by C. S. Poe
Gunner moved away from the door an usher had opened for him. He returned to my side and asked, “Are you not well?”
“I just need a moment.”
“The oysters.”
“Sorry?”
“One of the oysters must have been rancid.”
A weak smile flirted across my face. “You know the oysters were fine.”
Gunner raised an eyebrow.
“But thank you for pretending you don’t notice everything.”
“I wouldn’t be if that blood was yours,” Gunner answered with a minute nod at the rust-colored stains.
I said nothing of that, put my cap back on, and walked through the front door with Gunner at my side. “Something about Bligh’s story is bothering me,” I said as we entered the open layout of the ground floor—a massive expanse with shoppers moving every which way, dozens of finely dressed women sitting in parlor chairs, enjoying sodas, and all of it lit from the overhead windows and rooftop, the glass tinted in the faintest shades of color to produce a living kaleidoscope that shifted in intensity as the sun moved throughout the day.
“And what’s that?” Gunner asked, raising his voice to be heard over the commotion of hundreds of echoing conversations. He stared ahead at the lads mixing drinks at the fountains.
“What intruder would spend precious escape time closing the window behind them?”
Gunner cast a sideways look at me.
“Gatling Man scales the building—unseen, mind you—slips into the jail through the only other ingress, blows Fishback to hell and gone, but spends the time, while the room is on fire, to finagle the window shut from the outside?”
Gunner grunted. He was staring at the fountains again.
“Don’t you think that’s—you’re not listening to me.”
“Do you think they have ginger soda?”
“Er, I have no idea.” I finally looked in the same direction. “Did you… want one?”
“O’Dea wasn’t wrong—I’m not often in a city, especially one that has a soda fountain. I like ginger.”
“I’m sure that pairs excellently with licorice gum,” I said with a sigh. I motioned Gunner to follow, and we strode through the throngs of patrons and approached the counter. I raised a hand to get one of the boys’ attention. “Do you have ginger syrup?”
The lad winced and shook his head. “Sorry, sir. Our shipment didn’t arrive, on account of the holiday.”
I looked up at Gunner and read actual disappointment in his expression. It was so… endearing. Had we not been standing among thousands of passersby, I’d have stroked his arm. Maybe kissed him. “What do you have?” I asked, hoping some flavor, as equally unappealing as ginger, would be available for Gunner’s curious palate.
“Pineapple, lemon, raspberry—”
Gunner’s look did not resemble one of enthusiasm over the fruity offerings.
“—cream, and sarsaparilla.”
Gunner’s eyes shot toward the boy. “You have sarsaparilla?”
“One sarsaparilla, one raspberry,” I told the boy, sliding a few coins across the counter. He returned a moment later with two tall glasses of carbonated water, laden with a sugary aroma.
Gunner took a sip, smiled, then took a longer one.
“Good?” I asked.
“Thank you,” he said by way of answering. “So, Gatling Man closing the window from the outside.” Gunner looked at me. “I’m always listening.”
I laughed lightly. “Noted.”
“It hardly makes sense. It’d be one thing if there were multiple entrances, and by closing the window, it becomes more difficult to track him after the fact. But that isn’t the case—there’s only one ingress, as you’ve stated.”
I sipped my sweet raspberry drink before adding, “The broken window is still bothering me.”
“You said Bligh was drunk.”
“He was. But when you break a window, the glass falls out.”
“Are you going to say it?” Gunner asked. “Or do you want me to?”
“It’s not a possibility I can entertain.”
“I can.”
“The Bureau—”
“Isn’t foolproof, Hamilton. Men like you are the exception, not the rule.”
I finally looked at Gunner. His expression was smooth. Placid. Like that first fine layer of ice forming atop a body of water in winter. “Men like me.”
He reached out, brushed back my coat lapels, and tapped the badge pinned to my waistcoat. “Men who believe in this—who are humbled by the authority given to them.” Gunner finished his sarsaparilla soda and then said, “Bligh broke the window to set a scene.”
