Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet

by H. P. Wood

  “Don’t you tell me it’s all right!” Rosalind shrieks. “They’ve taken my boys away!”

  The two remaining exterminators lift heavy gasoline cans and storm Magruder’s Curiosity Cabinet.

  “No!” Zeph screams and chases them inside the Cabinet. He flings himself at them, howling.

  One of the men seizes Zeph by the torso, lifts him up, and hurls him at the closest wall. “Go screw, you little freak!”

  “Okay, you douse the near wall, and I’ll go over by the—”

  “What in name of the Carpenter is it that you are doing?”

  The Committeemen look up, surprised. “Who is this, now?”

  A few feet away, standing beside Cleopatra’s asp and a historically confused knight, is a compact old man in a lab coat. He has a shock of white hair pointing in every direction, complicated goggles on his face, and a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun braced against his shoulder. He aims the gun at the Committeemen. “I ask you again. What is it you do?”

  “Committee on Public Safety. This building has been condemned, and you best get out if you know what’s—”

  “This my home,” the old man says calmly. “Is best you get hell out.”

  “Put the gun down, old-timer. We work for the city, and we—”

  “No, I think you don’t.”

  The exterminators blink at the old man and then at one another. Chuckling, one says, “Ah, you think we don’t work for the city? Because I assure you—”

  “No. No, I think you don’t, period. I think you don’t anything, ever again.”

  “Who the devil do you think you—”

  The old man squeezes the first trigger, sending an explosion of buckshot into the chest of one Committeeman, who tumbles backward into a cabinet crowded with insects in glass jars. He dies screaming in a cloud of shattered glass and Madagascar spitting cockroaches. His partner swings his truncheon as the old man fires the second trigger, and his hooded head evaporates in a spray of blood and bone.

  The old man lowers the shotgun and massages his shoulder. “This will hurt later,” he notes. He sees Zeph on the floor. “You good?”

  Zeph nods, speechless, and Timur nods back.

  “Is all right. You clean up tomorrow.”

  The mad old doctor pivots on one heel and retreats into the shadows of the Cabinet.

  • • •

  The armored vehicle makes its way north. In the back, P-Ray’s crying is the only sound. Kitty puts her arm around him, and she nudges Enzo’s foot with her own. “Are you all right, Mr. Enzo?”

  Enzo holds his face in his hands and does not answer.

  Between two slats in the side of the vehicle, Kitty can just make out the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge. They’re headed for the pier. And then…what? Kitty is just another prisoner. Even assuming she can find her mother, how on earth can she help? Why have I done this mad thing? What was I thinking?

  P-Ray weeps, barely able to catch his breath between sobs. “Shh, love,” Kitty says. “It will be all right. I promise it will.” She tries to think of some way to make the boy feel a little better. “Shall I sing to you? Would you like that?”

  P-Ray nods and sniffles.

  But instead of a childhood lullaby, the first melody that pops into her head is one that played endlessly at Magruder’s.

  “There’s no room for sorrow in my land,

  It’s always gay.

  And light is as bright on the Island

  As bright as day.

  Sweethearts from all over creation

  Just see them smile.

  Come down, you need no invitation

  To my little Coney Isle.”

  Chapter 22

  Two Dollars

  In the Cabinet, Zeph scrubs the floor, a bucket of soapy pink water beside him. The two dead men are lumped in the corner.

  He hears but ignores the knock at Magruder’s front door. “We’re closed,” he mutters.

  The knock comes again. “We’re closed!” Zeph says, loudly this time.

  But the door eases open regardless. A head peeks around the black curtain. Reynolds.

  Zeph groans. “For cryin’ out loud. What, you just lettin’ your own self in now? You reckon you own this place too?”

  “No, I just stopped in to see how—” Spencer takes in the bloody floor, the smashed cabinets, the bodies in the corner. “Holy jumping Christ! What happened here?”

  Zeph tosses his rag down angrily and glares up at him. “What happened? Hmm, where do I start? We got ourselves a little visit from the Committee on Public Safety. Can’t you tell? Don’t we look perfectly damn safe right now?”

