by H. P. Wood
“Voilà,” Zeph says. He yanks the paper out of the machine and presents it to Nazan. “There you go. Portrait of a lady.”
Nazan takes the paper—a rough pen sketch of a girl with long, dark hair. She stares at it and then at Zeph. “Oh my! That’s incredible! That’s… Mr. Reynolds, look! Mr. Andrews, how did you do that?”
Zeph shrugs. “Me? I didn’t do a thing. That’s Chio, doing what Chio does.”
“Well, Chio is amazing.”
Spencer grins knowingly. “Punch cards, am I right?”
“Sorry?” Zeph asks.
“Punch cards. Normally they’re used for accounting—nothing so theatrical as this. But still.”
Nazan frowns and yanks the portrait back.
“It’s… I’m sorry. But what you do is, you take a set of cards and punch holes in them. Maybe one set of holes tells the machine to move the arm a little bit to the left. The next card tells the machine to move a little bit to the right. Next card, a little to the left, and so on. It would take a fair number of cards, I admit. But if you had enough…you’d have a picture.”
“Whatever you say,” Zeph replies. He looks at Nazan. “Sure does resemble you, though.”
“That’s rubbish,” Spencer says. “Gaslight like this? A monkey could draw Queen Victoria and claim it looked like Nazan. How would we even tell? Please, don’t misunderstand. It’s a great little machine. I just—”
Nazan turns to Zeph. “Is any of this true? Is it just a pile of cards?”
Zeph tilts his head. “Far be it from me to tell a white boy he don’t know what he’s talking about.”
Ignoring him, Spencer moves to the side of the cabinet to study the clockwork from behind. “Where do you wind it?” he asks.
“Don’t.” Zeph shrugs.
“It’s electric? I don’t see a cord anywhere.”
“No cord.”
“What’s the power source?”
“There ain’t one.”
Spencer scoffs. “What are you talking about? Of course there’s a power source. There’s always a—”
“You see that glass chamber in there? That’s a barometer. It registers changes in air pressure, which condense or expand the springs in the clockwork. I been here more than four years, and Chio never stopped, not one day.”
Nazan smiles appreciatively, but Spencer rolls his eyes. “A perpetual motion machine violates the laws of thermodynamics.” He winks at Nazan. “Bad at geometry, but not so bad at science. But, Mr. Andrews, I do wonder why you don’t have a clever machine like this on more prominent display.”
“Well,” Zeph says wryly, “it’s a bit surly of you to keep referring to Chio as a machine. And I don’t show him to just anybody, because it ain’t polite to put friends on display.”
Spencer laughs. “You consider this contraption a friend, do you? Now, isn’t that—” An annoyed-sounding cuckoo clock suddenly bleats the hour. Spencer turns to see the carved figure of a woodsman appear from a door in the center of the clock; the woodsman chases a young maiden with his ax and disappears as the cuckoo chirps five o’clock. Spencer checks his pocket watch: it’s twenty minutes to one. He glances at Zeph. “Not even close.”
Zeph shrugs. “What can I say? We got a lot of clocks at Magruder’s. They do what they want, like the rest of us.”
“Your clocks do what they… Oh good Lord. Miss Celik, it’s late. If we don’t leave now, we’ll lose our table at the Palmetto.”
She smiles at Zeph. “However it works, it’s wonderful. Tell Chio I said thank you.”
“Tell him yourself, Miss Nazan. He’s right here.”
“Thank you, Chio,” she says self-consciously.
Spencer rolls his eyes. “Next she’ll be thanking the streetcar for taking us uptown.” He gently takes her elbow. “Come along, Miss Celik.”
“Mr. Zeph,” she says. “The Fiji mermaid! May we see it?”
“Nah, don’t bother,” Zeph replies. “I’d have to charge you extra, and it’s a lousy gaff.”
“A what?”
He laughs. “Sorry. Carnies got our own talk. A gaff is something fake, rigged up to fool folks like you. Like our mermaid—just an ol’ monkey head glued onto a dead fish.” He looks at Spencer. “I suppose a fellow like you wants to save his money. Gotta look after them nickels, am I right?”
