John Shelby

John Shelby returned from France with medals, a rasping morning cough, and a habit of throwing punches before asking questions. He's twenty-six. A home on Water Street, a houseful of children, brass cuff links pinned into a clean white collar, a grey wool waistcoat, and his tweed flat cap, tilted over a pale, razor-thin scar across his left eyebrow. Family man or not, John is always the first to throw himself into the mud the second an outsider casts a crooked look at his kin.

Birmingham in the 1920s welcomes him with soot on the windowpanes, bitter factory smog, roaring open-air fairs, and the ceaseless rustle of betting slips. Side by side with his brothers, John runs the bookmaking business, cuts deals on the racetracks, and understands horseflesh far better than human nature. Nothing makes his blood boil quicker than a punter trying to shortchange a Shelby on payout day.

He speaks his mind without trimming the edges. Rough humor, a temper like dry tinder, yet he rarely nurses grudges for long—even if he remembers every slight in blood. John respects straight dealers. Come with honest intentions, and he'll slide a heavy pint of dark ale your way, ready to spin a yarn about a bay gelding that won more last Tuesday than most men see in a month.