“You can’t say that,” I protested.
“I most certainly can. I don’t work for the FBMS.”
“And it’s a damn good thing,” I answered, “because accusing a federal agent of taking a kickback…. It doesn’t even make sense. Henry Bligh doesn’t need financial incentive. His father is Frederick Bligh, for God’s sake.”
“Ah. The banker,” Gunner said with the faintest note of interest.
“That’s him. Bligh Trust and Savings. He has offices all over the country.”
“I should rob one.”
“What? No.”
“Just because a man isn’t interested in a little extra coin,” Gunner said thoughtfully, tapping the bar top with the tips of his strong blunt fingers, “doesn’t mean he can’t still be bought. Why do you not like him?”
“This isn’t the proper venue to discuss it.”
The corner of Gunner’s mouth twitched upward. “I find your propriety both charming and excruciatingly tedious.”
“My propriety?” I shot back, but I couldn’t help the mocking laugh that escaped. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“The gentleman thief says his pleases and thank-yous, pays his bills, minds his tongue—”
“That’s manners.”
“Manners. Is that not what I have?”
“Did you want to have this discussion?”
I laughed a bit louder, turned my back to the counter, and leaned against it. “Oh, now we must. Go on. Tell me that I don’t say please and thank you.”
“You do.”
“Or that I don’t pay my bills.”
“You do.”
“That I don’t mind my tongue.”
Gunner narrowed his eyes a bit. “You curse like you were raised aboard an airship.”
My eyebrows raised. “I suppose so, yes. Two out of three, though.”
“Two out of three, with attitude.”
“Pardon?”
“You have an attitude, Hamilton. No, don’t get upset. Your natural temperament is what I like about you. It’s quite different from your manufactured decorum.”
“Not wanting to speak ill of a colleague in public is not manufactured decorum.”
“I disagree.”
“We can’t all simply say what’s on our mind whenever we please.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not polite.”
“And that’s why manners are important. Mind where you sprinkle that salt of yours and no one will realize you’ve insulted them in broad daylight,” Gunner concluded.
“You’re mad.”
“I’m a gentleman,” he corrected. “Go ahead and try. Why do you not like Henry Bligh?”
I huffed, shook my head, but after a moment of consideration, said, “He boasts a sense of entitlement that is inappropriate for a federal agent.”
“And?”
“He doesn’t show proper respect toward his seniors in the business.”
“Hm-hm.”
“And—and he’s a crass, cruel, self-centered man-child,” I finished.
Gunner waved his hand absently. “Decent, until that last one.”
“Too much salt.”
“A bit.” He took a step back from the counter and indicated I follow with a nod. “May I tell you what I’ve gleaned of Henry Bligh?”
“I don’t think you have to glean all that hard,” I replied as we began walking out of the soda parlor and toward a massive display of brass and glass that housed a full directory of shops and their locations within the Palace.
“Henry Bligh is Old Money—that’s common knowledge. His grandfather and great-grandfather made their fortune in water trade before Frederick reinvested their wealth into the banking industry and began robbing good folks through unreasonable interest rates.” Gunner stopped in front of the directory and studied the map. “Henry Bligh struggles with working at the FBMS because there is no pedestal for him to stand on.”
I crossed my arms and read the shop descriptions underneath the layout. “Spot-on.”
“When you said he doesn’t respect his seniors, you were being specific—in that this behavior is directed at you.”
“How did—?”
“Because Moore would not stand for a fool to metaphorically slap him in the face. And,” Gunner continued without pause, “because that comment triggered some very frustrated emotions in you, I can only deduce that since Bligh has been working at the FBMS, he has made some statements to you, perhaps to others, about specific insecurities we will not revisit. And, because you are a complicated man, Hamilton, you felt you had to take this abuse. For survival purposes.”
I stared at Gunner’s profile as he came to his conclusion. “I don’t know how you do that.”
