“What?” she said, still frowning.
“You’re Dreadnought Stanton,” he said again. “You intend to come in the nick of time and set everything right, against all odds. Through the force of sheer will.”
She narrowed her eyes at him and did not smile. “I promise you, it’s going to take more than sheer will.”
At that moment, the waitress came along with the bill, two crisp little half-moon cookies resting atop the Chinese-scrawled slip of green paper. When Jenny saw them, her stormy mood dissipated almost instantly.
“Fortune cookies!” she said, seizing one. “I thought they only had these in San Francisco.” To Will’s surprise, instead of eating the cookie, she crumbled it in her hand and extracted a little slip of paper.
“They have your fortune printed on them,” she said, showing him the slip then turning it over to read it. Her brow wrinkled and her smile dimmed.
Will took the other cookie and broke it open, extracting his own small slip of paper.
“The past is in your future,” he read. “What the heck does that mean, anyway? What does yours say?”
“Mine doesn’t make any sense either,” she muttered, tucking the little slip away into her purse. “These aren’t as good as the ones in San Francisco. The last one I got there said Who dares, wins. I’m going to stick with that one.”
As they were making their way through the crowded restaurant toward the front door, Will caught sight of a familiar figure through the front window. It was the street-corner activist who usually hung around outside Tesla Industries. It had begun to snow hard, and his threadbare outfit was dusted with white. He was talking with a man in a shiny, cheap-looking suit. The man was showing him something, some kind of flyer, and the dark-haired young man was shaking his head—and as he did so, he happened to catch sight of Will and Jenny. His eyes met Will’s for just a moment. Then he quickly put his hand on the shoulder of his companion and turned him away from the restaurant window. He pointed down Piquette, and whatever he said made the man tip his hat eagerly and head quickly in that direction.
As soon as the man was gone, the organizer came inside the restaurant, hurriedly making his way toward them. He did not look at Jenny, clearly not expecting any kind of introduction, but rather spoke low hurried words into Will’s ear:
“You seen that feller out front? He’s showin’ around flyers of you and your girl. You might consider going out the back way.” Then he turned on his heel and left the way he had come. To the restaurant proprietor who had greeted his entrance with a dark frown, he touched the brim of his hat and said saucily, “Don’t worry, brother, I ain’t gonna steal nothing.”
Will quickly spun Jenny toward the back of the restaurant.
“What on earth—” she began, but then fell silent as she saw the look on Will’s face. He led her through the kitchen—to the bemusement of the busy Chinese cooks—and out the back door. When they emerged in the back alley, she looked at him curiously.
“They’re still looking for us!” said Will through clenched teeth, pulling his cap down tight on his head. “There was someone outside the restaurant showing around flyers!”
“But why?” The snow was falling even more heavily now, powdering Jenny’s fur coat with little puffs of white. “Dad thinks I’m on my way home! I told him I’d only come if your parents would leave you alone—and he said they agreed!”
Will nodded. Ben had even written that Ma’am had agreed to Jenny’s terms. But he said Father ... Father had been pigheaded.
“They’ve double-crossed us,” said Will, grimly. “They think they can get you home and get me back.”
“Why would they do that?” Jenny said. “Why wouldn’t they keep their word?”
“I don’t know.” Will set his jaw and glanced at his wristwatch. It was not yet nine o’clock. There was still plenty of time. “But I know someone who might.”
Chapter Twelve
Harley Briar
ELEVEN DAYS UNTIL THE FULL MOON
Dear Will:
I am in receipt of your urgent telegram dated 9:30 P.M., Sunday, December 4. And I’m sorry to say that I can’t shed much light on why there are people still looking for you, even after Jenny made that deal with her dad. It does indeed seem like a double-cross, as you wrote in your wire.
I am absolutely certain that Mother believes that all efforts to bring you home have ceased. She gave Mr. Hansen her word that she would comply with Jenny’s demands, and she wouldn’t break her word for anything. So if there are detectives still looking for you, I would lay money that they’re not working for our parents ... they’re working for our parent, singular. Father.
