VIII #3
“Mind your fuckin’ tongue,” Addison snapped, but he was grinning as he took a step away from Gunner.
“Hamilton’s a small, ornery bastard. Repressed, I say.
That’s why he wears them high collars.” He put a hand to his throat to imitate my dress choice, as if his decision to be half naked outside in December was more reasonable.
“I need everything you’ve got on Fishback,” I said with contrived patience.
“Fat Frank?”
“For a fellow who was likely to disappear in the event that he turned sideways,” Gunner said thoughtfully, “you New Yorkers really need to choose your monikers better.”
Addison jutted a thumb at Gunner but asked me, “Who the fuck’s this guy, throwing his fancy fifty-cent word around?”
“It’s irony,” I said to Gunner, ignoring Addison.
“I know what it is,” he answered. “It’s just very heavy-handed.”
“You prefer obvious.”
“No one can mistake your intentions with a clear and concise alias.”
Addison had been looking between us, much like a shuttlecock punted back and forth across a badminton court.
“It don’t get better than Dangerous O’Dea ,” he proclaimed, trying to worm his way back into the conversation, before he caught sight of Gunner’s holstered Waterbury when he reached into his coat for more Black Jack.
“Oy. Hamilton wants gossip on Fishback—what he’s hustling—and you got the nerve to carry a fuckin’ Waterbury in his company?
” Addison returned to Gunner and gave him a firm shove to the chest.
I tried to protest, but I hadn’t even the chance to formulate a proper word of warning before Gunner had grabbed Addison’s coat collar, slammed him against the opposite wall, and put the triple barrels of his pistol under the redhead’s chin.
“What the fu—”
“How’s Gunner the Deadly for concise?”
Addison’s eyes were as big as saucers, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he stuttered, “Y-you’re Gunner the Deadly?”
“That’s what I said.”
“But Gunner the Deadly ain’t been seen in a city since ’75.”
“Is that so?” Gunner asked, voice still that husky-calm.
“ Dangerous ain’t enough for you, eh?” Addison asked, shooting me a quick glance. “I can punch harder… make it deadly— oy ! It was a fuckin’ joke!” he protested when Gunner dug the Waterbury into his throat.
“You have no sense of decorum,” Gunner stated. He stepped back, spun the Waterbury, and holstered it in one fluid motion.
Addison huffed loudly as he adjusted the collar of his coat. “I ought to report you to the coppers. Hamilton, hear that? Gunner the Deadly used excessive force against me, an upstandin’ citizen of this city.”
“I’m not a copper, you can’t file a formal complaint against an outlaw, and you are absolutely not an upstanding citizen. Tell me about Frank Fishback before I ask Gunner to shoot you instead.”
Addison reached into his coat and retrieved another hand-rolled cigarette.
“First, tell me why you’re cheating on me,” he countered, walking toward me.
He shoved the cigarette between his lips and leaned down with a sort of expectancy about his person.
“Is it because his picture is in the rogues’ gallery? ”
“ You’re in the rogues’ gallery, Addison,” I countered, snapping my fingers and bringing a flickering flame to the paper and tobacco.
“Although for not nearly as notorious a reason. Gunner has had… a prior run-in with the situation here in New York. So we’ve agreed upon a truce while he aids my office. ”
Addison straightened and sucked in a lungful of smoke. He appeared to contemplate that half-truth for a moment, finally nodded, and said, “Fine. But he still roughed me up some.”
“You liked it,” Gunner answered a bit absently.
Addison smirked and reached down to cup himself through his trousers. “Aye, that’s true.” He took another drag before continuing. “Fat Frank was contracting his strong hands to the Whyos.”
“Yes, until a few weeks ago.”
“And the Whyos are mighty angry.”
“Tell me why.”
“Frank made them a good penny, you can imagine. All these lads runnin’ amok—half of ’em ain’t even Whyos.
Just sucking the teat of Driscoll’s name and his organization, yeah?
And the rest—stealin’ a drunkard’s pocket watch or stabbing a pretty girl?
Come on. But Frank made them good money. Money keeps them in power.”
“Frank killed honest coppers walking the beat. Let’s not forget that.”
Addison held up both hands in defense. “I didn’t say I liked what he did, Hamilton.
Just that he made the Whyos money doing it.
So then the bastard ups and leaves sometime in November.
Some of the lads who come by Pilly’s for fun, when Driscoll ain’t watchin’, I get them good and drunk and they tell me their troubles. ”
“And what are those troubles?” I prompted.
Addison raised his head and blew smoke into the cold night air. “A new gangster—goes by Tick Tock.”
“Where’s he located?”
Addison waved his hand in an arc, the ember of the cigarette burning bright against the dark. “In the area.”
“Five Points?”
“Aye. Somewhere around the Bend, I suspect.”
