by AJ Sikes
Bacchus handed one of his goons a small envelope before he waved them both in Hardy’s direction. They parted the crowd like knives through warm butter until they stood face-to-face with Hardy. Emma watched the man for some sign or reply, but he kept his lips tight and his eyes locked on some point out in the room, like he was forcing himself not to glare death at the two tough birds handing him a slim payoff for his golden geese.
Hardy stuffed the envelope into his coat, and for a second it looked like he’d pull his gat. Emma saw the red mist that had formed around Hardy on the mooring deck just before he shot Otis. It circled his head like a halo, and Emma had to force herself to look away. But in that instant, the mist seemed to flee from Hardy, leaving him looking more shell-shocked than when Bacchus’ goons gave him the payoff.
The mist swelled into the room, above the heads of every man and woman in the place. Emma looked at the people all standing there with their eyes on Bacchus, waiting for him to let them go back to doing what they’d come here to do. Nobody else seemed to notice the red vapor that hung heavy in the air above them. Emma nearly choked when the mist gathered in a ball above Bacchus’s head and then dropped like stone, washing over him and seeping into his skin until it vanished from sight.
Bacchus gave a loud grunt, startling the room back into action. People acted like they’d just woken up and noticed they still have all their arms and legs. Men checked their wallets, and then their women, while Bacchus gave a short, deep laugh and spoke up at last, breaking through the rustling of coats and jangling of beads.
“Well, now that matter is settled, my friends. Mr. Eddie Collins, Miss Emma,” Bacchus said, nodding at each of them in turn, “would you kindly accompany me to your new lodgings? You’ll find some new clothes in my car, and these gentlemen will see to your airship. She’ll be berthing at a deck closer to home from now on.”
Emma’s heart skipped and she felt the floor fall out from under her. The room went sideways in her vision and the last thing she heard was Eddie groaning as he held her against his chest.
Chapter 14
Brand follows Barnaby through the streets of Metairie, marveling at the blind man’s accurate steps around puddles, piles of filth, and broken bits of pavement. They move through the near-ruined town past empty houses, run down storefronts, and a stockyard complete with a ramshackle abattoir that looks like as if it hasn’t seen blood since before the Great War.
All around them, men trudge up and down the streets, and Brand sees only one accompanied by a woman. Women aren’t a common sight, Brand realizes, and he wonders why this is. In Chicago City, he’d see guys and dolls on every street at almost any time of day.
“Say, Barnaby,” he says.
“Yes, Brand. What ails your mind and how might I provide you the succor you seek?”
“Just a plain answer is fine,” Brand says, hoping to avoid more of Barnaby’s long-tooth jawing. “Where are the women around this town? Not that I’m looking for one, just it seems odd to only see fellas on the pavement. It’s morning. Shouldn’t the missuses be out for the butcher’s order or the baker’s dozen?”
“Indeed, Brand. Indeed. It is a lonely sort of place, Metairie, but my companions and I find it—” Barnaby pauses himself and goes silent, not even letting his breathing disrupt the calm of the morning.
Brand is about to ask what gives when Barnaby continues.
“Forgive my moment of reticence, Brand. I fear we approach an unfortunate end.”
“Where?” Brand says, shifting his eyes left to right. He sees nothing that doesn’t look normal, and then mentally kicks himself for thinking anything like normal still exists in his world. Barnaby sets his mind at ease, though.
“It isn’t the mud men, Brand, at least not yet. But neither is it our end of which I speak. See that one there?” Barnaby raises a finger and aims it across the street. “The gods are always watching those of us who find ourselves on the street. And they are quick to tempt us to the mud men’s fate.”
Brand follows the other man’s finger and spies a tramp curled up around a bottle in front of an empty storefront. As Brand watches, the man sips from the bottle and slowly sinks, his body sliding into the street and down, like he’s being pulled into a bath made of pavement. Then he’s gone, leaving only an empty bottle behind to mark his passing.
“How’d you know he was there?” Brand asks.
“I smelled him,” Barnaby replies. “As I always smell those who have fallen far enough to find themselves easy prey for the gods of New Orleans.”
