midsection. I worried about that blow you took to the solar plexus last night."
I froze.
"Last night?" asked the nurse.
"Oh, didn't Adler mention that?" Lazarus circled his shoulder again and popped his neck. "We ran into each other, quite literally, 'round Miller's Court."
The nurse narrowed her eyes.
"I'm sure I don't want to know."
"This has been a pleasant reunion," I said, "but I really must be on my way."
"Not so fast." Lazarus scooped up my trousers from the floor with one deft motion. "We have business to discuss."
"Then I'll leave you to it," said the nurse.
"But, Pearl--"
Ignoring me, she bustled past, waving a dismissive hand over her shoulder. Lazarus shut the door behind her and locked it.
"Hey!" I cried.
He tossed me my trousers.
Lazarus well knew I had a horror of enclosed spaces, I realized as he smugly slipped his keys back into his trouser pocket. A cold sweat broke out across my back. I might have tried to take the keys by force, had not my stomach borne a purple-and-black reminder of Lazarus's superiority in a fight. Instead, I shook out my trousers and snarled, "Turn around while I dress."
While I pulled on my trousers and socks, Lazarus rearranged the jars on the counter. He had explained once how working at the clinic helped him to exorcise his demons after he'd returned from Afghanistan. But that had been years ago. Why was he still there? I surreptitiously watched him adjust the collar of his crisp linen shirt. His boots were new, too, and I recognized his citrus and musk cologne as the work of one of London's premier perfumers. What had the nurse said about a chimney sweep's wages? It would seem being kept by Andrew St. Andrews paid quite generously.
"You look well," I muttered as I buttoned my trousers.
Lazarus had moved on to bedpans by that point, stacking and restacking. The increased vehemence of the clatter was the only sign he'd heard me. In the dim light of the dollyshop I'd failed to notice the gray now peppering his neatly trimmed hair. The lines at the corners of his eyes were the same, perhaps a bit deeper. But he wasn't living on tea and biscuits anymore--he'd filled out quite nicely with proper care and feeding.
"Really well," I said.
He turned to me with a withering stare.
"My nose is broken in two places, I'm bruised from top to tail, and my head feels like it was run over by a rickshaw full of opium. Stop lying, Adler. I don't pay for it anymore," he added coldly.
"Well, I don't sell it anymore. May I go now?"
He turned and looked me over, his cool gaze coming to a meaningful stop at the ruby stickpin.
"Not that you have any room to criticize, Mr. 222 Baker Street," I cried. "That's a nice tie, for someone who works in a shithole clinic in Bethnal Green. Is it silk?"
"Same as yours."
I stuffed my shirt into my trousers, shrugged into my jacket, and laced up my shoes. I had to get out of there. But Lazarus wanted to talk, and he had the key.
"Adler, about last night--"
"You didn't have to be so enthusiastic with your elbows. You can kill a man that way, you know."
"I know several ways to kill a man," he said. "A gentle elbow to the gut isn't one of them."
"Gentle?"
He was circling his shoulder again, kneading the muscle with his opposite hand.
"A man your age should avoid fights, not start them," I said.
"You mean this?" He nodded toward his shoulder. "Don't flatter yourself."
He made a pained little noise and stretched his arm across his chest.
I was probably the only man in London, aside from Andrew St. Andrews, who had seen the ugly knot of tissue that bloomed from Lazarus's left shoulder: a souvenir from the Siege of the Sherpur Cantonment. There was a corresponding scar on his shoulder blade where the bullet had entered. Any other man would have worn a bullet wound like a medal, but unlike the hundreds of tossers still dining out on a few bruises sustained in the line of duty, Lazarus did his best to cut off any discussion of Afghanistan before it
I froze.
"Last night?" asked the nurse.
"Oh, didn't Adler mention that?" Lazarus circled his shoulder again and popped his neck. "We ran into each other, quite literally, 'round Miller's Court."
The nurse narrowed her eyes.
"I'm sure I don't want to know."
"This has been a pleasant reunion," I said, "but I really must be on my way."
"Not so fast." Lazarus scooped up my trousers from the floor with one deft motion. "We have business to discuss."
"Then I'll leave you to it," said the nurse.
"But, Pearl--"
Ignoring me, she bustled past, waving a dismissive hand over her shoulder. Lazarus shut the door behind her and locked it.
"Hey!" I cried.
He tossed me my trousers.
Lazarus well knew I had a horror of enclosed spaces, I realized as he smugly slipped his keys back into his trouser pocket. A cold sweat broke out across my back. I might have tried to take the keys by force, had not my stomach borne a purple-and-black reminder of Lazarus's superiority in a fight. Instead, I shook out my trousers and snarled, "Turn around while I dress."
While I pulled on my trousers and socks, Lazarus rearranged the jars on the counter. He had explained once how working at the clinic helped him to exorcise his demons after he'd returned from Afghanistan. But that had been years ago. Why was he still there? I surreptitiously watched him adjust the collar of his crisp linen shirt. His boots were new, too, and I recognized his citrus and musk cologne as the work of one of London's premier perfumers. What had the nurse said about a chimney sweep's wages? It would seem being kept by Andrew St. Andrews paid quite generously.
"You look well," I muttered as I buttoned my trousers.
Lazarus had moved on to bedpans by that point, stacking and restacking. The increased vehemence of the clatter was the only sign he'd heard me. In the dim light of the dollyshop I'd failed to notice the gray now peppering his neatly trimmed hair. The lines at the corners of his eyes were the same, perhaps a bit deeper. But he wasn't living on tea and biscuits anymore--he'd filled out quite nicely with proper care and feeding.
"Really well," I said.
He turned to me with a withering stare.
"My nose is broken in two places, I'm bruised from top to tail, and my head feels like it was run over by a rickshaw full of opium. Stop lying, Adler. I don't pay for it anymore," he added coldly.
"Well, I don't sell it anymore. May I go now?"
He turned and looked me over, his cool gaze coming to a meaningful stop at the ruby stickpin.
"Not that you have any room to criticize, Mr. 222 Baker Street," I cried. "That's a nice tie, for someone who works in a shithole clinic in Bethnal Green. Is it silk?"
"Same as yours."
I stuffed my shirt into my trousers, shrugged into my jacket, and laced up my shoes. I had to get out of there. But Lazarus wanted to talk, and he had the key.
"Adler, about last night--"
"You didn't have to be so enthusiastic with your elbows. You can kill a man that way, you know."
"I know several ways to kill a man," he said. "A gentle elbow to the gut isn't one of them."
"Gentle?"
He was circling his shoulder again, kneading the muscle with his opposite hand.
"A man your age should avoid fights, not start them," I said.
"You mean this?" He nodded toward his shoulder. "Don't flatter yourself."
He made a pained little noise and stretched his arm across his chest.
I was probably the only man in London, aside from Andrew St. Andrews, who had seen the ugly knot of tissue that bloomed from Lazarus's left shoulder: a souvenir from the Siege of the Sherpur Cantonment. There was a corresponding scar on his shoulder blade where the bullet had entered. Any other man would have worn a bullet wound like a medal, but unlike the hundreds of tossers still dining out on a few bruises sustained in the line of duty, Lazarus did his best to cut off any discussion of Afghanistan before it
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