Gods of Chicago: Omnibus Edition

by Sikes, AJ

  “So I’m wondering where Farnsworth’s little girl is, and I’m also wondering if overnight maybe you decided it would be a good idea to give me a reason to forget the obstruction charge.”

  “You trying to strong-arm me, Wynes? You can’t prove the obstruction any better than I can prove what I saw in that machine shop, and we both know it.”

  “Don’t try that bet, Brand. You’re holding junk. Your face told me the second you sat down. So I’m asking again. Where’s the Farnsworth broad? Here’s a hint. I get she’s in with some smoke. I saw them together outside the gala the other night.”

  Brand wasn’t ready for that and his face nearly split wide open, spilling out every detail of the conversation he’d had with Emma and Eddie in the Vigilance that night. But he ran a thumb under his nose and pulled his thoughts in fast.

  “I’ve never seen the guy. But I overheard Miss Farnsworth talking to some people at the gala. She mentioned an Emmett or Enos, something that sounded like her name.”

  “Emmett and Emma. Sounds sweet. Almost good enough to be true. Where are they, Brand?”

  “I don’t know, and if you think—”

  “Yeah, if I think. Now try this. If you think you’re off the hook on this, think again. This case is my way out of the bullpen and up to a chair in central. I’m not missing that train, Brand. I’m going to find her, and if I find out that you knew where she was, you’ll get accessory to murder. Now what’s with the dirty fingers tonight?”

  “Eh?” Brand said, shocked by Wynes’ sudden change in direction.

  “Oh, well,” Brand said, rubbing his fingers. “I guess I got a little angry about how things are going at the Record now. Made a mess in my office. I’ll have to clean that up tomorrow morning.”

  Wynes seemed okay with that story at least. Like clockwork, the copper shifted back to his earlier line of questioning.

  “You know,” Wynes said, “they’re picking her old man’s place apart. Saw it this morning. The plant’s been shut down. Bet you didn’t know that. Wonder why you’re not freezing to death in here?”

  “Yeah,” was all Brand could think to say. Without the Farnsworth plant putting out steam, how was Chicago City still lit up and heated? The Brauerschift operation?

  “Mr. Tesla’s towers are up and running. Came online yesterday morning. Old Farnsworth left everything to his foreman, so it was a quick one-two and the operation is shut down. No need for it anymore. Got a wrecking crew coming in later this week I hear.”

  “What about the Brauershift outfit? They just opened last year and weren’t doing too shabby. And Lane-Hartley’s gas plant. What about them?”

  “All of them, Brand. Shuttered or about to be. But that’s on the QT and you didn’t hear from me anyway.”

  Brand wanted to ask where Wynes got it from, but a stenographer trotted up and deposited a stack of reports on the copper’s desk. As she turned away, Wynes reached for her wrist. She spun around and faced him, looking like hunted game and poised to backpedal as soon as he released her.

  “What’s this?” Wynes asked the girl.

  She took a moment to get the words from her throat to her lips, and her mouth shook around the first few syllables.

  “Re- reports. Reports for the Underminister. You’re supposed to sign off and record them before he does.”

  Wynes let her go, sneering and then flashing a look of hatred at the stack of papers on his desk. The girl took the opportunity to flee.

  “You know, Wynes,” Brand said, unable to resist a dig. “You keep doing that with your mouth and your face will stay that way. Sage advice from Mother Brand herself.”

  “Yeah, I heard. I see you didn’t listen either.”

  “Hard to listen to a woman who isn’t around,” Brand shot back, bristling.

  “Uh-huh. Save your crying for someone else, Brand. I got work to do,” Wynes said, lifting a page of notes and jamming them into a slot in a metal box on his desk. The machine whirred and then gave a short chime. Wynes pulled the page out and grabbed the next one on the stack.

  “Say, what is that thing?” Brand asked.

  “This?” Wynes said, jerking a thumb at the machine. “It’s another one of Mr. Tesla’s gadgets. One I could do without.” The machine chimed again and Wynes yanked out the page he’d inserted. “Since it got dropped off this morning it’s been my new partner.”

