The Sea Worriers returned to France after having overtaken a slave ship coming from Africa. The severity of the cruelty that Pierce witnessed on seeing people being packed into the filthy storage hull made him physically ill.
“Who is here?” called a voice nearby.
It was dark but Sees Beyond knew an intruder was onboard.
Kayden should have known that such a powerful psychic would eventually sense her strong presence.
She vanished, seeing all she had needed to anyhow.
After the Ekta arrived in France, Pierce and Sees Beyond spent one last night together inside a seaside hotel. Kayden followed, using whatever objects she could touch from the ship to the inn. The following day, Sees Beyond let him go. It was a shocking blow to poor little fox, but he left the Ekta all the same. Afterward, the hunt became more difficult. Pierce left a broken trail spanning many lengths. It led Kayden to the Netherlands and then to Paris, where Pierce had solicited with poets, writers, painters, and other artists until he returned to England and began hustling. And that was where she discovered the Trickster and the witch, Freya Bates.
“Do you wish to see him?” the Trickster god had asked the enchantress.
“That isn’t a good idea.”
“Afraid you might kill him?”
“I’d kill him now if it was allowed. I may want to hurt him, though.”
“It’s not the boy’s fault.”
“I don’t care. You best take him away.”
“Indeed. Farewell, milady.”
What the mare told her was true. At least about the witch wanting Pierce dead. However, the fact that a Trickster was involved made the mare’s claim more believable. Could they actually be planning on bringing back the djinn? Not many things were capable of frightening a wild elf. It’s what helped give them such liberation beyond what others knew. However, if the djinn were as dangerous and reckless as the story had portrayed them, then the entire universe was in peril.
When the witch left, the Trickster lifted Pierce into his arms and took to the sky.
Kayden followed, although crossing the air with nothing to guide her would test her hunting limits.
Fourteen
The Call
Kelly Quinn received a call at his home from Mr. Kier who was at the warehouse. Kier briefed him about what happened while being careful not to disclose too much over the vulnerable electric current. Mr. Kier mentioned that Chaplin had been wounded, so Kelly had his personal physician come in. The physician was waiting for them when the two arrived at his townhome. While Chaplin was being looked after upstairs, Mr. Kier gave Kelly the full report about the attack.
“Damn pirates,” Kelly said. “And you’re certain it was Romano?”
“I saw her goons out on the water,” Mr. Kier informed him. “I have no doubts that they dispatched a message to her.”
Kelly carefully mulled it over.
“Regardless, unless she sent her own people instead of pirates, there isn’t any hard evidence she initiated the attack. I’m not about to start a war over it.”
In truth, Kelly couldn’t start a war, not without muscle. Kelly had always disliked Romano. Granted, she’d built her organization on her own, starting out with less than he had, and she still managed to be more successful, but what little respect he’d had for her had faded. The Italian was untrustworthy, and Kelly suspected she was gearing up toward turning Leon Clark against him. Rub out the little guy, as it were.
The attempted heist may not have been premeditated, but the fact that she had executed the order showed that she was testing the waters. “And you thought Mr. Chaplin was just some limey twat, huh?” Kelly threw at Kier after he’d told him about the kid coming to save his life from the pirates.
Kier huffed. “Och. Don’t need to rub it in.”
Kier left and Kelly went upstairs to check in on Chaplin. A lot was happening at once, it seemed. There was some unpleasant business needing to be taken care of tomorrow night involving the manager at The Attic, and now this attack from Romano. Kelly had to find a way to rise higher in the ranks and gain the ground needed to take her out.
Chaplin sat on the edge of the bed without a shirt on. He had a nasty scar on his side. A stab wound, Kelly surmised, and a scar across his throat. The kid had a lean body, but he needed to eat more, in Kelly’s opinion. The physician had wrapped gauze around his upper torso, over his right forearm, and hand.
“How is he, Martin?” he asked the physician.
“Other than his sore ribs and some cuts and bruises, he’s in tip-top shape.”