He shrugged.
I directed my attention to the shop names again and tapped number nine on the list, and Gunner matched it to a department on the third floor. “Bligh’s elemental default is lightning. That’s what got his foot in the door.” I headed toward one of the lifts, its brass and copper gleaming in the afternoon light. “The Bureau was hoping to elevate his level with some training and oversight from myself.”
“It wasn’t successful.”
“Bligh blames me for his own shortcomings, I suppose.” A lift agent pulled back the cage door, requested the floor, and then shut the gate after we stepped inside. “Why are we still discussing him?” I asked as the steam pneumatics underneath the unit activated and we shot upward, voices and faces on each floor passing in a blur.
Gunner didn’t speak until we’d exited the lift, he’d gathered his bearings, and we’d started down the long hall on the left. “I wanted to ascertain whether Bligh could be bought—that he didn’t simply break the window because he was drunk.” Gunner stopped outside the open doors of Grace Gallery and turned to me. “To confirm for myself what you’ve already been suspecting since last night.”
I removed my flat cap and ran a hand through my hair a few times. I could smell the Macassar oil on my fingertips as I returned the hat to my head. “Career-motivated.”
“A rivalry with you.”
“But letting Fishback die when he was on guard duty—how on Earth would that help him?”
“I’m not certain,” Gunner admitted. “But his death foiled your only angle of investigation.”
“Correct.”
“Hear me out, Hamilton. Perhaps Fishback’s death was necessary. Bligh might know a player or two involved in Tick Tock’s plan, perhaps more. And while Fishback’s death would initially reflect poorly upon him, it would also hinder your work, thus giving Bligh the time needed to essentially ‘solve’ this case before you. It would make for a hell of a headline.”
I shifted from foot to foot. “And already when he’s talk of the town due to his upcoming wedding. It’d be a promotion, for sure.”
“It’s also blackmail.”
XIV
January 1, 1882
Grace Gallery had a very particular presence about it. Like a sliver of Europe had been transplanted into the reckless frontier of America—a piece of material paradise for upper-class women, short of having to purchase an international airship ticket to window shop in Paris or London. Glass shone, crystal gleamed, both catching sunlight and speckling the floors and walls with prisms, and brass was polished within an inch of its life. The department store also had a very strong, flowery scent. Violet. Cut with a subtle hint of sandalwood—but not nearly enough.
I rubbed my nose and did my best to not give off the appearance of a man choking.
Ladies, both those barely into adulthood as well as others pulling young children along, perused the aisles and displays of accessories. From handbags to gloves and hats to an absolutely terrifying contraption being advertised as the Lotta bustle: “Now with springs! 8 springs—45c, 9 springs—50c.”
I was momentarily distracted by the cage that seemed more apropos for catching lobsters than it did for a woman to wear, and hadn’t noticed the middle-aged man on the floor until he was already making a beeline for us. He was taller than myself—then again, weren’t most men?—his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly parted down the middle, with a rather thin mustache curled and waxed on the ends. His face was long, his nose pointed, and his eyes so dark, they were practically black.
He stopped before us, sniffed loudly, clasped his hands behind his back, then asked in a nasally voice, “Are we gift-shopping, gentlemen?”
“Pardon?”
The manager sniffed again. “For a darling, or the missus?”
The question was quite straightforward—was I courting or married? This, in theory, would change the accessories the manager would push me to purchase. But it took a moment for me to collect my voice, because the inquiry—darling or missus—was another stark reminder that The Etiquette of Courtship and Matrimony would never apply to me. There would be no conducting myself around parents, ring shopping, proposing….
I realized I was rubbing my left ring finger as if trying to cover up the fact that it was naked and exposed. Which, of course, was equally as ridiculous, because even if I had been attracted to women—married to one—I wouldn’t be expected to wear a wedding band like her. And I always felt like that was a downfall of our society. Men should be happy to express their love and commitment as much as women. It was a simple piece of jewelry, after all, and could be perfectly masculine with the right style.
