Boom Time

by Michelle E Lowe

  “You shouldn’t have run over like that,” Lucy told him with concern. “You could have called out to me.”

  “Aye, but my windpipe isn’t as strong as it used to be, darling.”

  “Oh, I see.” To lighten the mood, she asked, “Where’s your little friend?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The cardinal.”

  He gave a dismissive wave. “Oh, him. He only came over to swindle more grub than the rest by earning favor from me.” He sniffed. “S’pose it worked.”

  Lucy laughed. Her insecurity caused her to cover her smile with her hand. A lock of hair dropped over her eyes and she tucked it behind her ear. A wide grin was stretched clear across the man’s face.

  “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you do that.”

  “I’m sorry?” Lucy asked, wondering if she’d heard him right.

  His soft-spoken voice made it difficult to hear him when he whispered.

  He shook his head. “Nothing, love. Would you care to walk with an old duffer?”

  Normally, Lucy would have declined, too timid to chat with a stranger. That was the old Lucy, and so she accepted his arm when he stuck out his elbow. Together, they took a stroll. Oddly, it felt comfortable.

  “Have we met before?” she asked.

  “Perhaps. The world is smaller than you think. The chances of us encountering one another are more inevitable than not, I should say.”

  Lucy looked over at him. He was smirking. The old man was handsome for his age. He had wrinkles and a few spots but possessed a perfectly carved face that managed to hold residues of his youth.

  “Sounds a little poetic,” she remarked.

  “Does it?” He snorted. “S’pose.”

  They continued following the path that was only visible because it dipped down and away from the rest of the snow-covered ground. For a while, they said nothing until she brought out her cigarette pack.

  “Can I have one of those?” he asked, stopping with her.

  “Oh, um, sure. I was going to the store to buy more, anyway.”

  She only had two left but cared little about giving him a smoke after saving her from a nasty fall. She gave one to him and in turn, he handed her a five-dollar bill.

  “Let me reimburse you, love.”

  “No, that’s all right. The pack cost five cents. I don’t have nearly enough change.”

  He shrugged. “Keep it. I’ve got plenty of loot.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. The simple way he was dressed, his ratty black dapper coat, suggested he didn’t have a lot of money.

  “I appreciate it. Thanks,” she said, pocketing the cash and eyeing his hat. “You have quite the collection of feathers. You must really like birds.”

  “Aye,” he confessed, lighting her cigarette and then his own. “I fancy them well enough.”

  A tall blue feather with a dash of green caught her eye. “The blue one is really pretty.”

  He removed his hat and looked at it. “This belonged to a cockatoo I once owned.”

  They moved on. Lucy found herself curious about him. “What do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Not at all, love. I’m a retired English professor. Before that, I fought in the Second Machine War.”

  “You did? Does that mean you saw the automaton city?”

  “I’d been to it.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “I was allowed in as a guest. Me and the group with me. We went in just when the automatons broke their treaty and attacked England again.”

  “What was it like? The city?”

  He blew out cigarette smoke. “Let’s just say those mechanical sods built something unlike anything ever created, even by today’s standards.”

  Never before had Lucy met anyone who’d fought in any of the Machine Wars. She had many questions for him now. Before she had the chance to begin, a harsh, ragged cough tore up his throat. It got so bad that he needed to stop walking.

  “Are you all right?”

  He doubled over, hacking violently into his fist. She helped him move toward a nearby bench. He practically fell into the snow-covered seat. Lucy stuck close by, waiting for him to settle. Eventually, his coughing fit eased.

  “I’m fine, lass,” he finally answered with a gasp.

  He let out a final cough so rough it made her own throat burn.

  “I believe the cold is getting to me. Daft old loon such as myself shouldn’t be out in this for too long. S’pose it’s my outdoor nature, eh?”

  “The way you talk reminds me of this man I’m dating.”

  “Does it?” he beamed, taking off his eyewear to wipe tears from his eyes. “Well, let me say that he’s a lucky bugger.”