  He repeated the jamming in, waiting, yanking out procedure as he spoke. “It gets to sit here jam all day while I’m on my beat. Then I get to come back chime and make nice yank with it until it’s time to head home. Problem is, jam by the time I’m done, it’s time to get up and come to the precinct house again chime. So I’m thinking of setting up a cot yank behind my desk. That way jam I won’t have to worry about the Underminister getting on my case.” Chime. Yank.

  Brand had watched the whole episode with disinterest, but his eyes snapped open when Wynes mentioned his boss’ new title. The girl had said it, too.

  “Underminister? You’re telling me the Governor’s getting into the police business, too?”

  “I’m not telling you anything, Brand. And you got nothing I want to hear. Beat it.”

  Brand took a last sip of the coffee then put on his hat and stood to leave. Wynes had a few more words for him though.

  “Curfew starts up in about twenty minutes. Doubt you’ll find a cab around here this time of night, so make like the wind, hey?”

  “Couldn’t set me up with a police escort, could you, Wynes? I am here on official business.”

  When Wynes didn’t bat an eye, Brand took a step forward. “I said—”

  “Go on and blow, Brand. Fast.”

  Brand stood still, weighing a decision and the chance he’d make it to the door. He uncurled his fist and stepped as lively as his sore feet would allow. The first patrol boats had already begun circling the precinct and surrounding neighborhoods. Their bullhorns alerted Chicago City that curfew would begin soon. It would be a trick getting back to his rooms. Even without the searchlights that fell without warning, slicing the pavement into rafts on a pitch dark sea.

  Chapter 18

  Brand shook from the cold even though he’d worn his overcoat. Snow flurries stung his cheeks as we went. His feet cried for relief after two blocks, so he stopped in an alleyway, slipped off his shoes and socks, and smeared more Novocream onto the cracked red skin of his soles. A few minutes later, Brand laced up his shoes and made for his rooms. The curfew bell rang as he stepped out of the alley.

  “Twenty minutes,” Brand grumbled. “Wynes, you stinking rat.” He picked up his pace, trotting and skipping when he could, dodging around the gas lamps on the street, but his feet screamed at him again after the third block. No way could he keep moving at this speed. He ducked into a side street off the main stem and grabbed another breather in an alley. He was almost out of the cream.

  Searchlights stabbed down all over the city. Brand watched them snap on and off, giving away the position of patrol boats hidden in the cloudy night. He got his shoes back on and stood. “Slow but sure, Brand. Just keep out of sight,” he whispered to himself as he moved. “Slow but sure.”

  He made it to Printer’s Row by sticking to small streets and alleyways, and he thought his luck might hold after all. But at the station he had to pull up short and duck behind a trash barrel. A jeep blocked the roadway. Two guards stood beside it, holding rifles and smoking. They wore thick coats, gloves, and heavy boots against the cold. And they had a spotlight mounted on the jeep. Creeping back the way he’d come, Brand snuck down the last alley on his path. Which way to go? Back down his path or risk getting spotted by the soldiers in the street? Thinking of how warm his feet wouldn’t be if he had to sleep outside, Brand figured he had no choice but to try for his rooms, and that meant the street. Maybe the soldiers would show
him their backs if he waited long enough. After two steps toward the alley mouth, Brand caught a shuffling sound behind him. A foul smell of human filth came to his nose as the shadows breathed out a filthy tramp pushing a flimsy bicycle with two flat tires. The man muttered to himself and pushed the bike as if he’d walk right by Brand, and he did. As the tramp passed, Brand caught his mutterings.

  “Storytime, storytime. Got no story, got no time.”

  Without thinking, Brand’s hand shot out and grabbed the tramp’s shoulder. The man startled and spun around to stare Brand in the eye. It wasn’t Larson, but the only difference Brand could see was that this guy had a smaller nose and he kept his face shaved somehow.

  “You. . .” Brand didn’t know what to say to the man. Was he like Larson and Old Man Farnsworth? Would he pull the city aside and disappear where he stood?