Father has said he wants you back from Detroit, no matter what it takes. And you know how Father is when he gets a bone in his teeth.
I will see if I can find out anything more. Meanwhile, don’t worry. It’ll all come out all right. You’ll see.
Your brother always,
Ben
After all the hard work they’d put in on Sunday, Will expected that Monday would be a particularly execrable specimen of its type. And indeed it was, as Grig was called into a private meeting with Mr. Tesla almost as soon as they’d arrived at Building Three, and didn’t return all that day.
Roher always took Grig’s absences as an opportunity to subject Will to torment and abuse. Will had sat on tacks no fewer than three times, found little doodles on his papers of stick figures being stabbed with stick daggers, and once he even discovered a “kick me” sign pinned to his back.
Probably the worst thing, though, was Roher’s chair. It squeaked. A high-pitched, grating squeak. And Roher, aware of this fact, made it his business to constantly rock back and forth with tiny little movements. Squeak, squeak, squeak—it was like Chinese water torture.
Having suffered through a morning of particularly intense mistreatment, and particularly prolonged squeaking, Will finally cornered Court after lunch. “So what’s the dirt you promised me on Roher?”
Court grinned as he pulled out one of his cigarettes. “You’re not letting the kraut get to you, are you?”
“If he calls me ‘Blockhead’ one more time I’m going to set fire to his desk,” Will vowed fiercely. “Which I don’t suppose you’d care about, except the whole building might go up in flames, including your pictures of Marie Curie, and I don’t think you want that.”
Court’s lazy smile disappeared. “Don’t you dare threaten Marie!” He gestured Will to lean in close.
“Roher’s got a girl,” he whispered. “Passes notes to her through the fence almost every day. She’s a cute little blonde number with braids. Wears them all pinned up on top of her head. I’ve seen the two of them canoodling through the iron bars, fingers entwined and all that. It’s like Romeo and Juliet.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t interested in sex, just physics.”
“I never said he wasn’t interested in sex,” Court said, as if he found the very idea preposterous. “Just that he was more interested in physics.”
“Fine. So what do I care if he has a girl?”
“You may not care, but Mr. Tesla sure would,” Court offered slyly. “You might just want to let Roher know that you know what everyone else around here knows—Grig included. Then maybe he’ll lay off you.”
Will pondered this, but said nothing more. And even when he went back to his desk that afternoon and found that each and every one of his steel pen nibs had been bent and blunted, he did not immediately act upon the information he had received. Instead, he just smiled to himself. Roher could just keep on playing his little games. For now. Because Will had learned something else from his father besides the value of a clean handkerchief—for an attack to be most devastating, it had to be delivered when the moment was right.
Afternoon stretched into evening. Grig remained closeted with Mr. Tesla, finally sending a message to Building Three that their conference would not be completed until well after midnight, and that the apprentices should retir
e. Which they did, in all haste, Roher singing a mocking “Good night, Blockhead!” as he’d strolled out. Will was left alone in the darkened Building Three to brood. Wasn’t this a fine state of affairs, he thought irritably. Stuck waiting to be walked the whole three blocks home. He thought idly about getting started on rebuilding his Flume, just so he could have something to do.
No, it was just too absurd. There was no way he was just going to sit here. Grig’s message had said the apprentices should retire. That could be taken to mean him, as well. Sure, it was a stretch to impute such a special dispensation to the brief text of the message—but it was a plausible excuse, and he could embroider it if need be. Snatching his coat, he left Building Three and headed for the front gate.
He emerged onto the street in front of the huge main gates feeling both triumphant and apprehensive. He looked up and down the street for private investigators in shiny suits. Having deemed the coast clear, he was just beginning to turn toward home when he caught sight of the young labor organizer standing on the corner. Will knew he wouldn’t get another chance to thank him for the good turn he’d done at the chop suey house—he certainly could never do it in front of Grig—so he quickly crossed the dark street to where the young man stood hunched and shivering, hands jammed deep in his pockets.