  He slipped his glasses back on and took her by the hand. He admired her calf gloves and smiled fondly as if he was staring into a long-lost photograph. He patted her hand and tilted his chin up to her. “Don’t let this old fool keep you from your walk. Off with you now.”

  When Lucy saw he was going to be fine, she left him there on the bench, though she felt guilty for doing so. She thought about going back and helping him get home. When she stopped and looked behind her, though, the man was again feeding the birds.

  The murder had returned.

  Café Java was packed with customers. The smell of coffee and cakes caused many mouths to salivate. The shop was modeled after a fifteenth-century Italian coffee shop with blood red walls adorned with Italian paintings, old style furniture, and Italian sculpted fountainheads mounted on the walls with glass resembling water pouring from their mouths. Everything Café Java baked and brewed was an Italian recipe.

  At one time, it was Violetta Romano’s dream come true.

  When Prohibition began, her husband decided to use Café Java as a front and open his own speakeasy down in the basement of the shop. It wasn’t much, but it did bring in extra revenue. Violetta and Adalgiso Romano weren’t gangsters—they weren’t even affiliated with any crime organization—but they had crossed over into the territory, and it cost them everything.

  The Dutch mafia, run by Dominicus Dijk, had his own enterprise set up in the area. When word spread about the new competition, he and his thugs came to the speakeasy and kidnapped Adalgiso. They dragged him into an alleyway a few blocks over and put a bullet in his head before dumping his body in a garbage bin for the garbage collectors to discover. When Violetta identified his body at the morgue, she was greeted by Dijk himself, who warned her to keep her mouth shut to the cops. She had no choice, considering the illegal business below her café. To add to her misery, Dijk told her he was taking over the speakeasy and café. Never had she felt so helpless.

  For years, she dreamt of destroying Dominicus Dijk. Now, at last, she had her chance.

  Her spies had informed her that Dijk oversaw the speakeasy on Thursday nights. Violetta could have gone to any of his other establishments to do the deed, but she’d decided the café was a fitting end on many different levels.

  She finished her coffee and stood to place the suitcase she’d brought in with her upon the table. She clicked it open and set the timer.

  “Everyone! I need your attention, for your lives depend on it.”

  All the customers and staff gave her their full attention. She slid the case around and showed them the bomb.

  “You have less than a minute,” she warned.

  The explosive was encased in a round cast-iron shell with a clock timer set in the front. Wires connected it to it and the sticks of dynamite so it gave the bomb that extra kick when it blew. When people caught sight of it, they scrambled to escape.

  Before leaving, an employee hit the alert button. The same one Adalgiso had installed so that Violetta could warn him of danger when down in the speakeasy.

  Soon, the rats would run up to the surface.

  “Boys,” she addressed her two Machine Men sitting beside her.

  Their suits and bowed heads had kept anyone from noticing them. Violetta had dressed them in ni
ce tailored suits. She’d wanted them to look classy. Both Machine Men wore thick protective goggles over their delicate eyes.

  They rose in unison with the sound of their gears turning and their piston pipes hissing. They opened their guitar cases and reached for the machine guns inside.

  “Kill whoever comes through the door on your way into the speakeasy,” she ordered before leaving with the last person who was running out of the café.

  As Violetta hurried down the stairs of the coffee shop outside, she saw men were already coming up from the basement below. Time was ticking fast, and so she ran across the street as a volley of gunshots blasted from inside the café. The shots continued as the Machine Men made their way down into the basement. Violetta didn’t want to miss the show, so she took cover beside a parked car where her other three automatons waited. She had them stationed to protect her, if necessary.

  The last second ticked by.

  The explosion knocked people off their feet. Car windows shattered, as did the window next to Violetta, which rained glass down over her where she was crouched. Fire blew out through the café door and windows like fiery fists punching their way out, incinerating everything it touched. When Violetta stood, the heat of it warmed her. The automatons beside her hadn’t moved from their standing position. The fire’s reflection danced in their metal faces and in the lenses of their goggles. Fog from their breaths breezed out from the narrow slits that were their mouths.

