“Tell me,” continued the Baron. “Would you be—”
“Happy if you left me the hell alone?” the boy interrupted. “Yes, very.”
“Actually, I was going to ask your name.”
“People call me Jules. But I hate that name.”
The Baron poured Khalid and himself a glass of whiskey. Khalid drank his in one gulp and immediately refilled it. The Baron sipped his aristocratically. “Jules. Julius,” the Baron said. “I quite like that name. Apparently, so did the people of Rome.”
“The people maybe, but not the Senate. They killed him, remember?”
The Baron laughed. “They did. They did, indeed. Tell me something, Jules. Shouldn’t you be in school?”
Two more balls sank into leather netting. “Why do you care? You a truant officer?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t you piss up a rope.” The boy sank another two balls in an awkward silence that Khalid cured with another drink. “What happened to your eye?” the boy finally asked.
The Baron sipped his drink again and leaned back, his bald head resting on the rust-colored brick. “Lost it in a duel outside Madrid.”
The boy finally looked at the Baron. “Really?”
The Baron nodded. “Really.”
“What happened to the other guy?”
“Buried. In the Cementerio de Nuestra Señora de La Almudena,” the Baron said in perfect Spanish.
“Hablas español?” the boy asked.
“Sí,” replied the Baron, “Y tu tambien?”
“Yeah. I speak French, German, Latin, and Greek, too.”
The Baron rose a glass to him. “Did you learn all those languages in school? Or amongst these enlightened denizens?”
“My school is a haven for ignorant oafs,” the boy snapped. He looked squarely at the Baron again and struck the cue ball blindly. The last ball fell into the pocket. Khalid laughed.
“Is that why you ripped off your school crest?” The Baron asked, pointing to the few threads that hung from his breast pocket. “Didn’t want anyone to know of your oafish education?”
“Gimmie a drink and I’ll tell you,” the boy said confidently.
Khalid laughed. “You are a child. This is not good for you.”
“And you are probably a Muslim. So it’s sinful for you,” the boy replied.
Khalid refilled his glass and slid it across the table. “Touché,” he said.
The boy took a swill and winced. He appeared as if he wanted to cough, but suppressed it.
“Allow me to be candid, Jules,” the Baron said. “Do you recall a gentleman named Kasper Holstrom?”
“Gimmie a cigarette and I’ll tell you.”
“Warwick,” the Baron called. Warwick gave one to the boy, lit it, and then returned to his station.
The boy took a deep inhale and shook his head. “I know your man. Sure.” He exhaled and coughed.
“Good. I am wondering if you could help me. You see, he has gone missing as of late.”
“Seriously, you a cop or something?” the boy asked.
“No.”
“Why do you want to know about Kasper?” The boy took another drag and drank the rest of his whiskey.
“Because he mentioned you. Now stop playing games and answer my goddamn question,” the Baron said.
“Yeah, I know him,” Jules answered. “Haven’t seen him in a while.”
“When did you see him last?” the Baron asked.
“The 12th of May, 7:34 p.m. He walked through that door. We talked. Played four games of eight-ball. Two games of one-pocket. He left at 9:12 p.m.”
“Interesting. You recall the exact date and time.”
“Yeah, well, my brain works that way, you know?”
“Yes, I do. Do you recall the conversation you had?”
“Every word of it,” the boy said as he plucked the balls from each pocket.
“Perhaps you could oblige me,” the Baron said, feigning patience.
“We talked about physics. We almost always talk about physics.”
“What about physics?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” the boy said.
The Baron refilled the boy’s whiskey glass and handed it to him. “Try me.”
The boy threw down his whiskey—not wincing this time as he did so—and organized the yellow and red balls in a wooden rack while the cigarette dangling from his lip spilled ash on the table. “We also talked about why I liked billiards so much.”
“And why do you like billiards?”
“Jesus, you ask more questions than Socrates,” Jules said.
“Khalid,” the Baron said. Khalid Francois withdrew his Bodeo revolver and set it on the table. “You were saying?” the Baron asked.
The boy shook his head. “I like billiards because it is demonstrative physics. The movement and trajectory of the balls is predictable. The transfer of momentum, angles of incidence and reflection, all of it. Predictable. It’s a scaled model of our own cosmos.”
“Then your conversation progressed to cosmology?”
“Quantum mechanics, actually. Science at a near-infinitesimal scale. Physics at such an impossibly small level we need all new math, new units of measurement, just to understand it. The movement of atomic and even subatomic particles.” The boy grabbed the one white cue ball and placed it for a proper break.
“You discussed particle physics, then?”
“Imagine the rack of balls there is an atomic nucleus of some heavy metal,” the boy said. “And my cue ball is a neutron. At the right velocity and angle of incidence . . .” The boy struck the cue ball and the rack of yellow and red exploded. The solitary black ball rolled precariously close to a corner pocket. “The forces that bind a nucleus together are, theoretically, one of the strongest in the known universe. The ensuing fission then would release the untold amounts of power contained in those bonds.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because I did the calculations myself.” The boy lined up shot after shot, the cue ball rolling to an advantageous position every time, until no yellow balls were left.
