XXIII | THE JOLLY JEW
𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐀'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒 did not stop her, however, from boarding January - a coal barge Charlie was kind enough to lend them — with Tommy and Curly, the trio gliding down the river to Camden Town.
The rickety barge made her sick as it swayed in its demure rhythm, threatening to tip over every time the river made a steeper turn — well, she might have exaggerated that part, but Caterina abhorred the feeling of a moving body of water underneath her every moment of the day.
If the trip continued for much longer, she feared she might have a religious epiphany from the constant prayers.
On the first night of their reckless adventure Tommy ran a fever so high Caterina though they might lose him in the same manner as she lost mother. They rotated by his bedside, Curly and her, wiping his forehead with cloth they soaked in the freezing water, calming his shaking limbs until he finally fell asleep. Cat silently admired the way Curly mixed fresh, fragrant herbs she couldn't even name on her own, placing them in bandages over Tommy's wounds, his funny brows furrowing in patient concentration as he nursed him to health.
He might be a simple man, of a bit too many words stuttered, but Caterina was sure he was the kindest person she would ever meet in her lifetime. His funny little stories about the Shelby's and their childhood, or anecdotes from the shipyard made her laugh when they set down to eat. He even kindly offered to teach her how to steer the barge.
She took off her shoes, letting the tips of her toes touch the chilling water, its freshness helping her stay awake after yet another sleepless night.
While Tommy slept like the dead underneath the deck, she spent her nights laying above it, watching as the starry nights turned into painted dawns, mind mulling over every inch of their plan, every possibility and outcome.
"Any of that bacon left Curly?" She called to the man steering the barge. While she was not that hungry at all, she knew Tommy hadn't eaten anything substantial enough in the last few days and she could only get him to eat if he had company to pester him into it.
"Yes, Miss Cat, still some for you and Tommy." Curly bobbed his head up and down in agreement.
Cat rapped her knuckles against the door of the small cabin. "Tommy, come eat something."
He appeared in a matter of moments, stretching his hands above his head as he did so. The colour had returned to his cheeks, though he still sported a nasty bruise over his face and he kept holding his right arm across his chest — she could only guess because of the pain the movement caused him.
"Right, I'm starving," he stated, looking around them, surveying the greenery surrounding them. "Where are we Curly?"
"Heathrow," Curly confirmed his guesses while Cat stood up to come closer and inspect Tommys bandages. "One more day and we'll be there. I'll put something in the pan. Can you steer?"
"I'll give it a go." Tommy motioned for Curly to let him take over.
Cat smiled slightly as Curly disappeared into the cabin. She brought her hand up to touch the already healing scar on Tommys unshaved face. "Curly's horse paste works wonders. Have you entertained the possibility of you being half a horse?"
"Used to sleep in the stables when I was a boy, too." Tommy mused slightly, leaning on the barges rudder. "If I could've, I would've just worked with the horses. No hidden agendas there, no people trying to put a bullet through your brains. Just a good fuckin' horse that appreciates fresh hay and apples."
"Never too late I suppose. You did promise me a horse ride once." Cat reminded him cheekily, buttoning up his disheveled shirt before she resumed her place on the edge of the boat.
"I did," he chuckled slightly, his mind thrown years back, on the stuffy living room and the roaring fireplace in her home, and the unfortunate Monaghan Boy that brought them together.
Perhaps it wouldn't be such a terrible tragedy if the scar remained, Cat though impulsively, the dawning realisation hitting her only when she realised she had been staring at the side of his face for a bit too long.
"Right thank you, now you just steer the boat, I'm far too young to die." She concluded rapidly, flush from both the sun and sudden gust of embarrassment flowing to her cheeks.
And so, instead of continuing their conversation, she ignored the dark haired man's chuckles as she returned to the boat's ledge, admiring how rapidly the colours of the water changed and bubbled into silky white foam, bouncing off the sturdy wood of the barge.
