by Libba Bray
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Evangeline O’Neill. But my friends call me Evie. Of course, they usually call me from jail.”
The reporters laughed.
“Say, I like this one. She’s a real live wire,” one said. “And a Sheba to boot.”
“Yes, she is,” T. S. Woodhouse murmured appreciatively.
“Miss O’Neill! John Linden with the Gotham Trumpet. How’s about an exclusive for us?”
“Patricia Ready from Hearst, Miss O’Neill. We girls have to stick together, don’t you say?”
“Hey, doll—over here! Smile for me. Attagirl!”
They clamored for her story with shouts of “Miss O’Neill! Miss O’Neill!” Her name called in Manhattan, the center of the world.
“Which one of us gets an exclusive?” a reporter shouted.
“That depends—which one of you has the gin?” Evie shot back, and they roared with laughter.
T. S. Woodhouse tipped his hat back and stepped closer to Evie. “Your old pal, T. S. Woodhouse, Daily News. No hard feelings still, I hope? You know I’ve always got a soft spot for you, Sheba. My pencil’s nice and sharp—almost as sharp as you are. How’s about you giving us the goods, sweetheart?”
Evie glanced back at her uncle and Jericho. Behind them, the museum sat quiet. Above them all, the city glittered with a thousand squares of cold, hard light.
“Miss O’Neill? Evie?” T. S. Woodhouse rested the point of his pencil against his notebook.
“My uncle’s not being entirely truthful. Special powers—I guess you could call them supernatural powers—were employed to crack the case. My powers.”
The reporters fell into chatter and shouts again.
Evie put up her hands. “Since we’re all New Yorkers and not a bunch of chumps, I suppose you’ll want a demonstration. You might finally prove useful, Mr. Woodhouse.”
The reporters laughed and T.S. bowed to her. “Your wish is my command.”
“Swell. Can I have something of yours? A glove, a watch—any sort of object will do, really.”
“She wants your wallet,” a reporter cracked.
“As long as it isn’t your heart, Thomas.”
“Haven’t you heard? I’m a newsman. I haven’t got one of those,” Woodhouse shot back.
Evie held out her hand. “Anything at all will do.”
He pressed his handkerchief into her hand, allowing his fingers to linger an extra moment on hers. At first, there was nothing, and Evie suppressed a jolt of panic. She closed her eyes and concentrated. At last, her Cupid’s bow mouth stretched into a fetching smile. “Mr. Woodhouse, you live in the Bronx, on a street near an Irish bakery called Black Holly’s Biscuits. You owe your bookie fifty clams for the Martin-Burns fight. I’d suggest paying that; he doesn’t strike me as a patient man.”
Woodhouse frowned. “Anybody could know that.”
“A seventeen-year-old girl?” another reported yelled.
Evie pressed harder and the handkerchief yielded its deeper secrets. She bent to whisper those intimate secrets in his ear. His expression of surprise yielded to one of bitter understanding.
“New headline,” he announced to the crowd. “ ‘Sweetheart Seer Tells All, Breaks Murder Case with Mystery Talent.’ ”
The reporters pushed closer, demanding. “What happened, Evie?” “Over here, Evie!” “Heya, Miss O’Neill. Smile—that’s it!”
T. S. Woodhouse held up his pencil. “My lead’s getting cold, sweetheart.”
Evie fixed him with a stare. “For some time now, I’ve had this… gift,” she began.
She told them about how her ability to read objects led to them to the killer. She stuck close to the official story—a troubled man killed by the brave men in blue. She didn’t tell them that there were things to be afraid of, that the ghosts they imagined on dark nights as a chill on the neck were real. She did not mention the coming storm Miss Walker had warned about. Instead, she thrilled them with another demonstration—just a quick flash of fun facts gleaned from a reporter’s notepad. A crowd was gathering. They loved it. They loved her. In the greatest city in the world, at its greatest moment, she was there at the center of it all. Will couldn’t send her home now. There’d be a protest. She’d organize it herself if she had to.
