The Payment

by Michelle E Lowe

  “And I just told you we thought you were gone.”

  “Where’s your car?” Frank asked, stepping past Pierce with the boxes.

  “I done parked it in the shed to keep the snow and ice off.”

  They approached a long oak table in the middle of the room. Frank set the boxes down. “I’m goin’ out for the rest of the boxes. Don’t want the real perfume to freeze overnight. Chapman, take my case upstairs to the spare room, will ya? Youze can have the couch.”

  “What am I, your bleedin’ bellhop? And why do I have to sleep on the couch?”

  “Youze holdin’ de cases, ain’t ya?” Frank pointed out. “Anna I’d done all de drivin’.”

  Pierce snorted. “Driving a few hours outta New York ain’t nothing. Try riding that distance on horseback.”

  “Don’t like horses,” Frank remarked, leaving out the door.

  “You still haven’t learned how to drive?” George scoffed, propping the shotgun against the wall beside the fireplace.

  George Baxter was a decent lad. He’d fought for his country, losing his arm during an ambush. Scientists had engineered him a mechanical arm, an experiment they had been advancing since the Age of the Machine. Pierce had heard about the era throughout his life. A group of inventors who had dubbed themselves the first Contributors coined the phrase sometime in the late 18th century. They had insisted the Age of the Machine was the next era to come, and when it did, the world would changed tremendously. For decades afterward, people from all over the globe were inventing machines and devices. In Pierce’s day, before the Age of the Machine Era, he’d watched as these new, innovative creations grew and grew.

  None of that compared to what he’d seen in the 20th century, but it had been a start. Pierce had heard about the Age of the Machine so much, he never really believed it would arrive. But it had! In 1864, during the American Civil War, there was some sort of revolution that sparked another conflict called the Machine War, which lasted a little over a year. Eventually, a treaty between the enemies was arranged. In those days, the world was lit up with all sorts of mechanical wonders, advancements of the inventions from previous Contributors, and plenty of new-age discoveries. There was even a machine city called the Metal Metropolis. Pierce had been meaning to revisit the public library and read up on it, but as with learning how to drive, he just hadn’t the damn time.

  Seeing George in his sleeveless white undershirt, Pierce was able to take in the full scope of his mechanical arm. The technology was mighty impressive.

  Aside from the arm, George was a fairly handsome sod who once tended bar at a speakeasy called The Attic, in the West Village, that had gotten raided by coppers last week. He grew up in the Tennessee Mountains and learned the family trade of brewing moonshine. That qualification made him perfect for Pierce’s plan.

  “Hell’s bells, Isaac,” George continued, “my eleven-year-old niece has the know-how to drive.”

  “Shut it,” Pierce griped, setting his suitcase down and going upstairs with Frank’s case.

  By the time he returned, Frank had brought in the last boxes of perfume. He set them down on the table with a loud clatter.

  “Oi, don’t be breaking those. The whole place will reek!”

  Frank grinned at him and looked over at George. “Dontcha love de way he tawks, Georgey?”

  George rolled his eyes. “I fought beside lots of Brits in the war. I’ve done heard it all. Isaac, did you bring the cards and smokes?”

  Pierce sighed and reached inside his coat pocket. He brought out a deck and three packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes.

  “I wanted a carton,” George complained as Pierce handed everything over.

  “Next time. Next week.”

  “Dang it all! I’ll have these all smoked before then.”

  “Then I suggest getting into your snowless and iceless car and driving to the bleedin’ store. It’s not far.”

  “I reckon I’ll have to, ya mook. Who knows if ya’ll be able to return with that dadgum snowstorm blowin’ through in the days to come.”

  Pierce thought it was amazing how far the forecasters nowadays could predict the weather. “How’s the batch, George?”

  “Brewin’. Did ya’ll bring the rye? I phoned you ’bout it.”

  “Aye, I remember. We put it in the backseat of the car.”

  George gaped and headed outside. “The backseat? Is nobody home? What if the bull stopped ya’ll?”