  “Got no time, Brand. No time. Sorry friend. It’s the end.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  The tramp moved to push his bike out of the alley and Brand tried to stop him, but his fingers were weak and stiff in the cold and he couldn’t grip the man’s grimy coat. The tramp went on, muttering to himself again in the same sing-song cadence, like he heard a jazz beat in his head.

  Brand called after him in a throaty whisper. “Wait. There are soldiers out there.”

  The tramp turned to look at Brand over his shoulder. “And they can see me, they can? Think so, Brand? Think you can?” The guy pushed his bicycle into the night and disappeared around the corner. Brand rushed forward to follow. He stopped at the alley mouth and checked if the soldiers had their spotlight on. They didn’t, so Brand ducked low and scooted down the street after the tramp. The guy was fast for a stumbling bum. He’d made it to the next block by the time Brand was close enough to smell him. The tramp slipped into another alley and Brand pushed himself to follow. He skidded to a halt when a scream cut the night apart, followed by snarling and roaring from the direction the tramp had gone. Brand shivered and knew he should run back the other way, leave the tramp to his fate. But the soldiers were back there, and they’d be coming this way soon enough to investigate. Another scream ripped Brand’s attention from the street and back to the alley mouth. He felt his legs moving, taking him step by step closer to the alley, closer to finally seeing the monster that had haunted the city since Valentine’s Day morning. The sound of snapping bones came to Brand’s ears. A gurgling followed, and then just a heavy panting, a throaty breathing like a rasp drawn across pavement. Brand stopped in his tracks when the breathing ceased. It must have smelled him. The thing was going to come out of the alley and tear him apart. He had to run, but how? Even if his feet weren’t in tatters inside his shoes, how could he hope to escape the monster?

  Brand had his mind made up for him when a roar cut the night and he heard the monster moving from the alley, knocking aside trash barrels that clattered against the alley walls. Brand turned and ran, not caring anymore about patrol boats or soldiers with spotlights and guns. He ran, as fast as his tortured feet would carry him. For a short stretch of time, he thought he’d escaped. He couldn’t hear anything behind him. Had he imagined it? Was he just cracking up? A roar from behind Brand told him all he needed to know. He pressed on, sliding around the next corner and nearly tumbling into the street. The roaring behind him turned to an almost feline hissing, as if the monster perceived a threat. Brand couldn’t deny his urge to turn around. What he saw drew him up short and sent him skidding into a barber’s pole.

  A tramp on a bicycle slid around on the snowpacks a block behind Brand. The tramp shot frightened glances over his shoulder to the monster behind him. Brand could only see a large dark shape and patches of greasy gray pelt picked out in the dim glow of the streetlights. He got moving again, running and turning to watch his own path through the snow. He slipped leaving the sidewalk and went down on his hands and knees. As he stood, he felt the air shake around him. He dove to the left and crashed against a storefront as the tramp whipped out of the night air, throwing it aside like a curtain to Brand’s right. The tramp grabbed Brand by the collar and pulled him like a rag doll onto the bike. Brand’s heart thumped a drumbeat in time to their motion away from the monster.

  They moved a lot faster than any bicycle Brand had ridden before. Looking down he saw they weren’t on any kind of bike he’d seen before, either. They sat astride a gleaming ironwork machine. A thick chain ran from a bulk of shining blackened metal that Brand and the bum straddled. He figured it to be the motor. The chain disappeared into a metal shroud that concealed most of the rear wheel. The front wheel hung between two silvery rods that connected to the handlebars. As they flew, glinting sparks shot out from beneath the wheel. It spun like a dynamo above the surface of the street. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but swallowed his words when the tramp spoke close to Brand’s ear.

  “I’m getting you out of this, Mitch. Hold on.”

  Hearing Chief’s voice coming from the filth and grime behind him, Brand decided now was as good a time as any to let the night have the final say. He closed his eyes and held on tight to the handlebars, putting his hands between Chief’s greasy woolen mittens. Behind them, the monster’s growls and hissing faded and disappeared. After what felt like a few seconds, they’d reached Dearborn Station. Chief brought them to a crawl and stopped, the motor of the strange bike quietly humming down to a steady drone and going silent.