“They’re a different bunch than the ones up in Chicago City, aren’t they?”
“Oh yes, indeed. They are.”
Barnaby leaves it at that, an odd moment of brevity from him that Brand welcomes. Still, the blind tramp continues deftly avoiding every loose cobblestone, every bit of waste and offal that litters the streets, and Brand finds himself struggling to keep up as they make their way through the city.
Metairie seems to decompose around them, and Brand wonders how this came to be. He’d only heard of New Orleans and its neighboring communities, but nothing he’d heard matches what he’s seeing.
“What just happened to that bum, Barnaby? And what about this town? It looks like what we left behind over there, at the edges of No Man’s Land.”
“It does at that, Brand. It does at that. I, too, wore the uniform and traveled the muddy ways of trench warfare, back when I had eyes to see. It pains me to hear you compare these streets of Metairie to those tunnels and narrows from our war. But I cannot deny you are accurate in your assessment.
“The great flood of ‘27 did this to once proud and prosperous Metairie. Levees were blown. Old Man River took it as an offer to come visit. And visit he did.”
Brand sees them now, the signs of flood damage. Water stains on the sides of every building, the persistent stink of mildew and damp.
“Two years gone and they still haven’t cleaned it up?”
“I applaud your optimism,” Barnaby says. “In fact, I am prepared to obligate myself to you, Brand, should you ever need my help. Myself and my companions, Mr. Welks and Mr. Gardner. The kind concern you express for fair Metairie warms my heart. But to answer your question: Who, Brand? Who would clean up Metairie now that it is merely a home for the messengers of the gods and no one else?”
“You mean it’s just guys like me and you, like Reggie and Finn back there? That’s who lives here? In this whole town?”
“Yes,” Barnaby says and goes quiet. Not for the first time, Brand is happy for the other man’s silence.
They walk on, and eventually Brand decides to ask his question again, the one Barnaby didn’t answer.
“That bum back there,” Brand says. “Sank into the street pretty as you please. What gives with that?”
“That, Brand, is what awaits us all,” Barnaby says. “It is the fate of any man so stained by the street that he forgets who he is. And who but us should be so blessed as to feel the persistent stain of pavement and drink, a stain that smudges and conceals any semblance of the self?”
Barnaby raises his face to the sky, his eyelids fluttering like they might open. Brand can’t suppress a flinch, but Barnaby keeps his empty sockets hidden. He’s sniffing now, as if he expects a storm. Sure enough, Brand sees one on the horizon, coming in off the coast no doubt, stirred up by the same roiling weather that tried to wash New Orleans off the map in ‘15.
Brand hopes his visit to the city doesn’t involve repeated history. His gut stirs with the feeling that he’s about to be swept out of the world, and for good this time, regardless of what he does or where he is.
Barnaby turns his empty face in Brand’s direction. The man’s cheeks sag with time and regret, and the hangdog feeling settles into Brand, too. What surprises him is that he welcomes it, almost like a blanket against the cold.
Just so easy to let it all go, to forget.
“No time to get lazy, Brand,” the tramp says. “You’ve got work. Your pocket there.�
��
Brand sticks a grimy hand into his pocket and feels it. An envelope, slender but firm, like a heavy card. Brand pulls the letter out, goes to open it, but Barnaby has a hand on his wrist in a flash, the hangdog look on the bum’s face replaced with one of horror, even though his eyelids stay shut. Barnaby’s mouth is open, his lips drawn tight against teeth that barely hold back a scream.
“Never look,” he says, aiming an accusing finger at his own face. “The Birdman has both his eyes, and you best believe the man is watching.”
Chapter 15
Aiden left the shine box outside the dress shop, just like the buggy man said. It wasn’t there this morning, and nobody’d come up the back steps banging on the door for Aiden’s blood. So he figured it was all square.
At least he hoped it was.
While his ma went down to her job at the dressmaker’s, Aiden and his pa headed out early, looking for work. The old man would have stayed in that saloon if Aiden’s ma hadn’t gone back for him while Aiden kept up the sweeping and cleaning. They’d got the biggest stuff handled, him and his ma, and the little place above the dressmaker’s almost looked like it might be a home someday. But not this day, Aiden knew.