Kelly studied Chaplin as he slowly put on his undershirt.
“You seem to move well with hurt ribs.”
“They’re not from tonight,” Chaplin stated with a painful hiss. “I hurt myself pretty bad a few nights ago.”
Martin put the roll of gauze into his medical bag. “After being thrown from a truck, I consider him fortunate that he didn’t break any bones.” He turned to look over at Kelly, a faint look of envy on his face. “Must be nice to be so young, eh?”
Chaplin lit a cigarette and crammed the lighter into his pocket. Kelly was only too happy to hear that the kid was all right. He might have allowed his emotions to get the better of him when he decided to let Chaplin join his gang, but he also saw value in him. And today, Chaplin had proven him right. The boy showed he could hold his own in the face of danger, and he seemed to have an actual brain inside that head of his. Qualities needed in order to grow Kelly’s enterprise. Good thing for the kid, too, because if he wasn’t going to benefit Kelly, he would have used him as a bargaining chip to convince Clark to help him bring down Romano.
Kelly paid his personal physician and then the man left.
“What’s with the mark on your throat?” Kelly asked when he and Chaplin were alone. “Did you get it in the war?”
Tragedy flashed in Chaplin’s green eyes. He looked as heartbroken as if he’d just received some distressing news. He bowed his head and took a long drag from his smoke. He appeared reluctant to answer, which Kelly decided was for was best. Whatever reason for the scar, Kelly didn’t want it touching on his own emotions. Chaplin was the help and nothing more.
“I have something for you,” Kelly said, reaching for his billfold, tucked inside his vest. “I think you’ve earned it.”
Chaplin raised his chin and his eyes widened at the sight of the cash that Kelly was handing him.
“Blimey,” he gasped, taking it. “This is the most duckets I’ve ever seen.”
Kelly arched an eyebrow. “Duckets?”
“Er, it’s what my grandparents used to say.”
“I see. Take the night off to recuperate. I’ll need you back at Rum Row the day after tomorrow.”
His jaw clenched. It was obvious he wasn’t too keen about going back out there.
“Are you still my man, Mr. Chaplin?” Kelly demanded in a steely tone.
Chaplin looked at the bills in his hand and nodded. “Aye.”
“Good.” He turned to leave when he stopped at the threshold. “Oh, is it true you can’t drive?”
The kid’s cheeks turned red.
“Mr. Kier told me.”
“I figured as much,” Chaplin grumbled.
Kelly snorted and scratched at his thick mustache. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll have Mr. Garcia give you a lift to your new place.”
“My new place?”
Kelly didn’t elaborate, only smirked and left.
Lucy arrived to work early, as usual. She ran her life on a clockwork schedule, which was another way of saying that she was a creature of habit. Every morning she woke exactly at six o’clock and spent twenty-five minutes getting ready before leaving for Jerry’s Diner for breakfast and coffee. She’d spend no more than fifteen minutes there before catching the seven-forty trolley. Arriving five minutes early meant one last cigarette before clocking in. On the weekends, she’d sleep in an extra hour and stayed cooped up inside her apartment, working at her second
job.
She hated it. Her whole space was taken up with baskets full of laundry, both clean and dirty, and the dirty ones reeked of body odor. It took her the whole weekend to clean, iron, and fold all her clients’ clothing. Lucy charged less than any dry cleaner so she had plenty of customers and clothing. Lucy kept telling herself it would all be worth it when she finally took that steamer out to France.
Her dream kept her focused and straightlaced, yet things had apparently changed some since meeting Isaac Chaplin.
When she made the decision to save up for her dream, she told herself that she wouldn’t get involved with another man. A relationship could hinder her plan in different ways. Isaac, though, had caught her off guard. Not only was he handsome, but he was also very kind. Plus, he spoke fluent French! His offer to teach her to speak better French had convinced her to go on a date with him. Even so, Lucy wasn’t confident that he’d actually phone her up. When he had, a surge of excitement had struck her.
