Patrick O’Malley has arrived in Pittsburgh in the mid-19th century with a job to do. His assets are a Letter; a stolen vial of unicorn tears; and his own attitude. What follows is a fragment from “An Understanding”, a work in progress that started as a short story but now seems to want to stretch itself a bit.
He stood on the shore of the river, taking in the sight, sounds, and smell of the city.
“Smoke, haze, men yelling, and the smell of dead things in the river. Lovely.”
“I’m talking to you, you ingrate!” A hand on his shoulder spun O’Malley around. The man in question was slightly taller than he, with a fat face flushing red from the exertion of hauling the rest of his quivering bulk around. Wisps of black hair were slicked back along a balding pate.
“You tell your master that he can’t tie up here!”
O’Malley blinked. “I thank you for your attention, good sir, but I think…”
“I’m not asking you to think.” He pulled a filthy handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I’m the dockmaster, and I’m telling you what you’ll do. You get your master for me now!”
O’Malley looked at him and shrugged. “As you say, m’lord.” He set his bag down, made the sign of the cross, then bowed his head, folded his hands, and started to mutter.
The man’s eyes bulged. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
O’Malley looked up and put a finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he hissed. “I’m speaking ta m’master, as ya demanded.”
The dock master gaped at him, mouth open. O’Malley ignored him and said loudly, “I’m sorry, Lord. There’s a fat bastard here givin’ me grief about speaking with you. Gasping like fish right now. Looks like someone poured a barrel o’ lard into a cheap suit.”
The noise around them died down a bit as people started to pay attention. O’Malley noticed and raised his voice even further.
“Oh, aye, he’s going bald, right as rain. Oh, you do?” He sounded surprised, but looked up at the man and gave him a wink. “Yer in luck, you are. He says he knows you.”
The man sputtered. O’Malley stepped back a bit to avoid the spittle flying from his lips. Raucous laughter rolled over them from the barge.
“Ah, right. Thank you, Lord.” He crossed himself again and looked up.
“He said you should stop busting the balls of the damn passenger and try talking to the boat crew instead,” he said flatly. He pursed his lips and spoke in a stage whisper. “I’d take that advice, were I you. Being as it comes from the Lord himself, as it were.”