Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

“Well, maybe it’s time you learned.”

  With cops and gangsters crowded around them, anarchy lurking close by, they moved towards the crowded stairway.

  CHAPTER 7

  CARLA FOLLOWED Buda down a cramped flight of stairs, into the cellar. Cellars, she thought, were a New England thing—she’d never seen one in Montreal, and she didn’t like them here. Being underground reminded her of prison, with claustrophobic walls of earth held back by cracked cement. They passed through a rusty door, and Carla saw the purpose of this cellar was clear: they were making Draughts here. During an anti-Draught fundraiser.

  The distilling rig sat in the middle of the floor, the space around it cleared to avoid tainting the Humours. There was a gunman in every corner. The rig itself was a seven-foot cage of brass pipes and diodes, with chairs arranged around the cage. Over the chairs hung the carved rune-stones central to distilling, and in the chairs themselves were three men being drained of their emotions.

  It didn’t take a genius to see they were being harvested for Delight. One man was reading a Yellow Kid funny-book, chuckling softly. But it was a weak chuckle, oddly rehearsed—like a phonogram skipping.

  Another was petting a stuffed rabbit, staring straight ahead and occasionally mumbling “flower, flower.” That one had been in the rig too long, she thought. The third was plump and cheery, still fresh—a drunkard in a three-piece suit, jawing with the security goons and recounting parties where he’d been the guest of honor. Between these three, glass cylinders bubbled and smoked with condensing Delight. A sliding track delivered full containers to a bed of ice nearby the machine. It was a slick setup.

  Buda presented the thugs with a business card reading Braintree Ice, and they waved him on.

  “Mixing room’s in there,” said a huge Myth, with Lust-growths of questing feelers all over his face. “Better hurry—the good stuff’s going quick.”

  Buda nodded. “Wouldn’t want to spend the evening dry.”

  Carla said nothing. The rune-stones hummed softly as they did their work, an otherworldly rattle that made her skin crawl. She’d used Noxious during her old schemes, enough to give her a few mutations. Her main drug of choice, of course, had been Deceit. But the effects had worn off, and she’d thought no more of it. She’d certainly never seen where the Humours came from—she’d preferred not to know. Now she had the answer, and it unnerved her.

  “What are we doing down here?” Buda was ushering her into the next room, a low-ceilinged chamber of freezing air lit by electric lights.

  “To do the business of God.”

  Inside, Humours lay in beds of ice. A slim bartender working at a long table mixed them with liquor, and then passed his newly made Draughts into a dumbwaiter.

  Buda walked up to the man and slipped a hundred-dollar bill to him. Carla watched the man pocket it, pulled out a smoke, and walk through the door to join the armed thugs.

  She frowned. “Hold it. How the hell did you make connections, down here? Why would anyone work for you?”

  “No one works for me. I simply look ahead, and see what people want. He wanted a hundred-dollar tip, a t break, and a smoke. Too bad he won’t live to finish it.”

  Buda pulled a device from her handbag. It was a series of tubes with threaded bolts: he stepped behind the bar, and began hooking up tubes to the still-cold Draught jars.

  Carla felt she’d taken enough of this. She’d toed the line, with the Red Queen and that masked psycho around, but she felt braver now that she had Buda alone. “There’s no way you get outta this alive. It’s a miracle we even got down here. There must be twenty B.O.I. boys upstairs—not to mention cops!”

  Buda looked at her, a stubborn smile on his face. A wrinkle in his forehead twitched… then cracked open, revealing a third eye. Two more popped open under his hairline, and then more—six in total. Each eye was wide, flickering with excitement, darting madly around the room. Buda pulled out a modified snuff-box and snorted from it, licking his lips.

  “Anticipation. It’s a very rare Draught. Dehydrated and… Whew! Refined.” He straightened as the eyes shot wide, wheeling in different directions. “A cop looks one way. Then his buddy looks another. The eyes tell me when—they can see. It all comes together, if you watch closely.”

  Carla was disgusted… but fascinated. “You can tell the future?.”

  “Almost. The whole world is climbing a ladder blindfolded… I just peek through the blindfold, now and then.”

