The house was surprisingly comfortable despite being somewhat sparse. The furniture was mostly wooden, the décor a collection of simple materials and aged fabrics, sentimentally kept and repaired if needed. It was comfortable, though Jacques muttered that the seating was far too hard for his liking.
‘Mister Follister.’ Franco shook his hand, now far bonier than he recalled.
The old man clearly struggled to compare the Franco he recalled to the one before him, his eyes squinting in effort. It was quite the transformation, Franco knew. Well dressed, well groomed, clearly moneyed. Where did that scrawny boy go? Had it really been ten years, give or take?
‘Call me Larrs, please. You’re a man yourself now. Never thought I would see the day.’
‘Of course, Larrs.’
‘It warms my heart to see you once again.’
‘Likewise.’
‘Please, make yourself comfortable; take a spell if you would.’
His smile was toothy and kind, his hands lingering in the embrace before slipping away. Larrs shuffled into the kitchen from which he returned with a pot of tea. It danced noisily on a tray that rattled with every step before being placed down with care between them.
‘I heard you were in town. News was that some show had made a noise. It’s not every day we get a commotion like yours arrive and I guessed it was your troublesome self.’
Franco sipped his tea before deciding to drop in some sugar from the bowl beside the pot. ‘A different kind of trouble from when you last saw me, I assure you.’ He stirred his tea.
Jacques squinted deeply in question, catching the old man’s gaze.
‘Do not be distracted by this pizzazz.’ The old man grinned, reaching from his chair and patting Franco’s chest. ‘Trouble followed this one many a time.’
‘Jacques, my Head of Security,’ Franco said by way of introduction.
‘A pleasure,’ Larrs said as they warmly shook hands.
‘Likewise.’
‘So you were talking about trouble?’ Jacques chuckled.
‘My boy was always a rambunctious one. The stories I could tell you of him and Franco here getting into scrapes. Once, those two broke into the railway yard to scavenge spares for this heap of rust Franco’s grandfather was looking to renovate. The first I knew of it was the law at my door and those two creeping in the back with a trolley of oil-dripping parts! I gave them such a telling-off! My boy would never do such a thing, I said. He wouldn’t dare do such a thing for the fear of me tanning his backside, I said.’
‘I’m sure at the time it was a sound idea.’
‘Hah! You convincing someone else to get involved in your schemes? Whoever thought of such a thing?’
Franco leant back and exhaled slowly in reminiscence. ‘And I remember getting my backside spanked red raw,’ he added, taking a sip from his cup. ‘Your younger brother got the same and rightly so. Leading all us youngsters into trouble. How is that rascal?’
Larrs cleared his throat as his voice broke in reply. ‘I’m afraid he passed.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear.’
‘He had his time, so he said. Kept saying that when you’ve done all you need to, you shuffle off. The Angels have him now.’
‘He always was the impatient sort.’
Jacques seemed surprised at such candour between them, especially regarding such sensitivities.
‘So where is that son of yours now? Is that what you wished to discuss?’
‘Aye, lad.’
‘I expected Ketan to tackle me to the ground. I was hoping to at least show him what those scraps amounted to. Is he working or drinking? One or the other. Hell, maybe even both!’
‘If only I could be so blasé.’
Franco placed the cup down and listened intently.
‘Opportunities are rare here, lad,’ Larrs continued. ‘We can’t all be waiting for a train of chance to bring us fortune. When you left with your grandfather, it did something to Ketan. I don’t know, I saw him get more impatient with things. His temper took control. I’ll never get out, he would always say, that is, before he fell in with the bad ’uns.’
‘Define bad.’
Jacques inadvertently slurped the last traces of his drink.
‘Wilheim. He runs The Lavender Club by the east tracks – someplace they show pictures and peddle bad drink. They do much more besides, but I’ve never seen the law approach. Paid off maybe or some sort, but we all know what goes on there. Some arrangement made, no doubt.’
‘What kind of more?’
Larrs’s breath quickened at the mention of that name and he was in obvious discomfort. Every word after seemed unusually burdened. ‘Anything you need, you can get, but the price is high as you can guess. Shipments tend to go missing around these parts. Plenty of bandits. Travellers need to be careful.’
‘I think we met some of them.’ Jacques laughed softly. His amusement wasn’t reciprocated.
‘Ketan never was the type to be mixed up with those sorts. Never was the type for anything until you left,’ Larrs continued.
‘Is he there now?’
‘I doubt it,’ Larrs replied. ‘Apparently he spends time propping up the bar in some shabby thing near the docks. The Water Hole I believe it was. It’s just as rotten on all accounts.’
‘Worth checking out?’ Jacques asked.
‘Depends if you’re looking for trouble.’
‘Seems to be there’s no getting away from it.’ Franco removed the letter from his jacket pocket and slipped it on the table between them.
‘Is this why you asked for me?’
‘You could talk sense into him maybe, if you had the time. I would be grateful.’ Larrs swallowed his pride as firmly to his gut as possible. ‘I would be grateful indeed,’ he repeated.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s … he’s all I’ve got left these days. Look at me, lad, I’m not as spry as I once were. I’m too old to be clipping ears and tanning hides. Ketan is a good boy, but these folks will be the death of him.’
Franco, despite leaving his past behind, could never neglect it entirely. He saw his difficult upbringing as a rite of passage and endured hardships that forged his iron resolve, and for that he was unexpectedly thankful. In all honesty – if honesty was something that Franco wished to indulge in – he had no choice but to accept this appeal. Larrs had steered him right in those old, delinquency days. Along with his grandfather, he had helped raise him right.
‘I understand.’ Franco nodded sagely. ‘Jacques, if your throat is dry, could you do with a stronger drink?’
* * *
Despite Misu’s request for him to keep Franco on a sensible path, it would be impossible to sway him from this new agenda. Then again, Jacques had no desire to. Sure, the shows were enjoyable to manage and in an ideal world they would never have to stray and assist in such personal endeavours.
But what he and Franco felt failed to be suppressed by words. The red blood of men was pumping in exhilaration and this task was something to satisfy it. It was, in a word, exciting, and just enough to fleetingly forget the monotony of day-to-day business.
‘Always,