“Fascinating,” the Baron finally replied.
“The implications are staggering,” Jules said. “That kind of power. Harnessing it could mean . . .”
“What?” the Baron asked, leaning forward. “Tell me.”
“It could mean an unlimited power source. Machines that run forever, run faster, produce exponentially more. If everyone had access to it, it could usher in a global utopia. Or . . .” Jules paused, “the potential destruction of the entire world.” He sank the black ball with an overly slow and dramatic bank shot. “All of it.”
“Destruction of the entire world? Really?” the Baron asked.
“That kind of power, improperly handled, yes. I mean, the kind of energy we are talking about here is unfathomable. It obliterates. It vaporizes. It annihilates. Your revolver is less than the bite of flea by comparison.”
“I suddenly see why you are friends with Kasper,” Baron DeLacy said.
“I need physics more than friends.”
“What about morals, Jules? Do you need those?”
“I need physics more than morals, too,” the boy replied, removing the balls from their pockets.
“Yes I’ve never much cared for them myself,” the Baron said. “Jules, how would you like to have your very own billiard table? Brand new. All to yourself.”
The boy stopped resetting the game and walked over to their table. He poured himself another whiskey. “What’s wrong with these billiard tables?” He took a swig.
“Do you find this environment conducive?”
“Of course. That’s why I am here, and not at school.” Jules’ words were starting to slur now.
“The table I provide you will be in your own laboratory,” the Baron said.
Jules regarded him for a moment, staring into the Baron’s one eye. “I would need a library, too.”
“Mak
e a list of books you need, and I will have Warwick procure them.”
“I want an ice cream maker.”
“Done.”
“I want a view of Central Park.”
“All right.”
“I don’t want to go back to my school. Ever.”
“I will pay a visit to your headmaster this evening.”
“I have other demands.”
“I am sure you do. I am also sure I can accommodate them.”
“Really?”
“You have no idea,” the Baron replied. He dropped his cigarette and buried it into the wooden floor with his boot. “Why don’t you come with us now?”
“Two more questions,” the boy said.
“Yes?”
“Is Kasper missing?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mean to find him?”
“Eventually, perhaps. I’m afraid something bigger has recently come to my attention.
“One more question.”
“Yes.”
“What’s in it for you?” Jules asked skeptically. “I mean, why give me everything I want? A new lab? A new library?”
“Because I want the power that’s inside an atom,” the Baron said.
Wage W. Pascal
August 18, 1914
Waldorf-Astoria, Room 402
Manhattan, New York
The repligrapher was in pieces on the floor. The last transcript read:
Edison,
William is dead. Found your Baron. Couldn’t find Kasper. William is dead. Kasper’s penthouse revealed nothing. William is dead. How should I proceed? —Wage
WHERE IS THE BARON NOW???
In the same hotel. Across the way. 17th floor. He killed William. William is dead.
I TOLD YOU HE WAS DANGEROUS!
William is dead. How should I proceed?
FIND KASPER! REPORT BACK!
Wage had his feet on the windowsill, pushing the wooden chair he sat in back on two legs. He stared at the narrow slit of light between the curtains that cast a single white line down his face and bare chest like a luminescent scar. He hadn’t slept or eaten in three days; his eyes were dull blue spiders resting in thick webs of red. He replayed the events at Kasper’s penthouse over and over again as he tilted the creaky chair back and forth, creating a simple and saddening two-note melody. Occasionally, he added the accompaniment of the spinning cylinder of Ol’ Snapper that hadn’t left his right hand since Ol’ Bill died.
“Wage,” a woman stood behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Wage, honey, what’s wrong?”
Like a cat, he pressed his head into her hand, rubbing his scraggly beard up and down it with his eyes closed.
“Wage, honey, are you OK?” she asked again.
He sighed and said, “I wish you were real.”
“Wage. I am real. It’s me. It’s Mink.” She looked back to the door that had been left open and the trail of liquor bottles that led there. “How long have you been like this?”
“Three days, give or take. Since William died. He’s dead, Mink. Jesus Christ, he’s dead. I’d cry, but I ain’t got any tears left.”
“It’s OK, Wage.” She placed her other hand on his shoulder
“I wish you were real. God, how I wish you were real. I would tell you. I would tell you, Mink.”
“Tell me what, Wage?”
“I would tell you that I was an idiot for ever leaving. I would tell you that you are the only woman I’ve ever loved. I love you, Mink Callahan. I’ve only ever loved you.”
“Wage . . .”
“No. No. It’s OK. I just wish you were here, right now. With me. God.”
“I’m here, Wage. It’s me.”
He finally looked up at her. Her green eyes were ablaze like gas lamps on a midnight street. “I would tell you you’re beautiful.”
Mink’s eyes welled with tears. “Wage, what happened? Tell me.”
“There are bad people out there, Mink. Dangerous people, they’re everywhere. Hidin’ in the shadows. William and I got caught up with them. And they killed him, Mink. They killed my best friend.” Wage sobbed. “They killed my best goddamn friend. Goddamn it!”
“Who are these dangerous people?”