His statement was confirmation that backed up my initial assessment of the fire magic I’d felt just outside The Buchanan—that the origin, although muddied and not exact, was somewhere in the Five Points.
The worst of New York City’s slums. The most dangerous neighborhood in all of Manhattan and operated by the Whyos.
“This Tick Tock,” I began, “did he pay a fee to the Whyos—for setting up shop on their turf?”
“No, don’t believe he has,” Addison answered.
“What do you know about Black Bart?” Gunner asked suddenly. He made a point of taking his time while drawing out his gum package again and giving Addison another eyeful of his weapon.
“Who’s that?” Addison asked.
“A thief,” I answered. “Out in the territories. Robs Wells Fargo—airships.” I said that last word slowly, as I digested my own statement.
Gunner made a sound under his breath.
“Friend of yours?” I continued.
He opened the package once or twice, then put it away without removing a stick of gum. “I robbed one of Wells Fargo’s first airships, back in ’73. There was twelve dollars and some legal documents for Montana’s territorial governor, Benjamin Potts, in the strongbox.”
Addison laughed and scuffed the cobblestone under his feet. “Tough luck.”
“The second airship I robbed had a hundred pounds of gold bars destined for Denver.” Gunner now had Addison’s undivided attention. “By ’75 I’d amassed something like ten thousand dollars.”
Addison dropped his cigarette and moved toward Gunner. “You’re rich?”
“He gives it all away, Addison. Don’t try to slip a hand in his pockets,” I said around a suppressed sigh.
“Give it away?” Addison echoed. “You fuckin’ daft?”
Gunner’s eyes narrowed. “My point is, an outlaw can’t keep a lucrative territory to themselves for long, and neither can an urban gangster.
The difference being that Black Bart has the decency to be a gentleman about it.
He keeps to the California routes, never shoots teamsters, and never robs passengers.
I don’t believe the same can be said in this situation.
Tick Tock has moved into the heart of the Whyos’ neighborhood, hijacked one of their best men for his own purposes, and already sounds more organized in his money-making methods than these hoodlums.”
Addison turned his attention on me again.
“True enough. It was a week ago—Patrick Tuffey came ’round Pilly’s spittin’ mad.
He’s telling the lads he found Fishback in some shithole tenement, meeting with some kind of mechanical man.
Patrick ain’t never seen anything like it before—said his entire face was silver, had some kind of gun attached to his shoulder.
So Patrick keeps watch, right? Fishback leaves empty-handed, and this abomination comes out with a big case that’s been traded off.
And then, fuck Patrick sideways , guess who’s been keepin’ watch and meets the mechanical man? ”
“Whyos,” Gunner answered.
Addison looked surprised but nodded. “Right.”
“So some members are double-dealing?” I asked. “Working for Driscoll and Tick Tock?”
“Aye, sure looks to be the case.”
“Has Driscoll dealt with them?”
“They ain’t been seen since that night. Patrick, he didn’t go after them. Figured they’d resurface in a day, pretendin’ nothing’s amiss. He told Driscoll instead. Says Driscoll nearly shot him for not handlin’ the situation then and there.”
“That’s why Patrick showed up angry,” I concluded.
“Aye. I tended to his needs, if you understand me, but he weren’t much more pleasant after.”
“Addison,” I began, digging out my wallet and passing him several folded bills. “I have evidence that this package is likely a combination of illegal ammunition and custom-built weapons from the scraps of Jordans and Waterburys.”
“Magic?” he asked, tucking the money into his trouser pocket.
I nodded and said, “I need to know where the parts are coming from, so I can trace Tick Tock’s entire enterprise before it grows too large to contain.”
Addison puffed his cheeks as he expelled a long breath. “This is dangerous, Hamilton.”
“Then this should be right up your alley,” Gunner remarked.
Addison reluctantly grinned at that. “It won’t be coming from the Whyos. Dig deeper than the surface violence—look to the architects.”
“ Who ?” I pressed. “Every year we arrest unregistered architects dabbling in illegal magic. There can’t be many left in the city.”
A whistle screeched overhead, and the three of us looked to the heavens as the sky erupted in fiery blossoms that could have shamed the summer flowers of Madison Square Park.
Strontium red and barium green and sodium yellow illuminated the sky.
Hours before the clock struck midnight and already city pyrotechnicians were giving Independence Day something to be jealous of—and over the slums and Bowery, no less.
“I heard a name worth remembering,” Addison said over the boom and crackle. He looked down at me briefly, his face highlighted in a kaleidoscope of colors. “He ain’t local, though. Out in San Francisco is what they say. Goes by Weaver. I’d be looking at shipments coming into Pier 17, Hamilton.”
Then, an explosion like nothing I’d experienced since cannon fire during the war shook the ground beneath our feet.