  “But why? Why would they come here?”

  Zeph nearly screams in frustration. “Why, oh why would they come here? Oh, who can say? Life is just one big fucking mystery to you, ain’t it?”

  “What? You think I sent them? Why would I do that, Zeph?”

  “Then who was the tipster?”

  “The what?”

  “The tipster! Who was the damn tipster who told them all about P-Ray’s fleas and precisely where those fleas were kept? Who else but you has connections enough to make this happen? Which lousy Dozen has even been inside this Cabinet long enough to—”

  Zeph stops. He stares up at Spencer, and Spencer stares down at him.

  “Gibson,” Spencer says. “Goddamn it.”

  Zeph takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes. “Your little weasel friend from the other day.”

  “Gibson’s not my friend—he’s my father’s errand boy.” Spencer’s voice has an unexpected edge.

  “No-o-o, he’s a big hero now, ain’t he? Turning in the dangerous flea boy, that terrifying forty-eight-inch threat to civilization.”

  Spencer scowls. “Gib Tilden wouldn’t know a hero if one came up and clobbered him. Gib’s sole interest in life is Gib. And sooner or later, there’s going to be a reckoning. Sooner, if it’s up to me.”

  Zeph looks up at Spencer. “Well now, white boy. That’s the first thing I ever heard you say made any damn sense.”

  “Just the way I see it.”

  There’s a silence. Zeph goes back to scrubbing.

  “You need some help?” Spencer asks. No answer. “Zeph? I said, can I help?”

  “I got it.”

  “Are you sure…”

  Zeph sighs. “They took P-Ray.”

  “What? No.”

  “Yeah. And they took Enzo, ’cause Enzo tried to stop ’em taking P-Ray. And—you’ll love this—they took Kitty too, because Kitty volunteered.”

  “Why on earth would she—”

  “Apparently, she was under the impression that sick folks are being taken to some island somewhere, and she got the bright idea to go look for her mama there. But you wouldn’t know anything about any island, now, would you?”

  “Hoffman. Dammit.” Spencer pauses. “Look, I… They wouldn’t have taken her mother there. They—” He sees Zeph glaring at him. “Okay. We didn’t have the island set up that quickly. Kitty’s mother would have been one of the first cases, and we weren’t using Hoffman Island yet.”

  “Gosh, too bad we didn’t know that when Kitty got herself sent there on purpose.”

  “I…” Spencer kneels down beside Zeph. “Look, if Kitty’s mother was on that South African ship, she never would have made it to Hoffman. I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want to give her false hope, that’s all. Zeph, I’m sorry. I’m going to help, I swear. I’m going to fix this somehow.”

  Zeph takes a deep breath, exhales. “If you really want to help, drag them Committee fellas to the backyard. Still ain’t figured what we’re going to do with them, but we can’t leave ’em in the middle of the Cabinet, that’s for sure.”

  “Um.” Spencer blanches. “You know, Zeph, I’m…um… It’s
just—”

  “You wanna help or not? You too good for this job?”

  “Yes—I mean, no. Yes, I want to help; no to the other.” He takes a deep breath, removes his jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. Spencer tries to look nonplussed, but his stomach turns over when he gets close. Shotgun blasts at close range don’t leave much pretty behind. One man’s chest cavity is split open, and flies are already gathering for the banquet. Meanwhile, the other corpse retains only a vague suggestion of a head. Spencer stares at each corpse, unsure which nightmare to tackle first. After some consideration, he opts for the beheaded body. He takes a deep breath and, hoping Zeph hasn’t noticed his hesitation, kneels down and eases his arms underneath the dead man’s arms. The remains of the man’s skull lull forward, sending viscera flowing down the front of Spencer’s shirt. He stumbles back and retches but tries to mask it with a cough.

  Zeph stays focused on his scrubbing, but he smiles. Look at the prince of the city now. But despite everything, Zeph can’t help but feel for Spencer just a little bit. Ain’t like he’d been eager to touch those bodies either. “Reynolds, it’s okay if you need to—”

  There’s a pounding on the front door. “Open up! Committee on Public Safety!”