  Gunfire ensued from the basement, and soon, the two Machine Men emerged. They came walking across the road toward Violetta, carrying their machine guns with smoke drifting out from the heated drums. Bullet holes pocked their nice suits. Loud groaning and cracking came from the building before it collapsed into the basement below.

  Violetta grinned and lit a cigarette. With her Living Automatons, she had given Dijk the death he deserved. Now, she’d put her Machine Men to real use and take over this goddamn town!

  Twenty-Seven

  Huntress and Prey

  Thanks to Kelly Quinn’s connections, loyal customers, and word of mouth, the grand opening of the new Train Way speakeasy was a smashing hit. Pierce even booked them a band. On Friday, Pierce and Lucy popped into the jazz club in Harlem and spoke to Holly Young and her band after their show.

  “If you’re willing to work inside a blind pig,” Pierce told Holly, “the gig is yours.”

  “Honey,” Holly told him, “if we’re paid, we’ll play just about anywhere.”

  The grand opening was indeed a success. Kelly raked in enough loot in a single night to travel back to Canada for more booze while Pierce and Frank headed up to the cabin to collect what alcohol George had brewed.

  Frank Garcia woke before dawn. He’d gotten used to waking up early ever since he started working for the boss in his brewery. Frank had liked his job at the factory. He worked on a fixed schedule and brought home good pay. He’d earned a decent living for someone with a fifth-grade education. With the threat of Prohibition looming, it was Frank who’d suggested bootlegging. Back then, Quinn had no idea who Frank really was. To him, he was just another mook working under him. Quinn took him up on his suggestion, regardless. He opened The Attic and hired Frank to be his muscle.

  Frank thought the gig would be easy peasy until he witnessed his first murder: Kelly Quinn’s old business partner, Jacob O’Sullivan. Frank watched Quinn blow the guy’s head off in the woods. After that, it was up to Frank to bury him. Then came the rivals and smalltime punks. Frank was given the task of taking them out. During his first hit, he rubbed a mark out in a general store while he was buying a soda pop. Frank iced him with his machine pistol right there in the aisle and fled out the back. He puked for hours afterward. Frank didn’t enjoy killing and had never gained the stomach for it as the boss and Chester had.

  Yet, Frank never considered leaving. He earned a lotta dough and it got him laid. Besides, he didn’t know much else.

  He packed his overnight suitcase. It would be good to get away from it all for a little while, he felt. He never really did venture out much. He was seventeen before he stepped out of his own neighborhood in the Bronx. That was when he started working at the Quinn & O’Sullivan Company.

  Frank drove to Chaplin’s apartment building. Chaplin was outside waiting for him on the sidewalk with his own suitcase. Frank had to admit he was fond of the wiseass. Chaplin had a knack for lifting his spirits. He was impressed by the kid’s moxie when Chaplin snatched Kier’s gun right out of his hand on the night they caught him stalking around inside the warehouse. Frank liked the rube, and the fact that they busted each other’s balls without it turning violent.

  Chaplin stood unsmiling, wearing dark shades. He wasn’t used to being awake so early.

  “Mornin’, sunshine,” Frank greeted Chaplin as he unlocked the trunk for Chaplin to put his suitcase in.

  “Morning, ugly,” Chaplin responded.

  Frank chuckled.

  “Are youze sure youze don’t wanna drive?” Frank asked as they drove down the narrow drive leading to the cabin. “Youze never drive.”

  “That’s ’cause I don’t know how,” Chaplin retorted like Frank knew he would. “I told you this when you offered to let me borrow your car.”

  “Can’t believe youze weren’t taught how to drive,” Frank continued his teasing. “Not even in the war?”

  He’d asked this before, but Frank was aiming to ruffle Chaplin’s feathers some.

  “I bloody marched everywhere. Or, I rode in the trucks. I was never required to drive.”

  “How do people in England get ’round, huh?”

  Chaplin rolled his own cigarette. “Let’s just say I come from humble beginnings, eh?”