  Of course… Now she understood why he was so reckless, how he knew the impossible—the Coast Guard’s schedule, Rose’s arrival. All of it was a Draught mutation. He’d be a genius at poker.

  But there was a problem with this little ‘magic trick,’ one Buda seemed too preoccupied to notice. “What happens when the stuff wears off?”

  He had returned to his work, attaching the far ends of the hoses to Noxious canisters. “I can’t see that far. But I don’t have to. Mithras will guide us all the way, Carla—into the glorious wreckage of America.”

  “But how far can you see? Minutes, hours?” She felt perspiration sliding down her neck. Fast-talking was a trick she could understand, but using Draughts to see possible futures? That was a scam on a whole ‘nother level. They were playing with forces beyond her comprehension, and suddenly Buda seemed less of a mastermind to her… and more like a madman.

  “It’ll last, my dear. At least, long enough to get some Delight up these vents. And then…” The eyes shut, one by one. “It doesn’t matter. My agents will extract Palmer, and my life is forfeit. I’ve played my part, in the great dance.”

  “Forfeit, my ass! What about me?” She looked around for exits. There was only one—the door they’d come through. But when she made to bolt for it, the heavy slap of a revolver’s hammer pulling back stopped her.

  “You can’t go yet, Carla. I’m sorry.”

  He’d levelled a Colt at her, a huge thing with a fat grey muzzle. His grip was wobbling, unsteady. “You still have work to do. The dance needs you. The revolution needs you.”

  She gritted her teeth. “I should’ve jumped off that goddamn boat.”

  “But you didn’t. I knew you wouldn’t—you’re too important. The loss of one Host was a small price, to bring me you.” Buda was prying the covers off the basement air-vents with one hand, his gun-hand still trained on Carla. She thought about making a move—but how could she dodge a guy who could see the future?

  “Dammit. Why’d you get me involved? I’m not cut out for this shit.” She hated herself for the way her voice shook. All that time in prison, and here she was, quailing in front of a hopped-up anarchist.

  “You’ll see, with time.” He popped the tubes off the Noxious cans, tossing them one by one into the vents, which connected to the upper floor. Everybody up there was going to get very happy, once the gas hit. “This has all been prophesied.”

  “Bullshit!” Her pretenses had dissolved—why bother, when he knew what she was going to do? She’d been trying to con him, get him caught, get hailed as a hero. But she’d been fooled, the whole damn time—she’d never had a chance. “I just wanted to make money, dammit! That’s all!”

  “Oh, stop whining, Carla. You were taking down capitalism, before I bombed Wall Street all those years back.” He popped the nozzles off and began replacing vent covers, stuffing the slits with greasy rags. He moved without looking, without gauging his actions—because he didn’t have to. “We were doing the same work, in different shoes. And you were a genius at it. You cost those pigs millions—I just cost them one afternoon.” He grinned. “You cost them their faith in capitalism. You exposed the myth, the lie—everybody can’t win, in this country.” He giggled madly. “It’s all a crock!”

  She saw gas seeping through the slits, despite the rags. She was no brewer, but she knew this was a bad plan. There was enough Delight in those vents to get a whole town high… or simply choke everyone to death.

  Carla took a shuddering breath. She could still reason with th
is madman—anyone could be reasoned with. If she appealed to their shared heritage, if she could find his weakness… “I just wanted to show ‘em a wop off the boat could get rich. Know what I mean? They step on people like this. Buda, I didn’t ever want to hurt nobody. Stop this shit, before you get the old country burned down!”

  “Nobody? Not even your husband?”

  She ground her teeth. “Don’t you talk about him.”

  “He got a life sentence for fraud. Did you let him pick his prison?” Buda was smiling so wide, it seemed his face might crack. The Delight was now swirling in awful rosy ribbons around him. “Do you schedule who fucks him every night?”

  “Shut the fuck up!” She plucked a bottle from the table, caution gone. Nobody slandered her Ronnie—nobody! She’d kill the bastard, bullets or not, for using those words on another paisano.

  Buda shot the bottle from her hand. The shards stung her palm, and she toppled backwards, her courage draining away. Footsteps shuffled in the next room as the noise of the shot drew attention.

