The Company Man

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  “What?” said Garvey. Hayes could hear him sitting up on the other end. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I don’t have anything certain. Not right now. I just know some people who may recognize his face, I think. I’ll talk to Samantha tomorrow and have her package up what I have on Tazz and ship it to you. Then we’ll go and see what we can find about your tattooed John Doe.”

  There was a pause. “Does Samantha know she’s doing this?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Does Evans or Brightly?”

  “No. I don’t plan for them to, either. Ever since the Red Star the oversight for our investigation’s been slackening, so I don’t think it’ll be noticed.”

  “Jesus. Why the hell are you doing this, then?” said Garvey.

  Hayes thought for a moment, then said, “Don’t know. Talk to you later, Garv,” and he hung up.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When Samantha returned home that night she was surprised to find Garvey leaning up against the wall outside her apartment building, reading the paper. When she approached he looked up, smiled, and said, “I’m glad you’re here. They tend to hustle a guy along if he’s wearing a suit this cheap in this neighborhood.”

  “Even if he’s a policeman?” she asked.

  “Especially if he’s a policeman.”

  “What would a policeman be doing out here, anyway?”

  “This particular policeman just wanted to check in on you. See what’s up.”

  “With Mr. Hayes? Well. Mr. Hayes was surprisingly difficult today.”

  “Yeah,” said Garvey slowly. He pushed his hat back and scratched his head. “That was mainly what I wanted to talk to you about, Miss Fairbanks. He’s probably going to make tomorrow difficult for you, too.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Garvey summarized what Hayes had told him on the phone, trying to fill in for the leaps of logic Hayes tended to make. Samantha was silent for a good while as they stood outside her building.

  “Oh, yes. The McClintock interview,” she said softly.

  “What?”

  “Mr. McClintock was the first man we interviewed about the sabotage cases. He was the one who listed most of the men in the Bridgedale trolley. Hayes chummed up with him and they talked about women and friends and family. He gave us a dozen names, at least. Friends, family. All of them the men who’ve been murdered. They all seemed to run in the same circles. If the man in the canal is connected with the Bridgedale murders, I suppose it’s likely one of the people McClintock listed knows him. Well. Knew him. We might even have his name already, we just don’t know it’s him.”

  “And I was never sent any of that? Any of that information?”

  “I believe Mr. Hayes originally sent you a few files…”

  Garvey shrugged. “It wasn’t much. Just enough to start a case. To let me know something was going on.”

  “Yes. We’ve been told to keep our distance from the police. There’s too much implication there, they say, though they’ve hardly been paying any attention since what happened in Alaska. Besides, I think it may have just slipped our minds in the recent chaos.”

  “Beautiful,” said Garvey.

  “Is it that important? One murder in the wake of so many?”

  Garvey was silent for a while. Then he said, “Yes. The man in the canal, I think he’s a real victim. I smelled it on him when I first saw him.”

  “A real victim? How do you mean?”

  “A lot of the bodies we pick up didn’t die innocent. They died doing something they shouldn’t have. Robbing a store, or making tar shipments. But others die minding their own business. For no damn reason at all. Those are the real victims.”

  “I see,” said Samantha quietly.

  “Yeah. And he had a kid.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes. I’d like to find out what happened to him. What he did when his dad didn’t come home one day.”

  “Oh,” she said, and thought. “Well… If you can get me a sketch or a picture of the man you found in the canal, I’ll try and see if I can help Hayes in whatever silliness he’s going to try.”

  “I’ll make sure to get you that,” said Garvey. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. Then he took a deep breath. “You know what, I don’t even want to talk about the case anymore. Nothing about the union, nothing about Hayes.”

  “What do you want to talk about, then?”

  “I don’t know. You hungry, Miss Fairbanks? Want to grab something to eat around here?”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything. I never eat around here. I’m willing to go anywhere about now.” He smiled lopsidedly at her. It was like a crack in his face, breaking through all the fatigue and the frustration to the rangy, wiseacre boy hiding behind. Samantha found herself smiling along with him in spite of herself.