  Chaplin sealed his smoke and lit it. He took off his hat to run a hand through his hair. The colors in it were strange to Frank. He’d never seen anyone with so many different shades before. Nonetheless, the mook was a damn cake-eater, for sure. It surprised Frank that he only saw one broad.

  “Y’know, youze really oughta put some Brilliantine in dat hair of yours. Slick it back.”

  “I don’t care for that oily shite.” Chaplin cracked the window.

  “With it outta the way, dough, everyone can see dat pretty mug of yours.”

  Frank reached over and ruffled Chaplin’s hair.

  “Oi,” he bitched, slapping his hand away. “Hands off, wanker!”

  Frank chuckled at him.

  “Bloody yank.”

  “I love it when youze get all riled up, Chaplin. ’Ey, youze ain’t related to Charlie Chaplin, is youze?”

  “I wish folks would stop asking me that,” he bleated. “No, it’s only a coincidence. And you’re now asking me this?”

  Frank shrugged. “Didn’t really think ’bout it ’til now. I don’t see many shows.”

  The cabin appeared through the snow-covered trees.

  “I’ll admit dis was a good idea youze came up with,” Frank said.

  “Cheers.”

  “The boss is happy ’bout it, too. You’ve made an impression in your short time in de outfit.”

  The car rolled to a stop near the front porch and Chaplin got out. “I have a knack for this sort of thing, lad.”

  “Lad,” Frank chuckled, opening his own door. “I ain’t used to the ways youze tawk.”

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t exactly become accustomed to phrases like ‘bump off,’ ‘cat’s meow,’ or ‘doll face,’ either.”

  Frank jingled the keys in his hand as he and Chaplin headed for the rear of the car. “Guess we just need to get used to each other’s idiomizims.”

  “It’s idioms, idiot,” Chaplin corrected Frank as he unlocked the trunk.

  Frank lifted the lid with a huff. Chaplin did have some kisser on him.

  “Y’know, for a fella your size, youze sure do have a wise lip.”

  Chaplin grabbed their suitcases and lifted them out. “I’ve been informed that it’s a flaw of mine.”

  “Yeah, well, youze best wat
ch it before someone bumps youze off.”

  “Uh-huh. And what do you mean a fella my size, eh? Just ’cause I’m not some towering tree like you doesn’t make me below average, chum.”

  Frank took two boxes of the perfume spray bottles out and they started for the cabin.

  “Like I said, wise lip for a little fella. Youze lucky I don’t take offense easily. Otherwise, you’d been missin’ some teeth, you Reuben.”

  “Aye, right.” Chaplin set a case down to open the front door. “Where do you think ol’ George is, eh? His car isn’t here.”

  “Dunno. Maybe he went to the store.”

  “Well, the bloke didn’t lock the bleedin’ door.”

  When they entered, George Baxter was inside, aiming a double-barreled shotgun at them. Chaplin stopped short in front of Frank and stood there a moment. Frank nearly dropped the boxes to go for his gun.

  “Fuckin’ hell, George!” Chaplin seethed. “We thought you popped out for a bit.”

  Baxter lowered the shotgun. He was wearing his undershirt, showing off that machine arm of his.

  At first, the arm had kind of bothered Frank. He’d heard stories about the Living Automatons. He’d heard how they were built from the actual parts of people. Even though Baxter was far from being one of them mechanical nightmares, his arm still gave him the heebie-jeebies. He never gave Baxter any flak about it, though. Honestly, the guy had been through enough shit.

  “Jesus, Isaac, I could’ve blown ya’ll to bits like toads on a log. I instructed you assholes to honk three times whenever you come up ’ere,” Baxter reminded them.

  “And I just told you we thought you were gone.”

  “Where’s your car?” Frank asked, heading over to the table with the boxes.

  “I’ve done parked it in the shed to keep the snow and ice off.”

  Frank set the boxes down and headed for the door. “I’m goin’ out for the rest of the boxes. Don’t want the real perfume to freeze overnight. Chaplin, take my case upstairs to the spare room, will ya? Youze can has the couch dis time.”