[Warning: Language]
Chasen Burkett opened his eyes and stretched, long and languidly. The sheets, though worn, were good stout linen and had been clean and freshly pressed the night before. A few extra quid in the Landlady's palm had been enough for extra pleasures of this sort. Clean sheets with out holes or patches, several extra baths in the week, jam with his morning tea (and the occasional pot of coffee). The baker's boy brought him the freshest buns of a morning for an extra ha-penny, and he never wanted for honey or butter with his breakfast. Amazing what a little extra cash could accomplish.
The cool linen, worn to a softness unimaginable, caressed his naked body as he folded his arms behind his head and watched the flickering morning shadows on the ceiling. A light, fresh breeze played with the sheer lace curtains at the window, sending images of paisley curly-cues running up the wall. Birds serenaded him with territorial declarations. Cart horses clip-clopped in the street below. In the distance, a train whistle blew as it approached a crossing. A steam whistle, wild and woeful. The city was waking to a new day.
He lay abed for a while, unwilling to surrender this cool tranquility. Soon enough the street noises would turn ugly, with shop-keepers touting their wares and urchins fighting over treasures, real or imagined, skimmed from the gutters. Toffs would cry foul as their pockets were expertly picked by soulful-looking, ragged four-year-olds. Before long, there would be police whistles to replace the train, and crying children to replace the birds. For now, he lay in peace, listening as housemaids shared gossip on the front steps as they scrubbed them down.
A fragment in particular caught his attention. "The gent in 8, now there's a strange one!" asserted the maid washing the steps of his lodging-house. Her accent was thick, and East End, but he had no difficulty understanding her. "Strange people up there, all hours of the night!"
"Ooooo," cooed the other. "Bit of a one for the Ribbons and Curls, is 'e?"
"Naaaaaaaaah," asserted the other. "'E's nothing of a ladies man, that one. I ain't never seen him with a Liver and Heart, much less a lady! 'E keeps to hisself, does Number 8. But the queer customers that comes ta see 'im! Crikey! There was one there last night as made my blood run cold! I swear...Beelzebub, hisself, couldn'ta made my flesh crawl any faster!"
He heard the other maid grunt in commiseration. "You best watch yersel'," she advised. "He sounds like a Tough. You'll find yersel' popped off in the middle of the night, you will!"
"Naaaaaaaaaaah," his maid repeated. "'E's right enough, is Number 8. Always has the kind word fer me, he does. An' a extra bit of Jacob's Ass, come week's end!"
The other whistled. "What's 'e want to be payin' you extra for, then?"
"Get out of it!" cried the other, aggrieved but amused. "It's nuthin' like that! I told ya, 'e ain't one for a quick toss." There was an eloquent pause. "Not as I wouldn't like it, mind you. 'E's a bit of a looker, is Number 8. Dark, tall, 'andsome..." He heard a sigh. "No...if 'e ever was ta look me over with them dark blue loafs and pies of 'is, I'd give 'im a tumble quick as horses! I swear I would!"
The other maid laughed. "I told you, and I'll tell you again, you'd best watch yersel'!" They giggled together for a moment. Then a passing vehicle drowned out the remainder of their conversation.
Burkett had half a mind to climb out of bed to peep out the window. It might be a useful bit of information to know which of the various maidservants it was. But he resisted, contenting himself with an amused smile. The idea that a young lass would gladly jump into bed with him just at a look made him think this was likely to be an especially satisfying day.
Gary Horstman checked his oven. The bread was done. He opened up the brick-lined cave and, using his favorite peel, lifted out the heavenly loaf. Round, crusty, filling the air with the slight tang of sourdough, it gave a satisfying hollow thump as he set it down on the board to cool. Now for coffee.
He kept his roaster on the top floor of his converted warehouse paradise, so that the smell of roasting coffee would fill the air--and not his house. He took it out and plugged it in. Two scoops of green beans--Ethiopian Yergacheffe--and he was off.