Spencer nods. “Make sure your Doc calls me. I mean it.”
As the back door shuts behind them, Zeph laughs bitterly. “Make sure your Doc calls me. Fella thinks everybody in the world got their own phone.” He hollers at the door. “This ain’t no Waldorf, son!”
• • •
Nazan and Spencer blink as their eyes adjust to the bright sunshine. They join Gibson and Chastity, and Spencer delights them with his impression of a boxing kangaroo.
Nazan looks at the portrait again, now able to truly see it. It’s a young woman with long hair, but she has to admit, it could be nearly any woman. She sighs. It’s a portrait of a lady, all right—any lady.
She begins to fold the paper and put it away when something catches her eye. Just a speck, probably a stray ink spot. Right above the left eyebrow.
A mole.
Spencer touches her elbow. “Let’s get going, yes?”
“But wait,” Nazan says. “Look at the—”
“Come along, Miss Celik. We’ll admire your portrait another time.”
Nazan looks up at Magruder’s shabby building. “Yes,” she says resolutely. “Another time for sure.”
• • •
Back at his post, Zeph tries to return his mind to Du Bois, but he can’t concentrate. Did he really tell Miss Nazan that their Fiji mermaid is a fake? It’s one thing to explain how shrunken heads are made—that only increases interest. But warning against paying to see a gaff?
He sighs, yanking off his gloves in defeat. “I gotta stop talking to pretty girls.”
Chapter 6
The Tiny Favor
“That’s all?”
Kitty and Archie stand in the public area of the Manhattan Beach Hotel. The wide corridor is dotted with shops—a ladies’ hair salon, a barber shop, a florist. Kitty’s stomach is aflutter at being in this hotel again. “I should tell you I was tossed out of this hotel a few days ago.”
Archie laughs. “I’m impressed! But don’t worry, you’ll be fine. It’s not the hotel that concerns us; it’s that establishment there.” He points at one shop in particular: Pearson’s Fine Art and Collectibles.
Kitty looks at Archie again. “That’s all you want?”
He smiles. “That’s all I want. Go in, do as I told you, say what I told you, and then? We’ll enjoy a fine meal.”
Kitty’s stomach roars at the thought. She is about to open Pearson’s door when a young man passes by. Kitty recognizes him immediately. He’s dressed in street clothes, not the bellhop uniform in which she’d met him earlier, but his freckles and wayward red hair are unmistakable. “Excuse me,” she says. “Seamus? Seamus?”
The young man turns, and his face somersaults from recognition to disbelief to something much like horror. “Err…I’m sorry, miss,” he stammers, backing away. “You must have mistaken me for someone else?”
Kitty grabs his arm. “You’re Seamus… You had a name tag. I remember. You brought our bags up to our room. You must remember! It was just a few days ago. Surely you—”
“I’m sorry, miss,” he says, backing away. “I don’t know you? We’ve never met?” His Belfast accent turns even the simplest statements into questions.
“But—”
“No! No, I don’t know you.” He looks at her sadly. “I’m sorry? I can’t help you?” He flees.
Kitty calls after him. “But, Seamus, please! I’ve nowhere else to turn! Seamus!”
“That’s enough,” Archie says sharply. “Don’t make a sc
ene. Go do as you’re told.” He nudges her roughly toward the door of the art gallery.
Kitty watches Seamus disappear into the crowd. She sighs. “All right, I’m going.” She takes a deep breath and reaches for the door. But as she opens it, she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the glass. Good Lord.
She’s sunburned, for starters. And not a lovely, holiday-in-Sardinia sort of sunburned. Her skin is splotchy and red, and the skin on her nose is starting to peel. Her eyes are bloodshot, her lips are chapped, and her long, blond locks are “braided” only in the most charitable sense. She’d hide the whole catastrophe with her hat, but she seems to have lost it somewhere. She’s trying to remember where she left it—did she have it at the ferry?—when Archie hisses “Go on!” and shoves her across the threshold.
