Boom Time

by Michelle E Lowe

  “No. Thank you, Njáll. Please go rest. Before you leave, though, answer me this: Are you sure you’re able to bring Pierce back?”

  “I am, milady. But who knows? Since the Fates no longer conduct their affairs in the future, maybe the boy will perish.”

  He was joking, of course. Yes, the Fates had decided to abandon their responsibilities near the end of the nineteenth century, when mankind no longer needed threads to determine their life cycles, but that didn’t change the fact that Pierce’s thread remained. The only way to damage it was to return him to where he’d eventually encounter Tarquin Norwich. But for now, she had to deal with this hiccup.

  To silence the mare completely.

  “Thank you, Trickster,” she said with deep sincerity. “I shall meet with you again soon, I hope.”

  He tipped his hat to her and was gone.

  Five

  Falling into More Trouble

  Night fell quicker than Pierce cared for, especially when he experienced a significant drop in temperature. He wandered the cold streets aimlessly—and mainly to stay a bit warmer. He debated on whether to try finding shelter in an abandoned building but dreaded what might be lurking inside. He was then tempted to do some pickpocketing, but there weren’t that many people out any longer. Besides, every wallet was probably underneath heavy coats. If he wanted to eat, though, he needed to do something that he hated doing.

  He came to a street where shops and restaurants lined the roads under a highline that stretched down Tenth Avenue and Seventeenth Street. A gent walking alone received a shock when Pierce grabbed him and yanked him into an alleyway. Pierce pressed the barrel of his empty flintlock under the man’s chin and pushed him against the wall.

  “Keep your bloody hands where I can see them, chum,” Pierce demanded.

  The nearby streetlamp barely reached them, but it was enough for Pierce to see his victim. He was a tall black man wearing a thick wool coat and black hat. He had a thin mustache on an otherwise clean-shaven face, and his dark eyes were filled with fury. When Pierce had pushed him against the wall, he’d let out a wheeze.

  “You’re robbing the wrong cat, Englishman,” the victim declared in a deep voice, while raising his hand. He was holding a set of keys.

  His coat was unbuttoned, which made it easier for Pierce to go through his inside pockets. He quickly fished out a billfold and discovered a pistol in a holster at his side. Pierce seized it.

  “You’re just some bum, aren’t you, Tommy?”

  Tommy. Pierce recognized the term from the newspaper. The bloke believed him to be an ex-soldier with the British Army.

  He searched another inner pocket that appeared added to the lining and pulled out a mask attached to something else inside the pocket.

  “Don’t take that,” the man commanded. “I need it to breathe.”

  Pierce briefly studied the mask. The material was thick and felt slick and strange like leather, but not quite. There were two brass exhalation ports on either side with a hose connected to a storage tank of sorts. Despite the fact that he was robbing the mouthy sod, Pierce wasn’t about to leave him for dead—if he did, in fact, need the thing to breathe.

  He took a step back with both guns aimed. “Take it out and give us your coat.”

  Pierce felt little remorse about taking his coat. Judging by the keys, he reckoned the man was heading for one of those machine carriages, which would carry him home plenty quick.

  “When I find you,” the man threatened, slipping it off, “I’m going to paint a kill room red with your blood.”

  He wheezed badly and Pierce hoped he wasn’t about to have an episode.

  “Jolly good,” he quipped sarcastically. “Then it’s a date.”

  The man pulled the mask and tank from the custom-made pocket. Pierce dropped his flintlock, snatched the coat, and darted out of the alleyway.

  The victim didn’t follow him. Pierce doubted he could in his condition. A few blocks down, Pierce felt safe enough to stop. He put the coat on and studied his new pistol. It was a weapon unlike anything he’d ever held before. It was heavier than his flintlock and constructed of black metal with the name Smith & Wesson engraved on the barrel, along with MADE IN USA carved into the frame.