“Miss O’Neill—hey, beautiful! Over here!” The flash powder exploded into tiny claws of light. There was another flash, and another. They dazzled and bruised Evie’s eyes till she was forced to turn her head. She expected to see Will and Jericho, but the steps behind her were empty. Evie turned toward the mob again. Across the street at the edge of the park, Margaret Walker stood perfectly still, watching. The flash popped once more, and when Evie’s eyes cleared, she, too, had gone.
PROJECT BUFFALO
Blind Bill Johnson knocked at the door of Aunt Octavia’s house and waited until the door creaked open and he heard her asking him inside. They sat in the living room while Octavia brought out cups of coffee and a plate of butter cookies.
“I don’t know how to thank you for being there, Mr. Johnson,” Octavia said, a catch in her voice.
“Well, ma’am, I’m just glad the Good Lord put me there.”
“That sure is a nice new hat and suit you have on, Mr. Johnson.”
“Bill. Thank you, Miss. Bought it with my winnings. My number come in big. Won two hundred dollars, just like that.” Bill snapped his fingers.
“Must’ve been a heavenly reward for your good works.”
Bill cleared his throat. “And, uh, how is the little man?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard?” He could detect the exuberance in the woman’s voice. “He’s fine. Why, he’s better than fine. All healed up like nothing at all happened.”
“I see.” Bill’s hands shook and he clasped them in his lap. “And does he remember what happened?”
“No, no, not a thing. The doctor says it may have been some kind of fever. Guess we’ll never know.”
“Maybe…” Bill said, then shook his head, as if dismissing the thought out of hand. “It may not be right for me to say.”
“What is it?”
“I got to wondering if maybe he just wore himself out guessing cards at Miss Walker’s place.”
He sipped his coffee and waited. When Octavia finally spoke, her voice was tight with both apprehension and anger. “Miss Walker helps Isaiah with his arithmetic. He has trouble with his sums. I don’t know anything about any cards.”
“Now I’ve done it. Said more than I had a right to. Don’t pay me no mind, Miss Octavia.”
“I would very much appreciate it, Mr. Johnson—”
“Bill.”
“Bill, if you would tell me what you know, thank you.”
He couldn’t see Octavia, but he could hear the rustle of her dress as she poised on the edge of the chair, and he knew he had her.
“Well, Miss, I ’spect I don’t rightly know ever’thing. The little man told me he had a gift, and that Miss Walker was teaching him how to use that gift. What my grandmother called the sight.” Bill took another cookie, dunked it in his coffee. It was delicious. “But you know how children do. The way I figured it, little man was just telling me stories. You know, trying to puff himself up some.”
“I see.” She was angry. There wouldn’t be any more visits to Miss Walker’s house, Bill was fairly certain of that.
“Could I look in on Isaiah, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”
“Well, he’s resting now,” Octavia said uncertainly.
“Oh, I see. Well, I wouldn’t want to be no trouble. Just felt a might like praying over him.”
“Prayers are always welcome.”
“Yes, ma’am. I ’spect they are.”
Octavia led Bill to a back bedroom and stood him beside Isaiah’s bed.
“Oh, Lord,” Bill said and bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Octavia, but I’m a might bit shy ’bout prayin’ in front of folks.”
“Of course,” she said, and
he heard the door shut.
Bill reached out a hand and touched the boy’s head, which was as soft as a lamb. Just a taste. That’s all he needed. Just another number. He’d be careful this time. He felt the boy’s energy flowing into him, and then, suddenly, he was gagging. He pulled his hands away quickly. His fingers shook. What was that? What had he felt?
In the dimness of the room, Bill could make out the faintest of shapes—the broad bulk of a chifforobe, the weak light of a window. Shapes. Light. He could… see. Just a little, but there it was. And Bill knew somebody had put the healing power on the boy. Somebody had a bigger gift than Isaiah Campbell. Much bigger. Bill’s hands itched to try again, but he could hear the boy’s aunt calling his name. There would be time. He remembered a story he’d heard back in the fields when he was a kid. Something about a tortoise and a hare. Slow and steady wins the race. That was the phrase. Patience. Patience was called for now. Bill would be the tortoise. Yes, there would be time enough.