Camden Town was as grey and black as Birmingham was, though at a much grander scale, the looming factory chimneys rising up to the Heavens, chugging out the poisonous smoke and gasses into the pale sky. Hundreds of men could be seen rushing around the docks, unloading the endless cargo from the anchored ships and taking it to the warehouses lined up left and right, resembling the ants in their colony.
"Now that's a whole 'nother side of London we haven't seen. Not glamurous at all." Cat remarked as their barge flowed into one of the canals that was supposed to lead them to their destination.
"Doesn't make it any less important for us. That's the one, get us closer Curly." Tommy pointed in the direction of a large factory, the biggest one they'd seen so far. They could see the workers milling about in white aprons and a sign above the doors said clearly Solomons Bakery.
"You can't deny his creativity. A baker." She followed Tommy, heading uphill to the main entrance to the realm of the infamous jewish gangster that ruled east London.
A young man with a headful of red curls leaned on the wall by the entrance, alert and tense as soon as she saw them approach. Though he was certainly much younger, he towered over Tommy, arms crossed and thick brows etched together scanning them up and down.
"We're here to see Alfie Solomons." Tommy nodded in greeting, flicking the bud of his smoke at the young man's feet. It proved to be a reckless move as Cat barely had time to react as Alfie's man grabbed Thomas by the collar of his shirt and then pulled him into a chokehold.
"Put him down, Ollie!" came a bellowing call.
A man approached them from the depths of the bakery, and Cat reckoned it could only be the man himself - Alfie Solomons. "Put him down, mate. He's only little."
There was something uncommonly handsome in the way the Jewish gangster held himself — his shoulders slightly bent forward but still towering over them, half of his face covered by the rough beard. Beneath two bushy brows bright blue eyes scanned the newcomers appearance with scrutiny.
"Just the two of you?" He asked, eyes darting between Cat and Tommy. Once they nodded in agreement, the Jew simply grumbled, leading the way deeper into his factory, through the heavy machinery and exhausted workers
"You want to take a look at my bakery? We bake all sorts here mate, yeah. Did you know we bake over 10,000 loaves a week? Can you believe it? We bake the white bread, we bake the brown bread. We bake all sorts." While she had met many Southern men and women before, none of them spoke in the same rumbling drawl as Alfie Solomons did. It certainly mirrored his burly physique.
"What would you like, brown or white?" Alfie stopped in a small mixing room, gesturing to the bottles of liquor lined up on a table.
Tommy contemplated his choices with a vary eye. "I'll try the brown."
"How about you lady?" He pointed his question at the only woman in the room. "What do ya drink?"
"I'll wait for the proper good stuff you keep in your office."
The Jewish gangster let out a bark of laughter, passing a small glass of brown liquor into Tommy's hands. "A woman that knows what she wants. I admire that."
"Not bad." Tommy commented, taking a sip of the brown liquor he was given. It was obviously a polite lie, Cat noted by the way his jaw worked as he swallowed it.
Alfie scoffed, glaring at the glass in disgust. "Not bad? Not bad? It's fuckin' awful that stuff. The fucking brown is for the workers. The white stuff, now that is for the bosses. Come look."
He led them through the corridors again, a maze of whirling machinery dwindling and being replaced by rows upon rows of wooded crates and barrels, all marked with a serial number on the side.
While they walked, Cat had a moment to observe the man with his back turned to them — his broad shoulders were covered by a scruff shirt rolled up to his meaty forearms and a baker's apron was tied around his waist. It was an astronomically different picture of a gangster Cat was used to; no oiled hairs or golden watches, no sharply cut suits or polished dress shoes.
Elegant but worn furniture lined the room, filled to the brim with trinkets, crates and other kinds of clutter; an organised kind of chaos Caterina was all too familiar with. As they stood in the office Ollie quickly vanished off into a little glass room, shutting the door behind him and taking a seat, gathering a large book and beginning to scribble messily onto the page
They observed each other, from both sides of the heavy wooden desk that separated them. "You're gypsies, right?" Alfie spoke bluntly.
