Jack Kane and the Statue of Liberty

by MIchell Plested

  ~ * ~

  Lenny pushed the greasy, empty plate away and stretched. The sun was starting to show over the buildings. He smiled at the waitress and held up his coffee cup. The girl nodded with a bored smile and sashayed back to the coffee station to collect the pot. Squiggy sat on the other side of the table, leaning back and snoring. A line of drool hung from his chin.

  The girl, whose nametag read Emily, filled the cup and said, “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Thank you, miss, but no. I believe my partner and I will be going soon. Just the bill, please?”

  “Be right back, hon,” she said. With the same unhurried sashaying walk, she returned to the counter.

  Lenny watched her sway until she was behind the counter. He picked up the lukewarm mug of liquid and drained it in one long gulp then slammed it on to the table, rattling the plates.

  Squiggy jerked awake and watched him with blurry eyes. “Huh? What’s going on? What’d you have to go and do that for?”

  “Time to go, partner,” Lenny said. “We’ve got things to do and not a lot of time to do them.”

  He smiled at the girl as she dropped the bill on the table and walked away with that same attention-grabbing walk. Lenny glanced at it and pulled the money out of his pocket adding a healthy tip. He left it on the table and pulled on his coat. Almost as an afterthought he scribbled his name and number on the paper.

  “I don’t know why you bother to do that. They never call,” Squiggy said.

  Lenny shrugged. “It only takes one, and she may be it. Besides, she’s pretty cute. I’d kick myself if I didn’t at least try.”

  “Whatever floats your boat, my friend,” Squiggy replied. He rose and pulled on his own trencher. “Let’s get going. The idea of making the boss wait gives me the creeps.”

  “Me too.” Lenny held the door for Squiggy and gave the cute waitress a friendly wave. “I’ll drive this time. I want to get used to maneuvering the spyder in case we ever need to move quickly.”

  “Works for me…” Squiggy rounded to the passenger side of the contraption and swore. “Son-of-a…”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Some clown went and painted graffiti on the side.”

  “What does it say?” Lenny asked, walking around.

  Squiggy shot his partner a dirty look. “You know me and words don’t get along so good. Why don’t you read them yourself?”

  “Suit yourself, buster, but you got to practice if you want to get better.”

  “I read just fine for me.” Squiggy climbed into the passenger seat and strapped himself in, folding his arms in a pout. “You look out for yourself.”

  “Geez, Squiggy, are you a man or a little kid?”

  The graffiti on the side read, “Spydrz suk butt knot az mutch az da guyz hoo uz ’em.”

  Lenny looked up at his partner. “This guy spells worse than you. Shouldn’t be a problem cleaning it up, though. I’ve got some black paint back at the yard that’ll cover it, no problem.”

  Squiggy refused to look over or even acknowledge Lenny’s comments.

  “Whatever. You want to be childish, that’s fine with me. I’ll get some peace and quiet for a change.” He hopped into the driver’s seat and checked the machine’s controls. The boiler was all pressured up and the pilot light was lit so everything was fine. He activated the spyder, and it went from a lowered position to where it towered over the street.

  Beside him, Squiggy was already asleep. With a shrug Lenny directed the machine to the street. A last look back showed the waitress watching him from the diner’s window. He smiled to himself. Maybe she would call. You never knew.

  The trip back to the yard was quick and left lots of time. His wrist chronometer showed the time as 7:30 a.m. That would give them enough time to get the package and the boss’ fancy carriage ready to go to the dock. Then he and Squiggy could plant the package and leave the carriage for the boss’ next plan.

  Lenny walked the spyder into the yard and maneuvered it to the parking garage. The dogs, big nasty-looking Rottweilers, jumped and snapped at the spyder’s legs, barking and yelping the entire way.

  He activated the door and walked the spyder into the garage. The dogs stopped at the door. They knew better than to enter the boss’ lair. He thought about the flaming hamster. Were dogs smarter?

