Free A Spectacle of Corruption by David Liss

to Moore’s and approached the coffeehouse owner, who was a very young man for a proprietor, having inherited the business from his father not two years before. No more than three or four and twenty, he nevertheless had a business acumen beyond his years and was most apt at subordinating his wishes and desires to those of his customers. He opened his doors early, closed them late, cleaned up spills with his own hand, and oversaw the brewing of the coffee, the buying of the beer, and the baking of the pastries. Though dressed in a fine dark suit that befitted a prosperous tradesman, his clothes were rumpled and stained, his face slick with perspiration.
    “Hello, Mr. Weaver,” he said, as he took my hand warmly. “Always happy to help you, I am—what with all you done for me.”
    All I had done for him was to find those who owed him money and force them to pay—while keeping a generous percentage for myself. I considered it not a favor, only business, but I was of no mind to explain that to Moore. “I know you’ve much to keep you busy, so if you will just point out the man, I’ll leave you to your affairs.”
    “That’s him there.” Moore jabbed his finger in the direction of an enormous man sitting with his back to me. “The big one.”
    Describing him as “the big one” was like calling the Fleet Ditch “the smelly one.” He was massive, and even with his back to me I could see his mass was of the muscular sort rather than the fat. The breadth of his back and his arms pushed at the fabric of his coat. His neck was as thick as my thigh.
    I must remind my reader that I spent a number of years earning my living as a pugilist, fighting pitched battles for my bread. I was, in the days of which I write, retired from the fighting arts but yet no small man. Nevertheless, here was someone who made me feel consumptive and puny. He sat by himself, hunched over some papers, clenching his pen so tight I should have thought he sought to crush it.
    I stood for a moment, waiting for him to notice me, but when he did not I cleared my throat. “Pardon the interruption, Mr. Dogmill. My name is Benjamin Weaver, and I wonder if I might speak with you for a moment regarding a matter of some porters at the Wapping quays.”
    Dogmill paused writing and raised his head only slightly, but he did not look up. I could see his face was broad and round. It was the look I’d seen in many men who produce prodigious strength through exercise, and therefore require enormous amounts of food to feed their appetites. While their bodies may be large with muscles, their faces are often pudgy and soft.
    I knew not how to read his stiff silence, so I chose to plunge ahead. “My services have been secured by a priest, a Mr. Ufford, who has received a number of threatening notes for his words in favor of improving the conditions of the Wapping porters. As there are a number of these men in your employ, I thought perhaps you might have heard something of this incident.”
    Dogmill, without letting his eyes for an instant rest on mine, turned around. “Moore!” he called out, like a master wishing to scold a servant.
    The proprietor, who had been in the process of polishing some dishes, dropped his rag and pewter and dashed over. “Yes, Mr. Dogmill.”
    “Here’s a wretch troubling my quiet.” He pushed a coin into Moore’s hand. “Take him outside and teach him not to be so impertinent to his betters.”
    Dogmill returned to his papers. Moore remained for an instant with the coin in his palm, as though it were some beautiful butterfly he dare neither crush nor risk frightening. At last he clenched it and took me by the arm. “Let’s go,” he said and began to pull me along.
    “Oh, and Moore,” Dogmill said, without looking up, “please explain to this fellow that if he speaks to me again, I’ll stomp upon his hands until they are broken beyond healing. Be sure to make certain he understands.”
    Moore, knowing that the speech was