XII #2
I glanced up when the foreman abruptly cut himself short. Gunner hadn’t done anything so blatant as unholster his Waterbury and wave it around for the foreman, workers, and God to see, but he had set his hands on his hips so the open lapels pulled back enough to show he was armed.
“From California?” I prompted.
The foreman shrugged. “That’s what the paperwork says.”
I gestured with the clipboard, saying, “Luxury items such as these are typically imported from Paris.”
“You’d know all about ladies’ gloves, would you?”
I narrowed my eyes and passed the clipboard back with a bit of a shove. “Was this the only shipment of Pinkerton’s in the last week?”
The foreman spared Gunner a glance before agreeing. “Aye.”
“Let’s take a look, then.”
“You ain’t got the right to be pilfering—”
Without breaking eye contact, I raised my left hand and snapped my wrist up. A wind spell tore the nails out of the nearest wooden crate, sending the top flying and skittering along the pier a dozen feet away.
Clipboard in hand, the foreman raised both arms up like he was done arguing.
I reached inside and sifted through a number of poor quality sets of gloves—haphazard stitching, fur likely that of vermin—and then my fingers settled on metal.
I removed a pistol that was similar in structure to a Waterbury, but the barrels were too long, like it’d been built from other parts.
And instead of a handle, the gun’s end was fitted with gears and snaps and locks—a limb attachment.
Gunner took the weapon, checked the chambers, then said, “Modified Jordan rifle.”
I dug through the crate again, pocketed one of the cheaply constructed gloves for evidence, and tossed aside the rest of the accessories, which were clearly a front and nothing more, before unearthing a box of ammunition.
The magic inside the bullets had waned during its travel cross-country, but the manufactured fire was still potent enough to make my skin itch.
I suspected once it was activated by a gun, much like Gunner’s aether bullets, combined with the curious mechanical men, this ammunition would regain its full strength.
Perhaps this answered the ongoing query as to why I sensed the spell originating in one location, despite the detonation occurring in a completely different place.
This manufactured magic settled into its storage, like honey sinking in water.
It left a sort of dense signature, so when the mechanical men collected ammunition from Hester Street to use on myself and Fishback, the manufactured fire followed the trail of its own signature back to where the boxes had been left for a prolonged period.
Interesting .
Looking at the foreman, I said, “You’d better start talking.”
A clatter on the ramp distracted me, and I turned in time to see the workman with the full box cart had let go of the load.
It rolled, fell, and toppled into the East River, and he took off in a full sprint toward the Fish Market.
Gunner grabbed the palm-sized box of ammunition from my hold and threw it.
He hit the man squarely in the back of the head, and the worker stumbled before planting face-first.
“That’s who you want,” he stated.
In the end, I took both men into custody.
I’d hoped the foreman would admit to some level of guilt after insulting me at the pier, but Gunner had been right—he was only a clueless bastard.
The workman, on the other hand—Joseph, he said his name was, although Judas would have suited him just as well—was frantic to roll over after his initial underestimation of my person.
“You nackle-ass cocksuck—”
I sidestepped a punch, shoved my palm into Joseph’s chin, and threw him to the floor of the booking room at the field office. I put a knee into his back, dug in enough to make him grunt, and asked, “What were you about to say?”
Joseph turned his head to spit some blood from his mouth before saying, “N-nothing.”
“Are you certain? Something about me being a nackle-ass cocksucker?” I pressed harder with my knee.
Joseph made a sound of pain this time. “No. I swear.”
I lifted off his back, slipped my hands into my trouser pockets, and stared at him as he rolled onto his backside and sat up.
“Tell me about Pinkerton’s Ladies Wear—no, don’t move.
You sit your ass right there on the floor.
How long have they been a front for the distribution of illegal magic weaponry and ammunition? ”
“Two months, maybe.”
I looked over my shoulder to the open doorway.
Just outside the room on the left, Gunner leaned one shoulder against the threshold, silent and dangerous.
On the right, Moore stood with his big arms crossed over his chest. The two of them were like the moon and sun, night and day.
My director nodded once for me to continue.
I looked at Joseph again. “How many shipments in that time?”
He shrugged. “I can’t say.”
I took a step toward him, my hands still in my pockets. Joseph scuttled backward like a crab. “Were you handing off specific crates to Frank Fishback?”
