Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  “Merci, beacoup,” Wage said before placing the disc and Ol’ Snapper in his own boot. Mink buckled her suitcase and put it back on the shelf. “Where you been, Mink?” Wage asked. She delicately put on dark purple silk gloves and delivered a slap he never saw coming.

  Two mustachioed men from the train authority busted into the baggage car with revolvers of their own. “Hold it right there! Hands up!” one of them yelled.

  “Everything’s all right, gentlemen,” Wage replied with his hands in the air. “Just calm down, now.”

  “Oh thank goodness you’re here!” Mink screamed. “That horrible man just accosted me. That wretched bandit, how dare he! He jumped off the train about a mile back.”

  The other blue-clad official yelled at Wage, “Who are you? What are you doing back here?”

  “Me!?” Wage said, “I was coming to her rescue. Bastard robbed me, too. Ask anyone.”

  Both men went to the back of the car and looked out the open door. “All right,” one of them said, “head back to your seats. The train is secure. We’re gonna wire this in, tell ‘em he jumped off about 40 miles south of Tuscaloosa. We’ll need statements from you both at the next station.”

  “Of course,” Mink replied.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the official said.

  Wage adjusted his suspenders. “You are very welcome. Now, ma’am, how’s about a drink?” he asked Mink. “I’m quite certain you can afford it.”

  The transformed bandit and the faux rescuer made their way back to the lounge car. Wage grabbed his wallet from Bill’s inside jacket pocket before walking up to the bartender and ordering three bourbons. The bartender looked at him curiously. “Lucky thing that no-good bandit didn’t search my sleeping friend over there.”

  “Oh dear, that man is bleeding,” Mink said, pointing to the passenger with the broken nose. “I do hope he is all right.” She sat down in Wage’s booth next to the snoring bear. Wage put the three glasses of bourbon down on the table and returned to his seat directly across from Mink. “A votre santé,” he said before guzzling his drink and slamming the glass back down. Black Vomit Bill woke up at the sound and wiped the drool from his beard. He gave Mink a perplexed look. “Where’d you come from?” he asked.

  “Nice of you to finally join us, William. May I introduce Mink Callahan—my former fiancée,” Wage announced.

  Bill took off his hat and shook her hand. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. I’m William MacDonough. I never knew Wage was . . . engaged.”

  “Actually, it’s Mink Thomason. I’m married now,” she replied.

  “Imagine that! Mink Callahan actually made it to an altar,” Wage replied.

  “I was fifteen, Wage Pascal! And an old, gnarled cypress tree in the swamp don’t exactly count as an altar, now does it!” Mink fired back before guzzling her bourbon and slamming it down. “What were we gonna do, Wage? We were young. Too young to get married. Stop being foolish!”

  “A young heart may be foolish, but it beats the same as any other, Mink,” Wage replied before shouting for another round.

  “I’m sorry for that night, Wage. I truly am. Many lives were changed that . . .”

  “DON’T YOU TALK ABOUT THAT NIGHT, MINK CALLAHAN! DON’T YOU TALK!”

  “Wage . . .Wage . . . I’m sorry,” Mink replied. “Mr. MacDonough, I apologize. Wage and I haven’t seen each other in more than fifteen years . . .”

  “Yes, and wasn’t I surprised to see her pointing a gun in my face,” Wage said.

  “Hush up, Wage!” she replied.

  Bill finally took his bourbon and guzzled it all. Just in time for the bartender to deliver three more drinks.

  “No, I apologize, William. Perhaps I should inform you, Mink and I grew up together in Baton Rouge. Her family moved there when after her father got transferred. He was a railroad engineer hired to figure out how to lay tracks through swampland. Ever since I met her, we were inseparable. Always getting in trouble and hiding out in the swamp, mixin’ ol’ voodoo recipes for Madame Sweet Tooth. Long story short, we were engaged to be married, but she left me at the altar without so much as a letter.” Wage took a swig from his new bourbon. “So tell me, Mink, who is this lucky husband of yours?”

  “Ronald Thomason IV,” she replied.

