As if it were hidden. As if every bobby in London were not perfectly aware of its exact address. As if constables did not extend their routes by miles simply to avoid going anywhere near the Rams’ headquarters.

Yes, the un-hidden Hidey-Hole. The next port of call for the Red Glove.

The sun was already long past the spire when Garrick purchased a mug of coffee from his regular man on the tip of Oxford Street, but his palate had been educated by twenty-first-century coffee, and he judged this mug as bilge water not fit for the Irish. He flung it to the cobbles and vowed to take his custom elsewhere in the future.

The coffee soured his mood briefly, but the memory of his artful disposal of the three Rams who had violated his beloved theater cheered him somewhat.

I behaved righteously, he realized. Bad men came to murder me and I defeated them.

Self-defense was unusual for Garrick, and he allowed a grim and righteous anger to build in his breast.

An eye for an eye, sayeth the scriptures, thought the magician, deciding to ignore the New Testament for now, as Turn the other cheek did not suit his argument.

In daylight hours the Haymarket was little more than a rowdy thoroughfare, with an uncommonly high number of gin houses; but the rising of the moon had a more alarming effect on the tiny borough than it would have had on one cursed with lycanthropy.

First came the bonfires, plonked directly onto the pavement, and no sooner lit than surrounded by half a dozen ruffianly individuals, pulling on pints of gin and passing around pungent cigars. Then, drawn perhaps by the bonfires’ smoke signals, came the dandies and the players, and a veritable brigade of ne’er-do-wells, all destined to embroil themselves in heavy drinking, illegal betting, and cardsharping before the night was out.

Garrick generally considered himself too fine a gentleman to frequent the Haymarket after dusk, but needs must; and if he was to have the contract on his head lifted, he would have to visit the king in his broken-down palace.

By the time he arrived at Rogues’ Walk, the corner was already six deep in night owls, with a glut of brawn outside the Hidey-Hole’s double doors as patrons lined up for a ringside view of the Battering Rams’ infamous fighting ring, which on any given night could feature exotic warriors, dogs, roosters, and even, on one notorious occasion, a dwarf and an Australian miniature bear.

This is not the time to speak with Otto Malarkey, Garrick realized. Even a man of my talents could not hope to penetrate such an army. But my moment will come.

Garrick was distracted from his task by the sight of a sometime stooge of his sauntering toward the bonfires, then begging nips of gin from the lowlifes warming their hands.

Lacey Boggs. My West End songbird.