Starting at a low temperature, he let the water bleed off before he turned it up. The beans started to hop about in the glass chamber just a bit. 250 degrees. He turned it up. Soon they were starting to bubble like the multi-colored wooden beads in the push-toy he'd had as a child. 275. 300. He liked a slow roast, so he let it stay there for a bit. Turn up a hair. 325. 350. 10 minutes...12... 375... Turn up a hair more... 400... The first little popping sounds. 410, a full First Crack. The beans were jumping around like popcorn now. Hold it... hold it... 15 minutes... up a little... 425... 17 minutes... 450 and the Second Crack. He liked it a little past Full City Roast, so he let it go all the way through and watched closely for the first signs of the slick shine of oil. Just a bit longer... 475... THERE!
He turned off the heat and let the fan keep the beans in motion as they cooled. 19 minutes. Perfect. He considered doing a second, quick roast for blending, but decided he didn't want to wait that long. And, besides, he prefered the heaviness, body and bite of the slower roast. It would be good this morning. There was a chill in the air.
He took his beans downstairs. He really ought to let them sit and de- gas, but he didn't have 4 hours to waste today. Maybe tomorrow. He'd roast some more tonight and let them mellow overnight.
He ground the warm beans and tossed them into his French Press coffee-maker. Water just below the boil followed, and he set the timer for 4 minutes. While he waited, he chunked up melons and sliced strawberries. He thumped the bread. It needed a few more moments to cool. In the mean time, he took out some roasted garlic and mashed it up in butter. Then he used some in a frying pan. He cracked and whisked up three eggs--not too hard-- and tossed them into the melted butter, moving them gently while they cooked. Creamy layers of scrambled eggs resulted, and he took them off the heat before they were completely solid, half-covering them with a lid. Then he sliced the bread, shoved it under the broiler for a moment or two, and then spread the garlic-butter over the pieces, tossing on a little rosemary-flavored grey salt at the end.
He stirred the coffee, then slowly but firmly pressed the plunger through the deep brown liquid, forcing all the grounds and gunk to the bottom of the beaker.
Breakfast was ready. Except for... He looked around. Ah! Orange juice. It took him a trice to slice oranges from his favorite tree and press the juice into his glass.
He loaded his tray, and carried it all--along with the Nexus Advocate-Journal--up to the roof-top garden. Another morning in Nexus. Might it always be this way.
Diana Michaels huddled in a back-alley doorway, trying to stay out of the cold, drizzly rain. At least here she was protected from the biting wind that had plagued her earlier. She tugged at her collar and wished she hadn't swapped her warm, woolen pea-coat for the more striking--but thinner--black leather biker jacket. Seemed as though her life had been a long string of bad trades lately.
Her erstwhile blonde but now black-dyed hair, gone all spiky and wild from a combination of wet and neglect, haloed her head like coal-smoke and hung in her eyes no matter how often she pushed it away. So she had given up trying. Her black tights were holey at the knees and along the ankles, her short black skirt hiked up to reveal another hole at her left thigh. She propped her chin in her hands.
-I wonder what Burkett is doing right now,- she mused grimly. -Wonder if he's killing someone.- She tipped her head back to check the sky and got a face-full of rain for her trouble. She swore foully and huddled in again. -Maybe the Twistings finally got the bastard!- she considered, the first hopeful thought she'd had in months. -Maybe they're still torturing him in some dark hole right now!-
She took a sort of grisly pleasure in this thought. The notion that The Great Chasen Burkett might be getting his come-uppance filled her with something close to glee.
"Fuck," she said out loud. "I wish I could be there to see it. Shit, I wish I could be there to HELP."
She cursed again as an accumulation of rain water escaped the eaves overhead and made a successful bombing run down the back of her neck.
"Fuck you, Burkett," she growled. "I swear I'll get you one of these days. If it's the last thing I do, I'll get you."
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