“Aye.”
“Then you very well can say how many shipments came through Pier 17.”
Joseph swallowed hard and peered around me at his only exit, blocked by a deadeye marksman and fiery caster.
“You look at me,” I directed. “Not them.”
“M-maybe ten,” he answered. “About one a week.”
“And Fishback would come by when?”
“Early. Before sunrise. Pinkerton’s was usually the first shipment of the day.”
“Why so late today, then?”
Joseph shook his head. “Airship trouble. That hunk of junk broke down over Jersey for most of the morning.” He wiped at the bit of blood trickling from the side of his mouth. “Ain’t seen Fishback all day, though.”
“You wouldn’t. He’s dead.”
Joseph’s eyes grew as big as saucer plates. “You lot murdered him?”
“Would you like a repeat of my knee digging into your spine?”
“No, sir.”
“Agent.”
Joseph nodded and whispered, “Agent,” under his breath.
“Fishback was murdered by the same man paying him, and you, I presume, to get those packages into Manhattan. Who’s the contact in California?”
“I got no idea.”
“Who would know? What about the captain of the junker airship?”
“It’s a different captain every time, sir—Agent Hamilton.”
“Then who is your contact?” I tried.
Joseph hesitated.
I rolled my shoulders, removed a hand, and pointed at him as lightning crackled and snapped around my fingers. “Joseph—”
“ Wait ! Wait, I’ll tell you! Good Christ, don’t kill me.”
“Less pissing and more explaining.”
“The department head of Grace Gallery.”
I furrowed my brow, lowered my hand, and asked with a touch of wariness, “At the Iron Palace?”
Joseph nodded several times. “You’re familiar with ladies’ consumption? No, I ain’t mean nothing by that, sir—Hamilton— Agent Hamilton ! Oh my God, I fuckin’ pissed myself!”
“I did warn you,” I answered. “How is this individual connected?”
“I don’t know.”
“The floor manager of a women’s boutique having a relation to illegal magic is absolutely something you know.”
Joseph was outright sniveling now. I was fairly accustomed to such dramatic reactions to my being.
After all, it wasn’t that long ago that magic was still outlawed and considered an immediate threat to society.
But this man had soiled himself in my presence.
I turned to the open doorway a second time and offered both Gunner and Moore a sort of What can I do? expression and hand gesture.
Moore expelled a breath and then said, loud enough to be heard, “Mr. Greene?”
“Y-yes, sir?” Joseph whimpered.
“Please answer Agent Hamilton. Of the three of us, he’s the one you need to befriend.”
Joseph’s panicked expression met mine once more, and he sobbed, “I-I used to work at the Iron Palace as a cash boy. Got a job at the piers when I was older, a proper man’s job, you understand?
The manager sends me a telegram one day, out of the blue.
Says he’s got a job offer for me. Ain’t nothin’ I gotta do but allow a fellow named Fishback to come by and collect a few crates from Pinkerton’s.
What he don’t take, the rest goes to Grace Gallery. ”
“Nothing else?” I reiterated. “Because if you’re lying to me, Joseph—”
“No, no, I ain’t. I swear, really .”
I was quiet for a beat before asking, “And what of Tick Tock?”
“Just a name I heard. Never met the man.”
I stared at Joseph a long moment, collected my flat cap off the table, then slipped between Gunner and Moore on my way out. I heard Moore shut and lock the door in my wake before I turned to walk backward, saying, “This entire situation is becoming absurd.”
“Hamilton—” Moore started.
“Have you noticed that not one individual has ever met Tick Tock?” I asked.
“I had gathered,” Moore answered.
“So far, in a plan to overthrow the Whyos, we have determined the involvement of a murderer-for-hire, a pier workman, a department store manager, and an undetermined number of mechanical men and double-dealing street gangsters. I mean, what is this, some sort of… six degrees of separation?”
“Six degrees of what?” Moore echoed.
“I suspect,” Gunner said, bringing up the rear, “Hamilton means to imply that despite the number of unique vocations involved in this underground plot, these individuals are no more than, for example, six social connections away from whoever Tick Tock is .”
“Thank you,” I said to Gunner.
Gunner touched his index finger to the brim of his bowler in response.