  “Oh God,” Zeph says. “They come back for their boys!” He and Spencer look around at the Cabinet, still sprayed with blood and showered with broken glass; at the corpses, decomposing on the floor; and at each other, not looking much better. “What do we do?”

  “Okay, don’t panic. Let me think.”

  “Think? We got to get out of here. Come on, we’ll go out the back. You can hoist me over the wall, and we’ll—”

  Bang bang bang. “Committee on Public Safety! Open this door right now!”

  “All right,” Zeph whispers. “You gotta…I don’t know, hold ’em off somehow, while I get Ros and the Doc, and we’ll—”

  “No,” Spencer says. “No, we can’t run. It’ll never work. They’ll still find the bodies. They’ll still—”

  Bang bang bang. “Open this door right now!”

  Zeph grabs Spencer’s pant leg. “Reynolds! Have you heard about Edison’s electric chair? They’re gonna put me in it. Maybe Timur too, but definitely me!”

  “Zeph, let me think for one—”

  Bang bang bang. “This is your final warning. I am authorized by the city of New York to break down this door!”

  “Jesus!”

  “I got it.” Spencer kneels down, nose to nose with Zeph. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two dollar bills. “Take my money.”

  “What? Brother, we can’t bribe these guys! Certainly not with—”

  “Zeph, you want me to help you? Take the damned money. Now.”

  Bang bang bang. “By the orders of the Committee on Public Safety, we are breaking down this door!”

  Zeph takes the money.

  “Now shake my hand.”

  “Spencer, what are you—”

  “Fucking hell, Zeph, shake my hand!” He does. “Thank you.” Spencer stands, wipes the brains off his shirt as best he can, and runs bloody fingers through his hair. He yanks his jacket back on, misbuttoning it as he marches to the black curtains. Before he steps through, he turns to Zeph. “Wish me luck.”

  The Committeemen have set about forcing the door when it suddenly pops open. Spencer stands before them, smiling broadly. “Gentlemen! How are you this morning? You know,” he says with a wink, “we leave this door unlocked—there was no need for all the histrionics. Anyway, come in, boys. Please, come in.”

  Four Committee officers step into the dim entryway of Magruder’s. Three wear the usual hood-and-goggles gear, while the fourth is dressed more officiously in the uniform of Dreamland security. Spencer peers at his uncovered face. “My goodness, you’re McGrath, aren’t you? Chief of security! I’m Spencer Reynolds. I’m sure you remember—we met at the opening ceremonies last month. Gentlemen, welcome to the latest acquisition of the Dreamland Consortium.”

  The men eyeball one another, not sure what to make of their young prince, disheveled and bloodstained. Aren’t we supposed to burn down this place?

  “Mr. Reynolds,” McGrath says carefully, “I’m not sure I understand what—”

  “This building has been purchased by the Reynolds family. We just now made the deal, didn’t we, Mr. Andrews?”

  Spencer turns back to the velvet curtains. Zeph peeks his head around, trying to figure out whether to run for his life. “Um,” he says. “Yeah…we did?”

  Spencer grins. “Of course we did! Just now. So, gentlemen, whatever concerns you might have about these buildings are completely—”

  “Now, wait,” McGrath says. “First of all, we’re here looking for Pete McKenzie and John Pierce. They were here last night, but they never—”

  “Well now,” Spencer says, his mind racing. Where would they go? Where would those boys have gone after their mission, if not home? The answer is almost too easy. “Chief McGrath, we all know that Coney Island has more than her share of…distractions, shall we say? Some smelling of whiskey, some of perfume? I’m sure your men were diverted from their appointed rounds, as they say. But that’s no reason to—”

  “And second, why would Dreamland buy this shit hole? Dreamland is all the way on the other end of the island!”

  Spencer laughs, a bit harder than necessary. “Chief McGrath. You’re a man of the law. The ways of business must seem mysterious to you, so allow me to explain.” He pauses to clear his throat. “Gentlemen, this current crisis—by which, of course, I mean the Cough—is very dire indeed. But like all crises, this too shall pass. And when it does? The number of visitors to Coney Island will expand tenfold, and it is visionary capitalists like the Dreamland Consortium who stand to reap the rewards.”