  “The eyes see you, Carla. You’re glad Ronnie took the fall—better him than you, right?” The sixth eye on his forehead twitched in a muscular tic. “You will learn, bambina. This was all for the greater good. You’ll see. Chaos will reincarnate America, Italy—the whole world. Paradise awaits us…”

  There were shouts, from behind her. The bartender burst through the door, bowtie askew, and Buda shot him through the forehead. His toupee painted the walls.

  There were more shots, from the distilling room—screams, underground thunder. Bullets slammed into the walls. Angry voices sounded in the midst of the gunfire. “Bureau of Investigation! Get down!”

  God, it’s a raid. A federal raid. How did that happen? She looked at Buda, saw his wild grin, and understood. He knew this was coming. No loose ends, no one to interrogate about the gas attack… They’re going to kill us all.

  That’s why he brought me down here.

  “Jesus. Jesus, please...” She was getting light-headed from the gas. “Get me out of here, I need to get out of here—”

  Buda was still talking, preaching to no one. His face turned towards a ceiling light, as if it was a beam of light from Heaven, and not a cheap electric fixture. “The eyes brought me here—the eyes of Mithras. But they don’t see anything after this… except you. Your face, smiling while Boston burns.” Buda squeezed his eyes shut, still grinning. “Be strong for us, my sister. Death to capitalism!” He pressed the pistol against his temple.

  “Don’t—”

  He pulled the trigger, and died laughing.

  Within minutes, the Bureau overwhelmed the distillery, shooting their way through the opposition. King Solomon’s men were decimated. The lawmen were operating on an anonymous tip from a man named Sylvester, who’d called them that afternoon. They found Carla kneeling in the ice-room, Buda’s gun in her hand, and immediately arrested her.

  Her charges included treason, conspiracy to commit murder and a dozen others. Those charges would echo in the headlines, until her guilt became unquestioned.

  But all that was still to come. In the bloody aftermath of the raid, Buda’s body lay cooling on the concrete, his work finished. The gas rose steadily up through the vents.

  Even as guests above in the Atlantic flinched at the gunshots, the Noxious was climbing towards them—ready to warp their souls, and change the course of history.

  CHAPTER 8

  ROSE AND Lucas made it halfway up the marble staircase before somebody got in their way. Her name was Zelda, and she insisted on writing a check to Lucas’s church so she could make a contribution for the “poor little colored children” of Roxbury. When she got out the pocketbook, Lucas gave Rose a helpless glance, and Rose detached herself from him. He probably needed the contribution, and besides, they’d gotten past the heat on the ballroom floor. Or so she hoped.

  She crested the top steps, arriving at the balcony. Here the upper crust mingled under a glittering chandelier, secluded in a cloud of refined affluence. Security was thinner up here, and Rose found herself among people she’d never speak to in town: Harvard professors, city councilors and state legislators, their champagne flutes constantly refilled by stiff-necked waiters. People goggled at her when she approached, like she was an unexpected burlesque show; many raised spectacles, golden rims flashing. Jazz wafted from below, as she struggled to pick Fischer out of the crowd and ignore the curious eyes following every step she took.

  It wasn’t hard to find the man. His clothes were garishly colored, standing out against the pundits and elites. He wore a heavy scarf, despite the warmth inside the Atlantic, and two hats—a boat skimmer, and a fedora—mashed on top of one other. Both were crumpled and moth-eaten. His eyes were bright and he spoke little, adjusting his pinstriped suit with a serious of nervous jerks.

  Rose saw an opening, and moved toward his group. Just five minutes…

  “Hol’ it right dere.” A man with a pencil mustache stepped into her path. “You don’t look like a friend of de Mayor’s.”

  “I’m not. I just want to talk to Mr. Fischer. I’m… a fan.”

  The mustached man frowned. When he spoke, the Cajun in him leaked out like an escaping rue. “I dun think so. I think ‘joo got the wrong floor—you belong down dere, wit’ de band.” He pointed down the stairs. Behind him, a tall man with big, dark glasses loomed silently. The big guy said nothing, just staring.

