...it was well after midnight, but my body, preternaturally, awoke...

1881.

...the light electric, the gas lamps: they made divisions of the city where no respecting citizen would: out of Christian fear of making light of someone's position.  But the lamps would tell the truth: gas for the poorer streets, where men like me dare the night and its hideous face.  Those that lived here, only slightly above the urine rivulets that tracked the cobblestone.  If the denizens desired peace they must go off to hide behind padlocked doors at the hint of night: a club in their hand and one eye open.

It was not uncommon, here, on Windsor Street, for the meekest of all God's creatures have the most horrible things enacted upon them.  And all of the people of the Fourth Ward would cry out at the funeral on Sunday and forget the dead by Monday morning.  [I'll be the first to admit that I find great pleasure in hypocrisy where it's gluttonous jowls look upward toward a God they simply don't understand.]  They cry and beller and raise a hue, but don't even know the child's name what they interred.  They are there for the spectacle that is an Atlanta funeral - as if the tortures were the pre-course of the belle epoque.  I've gnashed my teeth again, my jaw will be sore tomorrow.

Not that I am a blessed saint, destined for the firmament of Heaven, even if I was the Holy Scribe that could write the story - I am far too honest for that - but I am a dirty, low, rotten-to-the-core charlatan.  And I make no amends on Sunday, but I confess my sins to a fence that lives down this dark road.  My penance will be in the form of large silver certificates.  I hope and pray.  Amen.

The gas lamps wave meager light all along the dark-face of the boulevard.  The hulking figures in the shadow lumber like a drunken dance.  Their faces blank under the shadow of their chapeau.  They keep their hands hidden from view, as I do: it levels the playing field.

A man stops as I walk past, the sheen of light illuminating my face for a moment and he (that looked as if an ox had mated with the hale of a Viking woman), pushed my shoulder with his.  He vied for a better look.  As I am not new to this dance, I quickly stole to the shadows and briskly walked through a dozen men.  The time of day would make it impossible to follow.  The only condition better for alluding the cutthroats here is rain, but the light veil of fog was welcome tonight.  [I always said to myself that when I have the lot in hand the danger is much more then when it is converted to cash.  At least money is easily hid and trackless after it is turned.  I had two enemies: the police and the not-police to contend with.]

I pull my scarf in, particularly hiding the cheekbones, which my detective in the State Police said is the sure path to getting hung.  The eyes and the cheekbones - that's what'll get you caught and make the recollection and soon after his justice.

I get to Lawrence East and make a left.  Here I stop, lean against the wall and allow the passers-by through.  This is where I take caution.  Police are near here, as it is an easy way to put the scrutiny on one coming from the other side of the tracks to the electric light.  Why did Coltrain do this here?  Thaddeus had asked that very question every single time he turned that corner.

There were a few police on the opposite side of the street talking with a man that he had seen before.  A drifter that had just rolled in a few weeks ago and already stirring up trouble.  That's why they're drifters.  He looked both ways and saw no no one taking an interest.  Just as he wanted.  Even still, he turned on his heel and walked the opposing direction.  Then, turned toward Lawrence West and saw that the veil of fog was not enough, but there was no one here keeping an eye on him.  He waited for five minutes before going on.

I'll ask for forty-five.  Natch will bring it down, of course, and they would do the dance for several minutes before arriving at the conclusion that both of them are getting the raw deal of the transaction.  I'll probably get thirty.  This was fine.  He rarely needed the money, and it was much more worthwhile, as an investment, to have Natch happier than he.  I'll stop myself before I tell my conscience that he deserves a cut of my earnings.

Natch hid his pleasure at seeing Thaddeus.  They closed the door and Natch made small talk while he turned a hand crank.  It squealed as it opened a slight opening in the store's shelves that no one could see from the only window that allowed purview for the outside world.  To anyone passing by, this was an Elixir and Book Shoppe, not the stolen goods (and sometimes pawn) market Natch had built within.  Natch would never sell the items here, that would be the height of daftness: he only held them until other stores, in better districts could sell them at a higher rate.  Thaddeus wondered if he was on the wrong side of the counter here - the money the other stores made (and he knew having frequented them, and seeing the ticket price for his hard work).  A blank looking bald man took his place behind the counter, looking as disinterested as he could.  Why get actual business, eh?

Natch put out a black-tar sail's cloth on a weapons crate that he piled as a make-shift desk.  He had nothing else near it, so that way the thieves would honor his work.  He put his hand out, "Let's see it."  As simple as it sounded, Thad knew there was a monster sitting outside his view.  A monster with a chain or a great hammer to take care of trouble.  Hell, it may even be a fancy man with a pistol for all I can see in here.  [He did have such a man before, Thad quickly mulled over, by the name of Ace.  He carried a two shot knuckle buster.]

Thaddeus, the Dramatist, smirked through the dark, wet strands of hair covering his face and emptied out a small beaten leather satchel.  Jewels came out in handfuls.  Natch whistled, "Where?"

"Not going to say, Natch.  I would not dare risk persecution if it comes back."

"Persecution?  Thaddeus, you stole this from little old ladies."

"I don't like little old ladies."  Natch smiled and started shifting through the collection.

"How much you want?"

"Forty-five, all cash."

Natch almost keeled over and didn't breathe for several seconds, "Did you think you walked into a bank?"

"I know how much you sell my things for.  You'll get hundred thousand easy on this."

Natch made motions to argue and instead looked back on the lot.  He had to hold his tongue or risk saying something thick-headed and lose out on the profit.  "How do these look to the police?"  I don't dare say they made Page 3 of The Intelligencer.  I shrug.  What an impossible to ask, Natch.  Let's keep our wits about us.

"Look if you don't want this easy: I can go over to Peachtree and make what I want."

"How about thirty?"  Higher than I thought.

"How about thirty three?"

He paused and nodded. He emptied all of the lot from the sail's cloth into a door at the top of the weapon's case.  He threw the pouch at me, "You are a conniving cuss, ain't you?"

"No certificates?"

He shook his head.  "There was a robbery of the stage coming from Penn.  There won't be any bills in the city for weeks.  Guess you'll settle on coin, friend." 

I took offense for a second, but smoothed it out quickly, "As much as you are a friend: I work hard to keep the kid's fed, and to keep the Panic at bay."  He scoffed with a sneer, "I'll bet your 'kids' wear fishnet stockings and throw up their skirts at night."

"You are adroit, Natchez.  That's why I like to come here and give you first take."

"Yeah, but the pleasure of it is costing more and more, isn't it, friend?"

I grew tired of the topic, pocketed the bag in a double fold pocket close to my ankle.  No one was going to get it until they cut me open.  I walk out of the store and into an even impenetrable shield of of fog.  I may have to go to Peachtree for a while.  Natch is catching a darker humor that could be a problem.

I walked along Park Way and then took the right series of trees, block wall tops and window ledges to my home.  The electric lamps led the way with ease, all was quiet and not a scent of urine to be had.  I sat in my penthouse suite, poured a finger of bourbon.  It had been a good week, I cannot wait to stretch my legs again.  There is a hotel safe that needs to be lightened of its expensive burden...