  “Ronald Thomason,” Wage repeated. “Ronald Thomason of Thomason Railway?”

  “Yes, that’s my husband.”

  “Ronald Thomason, the old railroad baron, is your husband? That Ronald Thomason?”

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “So let me get this straight. You have a veritable fortune and your robbin’ trains? I think I need another drink,” Wage said.

  Mink looked around cautiously. “Yes, Wage, I have money. I have money because people ride my husband’s trains. People ride my husband’s trains because they are too scared to ride anyone else’s— because everyone else’s is getting robbed.”

  “And here I thought the old man just married you for your good looks,” Wage said. “So tell me, what are you gonna do with all the money you stole from these good people?”

  “Orphans.” She looked around again. “I give it to orphans.”

  “Ha! So now you some kinda millionaire lady Robin Hood, is that right?”

  “I have a certain passion. A passion I can keep because my husband stays in business. And at the end of the day, I give generous . . . donations to the less fortunate,” she replied.

  “Sounds like a healthy marriage,” Wage said. “Congratulations. I’m happy for the railroad industry.”

  Mink finished her drink. “Well, this has been a most refreshing reunion, Wage Pascal. It’s good to see you are still the same ass you always were, but I am afraid I shall retire to my cabin. I will need to prepare a statement, of course, for the authorities when we reach Meridian.”

  “Good to see you again, Mink. Tell Ronald Thomason I say hello; that is, if his hearing is still intact.”

  “Good day, gentlemen,” Mink replied and stood up to leave. Bill also stood up and took off his hat again. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance ma’am,” he said. Mink elegantly strolled back to her cabin. Bill waited until she left the train car before sitting down. “Well. She seemed nice,” he said.

  “William, you are officially fired as my companion,” replied Wage.

  Wage W. Pascal

  June 5, 1914

  Pascal Family Manor

  Baton Rouge, Louisiana

  The stone Madonna cradled her child close to her. Her carved teardrop almost lost in the hard falling rain. Angels on either side pulled on her shoulders, their wings straight up, their faces strained, desperately trying to lift her away from the rich green clearing surrounded by ancient oaks and blooming magnolias. He stood there staring at the crypt. Motionless in a trench coat and slouch hat, he stood there long enough to sink into the wet earth.

  “I miss her, too, Wage,” said the voice from behind.

  Wage turned to see his brother, who had sneaked up on him. “Little brother! How the hell are you?” Wage embraced the slightly smaller and chiseled Warren. “Now look how big you’ve gotten. You look like a grown man.”

  The only thing shielding Warren from the rainfall was his brown fedora and shoulder-length brown hair, both of which matched his caramel eyes. “How long you been in town?” he asked.

  “Just got in this morning,” replied Wage.

  “Will you be staying long?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I’ll be catching a paddle boat down to New Orleans in the morning. I have some business down there that requires my attention.”

  “You seen father yet?”

  “No. I thought I’d visit mother first,” he replied.

  “Well if you’re done, why don’t you come on in? Everyone will be happy to see you,” Warren said. “We’ll get Miss Marie to cook us up something hot.” Warren and Wage began the quarter-mile walk back to the manor house.

  “I’m sure the young girls love it, but does father approve
of your long hair, little brother?” Wage asked, as they made their way to the covered porch of the French colonial home.

  “Well, it won’t last long, don’t worry. I have been accepted to the Naval Academy,” Warren replied.

  “Naval Academy? You kiddin’ me?” Wage said, as he hit his brother on the shoulder. “Someone actually thinks you got les coquilles to be a military officer? Drivin’ ships and sailors all around?”

  “Someone does,” Warren replied.

  “Well, so do I!” Wage said, embracing his brother again.

  “Thanks, Wage. Father pulled some strings and got me a congressional nomination. I leave in a few weeks.”

  “No-good-congressman good for something, I guess,” Wage said and laughed. “Come on, let’s celebrate. We’ll grab something from father’s personal stash.” Wage enthusiastically stormed inside the house.