It was just 20 degrees out, but the young man had only a canvas overcoat, worn over several sweaters and a ragged muffler. As Will approached him, he was trying to light a hand-rolled cigarette with bare, trembling hands. Will remembered a packet of matches he’d picked up when he and Jenny were in Stockton. He’d grown accustomed to putting them in his pocket every day, along with whatever spare change he had, and his apartment key. Stopping in front of the man, Will fished in his pocket and handed the matches to him.
“Thanks, brother,” the young man said, looking up. His eyes became slightly wary when he saw who’d handed them to him. But whatever inspired the wariness, he kept it to himself as he struck a match into bright flame. The sudden harsh illumination revealed dark circles under his eyes. Will was reminded of the Dorians he’d seen at the dance hall in Stockton, but he didn’t guess labor organizers went in for such pretentious affectation.
The young man waved out the match and regarded the packet with interest.
“Hotel Stockton,” he observed. “The private dick said you were from California. I hear tell it’s mighty nice. Oranges and sunshine, right?”
“Plenty of sunshine, I guess,” Will said. “But my family didn’t have oranges. We had horses.”
“Must have had money too,” the young man said, narrowing his eyes as he inhaled smoke. “Poor folk don’t send private investigators looking for their sons.”
When Will did not say anything, the man held out the matchbook with a shrug.
“No, keep them,” said Will. He paused, then added: “Thanks for what you did the other night.”
No comment. Just another indifferent shrug as the man took a pull on the harsh tobacco.
“Hey, you want a cup of coffee?” Will asked. The young man peered at Will curiously, as if wondering if he’d heard him right.
“You sure you ought?” he grinned crookedly. “You sure your Russian nanny won’t mind?”
“That’s not a very friendly thing to say to someone offering you coffee,” Will said. “Especially when he’s willing to buy you a sandwich to go with it.”
The young man grinned again as he stuck out his ungloved hand. Even through his own glove, Will could feel how cold the young man’s skin was.
“We ain’t never been properly introduced. Name’s Briar,” he said, drawing it out so it sounded like bra-ar. “Harley Briar. Labor organizer for the Industrial Workers of the World. But I guess you already knew that, right?”
“I knew one, but not the other,” Will said. Then he added sheepishly, “You’ll have to tell me a good place to go. Someplace ... you know, safe. I only know the chop suey house and I don’t think I should go back there.”
Briar shook his head. “Boy, you’re on a short leash, ain’t you? Private dicks holdin’ one end and Tesla Industries the other. Hope you didn’t sign any kind of contract with Tesla, by the way. Normally I don’t concern myself with the problems of college boys, but his contracts are awful damn bad.”
Will shuddered. He didn’t want to think about the contract he’d signed, because the more he thought about it, the more he regretted it. He regretted not reading it in the first place, he regretted not having Jenny look over the changes ...
It’ll all come out all right. You’ll see. He remembered the words in Ben’s letter. They were surprisingly comforting.
What was done was done. And after all, he was working at Tesla Industries. It would all come out all right ... somehow.
“C’mon,” Briar said. “I know a fine safe place, and it’s close t’hand.”
Will followed Briar to a small, dingy café on Grand River Avenue tucked in among a clot of darkened mechanics shops. The inside of the café was very, very warm—they probably kept it this way, Will realized, because most of the men inside seemed to be as insubstantially clothed as Briar, with wads of newspaper sticking out of the collars of their thin shirts and shoes held together with twine. No one gave Briar a second look, but Will drew many appraising glances. Remembering the Tesla Industries pin he wore, Will turned his lapel under to hide it.
Will ordered two cups of coffee and two big club sandwiches, and as they waited for their food, he took Briar’s measure. The young man was small and scrawny, but his hands—strangely stained and scarred—were large and looked very strong. When Briar noticed Will looking, he held them up for examination.
