The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus

by Michael Panush

  On his forehead, his creator had written down the Hebrew word for ‘Truth’. Those simple letters—which sounded like ‘Emmet’ when spoken aloud—kept him alive. If the characters were obscured or changed, it would resemble the Hebrew word for ‘Death’. Then Clay would become nothing more than a pile of dirt. What passed for life would leave him, and he would be gone forever. Now, the Tree Man had him in a death grasp, and the thorns from the vine would rip away the letters.

  Harvey knew the danger as well. “No!” He ran to the Tree Man. “Please, don’t hurt him..”

  A blow from a branch struck Harvey. He spun back, stumbling and falling to his knees. Clay caught a glimpse of the boy as he stood up. Pure fear appeared in his eyes. Clay finally got his hands around the vines. He tugged at them, making the vegetation snap. He might be able to rip the vines away in time.

  Zipporah charged toward him. Her scimitars hummed through the air. They hacked through the vines, causing sap and juices to spray into the air. The vines went limp. Clay ripped them free from his head and tossed them aside. Now, he was free. He glowered at the Tree Man. The leaves of the Tree Man shook, as if in a heavy wind. Clay had the feeling that the plant was afraid. He charged toward the Tree Man, blocked a blow from its branch, and then drove his hand into the bark of his foe’s chest. His fingers dug in and held. Clay held the Tree Man aloft. Its legs, like gnarled roots, waved crazily. Clay pulled back his fist, preparing to smash the wooden creature to kindling.

  “Wait!” Harvey cried out the word and stepped close to Clay. “Please—just hold on a moment. Okay? Just for a moment.” He pointed to the three Tree Men. Zipporah’s opponent lay further back, one of its arms hacked off by her sabers. “We’ve beaten them. We don’t need to destroy them.”

  “They attacked us, Harvey,” Clay glared at the Tree Man, his rage building as he remembered the vines around his face. “They attacked that councilman.”

  Zipporah nodded. “Nobody will miss a trio of trees.”

  “Maybe they didn’t know what they were doing when they attacked the councilman,” Harvey explained. “And maybe they only attacked us because they thought we could be a threat. The sunlight shone on Miss Sarfati’s blades. It made the steel get really bright, and they probably assumed we wanted to chop them down. So they attacked, to protect themselves. It’s what anyone would do.” He moved closer to Clay. “Please, Mr. Clay. You don’t have to do this.”

  Was that true? Clay had been created for one purpose—to destroy. He had been forged from the earth as a weapon, capable of dealing enormous amounts of damage while most weapons broke on his hide. That’s what he had first been tasked to do, after he had been given life in the Old Country of war-torn Eastern Europe during the Russian Revolution. But America was different. Clay stared at the Tree Man, looking into the hollows of its eyes and the surrounding mass of moss. The Tree Man seemed as breakable as dry wood now.

  Clay set him down. He pulled back his fist and bowed his head, in a quick nod. The Tree Man didn’t attack. Instead, it waved its hands to the other Tree Men. They picked themselves up and came to stand next to the barrel-chested Tree Man. The Tree Man with thorny fingers pushed torn bark away from its face. They stared at Clay, Zipporah, and Harvey. Neither side attacked.

  “We can figure something out,” Harvey said. “We can all live together. This is America, after all—and lots of different people live together.” He bowed to the Tree Men. “I don’t know if you can hear me, or understand English. I’m not sure how you came to Sickle City either. Maybe some seeds were accidentally brought along from a hidden grove somewhere, and you took root here. Maybe every forest spawns its own Men of the Field. But you’re here now, and you can live happily.”

  “We should just chop them down, child,” Zipporah said. “It might be easier.”

  “No, Miss Sarfati.” Harvey pushed up his spectacles. “Please—do you understand me?” He pleaded with the Tree Men.

  The elder Tree Man rocked its body back and forth—a sort of vegetable nod.

  “You see? We can figure something out—a peace treaty, perhaps.” He did his best to straighten his vest and tie. “Okay, how about this: you guys can live here in Arcadia Park, but you can’t pop out and scare people. Sickle City can be frightening enough without plant people creeping around in the park. You also can’t steal anybody’s hat.” He pointed to the cloche hat. “In fact, I think we’re gonna need that back. Please?”