  “Uh, Wage . . . about no-good-congressmen . . . ”

  Wage walked into the atrium, greeted by the scent of fresh lilac and the perspiration of two well-dressed gentlemen in top hats. One was short and fat, the other tall and skinny, but they were both the same height, as the short one’s top hat was long and the tall one’s short.

  “Well, now” the fat one said, “You must be Captain Wage Pascal, correct? I’ve seen the pictures hanging about.”

  “I am. Who the hell are you?” Wage replied, taking off his coat and hat.

  “We are campaign managers in the employ of your brother, William. He has told us all about you,” the skinny one said.

  “Has he now? Well, I tell you what. How about you two go . . .”

  “Wage!” interrupted an equally well-dressed William, walking in from the living room. “It’s good to see you.” William shook his brother’s hand. “Please allow me to introduce Mr. Richard Donnell and Mr. Donald Dingle. They are running my campaign for me.” William Henri Pascal Jr. looked like a much older Warren, only taller with spotted gray in his chestnut hair and a chevron mustache. He wore a blue ascot tie with an embroidered fleur-de-lis in gold.

  “What exactly you campaigning for, Will?” Wage asked.

  “I am running for United States Congress. My election managers here tell me I even have a slight lead over the incumbent. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the news sooner, Wage. You’ve been a difficult man to track down these days. When was the last time you were in Baton Rouge? How long has it been?”

  “Three years,” Wage said.

  “Three years is too long, brother. A lot has changed.”

  “Yes it has, Will. Yes it has. Well, allow me the courtesy of indulging in something that hasn’t changed. Warren! Let’s have a drink.”

  William dismissed his election-winning specialists and followed his younger brothers into the kitchen, where Miss Marie hugged Wage and belted out her trademark laugh. The older Haitian servant had been in the service of the Pascal family for almost 30 years and watched all the Pascal boys grow up, save for one. She even grew and raised her own family in the servant’s quarters only a stone’s throw from the house. The now-gray-haired Miss Marie was still spry at the age of fifty, and was one of the few well-springs of life left at Pascal Manor.

  “Oh Mr. Wage, I will fix you up some o’ yo favorite crawdad gumbo, yes I will,” cried Miss Marie.

  “Oh Miss Marie, how I’ve missed you and your delicious cookin’. How about we have some of father’s finest brandy as well?” Wage asked.

  “He won’t be happy about it, but what he don’t know won’t hurt him. He don’t come downstairs much anymore, anyway,” she said, before going down to the cellar. Wage grabbed a yellow pear from a basket on the counter and sat down at the peeling table by the window.

  “I have to confess, Wage, I really thought you would be happier for me. This is a very taxing process, and it would be comforting to have more family support,” William said.

  “I’m thrilled for you, Will,” replied Wage, before biting into the pear.

  “Still the same ol’ Wage, I see. Never caring for nothing but yourself,” William fired back.

  “That ain’t true. I care about Warren. I care about Miss Marie.”

  “You love that you’re Warren’s hero, and you love that Miss Marie cooks for you! Come on, Wage!” William met Miss Marie at the stairs to the cellar and took the bottle of brandy before filling up two glasses, keeping one and giving one to the still-soaked Warren. “Here, Warren,” he said, “this will warm you up.”

  “You ain’t gonna pour me a glass?” Wage asked.

  “Pour your own damn glass,” William replied. He took a long sip and continued, “The world is changing, brother. Technology has reached nearly all of us. We have telegraph cables that run across the Atlantic Ocean. A man can get from New York to California in a week. Hell, we’re even controlling the skies now! We need people in Washington that understand this and can face the challenges that come with it, head on. I can do that, Wage.” William Pascal beat his chest with clenched fist.

  Wage walked to the counter and poured himself a glass of brandy. “Yes, Will, I believe you can.” Wage drank the entire glass in one gulp and poured another. “And you have my utmost support.”

  “Dammit, Wage. Not all of us can run off and play cowboy. Comin’ and goin’ as we please. Some of us want something better for this nation!” William said.

  “Politicians want to better themselves. They don’t give a muskrat’s ass about bettering the nation or the people in it. They’re all a bunch of stuffy, unintelligible morons talkin’ out both sides of their mouth and their ass. Believe me, William, I’ve met a few.”