  He tucked it under his belt and rifled through the billfold. He pulled out what appeared to be banknotes. It wasn’t difficult for him to figure out how to spend it, and so, he found himself in a diner on 8th Ave, where he received a much-needed meal and a hot cup of tea. He relished the simple comfort so much that he failed to notice the stares of the other customers. The coat covered his dated attire, but not his shoulder-length hair. Pierce stayed until the place shut down for the night. When he stepped out into the freezing streets, he saw it had begun to rain. Not only rain but a mixture of sleet and snow. Pierce wanted to stay at a low-rent room, but he hadn’t but a few coins on him. The cocker he’d robbed may have appeared swank, but he’d been carrying little cash on him.

  By the time he had reached Hudson Street, the rain and cold had seeped through his thick wool coat. He needed to find shelter soon. A parked carriage on the side of the road with an unlocked door looked pretty inviting to him. He crawled into the backseat and settled in. Fastened to the dashboard between the wheel and passenger seat were two glass valves with copper tops and twisted wires inside them. They were fastened to a brass, half-moon-shaped box with silver knobs on it and a small speaker in the middle.

  Pierce reckoned he would get yelled at come morning by the owner, but if he could gain a few hours of sleep, he’d take it. He closed his eyes and fell fast asleep.

  When the motor cranked up, he believed it must be a dream. It took a few moments for him to realize that the noise wasn’t in his head.

  Soft, warm light, burning from the spiraling wires within the valves, lit up part of the backseat. A song came on, playing straight out of the half-moon-shaped box. The music—though a tad scratchy sounding—was interesting, enough. A pianist was playing piano and a singer sang in a fast-paced way, saying words like “jive” and “boogie-woogie.” The driver trilled along very off-key. His hat was all the detail Pierce could make out. Although he sang terribly, Pierce was grateful for it, for it masked any noise he made as he slid down to the floorboard. Pierce was slim and of average height, so hiding in such a tight place didn’t prove too difficult.

  The wanker lit up a cigarette and kept singing. Pierce shuddered at the bitter cold that whisked in when the man cracked the window. He hoped the ride didn’t last long and that, once they stopped, he could slip out and vanish. After finding the pistol on the man he’d robbed, Pierce could only assume everyone carried the same sort of handguns, so there was a good chance this knobhead was armed, as well. Even so, Pierce had the element of surprise. He prayed an altercation wasn’t in the forecast.

  The carriage swerved when the sod hit a patch of ice.

  “Son of a bitch!” he cursed in the same kind of accent that Pierce had heard all over the city.

  Eventually, the carriage stopped, but the man remained inside. He honked three times, and then they idled for a few moments.

  “C’mon,” the man grumbled. “Open up, wills ya?” Door hinges squeaked. Soon afterward, the carriage rumbled forward.

  “’Bout time,” the driver complained.

  The way was dark and remained so for a bit. Pierce kept himself snug in his hiding place. There wasn’t anything in the back for the man to retrieve, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t toss something back there. The driver’s side door opened and someone standing outside the carriage griped while the hinges squeaked. “What took you so long? We’ve been waiting for a half hour. The boss is getting irritable.”

  “The weather is gettin’ real bad out,” the driver explained. “I almost skidded off the road. Had to drive slow.”

  The carriage door shut and Pierce held his breath, fearing the door directly behind his head would open. There was light in the building they had driven into, but not enough to exp
ose him.

  To his relief, the doors stayed closed—yet the lid opened at the rear boot of the carriage.

  “You did remember to bring the boxes, yeah?” the other person grilled the driver.

  “Whatcha think it is I’m pullin’ outta here, Chester?” the driver returned. “A body? Gets over here an’ help me with ’em.”

  The men began chatting, and soon their voices faded as they moved on. When Pierce felt it was safe, he peered over the front seat. He caught a glimpse of two gents walking off. Smoke whisked over the broad shoulder of one of them from the lit cigarette in his mouth. The men rounded a stack of wooden crates and vanished. Pierce decided this was the perfect opportunity to make his escape.

  The rear boot of the motorized carriage was still open, which meant they’d return. Pierce needed to act quickly. He opened the door as silently as possible, staying low as he exited, and then closed it gently. Surrounding him and the carriage were tall stacks of crates of all sizes. The entire building was lit by dimly glowing lamps hanging low from the dark ceiling. Clearly, he was in some sort of a warehouse.