Moore stopped abruptly in the hall. Voices and footfalls carried from the stairwell at my back.
In order to leave through the side exit, we’d have to walk Gunner past any number of special agents coming downstairs, who would see him as nothing more than a wanted outlaw.
And with the momentary cease-fire between him and Moore, it would also prove to be a sticky situation for our director to explain.
Moore opened another door and jerked his head in invitation.
I backtracked, stepped inside, and was silent until Gunner and Moore had entered and shut the door. “I want to go to the Iron Palace and find this boutique manager.”
Moore held a hand up. “We need to move on this quickly—”
“Exactly.” I took a step forward.
“But not stupidly, Hamilton,” he said, coming to meet me at the midpoint of the room. “Have you slept? You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I slept, sir.”
Moore’s brown eyes narrowed suddenly, and he touched his own temple. “Do you—do you dye your hair?”
“Sorry?”
“I don’t recall so much gray in front.”
I struggled for a believable explanation as I touched the newest loss of color.
Then I remembered, as a young boy, my mother reveling in every word of The Lady’s Guide to Perfect Gentility as if it were holy scripture and using one of the home recipes to darken her hair to a more fashionable shade of the time.
“Yes,” I blurted out. “A bottle of wine and a quick visit to the druggist will do the trick.”
Moore gave me a dubious expression.
“I’m only twenty-nine,” I said, by way of excuse.
The corner of Moore’s mouth lifted in a tentative smile. “You look nicer with the gray.”
From where he stood at the door, Gunner chuckled. He had a lazy drawl to his laugh when he was low-key amused.
Moore puffed his chest out a little as he turned around. “Something you find funny?”
“Your boldfaced attempt to take what’s not yours, Director,” Gunner said evenly. He paused, smiled widely, and added, “Despite the unequivocal no you received last night.”
“You are a criminal,” Moore retorted. “A thief and a murderer.”
Gunner didn’t seem particularly perturbed by this accusation. He merely shrugged one shoulder.
I made a quick dash to stand between them before a fuse was lit, and said to Moore, “The window, sir.”
Moore’s face, distorted by unbridled anger, twisted like a corkscrew into something softer and more socially acceptable. “The window?” he echoed.
“Upstairs,” I clarified.
He expelled a held breath. Nodded. “Agent Bligh confirmed he broke it upon entering the room in order to dissipate the smoke.”
“Why not simply open it?” Gunner asked.
“Bligh was about two bottles into his New Year festivities,” I explained.
“You don’t like him.”
I turned to stare at Gunner. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Stop it.” I returned my attention to Moore again. “Is he working today?”
Moore stroked his beard. “After failing to protect Fishback, he certainly wasn’t getting the day off to nurse his hangover. He’s retched twice.”
“I want to speak with him.”
“I don’t think that’s wise.”
“I want to question him about last night,” I reiterated. “Now that he’s sober. Clues about the break-in.”
Moore was still stroking his handsome beard. “You seem convinced it was this—what’d you say—Gatling Man from last night.”
I had, of course, informed my director of what transpired last night on Hester Street, just before interrogating Joseph Greene.
But I had, also of course, skirted the finer details as to how the fire had been put out and instead heaped praise on the fire department.
Those brutes wouldn’t hesitate to accept the lie as gospel if it meant a commendation from the FBMS, simply because it would piss off the metropolitan police.
Nothing but childish blood feuds in this city, I swear.
“It was, I’m quite certain,” I replied. “But McCarthy helped him escape, so he’s not here to question. And even if McCarthy or Gatling Man or Tick Tock are still lying low around Mulberry Bend, that’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“Dangerous ground,” Moore murmured in agreement.
“And I’d rather glean as much as I can about the situation before storming the neighborhood. Therefore, I’d like to speak with Bligh about what he remembers in a more sober state of mind.”
“Very well.”
“Then it’s to the Iron Palace,” I finished before joining Gunner at the door.
“Let me assign a bruiser—”
“Do you expect the satin handbags to open fire?”
“Hamilton.”
“Gunner will be with me, sir.” I opened the door.
“That does not, in any way, ease my concerns,” Moore answered.
“Come now, Director,” Gunner said in that easy, almost monotone manner of speech. “I might be a criminal, but I’m the best this country’s ever seen.”