Jack Dagon tapped his meerschaum pipe on the bar. The pipe had yellowed with age and use, and nude figure of a woman carved into its shank and stem had enough nicks and gouges to make the once beautiful alabaster femme look like she had suffered a bout of the pox. Jack rubbed his face with a calloused hand, and at that moment was feeling every bit of his fifty-one years. The tavern was smokier than usual and his eyes burned. He wasn’t ready to admit that he was tired. Dawn was just a few hours away but he didn’t want to go home yet.

The door of the Wicked Fish swung open, bringing with it a cold blast of the night's air. A woman entered alone. She paused in the doorway to pull off her headscarf, revealing thick, red ringlets that cascaded to her shoulders. She had a pretty face with large, bright eyes and high cheekbones, smooth skin and the healthy glow of youth. She wore a green fitted overcoat that accentuated her tiny waist and broad hips. Her entrance turned every head in the house. Rather than shy away from the attention, she tossed a wink at the bartender before taking a seat unaccompanied at the far end of the bar.

Jack was certain he hadn't seen her around the Fish before. He certainly would have remembered such a beauty, but even the most average woman would have been remarkable at the Fish. With the exception of an occasional lady of the evening, unescorted women were almost unheard of there. Men came to the Wicked Fish to escape the fair sex in favor of good banter and a cheap drink. The Fish had its share of prostitutes, sure, but they were all well-known to the establishment and carried with them a similar unhealthy pallor and dead-eyed gaze. But this particular lass had beautifully ruddy cheeks and, judging by her easy, open-mouthed laugh that lilted across the room, she appeared to be in possession of all her teeth. She had barely taken her seat at the bar before she was surrounded by a cluster of gape-mouthed drunks vying for the chance to buy her a drink.

Jack saw no reason not to join the fray.

He rose to his feet, picked a piece of lint from his the lapel of his burgundy overcoat and ran a hand through his shoulder length black hair. The drink was starting to go to his head, but he steadied himself on the bar and strode toward the redhead with the confidence that only a belly full of ale can bring.

“Cold night, isn’t it? I bet you could use a little something to warm you up." Jack elbowed his way in between the woman and one of her admirers. He wisely choked back a protest when Jack gave him a stony glare. He was a skinny fellow, all bones wrapped in a bad suit, and nearly a half a head shorter than Jack.

The redhead smiled her acceptance and Jack waved the barman over to fill her glass.

"I'd like to learn your name, Red. My name's Jack."

A playful sprinkle of freckles danced across her nose. Jack couldn’t guess her age, though she was clearly much younger than he. "Adeline. Thank you for the drink, Jack." She spoke in quiet tones and Jack had to lean in close to hear her over the din of the tavern. He could smell a hint of rosewater on her skin.

"With pleasure. I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before. We aren't used to visits from the fairer sex here at the Fish."

A giggle spilled from her lips. She was, indeed, the only woman in the room. She covered her laugh with a delicate hand that hid her smile. The dark cloud that had dampened Jack's mood all evening began to lift. He waited for her to offer an explanation for her solitary presence, but she gave none and Jack found himself all the more intrigued by her. She tipped back her glass expertly and downed the drink in two swallows.

Jack fished a coin out of his overcoat and flipped it onto the bar. The barkeep swept it up as he slid a clean mug in front of Adeline and a grimy one in front of Jack. Jack picked up the glass to take a long swig when a hard shove from his left sent the brackish drink over the edge of the glass, soaking his coat sleeve. Jack was on his feet quickly, fist ready.

"Mr. Dagon," a stout, dark-skinned man with deep-set eyes said as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the spilled drink from the bar. "I do beg your pardon, I seem to have slipped on something. Barkeep! Kindly bring Mr. Dagon a fresh glass. A clean one this time. I am so sorry, Mr. Dagon." Jack's fist withered but remained on call at his side.

"I don't believe I've ever made your acquaintance, sir, and I don't like this introduction." Jack's words were slurred by the drink, but his mind was sharp. He brought his hands together and gave his knuckles a loud crack.

"I do apologize, Mr. Dagon. The name is Bigsby,” he removed his burgundy porkpie hat and tucked it under his arm. “I've been sent to locate you and engage your services." Bigsby held Jack's gaze for a long moment.