If I had lived in a world where I could court a man without concern, openly kiss or touch a man outside the clubs on the Bowery or the privacy of my home, a world where I didn’t feel disgust or fear because of my tendencies, I’d have very happily worn a ring for him. That is, if in this other existence, a man wanted to marry me.
“Darling,” I said in a rush. “And you’d be?”
“Carl Higgins,” he answered, puffing his chest out and raising his chin to display like a peacock. “Floor manager of Grace Gallery.”
“Gillian Hamilton,” I said, offering a hand.
Higgins sniffed again and gave me a limp fish to shake before returning his hand behind his back. “Might I suggest for your darling—”
“Gloves,” I told him. “Pinkerton’s. That’s what she wants.”
Higgins’s gaze darted to Gunner, who’d still not said anything, then nodded. “Pinkerton’s, of course. We keep a small inventory.” He motioned for me to follow.
Gunner trailed behind, keeping a few feet of distance.
Higgins slipped behind a glass case and motioned to three sets of gloves inside. Suede and kid with decorative stitching, as well as silk with beads and buttons. They were a far cry from the shoddy craftsmanship I’d pawed through at Pier 17.
“And this is your most up-to-date line?” I asked.
“Everything at Grace Gallery is of current fashion trends, sir. We pride ourselves on carrying the very best luxury accessories.”
“Why Pinkerton’s, then?”
Higgins sniffed, louder this time. “What do you mean?”
“High fashion tends to be imported from Paris, is it not? Why do you carry California-made products?”
Higgins’s cheeks grew rosy, and he raised his head back enough that he had to quite literally look down his nose at me. “They’re a sort of… starter brand, if you will. Decent enough to be carried by Grace Gallery, but affordable for youn
g, single women. That is, until a husband can purchase something of higher quality. Which is why I’m going to recommend to you our Clark & Game line, sir. If you’ve any intentions of making a proper wife of your darling—”
“I should think that if I were, in fact, courting a woman, any decision to wed would be entirely her own.” I reached into the inner pocket of my winter coat. “And a word of advice: advertising accessories based on nothing more than a woman’s marital status is demeaning. I’d be upset if I were allowed only certain tie and collar choices, after all.” While Higgins was sniffing and huffing and puffing, I set the glove I’d taken from the shipment onto the countertop.
Higgins grew quiet as he stared at the vermin pelt before his dark eyes cut to me. His expression had rearranged itself into something cold. Dangerous.
I pushed my lapels back, showed my badge, and said in a low voice, so as not to draw attention from the surrounding shoppers, “Special Agent Hamilton, Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam. I already know about Fishback and your former cash boy, Joseph Greene, so spare me the lies.”
Higgins slowly set his hands along the edge of the case. “What do you want?”
“Who’s Tick Tock?”
“I haven’t the faintest.”
“Why’d he reach out to you?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Who’s the architect in California sending all these goods?”
“Architect?”
“Mr. Higgins, I will give you exactly one more opportunity to impart the truth, or I’ll be forced to continue this conversation at my office.”
Higgins smiled as if he’d been waiting for that very threat, and said, “I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong.” His index finger tapped where it’d been resting on the frame, and then steam hissed as the paneling of the case dropped forward and half a dozen gun barrels were revealed to be aimed at my gut.
I felt no aether bullets or other sort of manufactured magic. This was just good old-fashioned gang work. I slowly raised my hands, not high enough to draw attention to myself, but so Higgins understood I took the threat seriously.
“Your next move better be real smart, Agent.”
I had no move calculated, no action to implement. There were too many innocent patrons in the department store, no easily accessible cover—and who the hell knew how many other of these displays were rigged to open fire—and most importantly, I didn’t know where Gunner was. Behind me, sure, but how far? Enough to see the threat, or did he still believe us merely chatting?