The walls of the narrow art gallery are crowded with dreamy visions of seaside holidays: delicate young ladies in bathing costumes, hearty young men piloting sailboats, suntanned children building sand castles.
A polished gentleman in a fine suit approaches, sizing her up. Kitty freezes, and her stomach flips over. He knows. She can see it written on his face: she looks less like an art collector and more like a Bedlam escapee, and he knows. Next, he’ll toss her out, and Archie will abandon her, and she’ll either starve to death or be eaten alive by the tattooed wolves that hunt Surf Avenue. Or he’ll call the police, and next will be jail and then deportation, shipped back to London in a steerage container full of rats…
But then she thinks, Dinner rolls. Might as well give Archie’s plan a go. In seventeen years, she’s never had so little to lose.
“I’m terribly sorry to trouble you,” she says pitifully. “I’ve no wish at all to—”
The man tilts his head curiously. “You’re English?”
“Yes. My name is Katherine Hayward.” Archie had advised that she use her real name; he said it would add authenticity to her voice. But her voice still catches a bit as she stands on the precipice of reciting Archie’s first lie. “Of the…Cornwall…Haywards? My father is in railroads. I assume you’ve heard of him?”
The man’s eyes widen, his suspicion morphing into obsequiousness. “Of course, of course, the great Hayward family. Jewel in the crown of Britain’s transit system. Who hasn’t heard of them? I am Edward Pearson, at your service.”
Relief washes over her, and Kitty struggles not to laugh. Is it really going to be this easy? “My parents have taken a house out in Sea Gate.”
Pearson smiles. “How delightful! I do hope you enjoy our modest accommodations. Would you care for some tea?”
“I couldn’t…”
“I insist.” He smiles even wider.
Kitty is gobsmacked. “Tea? Well…all right. Why not?”
Pearson guides Kitty to a seating area in the back of the gallery. He arranges her in an overstuffed chair, calls to an assistant for some tea with lemon, and settles down beside her. “So tell me, Miss Hayward, how might Pearson’s Fine Art and Antiques be of assistance?”
“You see, Mr. Pearson—oh, thank you!” A young shop assistant has appeared with a cup of tea and a few cookies. “You see, this home we’ve let for the summer is lovely. A bit smaller than I’m used to, of course.”
Mr. Pearson brays his understanding. “Of course. American architecture cannot possibly hope to offer the sophistication of what you are accustomed to back home. Still, the weather is lovely by the seaside, and one must make do, mustn’t one?”
“Exactly, Mr. Pearson. And truly, it is a charming home, absolutely charming. Unfortunately, the decor of the place…”
“Mmm-hmm?”
“Well, it’s not quite up to our standards. No offense intended, of course.” She nibbles on a cookie, forbidding herself to swallow it in one bite.
“My dear, none taken! Indeed, that is precisely why Pearson’s Fine Art exists! We understand that our visitors have much more sophisticated tastes than the average American.”
“My mother is of a rather sensitive disposition, you see, and some of the artwork in this home we’ve rented is…a bit…”
“Of course!” he says. “Here at Pearson’s, we specialize in providing soothing, relaxing images for refined customers. Here, let me show you. I have a portfolio of all our best work right in the—”
“But you see, Mr. Pearson,” Kitty says, “I’m afraid my parents have rather unique tastes.”
“How so?”
“They’ll only be truly comfortable with art that resembles their own collection back home.”
“Of course, I understand completely. Whatever their tastes, Pearson’s can—”
“Dutch Masters.”
Pearson nearly spits out his Darjeeling. “What?”
“Rembrandt, Vermeer…” Kitty struggles to remember the other names Archie had told her to say. “Umm, Hall, is it?”
“Frans Hals,” Pearson says miserably.
“Right, Frans Hals. Busty washerwomen, men in large hats…everything lit via that same window on the left. That sort of thing.” The first sugar to hit Kitty’s system in days makes her giddy. “By the way, why are the windows on the left?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Miss Hayward.”
“So,” she says, starting in on her second cookie. “Got anything like that?”