Her nervousness kept her emotions in check when she was around him, though. Lucy had always been the timid type, but that didn’t mean she was a pushover. She hadn’t agreed to go out with Isaac simply because he’d asked her. She went because she had wanted to—more than she should have. In retrospect, it amazed her that she still wanted to see him even after learning about his involvement with the mafia. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she believed that Prohibition was a crock of shit and bootleggers were merely giving the public what should never have been taken from them in the first place. In her opinion, it was a waste of time and effort, and a lot of people were getting hurt and killed because of it.
The danger of it attracted Lucy. She did crave excitement and sometimes envied those vamp girls who carried on without a care in the world. Lucy did care, though, and she was doing her best not to allow her adventurous side loose until she had moved out of New York. When she made it to France, she’d let her hair down, and any consequences that her actions might bring wouldn’t matter then because she would be home.
She admired her new gloves, smiling, but then she frowned. Perhaps she should call it off with Isaac. After all, her little stunt with the flask had nearly gotten them both arrested. She didn’t know why she’d decided to bring it along. In her mind’s eye, she had come off like some shy little goof back at the library—a goody two shoes, even. He, on the other hand, gave off a certain charisma that was both classic and downright engaging. She wanted to show him she wasn’t some boring wet blanket. In doing so, however, it almost got them both into serious trouble. Lucy had to be honest with herself. Around him, she was unpredictable.
Lucy flicked her cigarette away and went inside to clock in. She stationed herself at her chair in front of the switchboard, the phone receiver strapped to her chest curved up like a horn toward her mouth. She soon placed her headset on. She sat at the very end of a line of operators, all of which were connecting calls in their usual organized way that appeared anything but coordinated to an outsider. The room where the switchboard was located was a long one to accommodate the machine’s length. Being an operator was a monotonous task at times, but it was easy enough and it paid modestly well.
Hours into her shift, though, she received a call request that piqued her interests.
“Operator,” she said to the caller. “Number, please.”
“Patch me through to Leon Clark,” a male’s voice demanded before reading off the number.
Leon Clark? The leader of the Nightingale Gang?
“Right away, sir.”
She inserted the plugs into the jacks.
To escape boredom, some of the women listened in on telephone conversations. Lucy never had, only because she’d never been the nosy type. It was also risky due to the fact that people on the other end could hear the operator if she wasn’t being quiet enough. Not to mention it was strongly against company policy.
For the first time, she broke the rules.
The phone rang and soon a raspy voice touched her ears. “Clark.”
“Mr. Clark,” said the caller. “It’s Mitchell Collins. The ballast tanks are patched up and she’s all set to go.”
Ballast tanks? Lucy wondered. What in the world were those?
There was a low noise from the other end like breathing, but it sounded odd.
“Are you sure? Can they hold water without leaking? I need it to stay underwater.”
“Yes, Mr. Clark. I tested her out myself. She’s ready to go whenever you want.”
There was a pause before Leon Clark’s voice wheezed through Lucy’s headset, “All right. I’ll make arrangements and contact you in a day or so.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Clark.”
The call disconnected.
Fifteen
Eavesdropping
Frank was his usual less-than-charming self as they drove into West Village.
“Heard youze gots de upper hand on dem pirates. Turns out youze a sneaky little cum stain, aren’t ya, Chaplin?”
“Nice, Frank,” Pierce grunted with revulsion.
They turned off onto West 10th and stopped in front of a rundown-looking apartment building. Pierce scowled at it, for the place appeared no different from any of the slum buildings in London or Birmingham. Most likely, the architecture was from the same era. It was an old brick building with black iron fire escapes zigzagging down both sides. A few tenants had attempted to make the place homier by putting out window boxes. The winter had killed off anything growing in them. Some boxes had the twigs of the doomed plant life poking out.
“It looks condemned.”
Frank snorted and opened his door. “Welcome home.”