  “What are you talking about, Mr. Reynolds?”

  “Here at Coney Island, we scour the history books for traumatic events to re-create. Pompeii. The flooding of Galveston, Texas. The apocalyptic crisis is our bread and butter. Now, thanks to the Cough, we have our own! And you think the Reynolds family would let such an opportunity go unexploited?” Spencer shakes his head. “I’m a bit insulted, frankly.”

  McGrath frowns. He can feel his men’s allegiance shifting, and he doesn’t like it. “Look, Mr. Reynolds. This building was scheduled for burning last night, but it’s still standing. We’re here to remedy that oversight. So by order of the Committee on Public Safety, I insist that—”

  “The Dreamland Consortium is turning Magruder’s into a Calcutta Cough History Museum. Nobody is interested in whether you think it’s a good idea. Are we clear?”

  McGrath studies Spencer’s blood-splattered clothes. “If that’s all this is—a business transaction—then why do you look like somebody chewed you up and spat you out? Look at yourself.”

  Shit. “Ah, you see, I—”

  “I don’t like him,” Zeph pipes up from beside the curtain. “I don’t like him, and I don’t like his plans for my museum, and the two of us mighta got into it a little bit.”

  The men gaze down at Zeph and laugh. “Sorry,” McGrath says. “But you’re telling me—what are ya, three feet tall? You did that to Reynolds?”

  Zeph shrugs. “What can I tell ya? That is one soft college boy, and I am one angry Negro.”

  McGrath raises his hands in submission. “Fair enough. But, Mr. Reynolds, there was a report of fleas being kept here, which is a public health issue. So before we go, we really do have to take a look around and make sure everything’s all right.”

  Zeph glances behind him into the main room of the Cabinet. One of the dead men’s intestines are leaking out onto the rug.

  “Now,” Spencer says, “I’m sure that’s not necessary.”

  “I’m afraid it is, sir.”

  Spencer takes a step forward and looks McGrath straight in the eye. “The Dreamlan
d Consortium pays your salary. Your commitment will be rewarded, I assure you. But for now? Take your men and go.”

  “Mr. Reynolds—”

  “I’ll say it once more. Take your men. And go.”

  McGrath blinks. “I…I gotta check with your father.”

  “Of course.” Spencer smiles. “Tell him what I said about Pompeii. He’ll like that.”

  The men shake hands with Spencer and depart. When they’ve gone, Spencer closes the door and slumps against it, rhythmically banging his head while the blood drains from his face. “For. The. Love. Of. Christ!”

  Zeph laughs. “That was good, Reynolds. I gotta admit. That was damn good.”

  Spencer shakes his head. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

  “Go right ahead—after you get the bodies moved. You might have bought the Cabinet, but right now, you work for me.”

  Spencer smiles. “I consider it an honor. And once I get that done, I need to speak to Rosalind. I think I have an idea.”

  Chapter 23

  Mummies

  Kitty wakes in a darkness so complete that she’s unsure whether her eyes are open. She sits in the damp hull of the tugboat Magpie, crammed shoulder to shoulder with her fellow captives. Although it is too dark to see, she can feel their presence, hear their terrified breaths underneath the droning thunder of the boat’s engine. Whispered voices and quiet crying, punctuated by phlegmy coughs.

  P-Ray sleeps in Kitty’s lap. The motion of the boat lulled him, despite their predicament. Kitty wishes she could sleep too—perhaps forget for a while that she’s damp and cold and scared. She isn’t sure how fast the boat is going or how far they’ve traveled. Far enough. Wherever this island is, there’ll be no swimming back, that’s for sure. There may be no coming back at all.

  “Excuse me,” a voice calls out into the void. “When will we get there?”

  “Shut up,” a gruff voice answers—presumably one of the sailors who met them at the pier and herded them down into the hold. “You’ll get there when you get there. What, you in a hurry?”

  Men’s laughter. “Yeah, he’s in a hurry,” says another voice. “He’s got a date!”