The street was their turf, and they knew it.
One bumped lightly into Roarke as they passed. "Beg pardon," he began, then cursed ripely when Roarke grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
"Mind the hands, boyo. I don't care for any but my own in my pockets."
"Turn me loose." He swung, co
mically missed in a roundhouse as Roarke held him at arm's length. "Bloody bastard, I never pinched nothing."
"Only because you've thick hands. Christ, I was better than you when I was six." He gave the boy a quick shake, more in exasperation of his clumsiness than in annoyance with the act itself. "A drunk tourist from the west counties would have felt that grope. And you were obvious as well." He looked down into the boy's furious face and shook his head. "You'd do better as the pass-off man than the pincher."
"That's great, Roarke, why don't you give him a few lessons on thievery while you're at it."
At Eve's words the boy's eyes flickered and narrowed. He stopped struggling. "They tell tales of a Roarke who used to work these streets. Lived in the shanties and made himself a right fortune off quick fingers and nerves."
"You've got the nerves, but you don't have the fingers."
"They work well enough on most." Relaxed now, the boy flashed Roarke a quick and charming grin. "And if they don't I can outrun any cop on two legs."
Roarke leaned down, lowered his voice. "This is my wife, you bonehead, and she's a cop."
"Jay-sus."
"Exactly." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins. "I'd keep these for myself if I were you. Your associates scattered like rats. They didn't stand with you and don't deserve a share."
"I won't be after dividing it." The coins disappeared into his pocket. "It's been a pleasure making your acquaintance." He slid his gaze to Eve, nodded with surprisingly dignity. "Missus," he murmured, then ran like a rabbit into the dark.
"How much did you give him?" Eve asked.
"Enough to tickle his humor and not disturb his pride." He slid his arm around her waist and began to walk again.
"Remind you of someone?"
"No indeed," Roarke said with a cheer he hadn't expected to feel. "I'd never have been caught so handily."
"I don't see that it's anything to brag about. Besides, your fingers wouldn't be so light these days."
"I'm sure you're right. A man loses his touch with age." Smiling, he held out the badge he'd lifted out of her pocket. "I think this is yours. Lieutenant."
She snatched it back and struggled to be neither amused nor impressed. "Show-off."
"I could hardly let you disparage my reputation. And here we are." He stopped again, studying the pub. "The Penny Pig. Hasn't changed much. A bit cleaner maybe."
"It could be readying for competition for the tidy village award."
It was unimposing from the outside. The grilled window boasted a painting of a sly-eyed white pig. No flowers bloomed here, but the glass was free of smears, the sidewalk free of litter.
The minute Roarke opened the door she felt the rush of heat, the jittery flow of voices and music, the cloud of beer fumes and smoke.
It was one long, narrow room. Men were lined at the old wooden bar. Others, including women and young children, were packed onto chairs around low tables where glasses crowded the space. At the far end at a tiny booth sat two men. One played a fiddle, the other a small box that squeezed out a jumpy tune.
High on the wall was a mini view screen with the sound turned off. On it a man struggled to ride a bicycle down a pitted lane and continued to take tumbles. No one appeared to be watching the show.
Behind the bar two men worked, pulling drafts, pouring liquor. Several people glanced over as they entered, but the conversations never lagged.
Roarke moved to the end of the bar. He recognized the older of the bartenders, a man of his own age who'd once been thin as a rail and filled with wicked humor.
While he waited for service, he lifted a hand to Eve's shoulder and rubbed absently. He was grateful to have her beside him when he took this short trip into the past.