Malarkey summarily hurled Chevie into the arms of the throng.

“Hold her. Not too tight now, boys. No one hurts the maiden but me.”

He ran to the Telephonicus Farspeak and delicately answered the call, little finger raised like a duchess taking tea.

“Helloooo,” he said, his accent a little more refined than usual. “This is Mr. Otto Malarkey speaking from the HideyHole. Who is it on the hother end?”

Malarkey listened a moment, then pressed the earpiece to his chest and hissed to the Rams.

“It’s Charismo. I can hear him so clear, like he’s a fairy in my ear hole.”

No one was particularly surprised to hear that it was Charismo’s voice emanating from the earpiece, as it was Mr. Charismo who had installed the Farspeak in the Hidey-Hole. Even so, at the mention of his name, several of the villains blessed themselves, and a couple of the Catholics genuflected. A few more Rams formed triangles with their thumbs and forefingers, an ancient gesture to ward off evil.

“Come now, brothers. Mr. Charismo is a friend to the Rams,” said Malarkey, but his words sounded forced and hollow.

Malarkey listened some more, his face falling. When Charismo had finished speaking, Malarkey nodded as if that could be transmitted over the phone line, then replaced the ivory earpiece in its holder on the base.

“Well, Rams,” he said. “There’s good and bad in it. Mr. Charismo has heard somehow of the Injun and the boy. He instructs that we deliver them direct to his residence. There is not to be a mark on either, he says.”

“And the good news?” asked a Ram in the front row of the throng.

“The good? The good is that the bout cannot technically be concluded, so all bets are off.” Malarkey smiled broadly. “Which is good news. For your king, which is me.”

A few of the Rams grumbled, but not too loudly, and Malarkey knew that his luck would not be questioned. All in all, it was the best possible result for the Ram king: his reputation was intact, his purse no lighter, and Mr. Charismo had been in a much better mood than expected, considering. A good day’s graft all around.

•••

Farley finished the simple Ram motif on Riley’s shoulder and swabbed it with medicinal alcohol.

“Don’t pick at the scab,” he advised, “or you’ll end up with scarring, which makes my design look bad.”

Riley could not work out what had happened. “Is my friend safe? Is the fighting done?”

Farley placed a clean rag across the tattoo. “The fight has been suspended. A client has expressed an interest in meeting you, as I thought he might.”

Riley frowned. There were politics at work here.

“So, you sent word to this gent? It was you that saved us, Mr. Farley?”

Farley tied the knot tightly. “Quiet now, boy. I took a few bob for sending a message, that’s all.”