They went inside and met with the landlord, Mr. Orson, who showed them up to the third floor. He was a sickly-looking middle-aged chap wearing a faded black vest, trousers that had been mended more times than they should have been, and a ratty-looking sweater jacket. His misshapen teeth were nearly as brown as his eyes, his hair looked naturally oily—not touched by any of the hair product called Brilliantine—and his voice was gruff. He spoke in the same accent as Frank, only with slightly better grammar.
On the way up, ol’ Orson laid out the rules. No pets, no loud parties, no hanky-panky with whores, and no “hoodlum hooey of any sort,” whatever that meant. Orson also explained that there wasn’t any laundry service in the building, and the hot water only lasted fifteen minutes in each apartment each day.
“Your heater is pretty old,” Orson explained while unlocking Room 32. “It works but rattles loudly. Might keep youze up at night.”
The door creaked open and the landlord paused in the doorway, allowing Pierce and Frank to enter. Just as Pierce suspected, it was no luxury suite. The hole was a single room flat with a cast-iron stove situated on one side near a small round table with two chairs. A single wrought iron bed frame without a mattress was leaning against the wall under the only window, and there was a rib cage shower in the far corner next to the stove, with a small standing sink beside it. A moldy shower curtain clung to rusted rims. The toilet was beside the shower and had no dividing wall. The hardwood flooring was badly scuffed and very dirty. The heater was a coal stove heater made of slate-colored iron. The coal bucket was empty. The bloody thing looked like a fire hazard. At least the place had a telephone, which sat on an old bedside table next to an adjustable solid brass, bell-shaped lamp that may or may not have worked.
“Rent is thirty-five-sixty, due no later than the fifth of each month,” Orson announced with a yawn. “Youze take it?”
Pierce shrugged at Frank. “Could be worse.”
“You really believe that?” the bastard quipped, pulling his billfold. “I’ll cover your first month, huh? Looks to me dat youze gonna need to spend some heavy sugar delousing the place.”
Pierce had to admit that when Kelly offered to set him up in his own flat, he expected something a little classier than this rubbish hole. Even so, he couldn’t complain. At least he wasn’t out in the freezing street, and he’d stay
ed in many worse establishments over the years, such as prison cells.
“C’mon, Chaplin,” Frank beckoned as the landlord vanished with the loot, “let’s go shopping.”
With the money Kelly had given him, Pierce bought towels, bedding, dishes, cleaning products, and other little necessities such as kitchen items, an ashtray, and an alarm clock, much to Pierce’s chagrin. Frank surprised him by buying him a mattress and having it delivered to his flat that afternoon.
“For not killing me,” Frank told him.
Huh. Pierce thought that matter had been squared away when Frank gave him some loot for his date with Lucy.
Once he was alone inside his flat, Pierce cleaned and swept up the apartment the best he could and set it up to be lived in somewhat conveniently. As water brewed in the kettle, he showered until the hot water switched to cold. He drank a cup of tea and then took a much-needed nap after the mattress arrived.
When he woke, his stomach was growling. He had no food, but that didn’t bother him. It gave him an excuse to go somewhere.
Ashley wasn’t working at the diner tonight. Instead, the owner, Jerry, was there, and he was simply lovely.
“The only reason why I’m letting you use my phone is that you’re a paying customer,” Jerry explained brusquely, walking into his office and snatching the telephone off its fork. “And Lucy is a good kid. You better treat her nice or I’ll make you into hamburger meat, got it?”
The sudden taste of the overcooked steak Pierce had eaten resurfaced unpleasantly on his tongue.
“Only if you properly cook me,” he remarked before he could stop himself.
The burly tosspot, wearing a greasy white apron, dialed in Lucy’s number on the rotary with a thick finger. Jerry put the receiver to his ear and listened a moment before pushing it against Pierce’s chest.
“Make it quick. I have a business to run.”
Pierce hoped Lucy would give him her number soon, so he would not have to deal with this shite again.
“Hello?” Lucy thankfully answered on the other end.
Boom Time Page 14