Maybe not ever. he thought, wishing he’d just stayed curled up in the corner on the blankets the sewing lady gave his ma. They’d get a real bed soon, his ma said. But until then, they’d just wrap up in the blankets on the floor.
“Why we up so early, Pa?” Aiden asked without thinking.
“Best time to hunt work, son,” his pa said. Aiden wanted to say how his pa should have spent the first day looking for work instead of swilling gin in that saloon. But he knew he’d just catch the back of the old man’s hand for mouthing off like that.
“Sure are quiet this morning, son. What’s the what, Aiden?”
“Just thinking about home, Pa. Back in Chicago City.”
“Ain’t home, Aiden. No more than this place is home. The Conroys are on the road now, taking it where we can get it and making sure nobody takes it off us. Won’t be forever, son. Just a little detour is all.”
Around them the Irish Channel came to life with doors and shutters slapping open against clapboards. Sashes slid in their frames and the sounds of morning chatter filtered out of quiet breakfast rooms and kitchens rich and warm with the smell of home cooking.
Aiden wanted to believe his pa about this city being just a stop on the road, sure enough he did. But how could he? New Orleans had only had them in its arms for a week now and already it felt like they were stuck tight with no way out.
Up ahead, the stem crossed another main road. A corner saloon had its doors open but it was just for the barkeep to carry his slop buckets out to the street. As they came up on the corner, Aiden caught his pa glancing into the dark room beyond the saloon’s open doors.
“Think we’ll find work, Pa? I mean paying work, like you used to have back ho—I mean, back when?”
His pa stopped walking and took a beat before he answered. “No,” he said, and then, “I mean, no, not here. Not yet.”
Aiden took another step, figuring the man just had his nose aimed at the saloon and was talking himself off the idea. When his pa grunted in disgust, Aiden stopped and swiveled his head to see what it was about.
Down the side of the saloon, all along the boardwalk, tramps rolled and shuffled and staggered to their feet. Some still slept with their feet sticking out of ratty blankets that were pulled up over their faces. Aiden stared at the tramps for a bit and then he saw the others.
Across the street, on almost every corner, tramps stretched and yawned, coughed, and spit. Some were up and eating cold stew from greasy looking mugs. Down an alley, Aiden spotted three others putting light to a small fire. Meanwhile the city rose around the hobo chorus like an angry crowd ready to leave and happy that the lights had finally come up. From all directions the city bumped and bustled, flooding the street with carts and buggies led by horses. Here and there, bicycles swam in and out of the growing flow of traffic. Aiden even spotted a few couples, arm in arm, strolling the boardwalks.
Nobody seemed to take notice of the tramps scattered about the place. Nobody but Aiden and his pa anyway.
“Jeez, Aiden. Would you look at ‘em all?”
“Where’d they come from, Pa? I don’t remember seeing them until just a second ago. Do you think—?”
“Don’t much matter, does it?” his pa said. “Where they came from, I mean. Back there with your old boss and his gods, or just out of the gutter. They don’t belong anywhere else, right?”
“Whaddya mean?”
“I mean they got nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Never did probably. Nobody knows these men and nobody probably ever did.”
Something spun in Aiden’s mind, a question that buzzed like a bee, and the words came out in a rush. “They gotta have somebody knows ‘em, Pa. Nobody’s born a tramp. Are they?”
“No, Aiden. I suppose not. But sometimes you just can’t deny fate. Maybe it’s destiny. But these men, they don’t belong anywhere, or to anyone. They’re just dregs, Aiden. Leftovers. It’s only because God won’t kill ‘em off that any of ‘em are still alive. Course they’ll be dead enough someday soon. Half dead now. Only the drink … keeps ‘em going day by day.”
Aiden’s gut clenched around his pa’s words. The man had his nose aimed at the saloon again.
“C’mon, Pa. We gotta find work. Don’t look like there’s much around here, hey?”