  “All right,” she said.

  He took her to the northern end of Newton, where the apartment buildings dwindled and the clubs and band halls began to sprawl across the shore. She had passed through that part of her neighborhood before and heard the bands playing from somewhere nearby, but she had never tried to attend any of the shows. The customers and crowds of Newton had seemed forbidding and impenetrable then, the women all glamorous and preening, the men regal in their top hats and tails. Yet now they all parted before Garvey, who plodded through their ranks without a care in the world, amiably discussing weather or baseball or the offenses of his coworkers as Samantha struggled to keep by his side. He walked as though they were alone on the street. Samantha felt a thrill of guilty pleasure each time they broke through a line for a show and attracted countless foul looks.

  At one corner Garvey glanced at her with a crafty look in his eyes, and mentioned that he knew a place nearby. He then led her to a club called Mirabelle’s, a thoroughly modern affair with alabaster pillars and needle-thin spotlights that flashed up through the evening air. It sported the longest line of any club Samantha had yet seen, but Garvey passed them by and casually walked up to the maitre d’, who first gave them a sour glance but then blinked in surprise as he looked again. As Garvey strode forward the maitre d’ smiled in recognition and reached out to shake his hand, and he greeted them both as old friends, enthusiastically asking how Detective Garvey was these days, and where he’d found this beautiful girl to grace them all with her presence. Samantha blushed hugely at that. The maitre d’ hustled them inside and the other patrons waiting in line shouted their objections, but he and Garvey seemed totally unaware of it.

  Samantha almost gasped as they were led in. The interior of the club was almost entirely done in white-white marble floors and walls, white pillars, and a wooden center stage painted a gleaming white. It seemed wintry and fragile and impossibly beautiful, as though the arches and pillars might melt at any moment and it would all collapse. Tables were crowded around the center stage, and waiters in white dress coats threaded through the narrow lanes, delivering plates and drinks with demure smiles as though they were used to treating customers far more reputable than these, but were kind enough to bear the ignominy without mention. Behind the corner of the stage a full brass band played an unobtrusive jazz number while a sharp man in a three-piece suit stood beside them, sucking on a cigar and watching the crowds. When Garvey walked in a light went on in the man’s eyes, and he smiled slightly and pointed at Garvey and then to one of the choice corner tables, where they were immediately ushered to sit.

  “ This is a place you know?” asked Samantha in awe once they were seated.

  “Sure,” said Garvey. “They know me here.”

  “I can see that. How on Earth did you ever manage this?”

  He shrugged and smiled mysteriously. “I did a favor once or twice.”

  “A favor?”

  “Yeah. The owner’s daughter was in trouble once. Nothing serious, but it could’ve been. I kept it quiet and sorted it out.” He nodded at the man with the cigar, who just barely nodded back. �
��They’ve been kind to me ever since. I come here every couple of months or so. What do you think?”

  “I must admit, I’m shocked by it. For a moment I thought you were going to threaten them with your gun to get us in.”

  He smiled. “No. I don’t have it on me, anyway.”

  “You don’t? Why not?”

  “I forgot it,” he said. “It happens all the time, actually. Today was one of those times.”

  “I thought all policemen carried their trusty revolvers with them.”

  “Not murder police. We don’t do the shooting. We just clean it up. The gun has nothing to do with the job.”