"My services?” Jack spat. “It’s the middle of the night, and as I’m sure you can see, I’m having a conversation with this lovely young lady. It is no time to talk about business.” He spoke with confidence but as he did he made a quick mental inventory of his finances. He had just closed a case the week before, so his rent was paid and he had enough money left in his pocket to eat and drink for a good two weeks. “Besides,” he continued, picking up the fresh mug that the barkeep slipped in front of him. “I have enough work." The truth was that he had no new cases lined up, he had no savings to speak of, and he had more than a handful of bill collectors visiting his flat on the regular. But he was more interested in wooing Adeline than he was in talking business. And after an incident led him to Africa in search of a missing one-eyed pet elephant last year, Jack decided that he would never again accept new work while he was drinking.

Jack turned back to Adeline and caught her face frozen in a mask of horror. His heart sank when he realized it was his disfigured left ear that was the object of her disgust. Jack had lived with the deformity for the better part of twenty years and while he never quite forgot about it, he sometimes neglected to hide it properly behind his long hair. She tried to recover from the obvious insult but their friendly banter stalled and her words came out forced and awkward. She began making small talk with a young gentleman who had sidled up to the bar next to her. Jack’s foul mood returned just as easily as she had whisked it away.

“I’m sorry,” she mouthed to him as he retreated back to his stool at the other side of the bar. Her face was sincere but the damage was done. The barkeep poured Jack another glass of ale with a chaser of sympathy.

Jack knew he was too old to take an insult so personally, but he couldn’t help it. It stung. The ear wasn't such an awful sight back in his day. When bare-knuckle boxing was in fashion all of its associated injuries were badges of honor. They were symbols of merit, emblems of the street brawler’s rough-and-tumble world. Jack’s torn, disfigured ear came with a great story about a solid fight, a victory, and a heavy purse that bought round after round of drinks for his friends. For weeks men talked about how “Black Jack” Dagon, beaten and bloodied, ear torn from his head and dangling by a thread of gore, came back to win the fight with a knockout punch. It was the comeback story of the year, and the papers ate it up. Jack was a hero, very nearly a legend. In those days, everyone recognized Black Jack Dagon. He had women in every city, and after his fights they elbowed each other just to get a chance to mop the sweat from his brow. But that was a lifetime ago. Jack had long retired, and now the wounds that were once a source of pride tended to repulse the fairer sex. Other than his deformed ear, he had aged rather well - his hair resisted the changes of time and remained dark and shiny. A few age lines crossed his face, mostly at the corners of his mouth. He kept his face clean shaven and his clothes simple but neat. His years of brawling gave him an impressive physique that belied his five decades. But those years of fighting took their toll on Jack Dagon in other ways. The disfigured ear and a large trench on his right cheek, left by a poorly healed gash, were obvious imperfections. Less obvious was the rheumatism in both his hands and the near-constant ache in his spine. But nothing in the world made him feel his age like a woman’s rejection.

Defeated and moody, he sipped his drink slowly. Even the ale had a sour note now. It was that Bigsby’s fault. If he hadn’t interrupted them, he’d still be talking to Adeline. She’d be looking up at him coquettishly from below her thick eyelashes, laughing at his jokes and letting her hand linger near his, close enough for him to feel her heat. He pulled his tobacco pouch from his pocket, pushed a pinch into his pipe and tapped it absently with his silver tamper. “Just you and me now,” he said quietly to the nude figure carved into his pipe. He relit the pipe and took a long drag. The tobacco was a cheap blend, almost a little too tart, but it fit his mood fine. Across the bar, fair Adeline had found a new fellow - a young chap with quite normal looking ears, naturally. The boy probably never threw a punch in his life. Jack knew he was too many drinks into the night already but emptied his mug anyway and caught the barkeep's eye. With a nod, he poured another glass.

"Mr. Dagon," Bigsby placed a hand on Jack's shoulder.

“I think you’ve done enough damage tonight, Mr. Bigsby,” Jack said. His eyes didn’t leave his pipe. “I’m not interested.”

Bigsby held up a fat envelope. Jack’s name was printed in block letters on it. "The offer is generous. Quite generous."

Jack set his mug down on the bar top and took another long drag from his pipe. He turned the pipe over in his hand and pretended to look disinterested. "How much are we talking about here?"

Next Chapter: The Discovery