Bill Johnson was long gone by the time Memphis got home, but Aunt Octavia was sitting in the front parlor, her hands working a pair of knitting needles like she meant to kill the sweater instead of knit it.
“What is it? Did something happen with Isaiah?” Memphis asked.
“I know about your trips to Sister Walker, and the cards. I know about it, and it’s going to stop,” she said in a clipped tone. “It’s what you’re doing with that Walker woman that brought this on. I believe that.”
Memphis looked at the floor. “He’s got a gift.”
“What has she done to him?”
“Nothing! I told you, he’s got a gift.”
“Get the Bible. We’re gonna pray.”
Octavia marched into Isaiah’s bedroom. Reluctantly, Memphis followed.
“Memphis John, you need to get beside me. We’re gonna pray for your brother now, pray the woman hasn’t brought the Devil to this house.”
Memphis dropped to his knees next to his aunt at Isaiah’s bedside, but he didn’t like it. Why? he thought. Why should I pray to God? What has he done for me or my family? He felt the anger coming up inside, pricking into tears.
“I won’t do it.”
Octavia’s shock faded to a grim determination. “I promised your mama I would look after her boys, and I intend to do that. Now pray with me.”
Memphis exploded. “Why don’t you ask God why he took my mother? Why don’t you ask him when my father’s coming home? Why don’t you ask him what he has against my little brother?” He wanted to hit something or someone. He wanted to burn up the whole world, heal it, and burn it down again.
He expected Octavia to yell at him for blaspheming the Lord and throw him out of the house. Instead, she said softly, “Go on and get yourself some chicken from the icebox. I’ll do the praying, and we’ll talk after,” and it was almost worse. Octavia bowed her head. “Lord Jesus… please protect this boy. He didn’t know what he was doing. He’s a good boy, Jesus…”
Isaiah woke up. “Auntie, why you praying? Memphis? Where you going?”
Memphis wasn’t hungry, and there was no place for him to be. He hadn’t been back to the graveyard since he’d seen Gabe’s ghost. He no longer wanted to sit with the dead. It was the living he needed. It was Theta he wanted. He went to the library, and there in its quiet, Memphis offered his own prayer. He opened his notebook and wrote until his fingers were cramped and the light in the restaurant across the street had gone out. He wrote till he felt emptied out. He had a reason to write and someone to write for. At the bottom, he wrote only two words: For Theta. His confession complete, he folded it into an envelope and left it for the postman.
At the Globe Theatre, the Ziegfeld revue was in full swing. The audience was a live one tonight. They roared with laughter and applauded enthusiastically. The entire evening had a frenzied, feverish quality to it. Ever since Daisy’s murder, interest in the show had been higher than ever; the word backstage was that Hollywood scouts had come looking for the next Louise Brooks or Eddie Cantor. Everyone was giving it their all. Under the lights, Theta glittered in a shiny, low-cut dress as she and Henry traded jokes back and forth.
“That’s my brother, Henry,” Theta cooed, shaking a hip toward the piano. “At least, that’s what I tell my landlord.” She winked and the audience roared. They were eating it up, and the press took notice. At the back of the theater, Florenz Ziegfeld smiled. Some poor chumps could work their whole lives and never see their names in lights. But some people just had that special something, and Theta Knight was one of those people. She was about to become a star, whether she liked it or not.
“I’m a baby vamp who loves her daddy, I never wear paste when I can have pearls. So if you’ve got the Jack then everything’s jake, ’cause I’m just one of those girls….” Theta sang.
“Our dear mother taught us that!” Henry yelled, and the audience hooted.
The song was a lie, a shiny bauble meant to distract people from their cares and woes. But they’d all agreed silently to be blinded by it. The stage lights turned Henry and Theta into a pantomime against the painted flat behind them. Henry banged on the keys and Theta sang for all she was worth.