  Brand turned in his seat to regard the man behind him. He took in the heavy duster Chief wore, the torn and lopsided hat, and the threadbare mittens. He would have taken in more details of his friend’s appearance but the world around him got his attention instead. They’d pulled up outside of Brand’s rooms sure enough. But the sky and city glowed like nothing Brand had seen before. The sky rolled in waves of black and reddened clouds, flames burst forth here and there, lightning, too. The streets were paved in layers of earth and cobble and asphalt. Brand knew the city had been around long enough to have multiple layers on each road, but to see them all at once like this. . .Brand’s eyes struggled to take it all in. The whole city had the same layered look, like every building that had ever been erected still stood in place, even with others on top of it or surrounding it. Houses had skyscrapers and storefronts standing halfway through them. Dearborn Station’s military foundation rippled out around them, barricaded and bristling with watchtowers and battlements.

  “What the hell is this?” Brand said, his lips curling back.

  “Let’s get inside, Mitch. I’ll tell you all about it. I promise.”

  Brand slid off the bike and staggered back a few steps, putting distance between him and his old friend. The instant he’d left the seat of the strange bike, Brand’s world returned to normal. The sky was just the usual threatening dark cloudy gray of a Chicago City winter. The streets were dirty, dusty, and paved. The only buildings in sight were ones that Brand had always known to be there. And Chief was gone. Thinking he’d finally cracked up but good, Brand blinked and sent his eyes in every direction before closing the distance between him and where the bike had been. He stepped forward and Chief flickered into life in front of him, pulling aside a gossamer veil and letting it drop into place over the bizarre cityscape. Brand studied the face of the man before him. Same cheek bones, same thick lips and slender nose. Same scarred patch of skin under his right eye from where that piece of shrapnel had hit him. Same eyes that said they’d never forget what they’d seen and would always want to.

  “Okay, Chief. That’s you as far as I can tell it. In the past week I’ve seen plenty that would make any man question his sanity. I guess this is just the next step on the path to the loony bin. You’re saying you’ve got the scoop. Let’s go up and see if my bottle has enough to get it out of you and put me to sleep afterwards.”

  “No arguments from me, Mitch,” Chief said. They walked side by side into the apartment house.

&n
bsp; At the door, Brand remembered the bike they’d ridden on. He turned around to suggest Chief bring it inside, but all he saw was a rusted and ruined bike with flat tires and a busted up saddle.

  “We’re on stage out here, Mitch. It’s just a set piece like everything else.”

  Brand let it go and led them up to his rooms. They got settled in the corner by the radiator. Brand poured two glasses from his bottle and took his seat, propping his feet up on a stool. Chief settled into the chair Brand had pulled up for him.

  “I’m not seeing pink elephants. Right, Chief? Just a dirty tramp with a fancy bag tucked under his coat. So what’s the story?”

  “I’m a Bicycle Man, Mitch. Same as the rest of ‘em in this city. Any man tries to off himself in Chicago City ends up like this. Most of them are guys from our day, the war. Some are older.”

  Brand felt his chair falling out from under him. His vision stuttered a moment and everything was back in place, walls and floor and ceiling where they were supposed to be.

  “Why’d you do it?”

  “The news, Mitch. It’s the only thing I’ve ever known, going back to before I met you in the Ob Corps. They took it out of my hands like it was candy and I was just a baby.” Chief let out a sigh. “I got drunk enough to kill myself twice and then did it. I came to lying on the deck, watching the gurneymen haul me away. Then I see I’m standing behind a screen or curtain, something you can’t see or touch when you’re on the other side of it, but I knew it was there from where I was standing. I pushed and felt it give. Detective Wynes came out and took you by the arm. I wanted to show him I was all right, but the blood in the snow told me I’d gone somewhere else. I wasn’t really there with you and the detective, and then you were gone and it was just me out there in the snow.