“Mannheim! It’s Scott Lancer! I believe it’s time we sat down and had a conversation.” With his arms extended to show the absence of a weapon, Scott stood a few yards from the cabin’s porch where creeping vines strangled the splintered remnants of a rocking chair. “No guns. Just talk.”
The struggling sound of a door forgetting how to open smoothly signaled Scott’s request had been heard. Stepping out, Godfrey Mannheim placed an apologetic palm on his chest while displaying a revolver in his other hand. “Forgive me, sir, but I must insist on at least one gun being present for our parley.” Mannheim scrutinized the trees beyond Scott’s stance. “Are you a lone wolf today, Mr. Lancer?”
“Considering my likelihood of being shot, would I be stupidly standing here if I was running with the pack?” Knowing Val was in earshot, Scott prayed the loud creak of Crawford’s eye roll wouldn’t spook a turkey vulture.
“No, sir, it’s your brother who’s proven to be stupid. You, on the other hand, strike me as rather astute but perhaps a bit foolhardy at the moment if you're not being entirely truthful.” Godfrey’s gesture of a sweeping arm invited his guest to enter the cabin.
The scene inside the home of the deceased Mr. Kapinski brought Scott’s feet to an abrupt halt as his brain scrambled to process the sickening sight his eyes took in. “Johnny.”
Tied to a chair, Johnny’s face had been turned into a map of abuse. Angry contusions, cutting deep into his cheekbones and jaw, suggested a man’s ring had been worn on a granite fist. A dipped chin allowed hanging strands of sweat-drenched hair to curtain eyes swollen shut in a purple hue of ripened grapes. Beginning to crust around his nose, dripping blood trickled down over Johnny’s lower lip - which parroted a water-laden slug - before dotting the embroidery on his shirt a dark maroon.
Across the room, Kinsey sat slumped forward on a bench, constraining ropes now loose around her wrists. Her exhausted pose spoke of the emotional layers that had been chiseled away while being forced to witness Johnny’s beating, leaving only a core of pure hatred reflected in her red-rimmed eyes.
From behind, the barrel of Godfrey’s gun rested on Scott’s shoulder as the man’s lips brushed his visitor’s ear in sarcastic verse. “The men will cheer, the boys will shout, the ladies, they will all turn out, and we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home. Tell me, Lancer, now which one of us is calling the tune?”
The heel of Mannheim’s hand landed hard between Scott’s shoulder blades, shoving him into a stumble toward a vacant seat positioned in front of a bandaged man wearing a blood-smeared ring of evidence. Here stood the sneering coward who had evidently administered the room’s recent mental and physical torture for what seemed to be the pure pleasure of it all.
Sitting, Scott addressed Gus Chenoweth’s dirty dealer. “T. H. Yarra.”
“Alas, it’s with pleasurable regret that I inform you that Thomas, wearing his over-priced tailored silk suit, lies decaying in an expensive velvet-lined, teak wood casket planted a stone’s throw away from Sir Charles Hotham in the affluent section of the Melbourne General Cemetery.”
“Oh, Merritt.” Kinsey pointed toward one of the two bottles placed on a table. “Have a sip of your laudanum to wash down the bitterness we hear rolling off your mongrel wagging tongue.”
Narrowed eyes visible above Doc Jenkins’ handiwork on a broken nose slid in the direction of the young lady. “Shut up.”
“Mr. Lancer” - Mannheim’s gun muzzle poked the base of Scott’s neck - “May I have the honor of introducing Merritt Francis Yarra while you provide me your hands for my piece of rope. Only a safety measure for your benefit, I assure you. Sudden movements make Mr. Yarra a bit jumpy.”
Merritt Francis. Scott stared at the man. M. F.
Mr. M.F. Yarra, a spokesman for the Yarra family, informed plain clothes Constable Birch yesterday that his brother, Thomas Herbert Yarra, had left Melbourne to attend a social event in Sydney. He identified the body as that of his brother.
Recalling the newspaper clipping placed the missing piece in what had become an imaginary puzzle. “Is that what happened to my brother?” Scott complied with Godfrey’s request by moving his arms behind the chair’s slatted back. “Merritt got a bit jumpy.”