  The Tree Man with the thorny knuckles removed the cloche hat and tossed it to Harvey. The boy caught it.

  “Thank you.” Harvey pointed back to the woods. “You can still stay here, if you want. I’ll talk to my father and Detective Flynn. Maybe he can bring by some fertilizer for you guys? Or water you?” The Tree Men rustled indignantly. “Okay. We don’t need to water you.” He held out his hand. “We’ll make sure nobody bothers these trees, or you, for as long as you want to stay in Arcadia Park. How’s that sound? Are those terms acceptable?”

  For a few seconds, the Tree Men just stared at him. Then the fat Tree Man extended its branch-like hand—not to Harvey, but to Clay. Evidently, they respected Clay now that he had beaten them. Or maybe they recognized something of themselves in Clay—a kinship. They were made of wood, after all, and Clay was made of earth. He accepted the Tree Man’s hand. They clasped for a while, and then the round Tree Man moved back. It waved to the others. They stepped back into the woods, slipping in amongst the branches and leaves, and fading into the underbrush. If not for the sap on Zipporah’s blades and the broken bark, twigs, and leaves on the ground, they might have never appeared.

  Zipporah stared at her swords. “I’ll need to clean them. This damn sticky sap.” Then she smiled at Harvey. “You were right to avoid a battle. I hope they stick to the terms you set for them, and we don’t have to pick a fight with plants again.”

  “They’ll uphold the terms,” Clay said. “I trust them.”

  “Well, at least that problem is solved.” Zipporah returned her scimitars to her scabbards. “This city has enough troubles, after all.”

  “Like the possible police strike?” Harvey asked.

  “Exactly.” She motioned to the forest path. “Let’s go back to Haven Street. Detective Flynn will be happy to know that we solved his problem. Now he can go back to collecting bribes in peace, and we can receive a nice chunk of dough from your father.” She started down the forest trail, alongside Harvey. “Come along, Clay. We’re due back at Haven Street.”

