Free The Humbug Murders by L. J. Oliver Page B

concentrate. He looked up. A curly-haired vixen in an emerald dress planted a black-gloved hand on her hip. She grinned at us with an infuriating familiarity. Worse, she had a girlfriend with her. With thick ginger curls and slightly parted cherry lips, her bosom heaving as she breathed, the girlfriend was absolutely stunning.
    â€œMove off,” I warned the prostitutes. “There’s no trade for you here.”
    â€œIt’s a free country, sir,” said the lady in red. “I ’ave a mind to take me supper ’ere tonight in the company of my nice friend Miss Piper.” She leaned over the merrily distracted Dickens, almost spilling out of her corset. “ ’Ave you met my nice friend Miss Piper, Mr. Dickens? You said to keep me eye out for persons of interest and talent.”
    â€œAnd in saying that, Irene, I meant those whose abilities lend themselves to the arts. The wealthy are always looking for talented types to reward with their patronage. Painters, dancers, musicians, of that type. I sense quite the story in it.”
    Irene shrugged. “Well, Miss Piper ’ere, she’s ever so talented. And that’s drawing a great deal of interest!”
    Dickens reddened and smiled broadly. “Irene, thank you. Very obliged to meet you, Miss Piper.” He held her hand a little longer than convention.
    Miss Piper fluttered her eyelashes. Looking directly into Dickens’ eyes, she bit her lip. “Up for a bit of nanty narking? I could sing you a song . . . or do somethin’ else with me mouth.”
    â€œHo, ho!” He smiled and kissed her hand. “Now I bet you have a tale to tell, don’t you?”
    â€œDamn it, Dickens, will you focus! Be gone, women. Leave us to think. Eat your supper somewhere else, I’m sure there are other gentlemen who would welcome the two of you slopping your soup down your busts as they attempted to conduct a negotiation, but we are not they!”
    â€œOh! Well, we ain’t wanted ’ere, Miss Piper. Let’s go somewhere else.” She linked arms with her friend and sashayed away. “Ta-ta, Mr. Dickens, sir. See you round the corner!”
    Laughing, the women were swallowed up by the crowd.
    â€œA journalist,” I groused. “I feel that I’m supping with the devil. Or a vulture.”
    â€œI’m feeling much the same, sir. But I’ll sit with anyone who has an interesting story. Even you.” Dickens tapped his chin. “Tell you what: I am curious about the mechanics of your enterprises. How things work, vis-à-vis, in the world of moneylending. And how it feels to put desperate, hopeless, and helpless families out on the street.”
    I shook my head. “When would feelings come into any of it? It is a matter of business, nothing more.”
    Dickens strummed his fingers on the wooden surface separating us. “Mr. Scrooge, it seems you leave me no choice. What price would you pay for my services?”
    I named a generous sum, a pitiful one I knew would make his blood curdle. I’d make that vulture of a pen-pusher squirm for every farthing he bled from me.
    â€œYes, now, that is quite fair, surprisingly so. I would have thought your opening bid would be far less, and that—”
    â€œThat’s my number,” I told him, stabbing the table with my forefinger. “Not a farthing more. And I’ll have no more of you wasting my time. I asked you here to hire you for a job of work, that is all. I need a capable man to handle the discussed matters with speed and discretion. Are you to work for me or not? I would have your answer, Dickens.”
    The reporter’s upper lip twitched. I knew something of his background. With a father who lived far beyond his means and ended up hauled off with his entire family to debtors’ prison, Dickens believed he would be raised a fine young gentleman. He got the shock of his life at the mere age of ten