Elliot slowly opened the shop door. The cold wood stung his hands through Finn's thin gloves. His boots made a rough sound on the old floor, stirring a faint whiff of ink and stale tobacco; a Birmingham scent he'd come to know well in his few days here.
The gas lamp above flickered, throwing shadows on the counter where he set down three wicker baskets: Red, Blue, and Yellow. Each had a clear label written in chalk.
Red: Morning Races
Blue: Afternoon Races
Yellow: Bets Over a Pound
He stepped back and nudged the Yellow basket so it caught the dim light from the lamp. His eyes swept over the shop: ledgers stacked unevenly, slips half-filed, and odds scribbled in the margins.
Disorder.
The baskets are his solution, a way to bring order to the chaos, where every missed bet is a loss. He's noticed the tension in Polly's jaw and heard rumors of Kimber's men pressuring bookmakers nearby.
Word is, Tommy's set up Monaghan Boy to win today's Worcester race, and every punter in Small Heath is hoping for a payout.
Efficiency is a weapon, and he's forging it.
At precisely 6:20, the door swept open. Polly Gray strode in like the room owed her it's silence. Her black coat rippled behind her with the chill clinging to her. She tossed the coat over a chair with one fluid motion and lit a cigarette from a match. She didn't speak at first, just eyed the baskets, then the chalkboard and finally Elliot.
"You like tidy things, do you?" Her voice was rough silk, the kind that carried a sharp edge.
Elliot holds her gaze, Finn's boyish face masking the calm resolve behind his eyes. "It saves time, Pol."
She puffs a cloud of smoke while sizing him up. "We'll see if it saves anything else."
The door swung again, this time harder. Arthur Shelby burst in, face still blotched from some fight last night. He cracked his knuckles like a man preparing to argue with the world. "Where's my bloody pen?" he growled with his eyes scanning the counter. Then his eyes landed on the baskets, his eyes narrowing.
"What's this nonsense? We runnin' a bloody market now?"
Polly didn't even look at him. "New system. Finn's idea."
Arthur snorts, looming over Elliot, his grin half-threat, half-jest. "If it mucks up Monaghan Boy's bets, lad, you'll wear these baskets on your head."
John Shelby saunters in with his cap tilted, a smirk on his face and a charm that could light a room.. He claps Elliot's back nearly knocking him into the counter. "Finn, you bloody genius! If this sorts Monaghan Boy's pile, I'll kiss you meself." He winks, tossing a coin and catching it mid-air.
Elliot grins, Finn's usual slouch masking the sharpness beneath. "Keep your lips to yourself, John." The familiar noise of his brothers; Arthur's growl and John's teasing fills the room with warmth, but his focus never wavers. His mind stays fixed on the baskets, on the game he's playing, and the war that's about to start.
By ten o'clock, the shop is a maelstrom of noise and motion. Punters cram the counter, flat caps skewed, elbows shoving as they roar bets with Monaghan Boy's name— Tommy's fix and the start of everything—on every lip for Worcester's morning race.
The air thickens with cigar smoke and the sour sting of sweat.
Arthur shouts out odds, his voice rough and loud and his fists twitching like they're hungry for a brawl. "Monaghan Boy at three-to-one, you mugs! Get it in or piss off!"
John, all smirks and quick fingers scoops coins into a tin, tossing quips to keep the crowd loose. "Bet big lads, Tommy's horse'll make you kings!"
Polly writes in the ledger with quick, sharp strokes, her attention locked in blocking out the noise around her.
Elliot stands near the counter watching everything. His eyes catch every move; each name, each slip where it goes. Red. Blue. Yellow. He remembers it all like it's written in his head.
A punter in a ragged waistcoat glares at the baskets, his slip a crumpled mess. "What's this basket bollocks?"
"Red for morning, Blue for afternoon, Yellow if your wallet's heavier than your sense," Elliot says, calm but firm. "Fold it right, or it won't count."
The man scoffs with his lip curling. "Bloody kids—"
Arthur steps in, a wall of menace. "Do what Finn says, or bet somewhere else. Or don't bet again." His hand twitches toward his cap with the razor shining.
The punter folded his slip lengthwise and tossed it into the Red basket, then walked off, muttering under his breath but cowed. The rest of the line moved along, quiet under Arthur's glare. Bets for Monaghan Boy kept stacking up.
Elliot's gaze catches a man in a brown coat, his face hidden by the brim of his cap. He slides a Yellow slip to John, a bet over a pound on Monaghan Boy, it's bold and unusual for Small Heath's thin pockets, then glides toward the door with quick and quiet steps.
Elliot's mind sharpens as he notices something off, tracing patterns like a hawk. He picks a Red slip from the basket and scans it: same horse, Monaghan Boy, same punter—T. Malone—placed twenty minutes apart.
A double bet, a cheat's trick to skim the payout, the kind Kimber's men might test to probe the Shelbys' fix.
"John," Elliot says with a low voice low while stepping forward.