  “It’s only rye,” Frank argued. “Youze can make lots of things with it other than booze. Like bread.”

  “Oh, now ya’ll are a pair of perfume salesmen and bread bakers?”

  “I guess we could be,” Frank remarked sardonically. “Besides, it don’t matter no how. I obeyed the speed limit all de way here.”

  “That won’t stop the bull from pulling you over. They’re always keepin’ one eye open.”

  He left for the car.

  “Jeez,” said Frank. “Does war do dat to people? Make ’em paranoid like dat?”

  “Aye. That and carrying out illegal activities. I’m gonna check in on the product.”

  Pierce went down into the cellar and clicked on the ceiling light. He stood there, looking at their distillery.

  Brass pot stills took up nearly the whole space. They were well-constructed makeshift stills. Having them and a skillful brewer such as George around, they were able to produce safe alcohol, unlike the amateurs out there making poisonous bathtub gin.

  Ever since being kidnapped and dragged through time and dumped in this fast-paced world, Pierce had fallen into the bootlegging enterprise. In the time before the law ransacked the speakeasy he had helped manage, Pierce used to meet up with rumrunners in Rum Row to buy the alcohol they had brought in from Saint Pierre Island. Between the competition from rival gangsters, as well as the coppers who weren’t on the take, the job had become too risky for Pierce’s liking.

  He had approached his boss, Kelly Quinn, and proposed they brew their own alcohol. Others were doing the same, but Pierce came up with the idea of brewing not only safe booze but doing so in a secure location and selling it in Kelly’s new speakeasy, which Pierce also helped establish. It also cut down on the need for middlemen suppliers, which sometimes proved dangerous. This was their second run after a successful first go at making booze.

  After checking that everything was in tiptop shape, Pierce returned upstairs.

  “I’m hungry,” Frank informed him.

  Pierce rolled his eyes. He had cooked dinner on their previous visit, and now it seemed he’d been appointed head chef. At least there was food in the kitchen to cook and music on the radio to listen to. Pierce had started to enjoy this century.

  As the stew simmered, he played cards with George and Frank at the oak table.

  “Call,” George said with a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his mouth.

  Frank slapped down his cards. “Fold.”

  Pierce looked again at his hand—not because they were pin-up girls wearing tight corsets, top hats, and see-through stockings—but because the seven of hearts, eight of spades, nine of spades, ten of clubs, and jack of hearts made for a mediocre set, at best.

  Bugger.

  “C’mon, Isaac,” George urged.

  Pierce drank their homemade bourbon and decided to risk it. “Right.”

  George grinned at his own hand before throwing it down. “Full house, boys!”

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Pierce moaned.

  The upper part of George’s mechanical arm extended outward by way of the telescoping rods inside the bicep rods, making the arm twice as long. It took a bit for him to do this, which told Pierce that George was only doing it to mock him. Finally, his straight-razor-shaped fingers fell over the rolled-up cigarettes and dollar bills. He then retracted his arm, pulling everything toward him like leaves in a rake. “Seems to me I won’t be worrying ’bout smokes after all.”

  “Tosser,” Pierce griped, plucking a stray Lucky Strike off the table.
r />   “That’s mine!” George stated.

  “Consider it a loan, eh?” he said before lighting it with his lighter. It was a copper device with a small compass inside.

  Lighters were another convenient invention Pierce admired. If he was fated to return to his own era, he wondered if he could bring some of these modern things back with him.

  “Youze lookin’ at dat lighter like youze ain’t ever seen one before, Chaplin,” Frank observed.

  “Well, he is from the last century,” George remarked unexpectedly.

  Pierce snapped his head up, his eyes wide. “Come again?”

  George laughed and got up from his seat. “While I’ve been up here all by my lonesome, I’ve been rummaging through the attic. Dunno how long Mr. Quinn had this place—”

  “It’s been in his family since his father built it after emigrating from Ireland,” Pierce informed him.

  “All right,” George said callously. “Anyway, there’s a whole mess of things up ’ere.”