  Felonious waited, his arms crossed. A flash of fear shot through Lenny before he managed to squash it.

  “H-Hey boss,” he said, clambering down. “How are things going?”

  Felonious glared at him for a solid minute, tapping his foot. “Stop being a fool! Where have you two been?”

  “We grabbed some chow and a cup of joe.” Lenny shrugged. “We’re both pretty beat and needed the break.”

  “I have a ray that will fix you right up—”

  “No, that’s all right, Boss,” Lenny said, hastening to interrupt. “We’re both doing much better now.”

  Felonious frowned. “All right then. Why are you two still here? Get over to the dock like I told you to.”

  “You got it, Boss.” Squiggy, now wide-awake, waved at Lenny to get into the carriage.

  He hopped into the driver’s seat.

  Lenny was no sooner in the vehicle than Squiggy was roaring out of the building and the junkyard.

  Four

  Bennington was sitting in the kitchen, enjoying a cup of tea, when the entire manor shook. Dishes rattled on their racks and pots clanged together on their hooks. The tremor was immediately followed by the cracking report of what could only be a gunshot.

  He sighed, placed his teacup on its saucer and rose from the small table sitting next to the kitchen hearth. He marched over to the telephone, picked up the earpiece and spun the crank.

  A few moments later he heard a tinny-sounding male voice through the earpiece. “Number please?”

  Bennington cleared his throat and spoke, enunciating each word. “Could you put me in contact with Marlborough Plasterers, please?”

  “One minute, sir,” the man said.

  Bennington waited until a new person bellowed into the telephone. “This is Marlborough Plasterers.”

  “Good morning. This is Bennington from Filcher Manor speaking. We have need of your services. Today, if possible.”

  The man chuckled. “Ah yes, sir. Has the master been practicing his shooting in the house again?”

  Bennington frowned in disapproval at the question, but answered. “I believe there has been an accidental discharge of a weapon, if that is what you are referring to. Can you send a man over this morning?”

  “Certainly, sir. I shall have one of my best men over by nine o’clock. Would that suit?”

  “Excellent,” Bennington said. “Good-bye.” He returned the earpiece to its cradle and smoothed his waistcoat and trousers. Time to check the damages.

  He trudged up the three flights of stairs then down a long corridor to one of his master’s many labs, stopping several times to straighten paintings or pick up fallen statuary. He ducked as several more gunshots shattered the morning. The frequency of his stops increased the nearer he got to the disturbance’s epicenter.

  When he arrived he noted a large hole in the door. A call to the carpenter appeared to be necessary as well.

  “My lord?” he called, careful not to stand in front of the door.

  A deafening boom punctuated by another large piece of door exploding out into the corridor, answered his call.

  “Blast it!” Felonious shouted from inside the room. “Bennington, is that you?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Bennington answered. “I came to see if you required anything. May I enter?”

  “Yes, yes, come in,” Felonious said, his voice filled with annoyance.

  Bennington steadied himself and reached for the doorknob, which was hanging somewhat askew in the shattered door. Most of it was missing so he chose to pull it open by pulling at one of the holes in the door.

  The door swung open with groaning complaint to
reveal a room that was more war zone than laboratory. Felonious waited in the center of chaos, cradling a smoking double-barrel shotgun over his right arm.

  “Sir, is everything all right?”

  “Blasted rat is scarpering around my lab,” Felonious growled. He swung the gun toward a corner of the room and waited.

  Bennington followed the man’s gaze. How Felonious was able to see anything in this disaster was a mystery.

  “Bloody Baron, calling me and questioning my work. Sending his spies to watch over me!” Felonious grumbled as he scrutinized the remaining nooks and crannies throughout the room.

  “Might I suggest you retire to laboratory three, my lord? I will summon an exterminator to deal with the vermin.”

  Felonious blinked. “Yes. Yes, that might serve.” He straightened and extended the still-smoking shotgun to Bennington. “Please have this gun cleaned and sighted. I will take lunch in the lab precisely at noon.”