"He is. I'm Italian." Caterina explained, watching as the Jew's posture changed, back straightening at the mention of her heritage.
Lip curling in disgust he pointed a finger in Cat's direction and stating roughly. "Oh I've been having some trouble with your sort lady."
"I've been having some trouble myself." The woman smiled cheekily, crossing her legs. "What a convenient thing to have in common."
"So what, do you live in a fucking tent or a caravan?"
Tommy's face remained emotionless despite the provocation. "I came here to discuss business with you, Mr Solomons." He stated lowly, reaching into his pocket to pull out a packet of cigarettes along with a box of matches, placing one between his lips and lighting it up.
"Well, rum's for fun and fucking, innit?" Alfie muttered, leaning back in his chair for a moment. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk as if mulling over something in his mind.
"So, whisky, now that..That is for business. The lady knows her stuff." Reaching into is draw and pulling out a bottle of whisky, Alfie nodded appreciatively in Cat's direction.
"Let's talk first, eh?"
"Suit yourself." The Londoner chuckled and stroked his beard a couple of times before continuing in a more serious manner.
"They say you had your life saved by a policeman."
Thomas nodded in agreement, unwilling to tell the entire story of his rescue. "I have policemen on my payroll." He concluded with a tiny shrug of his shoulders.
"Well, I don't like policemen because policemen, they can't be trusted." Alfie's voice lowered as he cracked his knuckles and shook his head in contempt.
Tommy took a long drag of his cigarette before stating. "Mr Sabini uses policemen all the time. That's why he's winning the war in London and you are losing it."
"A war ain't over until it's over, mate." It was obvious the Jew was holding back the impulse to murder Tommy on the spot.
"You were in the war?"
"I once carried out my own personal form of stigmata on an Italian. I pushed his face up against the trench and shoved a six-inch nail up his fucking nose and I hammered it home with a duck board." Solomons exhaled in pleasure at the memory.
"It was fucking biblical, mate. Pardons to the lady but your people are fuckin' wops."
"No offence taken Mr Solomons." She returned with a saccharine smile she perfected over her lifetime.
Alfie grit his teeth, leaning slightly over the table in a threatening manner. "So don't come in here and sit there in my chair and tell me that I'm losing my war to a fucking wop."
"The war's been over for four years, it's time to bury it where it belongs. And would a war be won without an alliance?" Caterina offered, tiring of the men's dancing around the subject at hand.
"Bury it, yeah? Bury?" Heavily he leaned back in his squeaky chair and looked between the two for a moment.
"Well, if you weren't losing the war, then you wouldn't have sent me the telegram."
"Really? You forget your fucking telegram. The telegram just said, Hello !" His eyes flashed in annoyance, his demeanour changing once again before he continued.
"Now, you didn't come all the way down here to sit in that chair and insult me. Very simple, you want to sell me something. What d' you want?"
"We join forces."
"Fuck off." Alfie barked instantly, slamming his large hand on the table. "No! Categorical. Fucking ridiculous."
"Mr Solomons. Your distillery provides one-tenth of your income. Protection is another 10%. And the rest you make from the race tracks." Cat retained a steady eye-contact with the man on the opposite side of the desk, slowly leaning in with her palms against the smooth wood.
"I know you keep a gun in the drawer. I know you keep it beside the whisky. I know you offer a deal or death." She was a woman who did her research on her enemies; it was imperative to show the man in front of them they were not just a bunch of Northern heathens, that they knew how to play the game.
"I know what I'm saying makes you angry. But we are offering you a solution."
Tommy took the man's seething silence as a sign to but in. "Mr Sabini is running all your bookies off your courses. And he is closing down the premises that take your rum. And people don't trust your protection any more."
Alfie interrupted him, very still as he bore his blue eyes into Tommy's. "You're the bloke who shot Billy Kimber, right?"
"You did, you fucking shot him. That's you. You fucking betrayed him, mate. So it'd be entirely appropriate to do what I am thinking in my head to you right now." With a gravel like chuckle his head snapped in Cat's direction. "And you lady betrayed your whole fuckin' family — and you wops want me to trust you?"