  The double doors that the carriage had driven through were only a hundred feet away. Pierce had started for them when a man stepped into his view. He held a bulky looking rifle and had a cigarette hanging from his mouth. The sight of him stopped Pierce short. The guard hadn’t spotted him just yet, which meant he had a sliver of time to leap between two narrow rows of crates. He couldn’t flee through the front, so he’d need to find a back exit.

  He hurried down the aisle created by the wooden crates to the other end, where three men surrounded a large crate. Among them was a man with dark hair and a bushy mustache. He was giving orders to the other two who had carried the boxes from the carriage. They were pulling bottles out and placing them into other boxes.

  “Be careful with those bottles, boys,” the dark-haired gent advised in a gruff-sounding tone. “They’re my last brew from the brewery.”

  It was immediately apparent they were packaging illegal alcohol, which meant they were part of the bootlegging business. With so many blokes about, Pierce decided to hunker down and wait for the all-clear before leaving. At least, for the time being, he would have some shelter from the rain and sleet.

  A loud voice behind him shouted, “Oi! Who the feck are you, eh?”

  It was the guard. He had spotted him between the crates.

  Blast it all!

  The guard’s abrupt cry caught the attention of the others, who were already reaching for their guns. With both ends of the aisle blocked, Pierce’s only option was to climb up. He hoisted himself to the top of a crate and then up another.

  “Mr. Kier, what’s going on?” shouted the man with the mustache.

  “Intruder, Mr. Quinn,” the Irishman hollered from below. It sounded as if he was climbing up after him. “He went up there!”

  “How the hell did someone sneak in?” some other bloke yelled while running.

  “Let’s not worry about that at the moment, Mr. Lithgow,” Quinn said dismissively. “You and Mr. Garcia go that way. Make sure he doesn’t leave out the back. Mr. Kier!”

  “Aye, sir?” called the Irishman who was nearing the top of the crates.

  “Don’t shoot any of my merchandise!”

  “Yeah, don’t spray bullets everywhere with that thing, either, Brody!” another of the men yelled at the Irishman.

  Pierce didn’t give the tosser the chance to catch him in the crosshairs of that bloody cannon he was toting. While Brody was nearing the top, Pierce was climbing down the other side. Since the rear exit was covered, his only chance was to try for an escape out the front. He did his best to control his panic.

  He strained to steady his breathing as he hurried toward the tall double doors. His footsteps were light but fast. The fact that he was out in the open and an easy target for Brody wasn’t lost on Pierce. He eventually reached the doors, but, of course, they were locked.

  “Shite,” he whispered.

  A single latch held the doors in place and as he began lifting it, the click of a hammer made him freeze up.

  “Put ’em up, crasher,” that gruff voice demanded. “You weren’t invited to this party.”

  Pierce could feel the barrel of the gun aimed at his back. A trickle of sweat rolled down his side.

  “Is nobody home?” the man yelled. “I said put your hands up!”

  Unhinging his muscles so he could comply, Pierce raised his hands and waited for the next command.

  “Turn around.”

  Pierce shut his eyes, took a breath, and slowly did so.

  “Got ’im, Mr. Quinn?” Brody hollered from atop the crates.

  Quinn was approaching with his weapon trained on Pierce. He had gone through the same narrow passage Pierce had and had been able to get the drop on him.

  “Yeah,” Quinn answered. “I figured he might try for the front when I ordered reinforcements at the back.”

  Bugger! A trap—and he had fallen right into it.

  As Quinn came toward him, targeting his chest with the gun, the Irishman shouldered his large, bulky rifle and began climbing down. “Frank, Chester, over here. We got the bastard.”

  Pierce’s hands dampened with sweat as the gun barrel drew closer to his heart, which was nearly pounding through his breastbone.

  Blast it all, he wasn’t doing anything other than trying to find a place to sleep for the night, and now he’d wound up in loads of trouble. The shite just seemed to follow him everywhere. Granted, he’d been able to get himself out of his predicaments, but how long would that last before his luck finally ran out? Sometimes he felt cursed.

