The Bully of Order by Brian Hart Page B

better suffer your insults.”
    â€œWhat use is it to keep liquor on hand if everyone arrives at my door already drunk?”
    â€œI’m not drunk.”
    Bellhouse set the knife down, leaned back and reached into his desk drawer. He produced a puny, dented oil can, spurted oil onto the stone, and spread it with the edge of his thumb. He weighted the knife in his palm and then continued sharpening.
    â€œI thought you were going to pull out a bottle.”
    â€œI know you did.”
    â€œGive me a cigar, then, would you? Mine are at home.”
    With his chin Bellhouse motioned to the box of cigars and the matches beside it. The blade coughed out one after another of its lonely dying breaths.
    Dr. Haslett lit the cigar and dropped the spent match in the ashtray. “I should tell you that whoever you’re sharpening that blade for, don’t send them to me. I don’t have time.”
    â€œA farmer complains about the dirt and a sailor the wind.”
    He liked Bellhouse despite himself. “And a logger the trees.”
    â€œA logger the fucking trees, right?” The short-necked German was like a bulldog that had been trained to act like a man, but not stupid. The muscle ended at the mouth, fleshy lips. It would be folly to confuse his strength with simplemindedness, his rigidity with an unwillingness to act or slowness.
    â€œA boy of seven had his hand cut off in Boyerton’s mill this morning.” Dr. Haslett leaned back and admired his cloud of smoke.
    â€œI heard.”
    â€œHis mother asked what they paid for a lost hand.”
    â€œI think I know this one.”
    â€œThey don’t pay, Hank. Not a dime.”
    â€œHalf a pair of mittens must cost half as much. He’s looking at some savings long-term.”
    â€œIs that the compassion we can expect from your union? Which, I should say, I think is bullshit. I don’t believe you even have a charter. I think you’re running a game against that lot in San Francisco. These are fine little cigars, aren’t they?”
    â€œI got cases of them.” He opened the box on his desk and with a flicked wrist, a flourish of pageantry, offered them up. “Help yourself.” Less an invitation than a dare. His eyes narrowed, and he grinned as if strings were pulling on his lips.
    The doctor puffed away and met Bellhouse’s eyes through the smoke, had a flash of memory of being caught in a stall behind a mean mule when he was a boy, remembered thinking: If I don’t move, I won’t be kicked. But he was kicked anyway, broke ribs. Just stood there and waited for it.
    â€œThey’d never allow me to flub a charter, Doc. No way. How many ships come up this coast? Don’t you think they’d shut me down if I was fraudulent, as you say, or somehow misrepresenting my union brothers to the south? If I were anything save impeccable I’d wager they’d steam north and throw me off the fucking pier.”
    â€œI don’t want any more bloodshed. Hear me? I don’t care who ends up on top.”
    Bellhouse winked. “The one doing the fucking is usually on top.”
    The doctor forced a smile and leaned forward, filled his coat pocket with cigars, leaving the box empty.
    Bellhouse stabbed the knife into his desktop. “If we’re critiquing each other’s professions. If that’s what we’re doing. I don’t want to have to get up in the night three times over to piss, but you haven’t been able to help me with that, have you?”
    â€œMaybe you should’ve seen Ellstrom.”
    â€œFuck Ellstrom.”
    â€œI did what I could, Hank. You showed up two days after the fact. I think you should be grateful to Chacartegui for sticking you with a clean blade, might’ve saved your life.”
    â€œPromises were made, you understand. Oaths were uttered.” He held up his hands; the knife stayed in the table, barely moving. “I’ll never sleep