With a familiar click a pistol was pointed directly at Tommy's head.
"But you won't because we can offer you hundred good men, all with weapons. And a new relationship with the police." Cat fired her words rapidly, not willing to risk Tommy's life on hesitance.
"Intelligence."
"Intelligence is a very valuable thing, innit, my friend? And usually it comes far too fucking late." His tone was patronising, but still, the man lowered his gun to the table.
"Let's say that I shot you already, right, in the fucking face."
"And the bullet goes bone, mush, bone, cabinet over there. Which is a shame, innit, 'cause that cabinet's fucked now and I got to get shot of it. So, what I'd do is this...It's fucking simple, mate. I cut that cabinet in half, don't I? I do. I just literally... I cut the cabinet... I cut... I cut the cabinet literally in half, mate."
It was all a show, Cat observed, leaning back in the leather seat of her chair. While Alfie's penchant for theatrics certainly had impact on some men, in this case he was entirely predictable. He'd be a fool to pass on a deal like they were offering them if he wanted to save both his business and his head, but Alfie also had to show them who's the boss and that he could off them in any moment if he pleased.
She was not unfamiliar with such intimidation techniques - Polly liked to call it measuring of cocks. Which one of them was a bigger, badder gangster.
"And I take one half of the cabinet, all right, and I put it into a barrel and I take the other half of the cabinet and all its pieces and I put that into another barrel, right? And I send this barrel off to Mandalay. And the other barrel off to somewhere like...I don't know...Timbuktu. You ever been?"
"No." Tommy deadpanned, unamused.
"No? Would you like to go?"
"No."
Alfie made a sound at the back of his throat, leaning back into his chair. "You know, I always thought that you'd have a great big fucking gold ring in your nose."
"Did not expect you to be so pretty either." He glanced towards Cat, entirely aware of the glare Tommy was sending his way.
"I'm sorry, go on, " Alfie turned his attention back at the gypsy gangster with a smug, wide smile. "Tell us your plan."
It took them well over two hours of jabs, insults and Alfie's gruff rambling to reach some kind of an agreement before they exchanged tense goodbye's at the main entrance.
Pleased by the meeting and some jab Caterina made at the expense of his archenemy, Darby Sabini, Alfie chuckled heartily, leading them to the exit. "Shalom love, shalom."
" 'Tis a shame you're not Jewish. You'd be a good Jewish woman, strong, beautiful, much more amusing than the gypsy boy there." He sneaked a glance at Tommy who hid his scowl well behind his hand, as he lit a fresh cigarette while he waited for his companion.
"Well, Mr Solomons, you might still manage to convert me." Caterina enjoyed his attention and Alfie bent down to kiss her knuckles like a gentleman.
"Alfie, please." He gave her one last grin before bidding his goodbye's and heading back to the distillery.
"I liked him." Caterina decided once she reached Tommy again.
"Course you did."
"Well, if I didn't know you better Thomas Shelby, I'd say you're jealous." She teased, sneaking her arm around Tommy's elbow as they trudged through the muddy courtyard of the factory.
Scoffing slightly, he flicked some ash in the air. "Nothing to be jealous of."
"Sure," She took his explanation half heartedly, sneaking a side glance at his pale face. "What's left on today's agenda?"
"I'll go talk to Ada, you take this." He fished a wad of money tied with a piece of rope and placed it into her hands. "And book us a room somewhere for tonight."
"Tommy, this is too much. You gave me over a hundred pounds, do you want me to get robbed?" Cat hissed, unlinking their arms.
"As if you don't have a gun in your coat pocket." He rolled his pale eyes, adjusting the flat cap on his head. "Go get yourself something nice to wear, and I'll see you for dinner."
"You're absolutely mad." Cat concluded in resignation, though she had to admit the prospect of shopping in some of the London's high end shops made her giddy like a child. The fact that she was wearing the same set of clothes for the last five days only added to it. "We're staying at The Ritz then."
