Chapter 8: Stalworth Walks In

He let it go.

He turned my wrist over once more, kissed the pulse in it, and let it fall onto the pillow.

"Sleep," he said.

I didn't, but I lay still until his breathing slowed.

At dawn I was dressed and standing at the door, with my hand on a lock that opened from the inside.

I could have walked out forever.

I put my hand flat on the cold wood.

I thought of Pru, and the Gull, and the safest bar in Port Calder.

Then I went to work.

Two nights later the door of the Gull opened and Corvin Stalworth walked in.

I was carrying a tray of beers. I did not drop it.

He wore the same long black coat.

His hair had gone greyer at the temples in the weeks since I had seen him.

Six of his men filed in behind him, and the regulars at the bar found something to look at in their glasses.

"Evening," Corvin said to the owner, in his soft voice. "I hear this is a friendly place."

"We're closing in an hour," the owner said.

"Then we'll be quick." Corvin took the table nearest the door.

"A bottle of your house whiskey," he said, "and a moment of your staff's time."

I put the beers down at the booth where they belonged.

My hands were steady. I had trained them for nine years.

He was looking at the women in the room.

One by one he looked at their hands.

He looked at the cook's.

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