“Illuminati. The Hand . . .The Hand. The Illuminati,” Wage muttered. “Am I going crazy, Mink? I must be going crazy now. I’m dreaming of you. It’s like you’re here. With me.”
“Wage.”
He leaned his head back. “I always dream of you. Think about ya all the time.”
“Thank you. I often think about you, too.”
“Ahhh, I knew it,” Wage said, pointing at her and smiling for a brief moment. But then his lip begin to quiver.
“Wage,” Mink said and squeezed his shoulder. “Wage, what is it?”
“Whenever things got dangerous with me and William, whenever it looked like we weren’t gonna make it, I always thought about you. They say whatever you think about when you are near death is what you value most in life. So I guess . . .” Wage shrugged his shoulders.
“Wage Winchester Pascal, why do you go and get yourself in all these situations?” she asked lightly. She caressed his matted black hair.
“To impress you, of course,” he replied with as much charm as her could muster. “I wish you were really here, Mink.”
Mink grew impatient. “When was the last time you slept, Wage?”
“I dunno.”
She reached in her purse and pulled out her pistol by the barrel. “Wage, honey. Please forgive me, but this is for your own good.” She swung the butt of the pistol down on the side of his head.
Wage dropped his revolver and fell to the ground with a thud and grunt.
Intense cold shrouded his whole body, taking away his breath momentarily. When his breath returned, he sat up and yelled. He was half-naked and soaked, lying in his hotel bed. Mink stood over him with a now-empty bucket.
“What in the hell are you doin’?” he screamed, worsening the headache he already had.
“How are you feeling?” Mink asked sheepishly.
“Cold and wet! How the hell do you think I’m feeling?”
She set the bucket down and tossed him a dry towel. “Here,” she said. “I have dinner for you when you’re ready?”
“Dinner? What time is it?”
“It’s almost nine. You’ve been asleep for about 12 hours.”
“When did you . . . how did you . . .”
“Here,” she said, handing him a small box that read “Bayer Pharmaceuticals.” “I ran down to the drug store earlier. Take it.” Wage slid the box open and unwrapped the aspirin tablets. He reached for his nightstand where a quarter-full bottle of whiskey sat. Mink slapped his hand and handed him a glass of water. Wage obliged. He took the medicine and scooted over to the drier side of the bed, leaning up against the brass headboard. He shoved a corner of the towel in his ear and shook it violently.
Mink snickered as she sat down in the wooden chair next to the bed.
“What?”
“I’ve never seen you with a beard before. It looks funny. You never could grow one. Remember how your older brother used to make fun of you? Used to say you had cat whiskers.” She laughed again, and for a moment Wage forgot everything. All semblance of reality ceased to exist. And all that remained was her laugh. He basked in it like sunlight through a cypress tree, and finally he laughed, too. It felt good. Damn good.
“Mink—what are you doing here?” he finally asked.
Mink took the plate warmer off and handed Wage a lukewarm rib eye and russet potato with a side of steamed carrots. She peppered it for him.
And as he ate, she told him everything. Starting with her dad’s death. The train robberies. The terrible events on the Artemis. Gary, Indiana. Her sister’s engagement party. Everything. Everything but Quincey. And he listened. He ate and he listened. After she finished, they sat in silence for seconds that seemed like hours.
Wage broke the silence. “I saw Andromeda,” he s
aid with a mouth full of potato.
“I know; she’s the one who told me you were here.” She smiled.
“That girl ain’t right, Mink. She never was,” he said, placing the last bit of steak in his mouth.
“You leave her alone, Wage Pascal. She’s my sister, and the only family I’m ever likely to see.”
Wage placed his dinner plate on the wet side of the bed and took a big breath. “Mink, my friend William, the one you met on the train . . .”
“I know, Wage. I’m sorry.”
“How did you know?”
“This morning, you were delirious, but you told me. You told me he passed away. Do you not remember?”
Wage lifted a hand to the side of his head. He flinched at the tender welt that had formed. “So that was real?”
“Yes.”
“Whoa boy.”
“Wage. It’s OK.” Her eyes were aglow and met his, locked the way they used to in her father’s barn. “What are we going to do now?” she asked.
“I wanna run, but I ain’t got nowhere to go,” he confessed. He told her everything. Starting with when he came home from Cuba. The events from Mr. Jade to Jonathan Hamilton to Detective Porter to E.J. Delacroix to Edison to Doctor Fatum to Mallory Macy, to the one-eyed Baron that killed Ol’ Bill. Mink sat there. She sat and she listened. And when he finished, she got up. She walked over to him and placed her forehead against his, holding his cheeks. “Wage Winchester Pascal, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”
“I’m not sure, Mink. I’m not sure,” he replied, closing his eyes.
She released him and sat next to him on the bed. “I sure hope you are not planning on doing anything foolish.”
“Maybe I’ll leave town for a while. Maybe head north. Get my head straight.”
“And when it’s straight?” she asked.
“I’m gonna kill that one-eyed sonovabitch who shot my friend.”
“Wage.”
They locked eyes again.
Wage leaned forward.
Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) Page 29