"And buy yourself a suit on the way, you look like a gypsy!" She called after him before he was out of her sight, black coat melting into the scenery.
"Miss Cat, what about me?" Startled, Cat turned around to see Curly waiting expectantly on the barge. A pang of guilt stung her heart, having forgotten he was waiting for them the whole time.
"Oh Curly!" She apologised, plucking a couple of bills from the wad Tommy gave her and handing them to Curly. It was the least she could to for his kindness. "I'm sorry, you can go home now. I'll call up Arthur to fetch us back home tomorrow morning."
Though hesitant to accept such a generous gift, Curly beamed with a new bout of spirit. "Yes, yes. Good luck Miss Cat!"
He waved and waved until January turned into a dot in the foggy canals and Caterina was left alone on the docks of Camden Town.
"Polly, I'm home!"
The boys had proudly told her about the house they presented to Polly that morning and so, once she couldn't find here anywhere else, Cat set off to give her the present she bought her in London.
It was one of those posh houses in a row, in a wealthy, respectable neighbourhood that you'd find on a cover of some magazine — the lush green lawn in the front and a yard with fruit trees in the back.
Caterina set her spare key — courtesy of one Thomas Shelby - on the side table by the door, closing it with her heel. Balancing a finely wrapped package containing Polly's gift — a stunning set of pearls connected by a silver chain — and the one with fresh glazed buns she picked up on her way, Cat wandered through the hallways.
"I know you said absolutely nothing for your birthday, but I was just browsing through the jewellers section and a this caught my eye. I could practically see you-"
The sight she found in the sitting room stopped her dead in her tracks. Polly sat on the sofa, head in her hands and a half drunk bottle of whiskey in front of her. Soft sobs came from her gaunt figure, shoulders trembling.
"Pol?" Cat stepped in tentatively, lowering down the bags in her hands.
"She's dead." Her voice came out as a cracked whisper, dragging the palms of her hands underneath her eyes to wipe away the remainder of tears, avoiding looking up to the woman coming to sit beside her.
"Who's dead Pol?"
"My daughter." Polly clenched her jaw, trying to prevent another gust of tears forming in her eyes. Cat waited patiently as the woman wiped her bloodshot eyes with a tissue
"My Anna, my beautiful little girl." Her shoulders shook, sniffing. "I've been to that medium, the one in the Patch. I felt something was off. She told me my Sallyanna passed on but Michael still lives and then Thomas found him."
A bitter chuckle passed her lips, "And now he won't tell me where my son is. He knows, the bastard, and he won't tell me."
"Did I ever tell you about the day they took them away from me? I'll tell you." Polly took a deep breath to still her beating heart. "When my George died Anna was five and Michael was so little, just turned three. It was Sunday morning, I was at church...This... Pinched-faced bitch said to me You're not forgiven."
Polly's face morphed into one of disgust, loathing as she remembered the way the woman smiled as they pulled her children from her, as she kicked and screamed like a banshee. "You see, some sheets I'd washed and hung on the line had the name of a hotel in them. They'd been stolen in a robbery, and they said some porter at the hotel had been coshed. And a woman from around here told the police about the sheets. Jealous, you see, about the new sheets. And when the police came, they found a spirits still. Making a few drops of gin. And for that... They took my children from me. And they never told me where they took them."
"And they did it 'cause they could, and 'cause I was weak."
And just like that, the barrier was broken once again and Polly collapsed in Cat's arms, weeping in anguish. "It was all my fault. My fault."
"It wasn't Polly, it wasn't your fault. It was people and their venomous tongues."
"Let's pray, yeah? Give me your hands." Reaching forward to take Polly's hands in her own she instructed her to close her eyes in prayer and focus on breathing deeply and fully.
"We'll pray for her soul and for Michael, wherever he might be. Fate works in mysterious ways, you never know, it might bring him right to your doorstep."
Neither of the women knew just how right she was.