  Bennington took the weapon. Imagine, being ordered to sight in a shotgun. It simply was not done. And the mention of the baron… that would bear further watching.

  “As you wish, my lord,” Bennington said as Felonious wandered out of the destroyed laboratory in the exactly the wrong direction to reach laboratory three.

  ~ * ~

  Waking from his nap, Jack had the sensation hours had passed, but had only been a few minutes. This was one reason he so loved his workshop. No matter how long he slept, his work was right at hand when he woke. The junkyard wouldn’t be open for business for a few more hours, and that would give him time to get up and do some tinkering. He rose from his cot—he had no use for an actual bed—and was immediately at his work bench.

  Several implements in partial assembly covered his bench. All would serve him in his nightly romps around town, but not until they were complete. Those finished were either in the pockets of his coat—that he still wore, such as his mask, spyglass, and winch—and the rest were in his satchel. He took a few minutes to grab a few electrical cells and put those into his pockets. All his gadgets needed electrical cells. Some more than others.

  The shop had multiple floors, and for the most part was nothing more than a mountain of items dropped off at the yard and fitted together to form a waterproof barrier to protect him from the elements. He’d built the various floors, but rarely strayed from his shop. Larger works were stored in separate rooms, and his biggest work to date he kept in a sub lair he’d dug. From the outside, his workshop could be just another of the other gigantic heaps of broken devices, but to Jack, it was home.

  He put on his hat and tried to think of something he was forgetting. Tapping the side of his neck with two fingers, he surveyed the interior. What was it? Ah. He had to speak to someone about the ship that’d been sunk. That was it. He needed to get over and talk to Betsy.

  A hat on his head, thin leather gloves, and multi-filter sunglasses and Jack was almost ready to head out except he had to reach back in and grab his satchel. He slung this over his head and was on his way.

  The sunglasses automatically applied filters to block the correct amount of sunlight. Now that the sun was above the skyline, half the filters rolled up and out of the way while the others stayed in place.

  Being that it would be a terribly long walk to Betsy’s place, Jack decided it best to hop on to a scooter. He pulled a fresh electrical cell from his pocket and dropped it into a slot much like putting a coin into a penny arcade viewer; those things were so quaint. With a pull of the plunger to engage the cell, the scooter hovered about a foot off the ground. Then, with a twist of his hand, a magnetic coil in the chassis engaged a flow of air. The scooter started, slowly at first, but gaining speed as he moved along. Soon he was traveling at a respectable five miles per hour. He’d be able to cover the couple miles over to MacDougal Street in no time at all.

  Now that the sun had been shining for over an hour, people, horses, carriages, and mechanicals cluttered the streets. Jack had to make use of not only the streets, but the sidewalks to weave in and out and around everything in his path. If he’d been able to move in a straight line, the trip to Betsy’s store would have only taken a couple minutes. As it was, he took several unexpected turns and went down streets he never intended to go down.

  On one, he nearly collided with a pair of horses hauling a massive cart. The horses reared as he came up on them. He veered aside to avoid a mechanical walker and continue on his way. The walker smashed into the cart, and it tipped precariously, but he didn’t stop for he needed to concentrate on his own course. Why weren’t people more careful on the busy New York streets?

  He arrived at Betsy’s store at 27 MacDougal Street at ten of seven. He pocketed his chronometer, tied up his scooter, and removed the electrical cell. No sense in leaving the scooter sitting and hovering on the street. Back in the yard he built a generator that used wind power to create a static field in his shop so any cells in the area would automatically be recharged without needing to be hooked up to a source. This made his life far more convenient, as he often forgot to recharge and that led to disastrous results on more than one occasion.

  When he looked up, his heart nearly stopped. Amid the swarm of gray and brown clothes that littered the street, much like Jack’s own drab garb, strode a woman in a maroon dress, obviously made from the finest silk. Men fell over themselves to keep from bumping into her while some paused and held their arms out to stop others. All heads turned as the woman walked in such a confident manner as to demand their attention. In the wake of her twirling parasol and bouncing, flame-red hair, men not dragged off by jealous spouses, who’d been admiring the woman continued on their way.