They kept the lie going, and the people loved it.
Sam sat at a warped table in the back of a dark gin joint within blocks of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. It was the kind of saloon frequented by roughnecks and old sailors, and it smelled of bad booze and sweat. Sam kept his back to the wall so he could see the whole of the place. He watched the man in the rain-spattered coat shake himself off at the door and walk toward the back. The man slid into the booth beside Sam. They did not speak for a moment. Sam put the postcard down on the table. After a moment, the man lifted the postcard and pocketed the fifty dollars underneath. He turned the postcard over, read it, and passed it back to Sam.
“Project Buffalo. They said they shut it down after the war. But they never did.”
“What is it?”
The man shook his head imperceptibly. “A mistake. A dream that went wrong. That old song.”
Sam’s mouth was tight. “I gave you fifty dollars. Do you know how hard it was for me to get that dough?”
The man rose and squared his hat low over his brow, casting his face in shadow. “She’s still alive, if that’s what you want to know.”
“Where?”
“There are truths in this world people don’t really want to know. That’s why they hire people like us. So they can go on dancing and working, go home to their little families. Buy radios and toothpaste. Want my advice? Forget this, kid. Get out and enjoy life. Whatever’s left of it.”
“I’m not like that.”
“Then I wish you luck.”
“That’s it? You really going to blow and leave me with nothing?”
The man chewed the inside of his cheek and took a quick look around to be sure no one was watching. The people surrounding them were oblivious, like most. He took a cheap motel pen from his pocket and wrote a name on the napkin. “You want answers? That’s a good place to start.”
Sam stared at the name. His jaw tightened. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“I told you to forget it, didn’t I?” The man walked to the door and disappeared into the rain and the night.
Sam sat staring at the table. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to get stinking drunk and toss the bottle at the moon. He looked at the name on the napkin and then crumpled it, shoving it into his pocket. He would find his mother and the truth, no matter how long it took or how dangerous it might be. No matter who got hurt along the way.
A man turned slightly toward him. “Don’t see me,” Sam growled, and the man looked right through him. Sam slipped unnoticed into the crowd, lifting wallets as he went.
A gust of wind howled across the cobblestones of Doyers Street, rattling the paper lanterns of the Tea House. In the back room, the girl with the green eyes came out of her trance with a gasp.
“What is it?” the older man asked. “What did you
see?”
“Nothing. I saw nothing.”
He frowned. “They told me you had the power to walk in dreams, to talk with the dead.”
She shrugged and took his money. “Maybe the dead want nothing to do with you.”
“I am an honorable man!” he yelled.
“We’ll see.”
“You are a liar! A half-breed with no honor!” the man accused. On the way out, he banged the front door so hard it shook the windows.
The young man came out of the kitchen, looking scared. “I thought you said you could keep the ghosts away.”
The girl stared out the window. “I was wrong.”
Mabel could barely study for the hubbub in the other room. Her parents were having one of their meetings. The conversation had grown more heated in the past twenty minutes, and she could tell this meeting would stretch into the wee hours.
“We do not endorse violence,” Mr. Rose said. “We are about reform, not revolution.”
“Without revolution, there can be no reform. Look at Russia,” a man with a thick accent insisted.
“Yes, look at Russia,” another said. “Chaos.”
“What about the workers? If we don’t stand together, we fall. Unity is strength.”
Mabel poked her head out to see what was happening. The room was teeming with smoke and people. Papers and pamphlets were strewn everywhere. Her mother was holding forth about the conditions at a garment factory where the women weren’t protected.
“Just like at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory,” she explained.
Mabel was startled to see a handsome young man sitting on the settee. He was looking right at her, and she was sure she recognized him from somewhere. Mabel went back to her room and crawled out onto the fire escape for some fresh, crisp air. A moment later, the handsome man crawled through the window to join her.
“Remember me?”
“From Union Square,” Mabel said as the memory came back to her. “You saved me.”
He stuck out his hand. “Arthur Brown.”