  “I belong right here, thanks. I’m the… cousin, of the prince of Ghana.” The lie was so bald-faced she burned with embarassment just trying it. But she’d run out of allies, and if she could buy even a few seconds…

  The Cajun man snorted. “Oh, yeah? I suppose ‘joo came here in a golden areo-plane, and gonna marry de President.” He slipped his hand inside his vest—a quiet gesture Rose had seen a thousand times. It was universal language for “I have a gun, and if you keep pissing me off, you’ll get to see it.”

  “Laugh if you like. I could buy and sell you.” That made him pause. She held her head high, painfully aware her jewelry was as cheap and fake as the rest of her—but this thug didn’t know that. “My uncle will want your name. What do they call you?”

  “Chance. Chance Le Grange.” He looked nervous, and she could feel doubt growing in him, like a spreading mold. She didn’t dare tamper with the emotion, in case he figured out she was a Myth. Instead she just let it grow. “You got any papers to prove dis? Princess?”

  The gray-faced man tapped the Cajun’s shoulder. “What?” snapped Le Grange.

  The big man’s glasses slipped, and Rose caught a glimpse of empty, black holes behind them. She tried not to betray disgust: there were plenty of monsters at the party tonight, but this was a new one. He’s Drained. Oh my god, he’s Drained and walking around at a party. How is that possible?

  “Mission,” gurgled the tall man. “Security.” His throat sounded like it was full of bees.

  “I know dat, you big oaf. What de hell is you getting at?” Chance leaned over the balcony. Rose could hear sounds of wild laughter—a little too wild, a little too crazy to just imply a good joke or a rousing time.

  This was her moment. While her aggressors were distracted, she slipped around them and marched towards Fischer.

  She found him in a debate with Mitchell Palmer, ex-attorney general. Palmer was not very impressive in person, with a doughy chin and bushy eyebrows. Apparently Palmer was in charge of Fischer’s speech. From the looks of the notecards Fischer was tossing aside, it wasn’t going well.

  Fischer seemed amused by the short man’s frustration. “This one’s got to go, and this one, and this one…”

  “One more time, Fischer. What are you going to say?”

  Fischer, his eyes wide and gleaming, gesticulated with his two hats wobbling. “‘The visions of human nature exposed to us by Draughts are truly majestic, but…’”

  “No, no! We have outlawed these drinks based on their un-Godly origins, their health hazards, and because they are a t
hreat to the sacred bond of marriage!” Palmer snatched the remaining cards away. “For God’s sake, Fischer, you’re supposed to be the expert here! Start acting like it!”

  “No one can be an expert on Draughts.” Fischer was grinning, a smirk that reminded Rose strongly of Buster Keaton. “Humours come from a place unknown to man--where the essence of fear and delight slides and gibbers, on unseen tides. We cannot hope to truly know the nature of...”

  Palmer threw up his hands, exasperated. “Just stick to the speech. Or part of it…” He stalked off with the aid of a cane, clearly tired of trying to talk sense to a man wearing multiple hats indoors. “Damned profligate.”

  Rose seized her chance as he stalked off. “Mr. Fischer? A moment, please.”

  The man seemed confused as to who was speaking, then his misty eyes found her. “Why, hello there. Another moralist, come to tell me Draughts are sinful?” He spread his arms. “Go ahead. I’ve heard it all.”

  “No, not exactly. I… I need your help.” It wasn’t easy to admit. “I’ve been poisoned by some Humours. I need you to fix it for me.” She glanced around for the Cajun and his chenchman, but they’d vanished. The laughter on the lower floor was getting louder.

  Suddenly, she heard shots—muffled and distant, but still loud enough to make everyone glance up like panicked sheep. To Rose’s surprise, Fischer didn’t seem bothered. He simply bobbed his head along with the band. Their bossa nova had only skipped a few beats during the gunfire.

  “What was that?”

  He shook his head. “The squabbles of lesser men. All will be well.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “You have been given a great gift, miss. I envy you, I really do.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “What do you…”

  “Few bodies can contain Humours without combusting or twisting beyond reason. But you seem to have all your important… parts.” Her skin crawled as he looked her up and down. It was the gaze of an etymologist, sizing up an insect for his cork-board. “I would think twice about rejecting that gift, if I were you.”