Pearson glances at his gallery walls—a cacophony of tasteful seascapes with nary a washerwoman in sight. But then he remembers a large painting covered in newspaper, tucked at the back of the shop. “In fact, I may have just the thing…”
• • •
Ten minutes later, Kitty has finished her tea and several additional cookies. She shakes Pearson’s hand and assures him that her father will visit the shop at closing time in order to purchase a Dutch Master for a healthy sum.
Kitty meets Archie as planned in the lobby of the hotel.
“Well?” he asks eagerly. “How did it go?”
“Fine, I think? He can’t wait to sell some horrible painting to my nonexistent father.”
Archie smiles. “Excellent. Wait here while I pay Mr. Pearson a visit.”
“I don’t understand,” she says. “How does this earn me lunch?”
He leans over and whispers, “As luck would have it, a few days ago, I brought Pearson a painting of men in large hats, lit from the left. He assured me it was utterly out of fashion, that there was no market for it. I told him to keep it for a while and think it over, and if he still felt he couldn’t sell it, I would be more than happy to take the painting away and never trouble him again.” Archie straightens his tie. “Something tells me Mr. Pearson may have altered his thinking on the subject.” He takes three steps toward the gallery but turns back. “Once I am paid and you are fed and everything is in its right place, you and I are going to have a chat about that young fellow Seamus.”
Chapter 7
Missgeburten
The Race to Death is about to begin. Spectators line up outside Magruder’s, and Zeph stands by the door in his cart, taking their dimes and directing them to the back room. He collects admission from respectable ladies in summer bonnets with their escorts in straw hats. He makes change for a trio of shopgirls and a gaggle of sunburned teenagers. He exchanges gossip with some Moon Maidens from Steeplechase Park; they’ve found themselves with a free afternoon after the Trip to the Moon ride was unexpectedly shuttered for the day. And he greets an elderly couple, unmistakably foreign in their heavy wool coats. The husband struggles to understand American money, while his wife sweats aggressively into her striped scarf.
Zeph smiles. “You might take your scarf off, ma’am. No cooler inside, that’s for sure.”
“Was ist los?” the husband demands suspiciously.
“The…uh…” Zeph starts to point at the scarf but thinks better of it. “Never mind. Enjoy the show. Follow the others around to the back.”
Finally, lurki
ng like a vulture waiting for the lions to finish their dinner, a scarred and scowling fellow with only one arm arrives. “What in hell are you doing here?” Zeph demands.
Joe holds out a dime. “Here to see the show, just like anybody.”
“I told you, Timur ain’t helping with your—”
“I want to see the show. I swear, the Race to Death is all I’m interested in.”
“Yeah, that’s what worries me.” But he sighs and takes Joe’s dime. “All right, go on back. Don’t blow nothing up while you’re back there.”
Zeph is about to close Magruder’s heavy door when he hears a familiar voice.
“Hey, wait for us!”
Zeph smiles to see a small old friend with a tall, young companion. “Hey, Chief! Come on in, brother!”
Whitey Lovett is the fire chief of Lilliputia, the little people’s village at Dreamland. He stands four feet, two inches in lifts, which he wears in direct defiance of Dreamland’s policy that little people remain as little as they can possibly be. With piercing blue eyes and a fashionable walrus mustache, Whitey has a richly earned reputation as the biggest ladies’ man in Coney Island. This afternoon, he’s accompanied by a willowy blond who Zeph vaguely recognizes as a fortune-teller from Luna Park. He can’t remember her name, and he knows better than to ask Whitey, as there’s little chance he remembers it either.
They all exchange pleasantries, but Whitey’s expression quickly turns serious. “Was that who I think it was?”
“Who? You mean Joe? You recognized him from all the way over—”
Whitey nods. “He’s Black Hand, you know.”
“Yeah, and?”
“Is he recruiting?”
Zeph laughs. “Me? Nah.”
“Good. Unusuals can’t afford to be anarchists, Zeph. Look at me—I’m a dwarf and a Jew. You’re a Negro and legless. Add ‘anarchist’ and you’ve got the Trifecta of Fucked. Don’t do it.”
“Don’t worry.”
“All right. See you inside, my friend.”
• • •
