a lament

I. The Suit

New York, 1872. The air was thick with coal smoke and desperation. The streets were lined with men who had somewhere to be and men who only pretended they did. James Whitlow was one of the latter.

The morning crowd churned around him as he adjusted the cuffs of his borrowed suit. It fit well enough to fool a passing glance, but he knew if anyone looked too closely, they’d see the fraying threads, the uneven hem. The waistcoat had once belonged to a banker, now long dead, and the pocket watch he carried had never kept time.

James walked with the practiced gait of a man with an appointment, though he had none. He’d learned early that walking with purpose was half the battle. He could convince a man to do business with him before the poor bastard even realized he had no business to offer.

But every step felt heavier today. His breath was too shallow, his hands too clammy. He tightened his grip on his cane—not for support, but to keep from shaking.

He had made it this far. Surely, that meant something.

And yet, a whisper followed him.

You don’t belong here.

He adjusted his hat. Kept moving.

II. The Game

James had a system. It started with introductions. Names were currency, and he had a pocket full of them. He could be Whitlow, Whitaker, Winslow—whatever fit the occasion. He had a backstory for each. A distant uncle in steel. A dying father in textiles. A cousin in railroads. The lie changed, but the delivery never wavered.

Today, he was James Whitlow, a man with a promising venture in shipping. A bold-faced lie, but a necessary one.

He entered the lobby of the Vanderbilt House, a grand hotel where real businessmen did real business. His stomach clenched as he stepped onto the marble floors. He adjusted his cuffs again, pretending not to notice how out of place he felt among the oil tycoons and land speculators.

A man of wealth could smell a fraud. The trick was to act like he belonged long enough to convince them otherwise.

He scanned the room. Found his mark.

Mr. Lawrence Hale. Forty-something. A man with more money than caution. James had studied him for weeks. Knew his habits. Hale enjoyed investing in men with “potential.” He liked the feeling of discovering talent before the rest of the city did.

James took a slow breath, willed his nerves to settle.

This was it. The moment. The performance.

But then—

A hesitation.

A hitch in his step. A whisper of doubt slithering up his spine.

What if he sees through you?

The thought struck like a needle to the chest. His pulse stumbled. His throat tightened.

Not now. Not here.

He forced a smile. Pushed forward.

But the shaking in his hands had already begun.

III. The First Crack

James reached Hale’s table just as a waiter was refilling the man’s coffee. He slid into the seat across from him, as if he had been expected. Confidence was key. Hesitation was death.

“Mr. Hale,” James said, his voice smooth. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

Hale looked up from his newspaper. He was a man of sharp edges—sharp suit, sharp jaw, sharp eyes. The kind of man who had spent years cutting deals and could gut a weaker man with a handshake.

James kept his breathing even.

Hale studied him. Took in the suit, the posture, the way James held his cane like a man accustomed to finer things. The lie was working.

Hale nodded. “Whitlow, was it?”

“Indeed. James Whitlow, of Whitlow & Co.” He let the name hang, letting Hale assume whatever he wanted. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about an opportunity.”

Hale exhaled sharply, a quiet scoff. “Opportunity,” he repeated. “That’s a dangerous word in this town, Mr. Whitlow.”

James smiled, though his pulse had started to quicken. “Danger and profit are often found in the same streets, sir.”

He was playing the part well. But beneath the surface, something was unraveling. His hands still felt damp. His chest was tight. His vision swam slightly, just at the edges.

He reached into his pocket, palming his handkerchief. He had done this a hundred times before, and yet today, something felt off.

Hale leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “And what, exactly, is it that you do, Mr. Whitlow?”

The question landed like a knife in his ribs.

He had answers. Of course he did. But the moment stretched too long. The whisper in his head was growing louder.

You don’t belong here.

He shifted in his seat. The marble floors seemed farther away. The gaslights above too bright.

“My firm is in—” He cleared his throat, too sharp. “—shipping. We’ve acquired access to key docking rights on the East River.”

Hale’s expression didn’t change. He stirred his coffee, slow and deliberate.

“And yet,” he said, “I’ve never heard of Whitlow & Co.”

A trap.

James smiled, just enough to feign amusement. “Then I suppose we have an excellent opportunity to make an impression.”

It was a good line. But Hale was still watching him too closely.

James reached for his glass of water, masking the tremor in his fingers. His throat was closing up. His heartbeat was in his ears.

Stay steady. Stay steady.

But Hale was already looking away.

Not out of intrigue. Not out of hesitation.

Out of dismissal.

“Good luck with that, Mr. Whitlow.”

And just like that, the conversation was over.

IV. The Collapse

James walked out of the Vanderbilt House with his head high, his steps measured. A lesser man would think he had left unscathed.

But James knew better.

His jaw was locked. His stomach churned. Every muscle in his body was wound too tight, like a clock seconds away from breaking.

He had failed.

Not just the pitch. Not just the conversation.

The mask.

For years, he had worn it so well. Slipped into rooms like he belonged, spoken like a man with an empire behind him. But today—today, he had cracked.

He turned the corner, into an alley that smelled of piss and burnt coal. The world felt too large, the sky too low. He leaned against the brick wall, his chest heaving.

You are a fraud. A con. A man with no real name.

His fingers dug into his palm. He tried to count his breaths, but they kept slipping. His heart pounded too fast, each beat slamming against his ribs.

It was always like this. The moments between the performance. When the act ended and he was left alone with himself.

He wanted a drink.

No—he needed a drink.

But he had sworn off the bottle weeks ago. Knew that once he started, he wouldn’t stop.

James exhaled, pressing his forehead against the cold brick.

What now?