  He grabbed a book from a small table that stood in the corner of the room between an armchair and the couch.

  “Youze better not let de boss know you’re up dere messin’ ’round with dat stuff of his, youze crazy hick,” Frank warned as he shuffled the cards.

  Pierce took another drink of bourbon from his Mason jar, set it down, and eyed the book. “What is it?”

  “Open it,” George ordered, tossing it onto the table. “Where I done dog-eared it.”

  Pierce picked it up. The cover was heavily water damaged and torn in several places. He was unable to make out anything except the title. The words nearly floored him.

  “The Adventures of . . . Pierce Landcross.”

  “Youze recognize the name?” Frank asked, noticing his stunned expression.

  Pierce worked to overcome his shock. “Er.” He cleared his throat. “No.”

  “Go on,” George urged. “Open it.”

  Pierce spied the fold at the top corner and flipped open the book. Staring back at him was a daguerreotype of himself. He stood alone, posing in a period piece suit and top hat. He seemed older, more mature.

  “Bloody hell,” he gasped.

  Frank snatched the book away. “Lemme see.”

  He studied the daguerreotype before shifting his sights to Pierce and then returning his attention to the photograph. “It’s the spittin’ image of you, Chaplin.”

  “I know,” George agreed. “Strange, ain’t it? I reckon he’s a relative of yours.”

  “Dere’s more pictures on da next page,” Frank informed them. “They’re stuck.”

  He tried pulling the pages apart, ripping a hole in the daguerreotype behind it.

  “Don’t, you big mook!” George shouted. “Didn’t nobody ever tell you that paper is liable to rip?”

  Pierce stood.

  “What are you fixin’ to do?” George asked him.

  “I’m fixin’ to check in on the stew, Tin Man,” he retorted.

  “I hate it that you gave me that nickname. Now everyone calls me Tin Man.”

  “Bloody hell. Sorry, mate,” he said, stabbing his cigarette out into the ashtray. “Are you cranky ’cause you lost your oil can or something?”

  The ex-soldier stepped forward as if he was about to charge. Pierce dashed into the kitchen.

  In truth, Pierce needed a few ticks to wrap his mind around what he’d seen. He wanted to look at the book more closely, but not with them watching. So far, he had successfully convinced everyone that he was Isaac Chaplin from Blackpool, a man who had fought in the Wars to End All Wars, whatever that was supposed to mean. Although he wasn’t really worried about Frank and George believing he’d actually come from the past, he didn’t need anything putting a wrinkle in his cover.

  After dinner, the three men bottled the bourbon, rum, whiskey, and beer in the empty perfume spray bottles and loaded them into the boxes.

  While the others slept, Pierce sat alone on the couch by the Tiffany lamp, reading. The book had been through a lot. Someone had rescued it from the water. Most of the pages were torn or ripped out completely, and the water damage had left most of the text illegible. Near the first page, the date said it was published in 1847, and on the back of the mutilated cover, there was something handwritten on it. The ink had run, and some of the letters were missing.

  The handwriting seemed somewhat familiar. He dismissed it and leafed through the pages. Only parts of each section remained. On a half-torn sheet, it told of him going into Buckingham Palace and stealing a guard’s uniform from the servant’s laundry area in order to speak to Queen Victoria.

  “Why on Earth would I need to do that?” he wondered out loud. “Huh, so that’s where the guards keep their uniforms, is it?”

  The story went on about him and some Russian named Taisia traveling to the Netherlands. It briefly explained about them going to a circus and then sharing a kiss in a forest surrounded by birdhouses. The last legible page said he gave himself up to a lieutenant named Darius Javan in order to free his parents.

  Wait a tick. Did that mean he’d found his folks?

  Could this actually be a glimpse into his own future some seventy years after it happened? It was enough to make him dizzy.

  And who was this woman, Taisia?