  “I’ll be damned,” beamed the broad-shouldered man who suddenly appeared and started walking toward them along with the other cocker. “Youze did catch the mook.”

  Brody soon joined them, and everyone closed in on Pierce. The big gent—Frank, Pierce reckoned—drew his pistol and aimed it squarely at Pierce’s head when Quinn ordered him to.

  “Search him,” Quinn commanded Chester.

  Pierce kept his mouth shut and offered no resistance as the louse rifled through his pockets.

  “He has a bean-shooter,” Chester reported, pulling the pistol from the pocket Pierce had stashed it in when he’d climbed into the motorized carriage.

  Chester then searched under his coat.

  “Get a load at this boob’s clothes, wills ya?” the big cocker, Frank, scoffed. “He looks like he came outta a Robert Wiene film or somethin’.”

  “And that hair,” Chester kindly joined in on the fun. “Damn, son, when was the last time you had a haircut?” Chester found the billfold and handed it to Brody. “He ain’t carrying nothin’ else, Mr. Quinn.”

  Quinn lowered his handgun. “Want to give us a name, son?”

  Pierce’s initial thought was to throw out his real name. After all, there was no reason for him to dish out a false alias in an era when he’d been dead ages ago. Then the Trickster’s advice rang in his head.

  “If you stay out of trouble like I told you before, you’ll be fine. However, there might be someone searching for you, even here, and the name Pierce Landcross isn’t exactly common.”

  Well, he’d failed at staying out of trouble, but there was still that “someone” that the Trickster mentioned who was apparently hunting for him. Although he had no idea who or what it was, Pierce reckoned it was wise to listen to the Trickster.

  “Isaac,” he answered off the top of his head. “My name is Isaac Chaplin.”

  “Feckin’ Christ on his throne, he’s a damn Brit!” Brody exclaimed with malice.

  Pierce suddenly wished he’d used another accent. His Scottish wasn’t too shabby.

  “If it helps,” he offered desperately, “I’m French on my mum’s side.”

  “It doesn’t,” Brody declared flatly.

  “Fresh off the boat, are we now?” Quinn assumed as Brody opened the billfold.

  Pierce suspected he was talking about the scores
of immigrants sailing on steamers toward America.

  “Aye,” he lied. Then he added truthfully, “Just arrived.”

  “I’ll be deemed forsaken by the devil himself,” Brody spoke up, pulling out a card from the billfold.

  Pierce had also noticed the card while at the diner. It read that it was a license, giving permission to operate motorized vehicles. It also depicted a daguerreotype of the person Pierce had robbed.

  “This is Leon Clark’s identification card,” Brody announced in disbelief. To Pierce, he demanded. “Where the feck did you get this?”

  A tiny voice begged him not to answer, at least not honestly, yet he couldn’t craft out a lie fast enough to give to the quick-tempered Irishman.

  “I said: Where did you get this?”

  Brody pulled his gun out from under his coat and grabbed Pierce by the lapel. Pierce quickly snatched the weapon out of his grasp before he could jab it under his chin.

  “Hands off, wanker!” Pierce yelled, knocking Brody square on the forehead with the handle.

  The sturdy young arsehole stayed on his feet but staggered about as though he wasn’t going to for long. Pierce would’ve found amusement in it were it not for all the guns aimed at him.

  “Hand the piece over,” Quinn ordered earnestly. “Right . . . now.”

  Pierce looked at the pistol in his grasp. It might as well have been a bloody biscuit. It served as no sort of defense for him. He surrendered the weapon to Quinn. “My apologies.”

  “Kid’s got moxie, eh, boss?” Frank remarked.

  “You prick!” Brody exclaimed, rushing at him.

  “Mr. Lithgow,” Quinn said to Chester.

  Before Brody could whale on Pierce, Chester jumped in his path and held him back. “Whoa, stand down. Boss ain’t done with him yet.”

  Brody’s respect for his employer outweighed his bloodlust. He stood down without argument but did not spare Pierce his deadly look.

  “Where did the wallet come from?” Quinn demanded.

  Pierce had no lie to give, although he really didn’t see how it would help his situation anyway.