  She went straight to Jack. Setting a hand on a trim hip, she cocked her head. “What do I owe the pleasure of your early morning visit, Mr. Jack T. Kane?”

  Jack smiled, took off his hat, and bowed deeply with a sweep of his arm. “My lady Elizabeth P. Wilkes. It is an honor to stand before you.”

  “Stand up before you make me blush,” Betsy said, closing her parasol and tapping him on the back with it.

  He settled his hat on his head. “I would have brought you a fine breakfast were I not in a hurry.”

  “You? In a hurry? Surely you jest.”

  They both got a laugh from that.

  “I promise to make it up to you,” Jack said with a slight bow.

  “And I’ll hold you to that promise.” Betsy produced a key from a tiny silk purse.

  He backed up as she unlocked the door. “I require some information I’m sure you’ll be able to help me obtain.”

  “You think I can get this information because…?” Betsy asked, pausing with her hand on the key.

  “Because your father is the man who I am sure would have this information.”

  “And you didn’t go to Father because?”

  “Must we visit this again?” Jack glared at the ground.

  “Oh, please humor me.” She gave a girlish giggle as she swung the door open.

  “Can I at least retell you the story once we’re inside?”

  “Oh, very well, Mr. Kane, but you better tell me everything.”

  There really wasn’t that much to tell, but for some reason she seemed to love to hear this story about Jack and her father every time they met. She had no love for her father, but Jack didn’t understand why she needed to hear the embarrassment of the story over and over again.

  He held the door for Betsy and followed her inside. The building had once held a newspaper. Her father, in order to try and keep her out of trouble, bought the paper for her to run. Unfortunately for Mr. Wilkes, Betsy had other ideas. Her idea was that the paper would investigate and root out the British conspiracy to once again take over the United States and bring the country back into the Empire.

  The printing press had been running all night and hundreds of pamphlets had been stacked in neat bundles ready for delivery. Because her view for the newspaper had changed dramatically, not only had circulation dropped, she didn’t h
ave enough general news to print an entire paper. She now sold pamphlets for a penny each. That was barely enough to keep her going, but it was enough to keep her from going under, which Jack was sure was her father’s hope.

  She turned and pushed the tip of her parasol into Jack’s chest. Her eyes held a dark humor that came with each telling of the story. “Tell me.”

  With a sigh, Jack began. “I was working on the docks for your father. I had invented a new mechanical crane that would speed up loading and unloading of the ships. I wanted to demonstrate it to him. He waited on the dock near the crates I was going to pick up and move across from one pier to another. At first your father seemed impressed as he watched and gnawed away on his cigar. That was until I started the crane. As it reached to pick up the first crate, it overshot and picked up your father. While he was being hauled into the air, kicking and screaming, something else went wrong and a spring broke free and lodged into the gears.”

  Betsy howled with laughter. “How long? How long?” She swatted him with her parasol.

  “He was stuck up there nearly all day as I tried to fix the machine and rescue him.” To Jack the story wasn’t funny at all.

  He’d lost his job that day nearly three years ago and began working for Felonious Fenduke Filcher the Fourth. Jack almost spat the name out in his mind. Even though he had a good supply of raw material to work with, he longed to be back on the docks building things that would change people’s lives, not just silly toys he tinkered with.

  Once Betsy got control of herself, she hugged Jack and kissed him on the cheek. “Anything you need today is yours, Mr. Kane.”

  “Please, Betsy, call me Jack.”

  “You’re no fun. You know I love the formality of a title.”

  “I know, I know, but really, I have pressing business.”

  “So serious. Why Jack, is there a mystery afoot that requires our combined attention?”

  “I don’t want you to put yourself at risk. If something is happening, I don’t want you getting involved.”

  “Well, it’s too late for you to tell me that. If you want information, I want to know what’s going on.”