ElevenThey gathered in Mayor Howard's home, oil lamps dimmed, the fire crackling in the grate. Millie, the maid, served French brandy from a cut-glass decanter and the men sat and sipped their drinks, huddled around the impressively large table.
“If you can get off the telegram, Marcus, we may still be able to come out of this alive,” said Howard.
“Sooner better than later,” added Springer, curling his fingers around the bowl of the brandy glass.
“I'll need one of you to watch out for that murdering bastard,” said Marcus Jones. “God knows what he'll do if he finds out.”
“He'll kill us all,” said Springer and shot a glance towards Lomax, the Alderman. “You do it, Prentice. Keep watch.”
Lomax spluttered as the brandy caught the back of his throat, “Jesus, Norton, I'm no goddamned gunsli