“I come from Kentucky,” he said, turning them over. “My dad and brothers all coal miners. Beats the hands to hell. I got out of there when I was fifteen. Been kicking around all sorts of places since then.” The coffee came first, and Briar poured lots of sugar and most of the cream into his.
“So, I’ve been wondering,” Will said, stirring what cream was left into his cup, “I see you on that corner every day, but I don’t get just who you’re trying to organize. The workers at the Teslaphone factory are escorted out on autobuses, and the other apprentices aren’t even allowed to leave at all.”
“I started hanging around outside Fort Tesla just out of sheer cussedness,” Briar smirked, warming his hands on the white china. “Just ‘cause Niko finds us organized labor types so messy and upsetting. He thinks of us like a spot the dog left on the rug. But I’m only there mornings and night. During the day, while you’re inside, I make the rounds.” Briar paused, took a large swallow of his coffee. “Now, everybody knows about Detroit’s auto factories, ‘course, they’re famous. And our boys have plenty to do with them. But I got a different angle. I work the magical factories. The three big ones between Woodward and Grand River ... CharmCo, you heard of them, right?”
Will nodded. “They make the charms that the old businessmen use. The ones that have all the young businessmen yelling about a Mantic Trust.”
“They make all sorts of things,” Briar said. “Strong charms for old men, weaker charms for young men, woman charms to tell pregnancy or stop it ... anything and everything. They run a nonstop line and they’re rotten to their workers. All the magical factories are. See, except for a few old hands, all their workers are under thirty. And even if they’re not working lots of magic, they’re still working it steady, and that exposure builds up, worse than the Black Lung I saw back home.” Now the sandwiches came, and no sooner had the waitress set the plate on the table than Briar attacked the food. When he spoke again, it was through a full mouth. “‘Course, by the time they actually get sick, the factories don’t want nothing to do with them no more.”
The waitress was trying to hurry away, but Briar plucked the hem of her apron, and said, in a very courtly fashion, “I’d be much obliged if you’d bring me a cup of hot water, sister.”
The waitress rolled her eyes and jerked her apron away.
�
�Bum,” she muttered, but, eyeing Will’s nice overcoat, she left and eventually returned with the hot water Briar had requested. Will watched as Briar opened the bottle of ketchup that was on the table and poured half of it into the cup. He winked conspiratorially.
“Good as tomato soup, free as the wind.”
“Heck, I’ll buy you soup—” Will began, but Briar cut off the words with an emphatic shake of his head.
“Nothin’ doin’,” he said. “I did you a favor and you paid me back. We’re square. Grig Grigoriyev and all you brainy bastards inside Fort Tesla can say what you like about me, but I ain’t any kind of a bum.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of silver against china as Briar stirred his ketchup soup.
“You come a long way to work at Tesla Industries,” Briar said finally, tapping the spoon against the cup’s rim. “You’re awful young. I guess they picked you right off the horse farm, huh?”
Will was eager to get to the main point. “Look, can you tell me what the man—the private detective—what did he say to you?”
“Well, he said he knew you and your girl were somewhere around Tesla Industries. He wanted to know if I’d seen you, if I knew where you two were holed up. Your father is offering a good reward.” Briar signaled the waitress to refill his coffee cup. She frowned disdainfully and did not hurry to do so.
“My father?” said Will. “He said that? Exactly that?”
Briar nodded. “Exactly that. Said he’d been hired by your father in California. That surprise you?”
“No. It doesn’t surprise me at all,” Will muttered. It confirmed Ben’s suspicions. Mr. Hansen and Ma’am had agreed to Jenny’s terms—but Father hadn’t. With Father, it was a grudge. Father was going to have his pound of flesh, come hell or high water.
“Bastard,” Will whispered.
“What’s he after you about?” Briar asked. “You two elope, maybe? You couldn’t stand to leave her behind in California?” He paused, then added thoughtfully, “That’s ‘bout the only reason I can figure Tesla would let you live off Compound.” Then he snorted with laughter. “Hell of a good dodge ... I bet half them college boys you work with wish they’d thought of it!”
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