  He turned to the page Frank had ripped. He didn’t know what had stuck the daguerreotypes together, but it had left a hole in the middle of it. There was a young black lass standing in a pose. She was very lovely, like a perfect being with the ability to draw anyone to her. Pierce was most certainly intrigued. He stroked his thumb over her face. He studied the other damaged photograph. It depicted them together. They seemed happy enough. Was she Taisia? Were they a couple? That thought stimulated him.

  Then he thought about Lucy.

  Lucy was a sweet young lass, kind and giving. He cared for her a lot.

  He stashed the book inside his suitcase and clicked off the lamp. As he drifted off, he realized something else the book quite obviously represented. One day, he was going to return home.

  Pierce, if you’re reading this, no worries, we made it out.

  * * *

  The following morning, Pierce woke before anyone else. He brewed some tea. In this era, some people called it noodle juice. Strange lingo they had here.

  He drank his tea and decided to load the perfume bottles into the car. The radiant morning sun shone down upon him as he carefully stacked the boxes, putting a box of the real perfume on top, and closed the trunk lid.

  A woman stood beside the car.

  “You’re him, huh? The legendary Pierce Landcross?” she scoffed.

  Pierce jumped a mile. How had she approached the car without him seeing or hearing her? Then he realized she was no ordinary lass.

  She was tall, with sharp-tipped ears sticking out of her black hair, which itself had green highlights. She had olive skin, and she was wearing black and brown leather clothing that hugged her slender but muscular body. She also wore a patchwork cloth around her waist like a kilt. She wore no shoes, only tights that left every toe exposed to the freezing elements. Pierce noticed it when she stepped around the automobile. She was armed with a black bow and a quiver packed full of arrows.

  He backed away, the fog of his breath growing thicker every time he exhaled.

  “Haven’t you ever seen an elf before?” she asked, continuing her steady approach.

  The elf! Bloody hell, he’d been warned about her.

  Pierce nearly slipped on the snow when his foot left the gravel lane. “I believe you’re my first.”

  Her turquoise irises contrasted with her olive skin tone. She showed her spiky white teeth when a smile split her face. It caused his hair to stand on end.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m one of your cousins.”

  “Oh?” He felt some relief.

  Perhaps she had been sent by the Trickster to bring him home. That thought disappointed him. He wasn’t quite ready to leave. He liked the 20
th century, and he liked Lucy a whole lot more. Not to mention an upcoming film titled Flesh and the Devil was coming out that weekend.

  His disappointment turned to confusion when she said, “I’ve gone through a lot in tracking you down. It took a while to figure out they had brought you to another time.”

  “Tracking me? Why?”

  “To kill you, of course.”

  Pierce swallowed thickly. He would have reached for his revolver if he hadn’t left it inside the cabin. “You were sent by the mare, eh? The creature who gives people nightmares?”

  She nodded. “Since you have been a trial to hunt down, I deem you worthy of a head start.” In a blink, she had an arrow from her quiver, fixed in her bow and trained at him. “You have thirty seconds.”

  As she pulled the string of the bow back, the creaky sound drove fear into his very soul. He needed his gun, but when he tried for the house, she jumped in his path. “Uh-uh, little fox. Into the forest you go.”

  Pierce had no choice. He darted into the woods and began circling to the rear of the cabin. He ran as fast as he could, working to beat his thirty-second time limit. He reached the side of the cabin that was barely seen past the trees. He kept an eye out for his predator, but he didn’t see her, which both relieved and frightened him. He needed to hurry and collect his gun.

  As he dashed for the house, someone violently tackled him. “Got you!”

  The world spun in a blur of wintery colors as he tumbled down an embankment. She had wrapped her arms around him, pinning his own to his sides. When he reached the bottom of the hill, she let him go. He rolled to a stop and shot to his feet.

  “You’re fun,” the elf chortled. “I enjoy this game.”

  Her statement made him realize the chances of him getting out of this alive were thin. Pierce grabbed a fallen branch from off the ground and held it like a baseball bat. It wasn’t a pistol, but it was better than nothing.

  Or, so he thought.

  In a blink, she had fixed a bolt in her bow and let it loose.