Aiden’s pa kept his face turned away, toward the saloon door. The barkeep had dumped his slop buckets in the gutter and was heading back inside. A few of the tramps went over with their mugs and dipped them into the flow of syrup and grime that flowed into a nearby drain. Aiden nearly brought up his breakfast and had to spin away from the sight.
“Yeah, Aiden,” his pa said, finally looking down the street instead of at the saloon. “Let’s go find some work. Somewhere ….”
The longing in his pa’s voice was like a slow jazz tune. Aiden tried to forget it and just focus on looking for shops with HELP WANTED signs in the window.
~•~
They trudged through the Channel for what felt like an hour, following Constance Street up into the Garden District. They didn’t spot anything like a place to find work, but Aiden’s pa kept his eyes on every saloon and tavern they passed. Aiden didn’t see more than two places that he’d know were bars just by looking at them. But his pa kept pointing at little buildings beside houses or tucked in between shops in a row.
“There’s one. Another one up the way there. Jeez, this town sure does have it in the bag. They don’t even bother hiding their speaks like we had to back in Chicago City. Whaddya make of that, Aiden?”
“I don’t know, Pa.” He wanted to say more, to tell his pa they weren’t out looking for places to drink. But Aiden kept his mouth shut. His old man just had a nose for any joint that sold hooch and that was that. It didn’t mean he’d end up sleeping outside the saloon and drinking spilled slop from the gutter.
“Where do you think we should look next, Pa?”
“Why don’t you pick it, son? Up or down at the next corner. I think Magazine Street is up and Laurel is down. That’s what your mother said. I knew I should have brought that book with us.”
“Which book, Pa?”
“The green one, son!” his pa hollered and then seemed to change his mind. His face went soft and he swiveled his head side to side, looking at the street and anybody on it who might have heard him yell.
“The green book, Aiden. The one you got from—”
Aiden didn’t need his pa to say where he’d got the book from. He remembered well enough. And his pa remembered, too. The old man tried to tuck his wounded hand into his pocket, but the bandage made it so he couldn’t. For a second, Aiden thought his pa would just up and quit right there on the street. He’d never seen his old man so far down.
Down …?
When that buggy driver had dropped Aiden
off at the dressmaker’s, with the shine box, he’d suggested Aiden look for work “up on the Magazine.” Aiden didn’t know if he could really trust that man, but anything was better than following his pa’s nose to the next saloon.
“Let’s go up, then, Pa. I hear Magazine’s got lots of work.”
“You hear, huh? From who?”
Aiden gulped. He hadn’t told his folks about the buggy man, or about the whole mess with the shine box, either. “Um, this guy in the dress shop,” he said, hoping his pa wouldn’t press it.
He didn’t, but Aiden didn’t miss the look on the man’s face that said he knew Aiden was having him on.
They went up to Magazine with a tight silence around them. Aiden hadn’t ever spent this much time with his pa outside of being at home with him on weekends. They reached Magazine Street, and it hit Aiden that he didn’t really know much about his pa, except for that he’d had a job cleaning up the Field Museum at night and slept most of the day because of it.
“What kind of work should we look for, Pa? Cleaning up like you did back home?”
“If we can find it, Aiden, sure thing. But that’s if we can find it. More likely we’ll find work that’s dirtier and doesn’t pay as well.”
All around them, Magazine Street was alive with activity. Women led children by the hand up and down the sidewalks. Small carts filled with fruit and vegetables stood like lampposts in front of every house, welcoming people up to the stoop. Girls with every color skin possible sat on the steps, smiling and waving at everyone who passed them by.
“C’mon up now. Beets, beans, and collards,” said a light-skinned girl across the street, waving at Aiden and his pa. Then she seemed to notice something and switched her attention to a young woman pushing a baby carriage. The girl’s mood shifted so fast and harsh that Aiden wondered if he wasn’t supposed to be looking at the girls, or if he should do something like wave back.
“Late oranges comin’ in here,” said another girl, with darker skin. She sat on a stoop nearby and Aiden could almost catch a hint of sadness in her voice. He looked at her as they passed and she turned her eyes away just as fast and sharp as the other girl had.