naturally.”
“Natcherly,” Squeaker agreed, glancing away nervously. He thought Pitt was laughing at him, but he did not want to put it to the test. “I swear,” he added for good measure.
“What about Max?” Pitt pressed. “What was he like?”
“Good at it,” Squeaker said grudgingly. Pimping was a lot more profitable than petty forgery, as well as probably more fun. “’Ad a natcheral talent, ’e ’ad—fer vat sort o’ fing!” He did not want to be too fulsome in his praise. After all, Max could not have made a good forgery to save himself. In fact, Squeaker was not sure if he could even write a legible hand! There was great skill in writing well, and it should not be undervalued.
Remembering the heavy, sensual face with its dark eyes, Pitt could well believe that Max had such a talent. “Yes,” he said. “So I heard. Had several houses, didn’t he?”
Squeaker looked at him cautiously. “Know vat, do yer?”
“I do. What sort of clients did he cater to?”
“Depends which ’ouse as yer talkin’ abaht,” Squeaker said. “If ’n yer means ve one in Partridge Lane—well, anyone as ’ad ve price. Real scrubbers, vey are. But if ’n yer means ve one up by George Street—well, nah, vat’s diff ’rent altergevver. Nah some o’ vem ’as real class. An’ I ’as ’eard say as ’e’ll provide a gentleman wiv enough money ter spend wiv some ladies o’ blood, as yer might say.” He leered knowingly, showing brown teeth. The idea obviously amused him, as a sort of obscene revenge upon the society that had excluded him completely.
“Ladies of blood, eh?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. That sounded promising. He fixed Squeaker with a look of suspicion. “Ladies of blood?” he repeated skeptically.
“Vat’s wot I said—take it or leave it.” Squeaker knew he had Pitt’s interest, and he enjoyed the sensation. “Mebbe vat’s w’ere yer murder comes from. Never mess wiv the Quality—golden rule. Vey ain’t used ter bein’ took, and vey feels it very ’ard—can get real nasty. Stick to yer own—ven yer won’t get someone as don’t know ve rules, comin’ all over spiteful and stickin’ a shiv in yer gut. Although wot vey done ter Max was uncalled for, Mr. Pitt—real uncalled for. I don’t know wot you rozzers is lettin’ the place come to!”
Pitt hid a smile. “Disgusting,” he agreed. “But a jealous man can get carried to extraordinary lengths if someone has taken his woman and then used her to sell to other men as a whore.”
Squeaker sighed. He had neither wife nor children, but he dreamed of them sometimes: a woman whose warmth would not have to be traded for or bought, someone who would become familiar with time, children who would treat him with respect—every man should have that, at least for a while.
“I reckon as yer right, Mr. Pitt,” he said slowly. “Never mess wiv a man’s family—vat’s anuvver rule as should be writ in gold. On the ’ole, I reckon as pimpin’ ain’t such an ’ealfy occupation after all. Women is a dangerous kind o’ goods ter deal in—not ter mention a man’s private needs, wot can be very odd in some o’ them gents from up west, so I’ve ’eard say. Some o’ them stories yer wouldn’t believe! Papers is much better fings ter sell. Knows w’ere yer is wiv papers. People don’t lose veir ’eads over paper.”
Pitt did not bother to argue with him. “And this more expensive house of Max’s is in George Street?”
“Ain’t vat wot I jus’ said?” Squeaker was patient, like a schoolmaster with an unnaturally dim pupil.
“Yes—thank you.” Pitt fished in his pocket and brought out a shilling. He gave it to Squeaker, whose grimy hand closed over it quickly. He raised it to his mouth and bit it sharply. It met with his satisfaction and he pushed it into his pocket.
“Fanks, Mr. Pitt,” he said.
“Don’t leave the Acre,” Pitt warned. “If you’ve told me lies, I’ll be back here to take that
“Natcherly,” Squeaker agreed, glancing away nervously. He thought Pitt was laughing at him, but he did not want to put it to the test. “I swear,” he added for good measure.
“What about Max?” Pitt pressed. “What was he like?”
“Good at it,” Squeaker said grudgingly. Pimping was a lot more profitable than petty forgery, as well as probably more fun. “’Ad a natcheral talent, ’e ’ad—fer vat sort o’ fing!” He did not want to be too fulsome in his praise. After all, Max could not have made a good forgery to save himself. In fact, Squeaker was not sure if he could even write a legible hand! There was great skill in writing well, and it should not be undervalued.
Remembering the heavy, sensual face with its dark eyes, Pitt could well believe that Max had such a talent. “Yes,” he said. “So I heard. Had several houses, didn’t he?”
Squeaker looked at him cautiously. “Know vat, do yer?”
“I do. What sort of clients did he cater to?”
“Depends which ’ouse as yer talkin’ abaht,” Squeaker said. “If ’n yer means ve one in Partridge Lane—well, anyone as ’ad ve price. Real scrubbers, vey are. But if ’n yer means ve one up by George Street—well, nah, vat’s diff ’rent altergevver. Nah some o’ vem ’as real class. An’ I ’as ’eard say as ’e’ll provide a gentleman wiv enough money ter spend wiv some ladies o’ blood, as yer might say.” He leered knowingly, showing brown teeth. The idea obviously amused him, as a sort of obscene revenge upon the society that had excluded him completely.
“Ladies of blood, eh?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. That sounded promising. He fixed Squeaker with a look of suspicion. “Ladies of blood?” he repeated skeptically.
“Vat’s wot I said—take it or leave it.” Squeaker knew he had Pitt’s interest, and he enjoyed the sensation. “Mebbe vat’s w’ere yer murder comes from. Never mess wiv the Quality—golden rule. Vey ain’t used ter bein’ took, and vey feels it very ’ard—can get real nasty. Stick to yer own—ven yer won’t get someone as don’t know ve rules, comin’ all over spiteful and stickin’ a shiv in yer gut. Although wot vey done ter Max was uncalled for, Mr. Pitt—real uncalled for. I don’t know wot you rozzers is lettin’ the place come to!”
Pitt hid a smile. “Disgusting,” he agreed. “But a jealous man can get carried to extraordinary lengths if someone has taken his woman and then used her to sell to other men as a whore.”
Squeaker sighed. He had neither wife nor children, but he dreamed of them sometimes: a woman whose warmth would not have to be traded for or bought, someone who would become familiar with time, children who would treat him with respect—every man should have that, at least for a while.
“I reckon as yer right, Mr. Pitt,” he said slowly. “Never mess wiv a man’s family—vat’s anuvver rule as should be writ in gold. On the ’ole, I reckon as pimpin’ ain’t such an ’ealfy occupation after all. Women is a dangerous kind o’ goods ter deal in—not ter mention a man’s private needs, wot can be very odd in some o’ them gents from up west, so I’ve ’eard say. Some o’ them stories yer wouldn’t believe! Papers is much better fings ter sell. Knows w’ere yer is wiv papers. People don’t lose veir ’eads over paper.”
Pitt did not bother to argue with him. “And this more expensive house of Max’s is in George Street?”
“Ain’t vat wot I jus’ said?” Squeaker was patient, like a schoolmaster with an unnaturally dim pupil.
“Yes—thank you.” Pitt fished in his pocket and brought out a shilling. He gave it to Squeaker, whose grimy hand closed over it quickly. He raised it to his mouth and bit it sharply. It met with his satisfaction and he pushed it into his pocket.
“Fanks, Mr. Pitt,” he said.
“Don’t leave the Acre,” Pitt warned. “If you’ve told me lies, I’ll be back here to take that
Similar Books