“Oh, no. He was simply showing off his talents for your cousin.” Mannheim holstered his revolver and tightened the restraint around Scott’s wrists. “You see, in my line of work I rely on the skills of persuasion when a client falls behind in paying a bill.”
“Skills of persuasion?” Scott cocked an eyebrow in a limited turn of the head to view the gentleman. “Is that what loan sharks are calling it these days, Manny?”
“Ah, I see my reputation stepped off the steamer before I did. How delightful. As I was saying, Mr. Yarra has a fondness for coaxing the reluctant.”
“Sir, are you referring to Merritt’s fondness for coaxing reluctant stable boys to the tack room?” Kinsey’s forced naivety did little to disguise her venom.
“Shut up!” Yarra lunged at his accuser, grabbing under her chin and squeezing his grip. “Just shut up!”
The man’s aggressive actions propelled Scott forward in a futile attempt to reach and rescue Kinsey. As the chair’s wooden legs rocked and scraped across warped floorboards, chafing ropes burned his bound wrists. Words were swallowed up by Scott’s unleashed, focused anger which permitted only snorted grunts to escape from his nose and mouth.
“Merritt, please.” Godfrey’s hand gripped the shoulder of his newly arrived caller to hamper any further movement. “You’re upsetting Mr. Lancer.”
“Half-pint, quit bein’ a little magpie.” Johnny raised his head slightly, his voice weak, but audible, bumping words into each other more than usual. “You’re givin’ me a headache.”
His brother’s stab at humor brought Scott’s rage down to a manageable level, permitting speech. “Get your bastard hands off of her.”
Yarra’s combative release of Kinsey’s chin pushed her sideways. Snagging tangled auburn hair he pulled hard, uprighting her position and releasing a sob from her lips. “You want to know why your cousin’s face doesn’t look like your brother’s? Because this little whore needs to walk into the Green River bank prim and proper.”
If the situation hadn’t been so horrific, Scott would’ve felt satisfaction. His gut guess had ruled. This wasn’t about revenge but greed… and desperation.
“Little whore? Merritt, let's refrain from name-calling. There are gentlemen present.” Mannheim circled around Scott and retrieved one of the laudanum bottles for his partner who had no doubt pilfered the drug from Sam’s office. “Relax. Have a taste to calm your nerves.”
Yarra brought the bottle to his lips for more than a taste.
Godfrey pulled up a chair to sit beside Scott with the casual demeanor of two old friends about to discuss the weather. “Unfortunately, by mentioning the Green River bank, Merritt revealed a card that I’d hoped he would hold close to the vest for a few moments longer before playing.”
“Better close to the vest than up a sleeve which appears not to have fared well for Mr. Yarra recently.”
Godfrey smiled. “Yes, your hired man was quite unhappy.”
“That bastard got lucky.” Merritt’s whine reflected his indignation.
“Lucky, indeed, sir.” Scott cocked a brow. “Lucky his hands weren’t tied behind his back at the time.”
Yarra managed one threatening step forward before Mannhiem’s raised palm signaled to stop. “Merritt, you’re hovering. Mr. Lancer, tell me, does antagonizing sarcasm run in your family?”
“Only when necessary.”
“Well then!” Manny the Mark slapped his thighs. “Let’s get down to business before there’s a need to reintroduce your little brother to the discussion out of necessity. I believe he’s nearly talked out.”
“Go t’hell.” Although slurred, Johnny's point was made.
“Ha! I stand corrected. The young man speaks.” Godfrey crossed his arms and sat back. “It is a fact that my associate has a few questionable morals which have led to his fall from grace in the Yarra legacy and financial dynasty. However, gambling being one of those frowned upon vices has made the two of us fast friends. You see, he’s even worse at the racetrack than he is at a poker table, if you can imagine that being possible.” Mannheim’s laughter bounced around the room.
“The thought does challenge comprehension.” With a nod, Scott tossed a smirk at Merritt. “Bad luck can dig a very deep hole.”
“Holes, Mr. Lancer. Holes.” Mannheim leaned forward. “Now, let me explain to you how we are all going to climb out of the ones we’re currently sitting in.”