  “Well, now you’ve met one more. I’ll see you two at dinner. I have some work to attend to. Good seeing you again, Wage.”

  “Always a pleasure, Will,” Wage yelled when his brother was halfway up the stairs.

  “I’m sorry, Wage. I thought he’d be more excited to see you,” Warren said.

  Wage finished his second brandy. “Only thing he’s excited about is kissing babies and the derrières of wealthy donors.”

  “Wage Pascal!” Miss Marie yelled, “You watch your mouth. That’s your big brother and he loves you. He been talking ‘bout you since the moment you left. So you give him a little leeway . . . even if he is a no-good politician.” Wage and Warren’s laughter progressed from stifled to hysterical.

  “Miss Marie, I knew there was a reason I came home—you are a ray of sunshine on a dismal day,” Wage said.

  “Now Mr.Wage, you be a good boy and go see your father right this instant.”

  “Well, now that the easy reunion is done, I suppose I will head upstairs and see father.”

  “He’s right where you left him, Mr. Wage,” Miss Marie said.

  Wage headed up the main staircase and conjured up a childhood memory for every step. Miss Marie yelling at him for swearing, little brother repeating it, father disciplining him, mother soothing him, big brother outshining him, little brother emulating him, father drinking, mother yelling, father yelling, mother stroking his hair, big brother stealing his toys, mother soothing him, father womanizing, mother crying, father drinking some more, mother soothing him.

  The memories faded as he entered the bedroom.

  Inside the master bedroom, his father lay motionless, staring out the window. After his stroke five years ago, he lost the efficient use of most of his body, save for his left arm. Facial expressions became nearly impossible as well. Ironically, facial expressions were scarce even before his stroke. Despite all that, Wage knew his father relished the storm outside, a reflection of his own tumultuous mind now imprisoned in his barely-functioning body. Near his father’s nightstand was Wage’s last parting gift to him, an invention of his own design: a left-handed glove with strings tied to each finger. Each string connected to a different bell on the first floor. Each bell, in turn, signaled a different request. The lowest bell was bedpan, other bells were food and water, another was curtains to be drawn, and the highest bell signified his craving to be pushed about the g
rounds in his wheeled chair. The last one required Warren to carry his own father downstairs. Wage knew that in reality, the bells represented whiskey, bourbon, gin, brandy, and red wine, respectively.

  His father turned his head and talked out one side of his mouth, “Been awhile, Wage,” he said. “What brings the prodigal son home this time? You haven’t blown through your trust already, now, have you?”

  “I‘m just passing through on my way to New Orleans. Thought I might see you, Will, and Warren. Thought I might visit with mom,” Wage replied.

  “You’d be visiting with headstone, boy,” his father said.

  “Yes, probably carved from your own heart, I imagine.”

  “Clever, boy. Maybe you should’ve been the politician,” his father replied.

  “If I had a soul like yours, I’d probably be a damn good one.”

  “Full of aggravating wit, too, like your mother. It never was just her looks you got,” his father said. “Believe me, boy. Talking to stone ain’t gonna bring her back. Try facing reality instead of running from it.”

  “If facing them meant becoming like you, I think I’ll pass,” Wage said.

  “You wouldn’t last a day in my condition, boy. And try not to be so nonchalant about it. Don’t act as if I wasn’t there. I saw it happen, Wage! I was smoking a cigar, strolling through garden when I saw her climb out the window onto the spire with little Wyatt. I saw her, Wage! And where were you? Huh!? Exchanging vows with your little girlfriend and that swamp witch?”

  Wage stayed silent. Even in his immobilized state, the great Major William Henri Pascal, survivor of Little Big Horn, descendant of the noblesse de robe, successful business magnate, and patriarch still commanded a room.

  “Lost your tongue finally?” his white-haired father said.

  “Not quite. I am just without the will to use it at the moment,” Wage replied.

  “This family has moved on, Wage. Why haven’t you? Doctors said there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it. Blamed it on postpartum hysteria. And what did you do? You ran away! You still wanna run? Keep running! But believe, boy, it won’t help.”