  Clay stayed in the clearing for just a few moments. He liked Harvey’s solution. Even though he was used to killing, he didn’t enjoy it—and he hadn’t really taken any lives since he came to America. But Zipporah was right as well. His new home was full of troubles. He wondered how many of them could be resolved without bloodshed. Clay let out a creaking sigh, slid back into the comfortable skin of his illusion, and followed Harvey and Zipporah out of the forest.

  ~~~

  When Clay had first arrived in America, he had gone to Haven Street. The seaside neighborhood was the first stop for many immigrants, and Clay had been just another new arrival to America, straight from the chaos of war-ravaged Eastern Europe. Haven Street had once belonged to the Irish, but Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe had populated its tenements and cluttered streets since the turn of the century, and their ranks had only swelled after the Great War. Because he was a golem, he never quite fit in. Still, Haven Street—Little Jerusalem—was the closest thing he had to a home.

  He looked at the busy street from the window of his Studebaker automobile with Zipporah in the passenger seat and Harvey in the back. Peddlers packed the sidewalks, advertising their wares even as the sun began to dip in the distance. Chasidic Jews, with their long coats and ear locks, clumped together as they strolled along the street, while playing children, workmen, sailors from the nearby waterfront, pushcarts, wagons, and autom
obiles did their best to share the street. Laundry dangling from clotheslines hung from tenement windows, overlooking everything. This was Neptune Row, the first home of most immigrants and the poorest section of Haven Street. Clay sped past it on his way to their destination.

  Soon after his arrival, Clay had visited Rabbi Herman Holtz—the younger brother of the man who created him. Rabbi Herman Holtz had listened carefully to Clay’s story. At first, Rabbi Holtz didn’t believe that Clay was a golem. Rabbi Holtz’s older brother, Chaim Holtz, had excelled at Yeshiva School before immigrating to the New World with his two younger brothers. He had eventually grown distasteful of America and returned to the Old Country. Rabbi Holtz knew his brother studied Kabala and had mastered the Ten Stages of the Sephirot, but had he really created a golem? Soon, Rabbi Holtz had realized the truth, and decided that his older brother’s golem would now work for him.

  He had given Clay a special home, in a place where even an oddity would fit in. Clay approached it now, the rickety dock of amusements known as Palisade Park, which jutted out into the cold Atlantic on a large pier. He halted the Studebaker on the sidewalk, and he and his friends walked out and entered Palisade Park. They headed down the dock, under the shadow of the twirling Ferris wheel and the rattling roller coaster that always seemed on the verge of collapse. Tents and booths offered fortune telling, midway games, roasted peanuts and popcorn, and other treats and diversions for the residents of Haven Street to buy with their nickels and pennies. Everything in Palisade Park had been painted in gaudy, carnival colors. Zipporah worked there, doing swordsmanship exhibitions when she wasn’t helping Clay serve Rabbi Holtz. Like everything on Haven Street, Rabbi Holtz owned a piece of the amusement park.

  Near the street, the Elephantine Hotel beckoned. The strange structure resembled an elephant, towering up from the dock and facing the horizon with its painted, pale blue eyes. Gray planks formed the elephant’s trunk and its back, while a blue and scarlet howdah held up a viewing balcony, where visitors could look out at the city and the mist-shrouded sea. The oversized wooden elephant seemed to sag on its foundations, as if it wanted to lower its carved head and sleep. Clay, Zipporah, and Harvey walked up the small stairwell to the porch, and headed through the double doors to the lobby.

  The owner of Palisade Park, Professor Wallace Wellington West, waited for them inside. His red suit, red bowtie, and red top hat blended in with the scarlet velvet carpet of the lobby. Pictures of elephants loomed down, flanking him as he beamed at his tenants. “Mr. Clay. Miss Sarfati. It is a grand thing to see you.” He had upturned mustachios, giving him something close to a permanent grin. Professor West—every word in his name was a lie—was a Polish Jew and showman who ran Palisade Park for Rabbi Holtz. He always did his best to serve as a gracious host, though he did have an unfortunate flare for the dramatic. “Another valiant battle against the forces of supernatural darkness?” he asked.

  “Something like that,” Clay agreed.

  “We fought Men of the Field, Professor West,” Harvey explained. “They’re, ah, tree people.”

  Professor West smoothed his mustachios, tracing them with forefinger and thumb. “Marvelous. A shame you didn’t recruit them to the Park. Perhaps we could stick them in pots near the entrance and have them offer fruit from their bodies to passersby?” He pointed down a side passage. “I’m afraid you have some guests. Your father, my dear boy, is present, along with his bodyguard.”

  “Rabbi Holtz is here?” Zipporah asked.

  “And very keen to see you.” Professor West waved his hand down the passage. “I’ll bring you to him, and provide some tea and cakes.” He strolled to the hallway, humming some circus tune to himself as his loafers sank into the carpet.

