incredulously. “Sod that—”

“I'll be lickin' him proper, whatever ye decide,” Archie continued, grabbing Flynn by his ear. “I whips him constant, but it don't make no difference, he's as lazy as Ludlam's dog, he is, an' a scraggy liar besides, but he's my own blood and 'tis my job to see he turns out right, so I'll just hold him for ye while ye give him his due.” He dragged Flynn in front of the shopkeeper and held Flynn's arms behind him.

“Here now, leave off, ye great bruiser!” shouted Sal fiercely, pushing her way to the front of the crowd. “Ye should be ashamed of yerself, beatin' on me boy—and just after his own baby brother died, too.” Anger glittered in her eyes. “Does yer wife know ye take yer pleasure by bastin' on lads scarce half yer size?”

The crowd murmured in disgusted agreement, despite the fact that a moment earlier it would have welcomed watching the boy get beaten.

“I wasn't going to hit him,” the shopkeeper protested, confounded. “But he smashed my shop window and stole from me!”

Sal marched over to Flynn and planted her hands on her hips. “Well, what have ye to say for yerself? Did ye steal from the gentleman?”

“I did,” Flynn admitted, “but only so I could buy ye somethin' pretty—ye've been so sad since the babe died.” His expression was angelically tormented. “I did it for ye, Ma.”

“Oh, my sweet boy!” Sal threw her arms around Flynn and pulled him hard against her bosom. “Ye're all I've got left now, so promise me ye'll be a good lad and not steal no more—I couldn't bear to lose you, too!” She buried her face in his hair and began to sob loudly.

“I won't, Ma.” Flynn's voice was muffled against the cushions of her voluptuous breasts. “I promise.”

“There now, he's goin' to be straight from now on, sir, I promise ye.” Archie pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from his coat pocket and blew his nose loudly into it.

“But what about what he stole from me?” demanded the shopkeeper.

Sal broke her embrace to regard Flynn sternly. “Right then,” she said, holding out her hand. “Let's 'ave it.”

Flynn hesitated, then pulled out the remaining pipes and cigarette case from one pocket and gave them to her.

“All of it,” Sal said warningly. “Now.”

Casting her a disgruntled look, Flynn produced several packages of cigars and cigarettes from the other pocket and added them to her hands.

“There ye are, sir,” she said, handing the stolen goods back to the shopkeeper. “Good as new.”

He stared at the items in his hands suspiciously. “This isn't all of it,” he protested.

Sal turned Flynn. “Are ye holdin' somethin' more?” she demanded.

“No.” Flynn shook his head vigorously.

“Turn out yer pockets then,” ordered Archie, “so we can see.”

Flynn obligingly turned out his pockets. All he produced was his red handkerchief.

“I could have sworn he took more,” muttered the shopkeeper.

“Now say yer sorry to the gentleman,” ordered Sal.

Flynn regarded him remorsefully. “I'm sorry, sir.”

“There's a good lad,” said Archie. “Well, sir, I guess we'll just be on our way—”

“Just a minute—what about the damage to my window?” demanded the shopkeeper. “That's going to cost at least half a crown to fix.”

“O' course, let me take care of that.” Archie pretended to feel around his pockets for some money. “Let's see—I know it's here somewhere—” He shook his head in confusion. “Well, that's the damnedest thing—Mary, have ye got half a crown on ye?”

“Sure enough,” she said, rooting around in her reticule. After a moment she shook her head. “Must 'ave left me coin purse at home.”

“Well, sir, here's what I'll do,” said Archie gamely. “I'll come by yer shop in an hour with the brass, an' I'll fix yer window besides, so ye can keep the money just for the trouble the lad caused ye. Sound fair?”

Archie could see that the shopkeeper would have much preferred to have his money straight away. But what Archie had proposed was so eminently reasonable, there was no possibility he could refuse him.

“Very well,” he conceded.

“Right then, lad,” Archie continued, frowning at Flynn, “let's get ye home so ye can think on how ye're goin' to change yer ways and be more of a help to yer ma.”

“I don't need nothin' fancy from a store,” Sal assured Flynn. “All I need is to have me boy with me, an' know he's safe.” She snuffled loudly, wiped her nose on a not very clean handkerchief, then wrapped her arm around him.