What was left when the hustle didn’t work?

V. The Offer

He didn’t sleep that night.

His mind replayed the failure in a loop. He had come so close—so close—and yet, Hale had seen through him. The thought gnawed at him, like rats in the walls.

By morning, James was out of options. His pockets were light, his nerves frayed. He needed money. He needed certainty.

And certainty, in New York, came at a price.

That was why he found himself standing outside a townhouse on Madison Avenue, his hands in his coat pockets.

The door opened before he could knock.

The man inside was older, dressed in a silk robe. His gaze swept over James with the cold calculation of a man who had seen too much.

“Whitlow,” the man said. A smirk tugged at his lips. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.”

James stepped inside.

He didn’t know yet what he was walking into.

Only that he didn’t have a choice.

VI. The Gentleman’s Arrangement

The townhouse was warm. Too warm. The air was thick with the scent of tobacco and aged whiskey, cloying like molasses. James resisted the urge to loosen his collar.

The man before him was Thomas Renshaw. Old money, old habits, old sins. A name whispered in cigar lounges, inked into ledgers that never saw the light of day.

James had avoided men like Renshaw for years. Too dangerous. Too permanent.

And yet, here he was.

Renshaw motioned to a chair. “Sit.”

James hesitated, then obeyed. The leather creaked beneath him.

“You look troubled,” Renshaw observed, pouring himself a drink. “The life of an entrepreneur not quite as golden as you’d hoped?”

James forced a smile. “Every industry has its… setbacks.”

Renshaw chuckled, swirling his glass. “Ah, but see, men like us—we don’t have setbacks. We have opportunities. And I happen to have one for you.”

James swallowed. His fingers curled around the arm of the chair. “I’m listening.”

Renshaw leaned forward. “You’ve spent years playing at wealth, Mr. Whitlow. Dressing the part. Talking the part. But you lack one thing.”

James said nothing.

“Security,” Renshaw answered for him. “I can give you that. A seat at a real table. No more scraps, no more pretending.”

James’s chest tightened. “And what would I owe in return?”

Renshaw smiled, slow and knowing. “Loyalty.”

James had heard that word before. It never meant what men claimed.

He hesitated.

And in that hesitation, Renshaw saw everything.

“You’re running out of options,” the old man murmured.

James exhaled. The walls felt closer. His pulse pounded in his throat.

He had spent his life dancing on the edge of a blade, but this—this was different. This was stepping off it entirely.

And yet…

Hadn’t he already lost?

What was one more lie?

He reached for the glass Renshaw had poured for him. His hand barely shook.

“When do we start?”

VII. The New Mask

The next weeks moved quickly.

Renshaw pulled strings, and suddenly, doors that had been locked to James for years creaked open. The right clubs, the right circles, the right whispers.

He had money now. Real money. Enough to line his pockets with more than just borrowed confidence. Enough to make the anxiety sit quieter—at least, for a while.

But there were other things, too.

Meetings held in the backs of restaurants. Ledgers that never made it to accounting offices. Men who smiled too easily, as if testing his nerves.

James knew better than to ask questions.

He played his part. Wore the mask. Laughed when he needed to, nodded when it was expected.

But at night, when the city quieted, the whispers returned.

You are not one of them.

And worse—

They know it.

VIII. The Cost of the Hustle

The first body turned up in the East River on a Tuesday.

James read the news over breakfast. A businessman, found floating near the docks. No signs of robbery. No witnesses.

He didn’t flinch.

But his stomach twisted, slow and deep.

Because he had met the man. Three weeks ago, at one of Renshaw’s gatherings.

And he had seen the way Renshaw had looked at him.

James folded the paper. Took a slow sip of coffee.

The mask had to stay on.

Even now.

Especially now.

IX. The Breaking Point

It happened on a night like any other.

James was at the Grand Hotel, seated in a private lounge, swirling bourbon in a glass he hadn’t touched. Renshaw was across from him, discussing investments, but James barely heard a word.

His heartbeat was too loud. His skin felt too tight.

It had been building for weeks—the feeling of something closing in, something inevitable.

He had seen the signs. The way men had started looking at him differently. The quiet pauses in conversations. The weight of expectations settling over him like wet wool.

Renshaw was speaking, but James wasn’t listening.

Because across the room, a man was watching him.

Not just watching—studying.

Measuring.

James set his glass down, carefully.

He had spent his life reading men. And he knew, in his gut, that something had changed.

He wasn’t fooling them anymore.

The mask had slipped.

And now—

Now, he was just waiting for the fall.

X. The Escape

That night, James didn’t go home.

He didn’t go anywhere Renshaw’s men might expect him.

Instead, he found himself in a smoky tavern on the edge of town, hunched over a drink he had sworn he wouldn’t touch.

His hands were shaking.

The room was too loud, the walls too close. His heart was racing, but he couldn’t tell if it was panic or realization.

He had to leave.

Not just the tavern.

The city.

The life.

Everything.

It was the only way.

But as he reached for his coat, the door opened.

And a man stepped inside.

James recognized him instantly.

One of Renshaw’s.

The man smiled.

“Whitlow,” he said, voice casual. “We’ve been looking for you.”

XI. The Open Ending

James weighed his options.

Fight? Impossible.

Run? Too late.

Talk? Maybe.

He forced a slow breath, pushing down the panic clawing up his throat.

And then—

He smiled.

The same easy, practiced smile he had worn his entire life.

Because there was still one last hand to play.

And maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t finished yet.

Thank you for reading. If you happen to like my work, perhaps you could check out the shop or the patron page, there might be something useful to you there, also it allows me to keep doing this full time. Thank you and see you on the next one.