  They followed him to the parlor, a sumptuous chamber with a number of Morris chairs and a Chesterfield couch set around a glass coffee table. Four brass elephant sculptures held up the coffee table, matching the elephant paintings on the wall, and the elephant head mounted above the mantelpiece. Sure enough, Rabbi Herman Holtz reclined in the Morris chair at the head of the room. He came to his feet when Harvey entered, and the boy hurried to his side. They quickly embraced. Rabbi Holtz wore a somber, respectable black suit and fedora. A neat beard crusted his chin and upper lip, and he wore round spectacles that matched his son’s. Everything about him looked scholarly—but that was far from the truth. Herman Holtz had been a criminal since his first arrival in Haven Street as a young man. He had been just another up-and-coming hoodlum until the Eighteenth Amendment was passed, the sale and transport of alcohol was banned, and the Prohibition Era began.

  The Federal government offered a number of exemptions to Prohibition—one of which was alcohol for religious purposes. Rabbis could brew and sell wine, and Holtz was quick to take advantage of it. He managed to turn a few years of Yeshiva in his home village into a career as a rabbi, purchased a failing synagogue, and became the bootlegger and gangster king of Haven Street. Now, with Harvey standing happily at his side, he resembled nothing more than a good Jewish father.

  “Papa, we encountered these Men of the Field in Arcadia, while we were working for Detective Flynn,” Harvey said, excitedly recounting the afternoon’s adventure. “They were sort of like plant people? And Mr. Clay and Miss Sarafti battled them after they attacked, but we eventually arranged a kind of peace treaty.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, boychick. Flynn’s a goy, but he’s a good person nonetheless.” The Rabbi faced Clay and Zipporah. “These Men of the Field, these plant people—they gave you no trouble?”

  “Nothing to write home about, sir,” Zipporah said.

  “Good.” Rabbi Holtz patted Harvey’s shoulder. “Still, I think that’s enough excitement for the day. Monk will take you back to Atlas Avenue, and to home. Then, you can finish your homework for school and get some rest.”

  “Papa...” Harvey worshipped his father—but still seemed annoyed. “I can stay here and offer more help to the greatest detectives on Haven Street. What if you give them a case that requires some of Uncle Chaim’s books, or some esoteric knowledge and—”

  “Come on, son.” Monk Moss, Rabbi Holtz’s bodyguard, reclined on the couch, with his boots on the coffee table. “You give your father a break. He’s got business to discuss with Mr. Clay and Miss Sarfati, and it ain’t the sort that concerns you.” Monk wore a rumpled, checkered turquoise suit with an oversized bowtie and a straw boater’s hat. Like Zipporah, he had served in the Great War—but for him, that conflict had been just a break between endless battles and brawls in the Sickle City underworld. He and Rabbi Holtz had come up together, and he still proudly served in his role as muscle.

  Harvey looked at Clay and Zipporah. They both nodded. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Harvey,” Clay said. He liked the boy—and knew that Harvey had few other friends. It might be strange for Harvey to want spend his days with a golem and a swordswoman, but Clay didn’t want to deny their friendship. “You go and get your homework finished.”

  “Okay,” Harvey agreed. “Goodbye, then.” He clasped his father’s hand. “Goodbye, papa.”

  “Goodbye, boychick.” Rabbi Holtz nodded to Monk. “You check his homework, okay? Make sure it’s correct.”

  “Ah, boss, I ain’t that skilled in arithmetic,” Monk muttered.

  “Do your best.”

  Monk and Harvey left the parlor. The boy gave his friends a quick wave, which Clay returned, and then followed Monk outside. The door closed behind them, and Rabbi Holtz, Zipporah, and Clay remained in the quiet parlor, alone except for the countless elephants.

  Rabbi Holtz adjusted his spectacles. “I appreciate you looking after the boy. He has few playmates. The other kids around Haven Street—I think their parents tell them to avoid me and my family. They think we’re goniffs, even if they go to my services every week.” He snorted. “Let them think what they want. I still protect them. And the
children at his private school, the sons of our city’s elite—well, to them he is just the child of a Jewish criminal. He has you as friends, and I’m glad of it.”

  “He’s useful to have around,” Zipporah said. “It’s no trouble.”

  “What do you need from us now?” Clay asked.

  “It’s not me. But Sid Sapphire.” Rabbi Holtz said the name softly, like he was invoking the name of a powerful god. Sid ‘the Shark’ Sapphire was perhaps the largest Jewish gangster in the city. Rabbi Holtz might run Haven Street, but he passed up his tribute to Sid Sapphire. The Shark ran a criminal network that spanned multiple continents, with a specialty in smuggling valuable artifacts from Europe, Asia, and the Middle East, and selling them on the black market. He had used Zipporah and Clay a few times, but only for the most serious cases.

  Clay listened carefully. “What does he want?”

  “We’ll find out tonight. He wants to meet at the Garden of Eden.” That was Rabbi Holtz’s speakeasy, located below a Kosher butcher’s shop on Marigold Lane. The Garden of Eden catered to locals eager for alcoholic libation, as well as Uptown types who wanted a thrilling place to drink at a cheap price. Clay couldn’t drink—he couldn’t eat either—but he had visited the Garden of Eden a few times anyway.

  Zipporah nodded. “Any clues as to his purpose? What sort of mood is he in?”

  Rabbi Holtz shrugged. “You might as well try to predict the weather as fathom the mind of someone like Mr. Sapphire. But whatever else he is, he is a macher—and if he wants your services, you’ll need to give it to him.” He stood up, and reached for his overcoat. “I’ll see you tonight at eight in the Garden of Eden. Come early. Mr. Sapphire values promptness.” He walked to the door of the parlor, paused and glanced back. “And thanks again for looking after my son.” He departed, with his eyes downcast—a strangely forlorn figure.