“I'll see ye soon, sir,” Archie called over his shoulder to the shopkeeper as he pushed Flynn through the thinning crowd, “to take care o' that smashed window.”

They left the alley and walked down the street together, arm in arm. After they had traveled a few blocks, Flynn broke free from Archie and Sal's hold.

“Right, let's split the swag,” he said in a low voice, referring to the cache in Archie's pocket.

Archie scowled at him. “Not here.” He gestured at all the people milling about. “We'll take ye somewhere we can look at it safe.” He pretended to think for a minute. “Me an' Sal's got a room not far from here. We'll go there.”

“I ain't got time for that,” Flynn informed him stubbornly. “Just slip me one of them silver cases and I'm off.”

“I ain't slippin' ye nothin' here,” Archie returned flatly. “I didna risk my neck out there just to be nabbed by a peeler as we're walkin' away. Ye can come with us or shove off—I don't give a damn.”

“We got gin,” added Sal, trying to entice him. “Good stuff, too, not the piss ye're used to swillin'.”

Flynn thought about this a moment. “Fine.”

He followed them in sullen silence as they wove their way down a series of narrow streets, crossing garbage-strewn courts and stinking passageways that took them deeper into the criminal rookery known as Devil's Acre. The rotting buildings there had once been reasonably respectable homes in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but years of misery and disrepair had transformed the area into a fetid, vermin-filled slum. Brothels abounded everywhere, coupled with filthy “padding-kens.” In these overcrowded lodging houses, those with a few coins to spare could share a filthy bed with several others, in a room stuffed with thirty or more miserable men, women, and children. The entire area was a nest of desperation, populated only with criminals and whores, but Flynn took no notice of it. He followed Sal and Archie gamely through the maze of twisting alleys, confident that he would find his way out of it unassisted.

Finally they entered a dilapidated building. Archie led the way up a creaking staircase to the top, pausing to kick a rat out of his way before he unlocked the door to his room. Flynn followed him and Sal into the hot attic chamber, which stank of gin, urine, and boiled cabbage.

“I ain't splittin' it,” Archie said flatly, closing the door behind them.

“What do ye mean?” demanded Flynn, incensed. “I nicked it.”

“Aye, and nearly got yerself walloped an' sent to the coop for yer trouble. I'm the one who saved yer scrawny arse, an' I'll be the one keepin' the swag.”

“Sod you!” swore Flynn, striding toward the door. He jerked on the handle, only to find it locked.

“There's one more thing I forgot to mention,” Archie added, seating himself on one of the two rickety wooden chairs in the room. “Ye'll be stayin' with me an' Sal for a while.”

“The hell I will.” Flynn cursed as he pulled against the door. “Give me the soddin' key.”

“It ain't for long,” Archie assured him. “Just until I collects my money from my Lottie.”

“Who?”

“Miss Charlotte Kent, I suppose is what you call her. That ain't her real name, though. She's Lottie Buchan, from the town of Inveraray. There was a time when she was almost as good a little prigger as you.”

“Ye're a liar,” Flynn spat. “Miss Charlotte is a lady—her da's a nob in Scotland!”

“That nob ain't her da,” Archie informed him. There was a trace of pride in his voice as he finished, “I am.”

Flynn snorted with laughter. “You? Ye ain't fit to scrape the mud off her boots!”

Archie leapt up and heaved him into a small table.

“Stop it, Archie!” shouted Sal.

“I don't tolerate disrespect,” Archie informed her, hauling Flynn to his feet. “Not from no one.” He raised his fist.

“Think a minute,” pleaded Sal, grabbing him by his outstretched arm. “If ye make a great racket, ye'll only have the neighbors comin' up to complain, an' how will ye explain the lad to them?”

Archie hesitated, his great fist suspended in the air.

“Ye dinna want to ruin everythin',” Sal continued emphatically, still pulling on Archie's arm. “Leave the boy be. He ain't goin' to say nothin' more.” She cast Flynn a warning look.

Archie glared at Flynn. “Are ye?”

His eyes burning with hate, Flynn shook his head.

Archie responded by heaving him across the room. Flynn smashed into the wall. He stifled a moan and sank to the floor, then curled into a ball.

“Get off of me!” Archie snarled at Sal, wrenching his arm free from her. “An' get me a bloody drink.”