  They ordered martinis and calamari, and laughed and spoke quietly as the band played. Samantha was astonished to learn that Garvey’s previous job had been as a librarian, but the more he talked about police work the more that seemed perfectly apt, as it seemed to be nothing but filing and papers. She soon noticed he had a curious way of conversation, however-where before he’d seemed a very quiet man, now he was so enthusiastically candid about his life that Samantha couldn’t help but volunteer some of her own history, telling him things she’d almost never tell any other acquaintance. It was an almost invasive sort of sympathy, this big, lanky boy of a man bounding forward to make himself utterly vulnerable at your feet. You soon found you were giving yourself up to him, telling him everything you ever thought he’d want to hear, just to match how exposed he’d made himself. She wondered if it was a tactic and if he handled his suspects the same way, or if it was just his nature. She figured it probably was a bit of both, and then she couldn’t help but compare him to Hayes, who was so evasive, forever changing names and accents and stories until you didn’t know what was sitting on the other side of the table from you.

  At ten o’clock the club host announced that the show would soon be starting, and Garvey excused himself and slipped off to the restroom. Samantha drank the rest of her martini, and soon the lighting in the club changed, the tables growing dimmer while the spots on the stage grew bright. As the patrons began standing Samantha followed suit, and found herself with one of the best views. The band started playing, picking up a soft, waltzy tune, and then there was a whir overhead. She looked up and then laughed in surprise as the ceiling above the stage seemed to be snowing, the flakes drifting down from some machinery hidden above. She caught a few and found they were real ice that melted on her fingertips. Soon the stage was almost hidden by a veil of soft white snow, yet through some cunning nature of the machinery it snowed in bursts that lined up with the beat of the song. Then two dancers came swooping out from the side of the stage, and the crowd gasped in surprise. One was a man in a black-and-white tuxedo with tails, the other was a long, slender-limbed woman in a glittering white dress that seemed to be made of snow as well. Once they came to the center of the stage, they began to dance and sing together.

  Later Samantha never could recall what the song was about. It felt as if it was partially in French, with only snatches of meaning scattered throughout the words. But the words were a mere excuse for the performance. The dancers’ clothing was adapted so that at times it blended in with the flakes of ice, and as they swung one another in and out of the light they would flash bright and then seem to vanish, flitting across the stage in each other’s arms. It was powerfully mesmerizing, these faint white-and-black figures slipping among the bursts of the falling snow. She had never seen anything like it. She doubted if it could have been done anywhere else in the world.

  It was never clear when the dance was done. Between the lighting and the camouflaged outfits, it was difficult to tell if the dancers were really there or not. But then the song came to an end, and everyone suddenly remembered themselves and started clapping furiously.

  “It’s a seasonal thing,” said Garvey’s voice over her shoulder.

  She turned and saw him standing beside her, watching the snow end. “Pardon?” she said.

  “It’s a seasonal thing. They have different shows for winter, summer, spring. The fall one’s my favorite, they do some interesting stuff with leaves. But we missed that.”

  “Unless we stick around for a while,” she said.

  “Well, there’s that.”

  She looked back at him again, and noticed there was something different about him now. He carried the faint smell of violets and lavender about him, and it looked like his hair had been carefully combed. Although she could have been mistaken, she felt sure he’d paid the bathroom attendants to tidy him up as best they could. She was suddenly reminded of a boy headed off to church, frantically trying to arrange himself. She smiled at him and laughed, then clapped one hand over her mouth to stifle it.

  “What?” he said, and nervously stroked one side of his hair.

  “Nothing,” she said, still fighting a smile. “I simply enjoyed the show, that’s all.” She looked back up at the machinery hidden in the ceiling. “How did they produce the snow?”

  “You tell me,” said Garvey. “You work for the people who made it.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Aren’t we popular.”

  “Something like that,” he said. “Say, you still hungry?”

  “Why? Do you know another place?”

  He smiled that wide grin of his again. “I know a lot of places.”

  This time they went down, descending through a trolley tunnel outside and then taking a hard right away from the lines, toward the middle of Newton. The tunnels themselves seemed almost deserted, as almost all had been since the murders.

  “Is this safe?” she asked, but Garvey only shrugged.

  As they walked through the tunnels she heard the sound of music and gabbling, and then they emerged into what looked like the heart of an Oriental market of some kind. Little wooden booths and tables were set up against the walls, and paper lanterns hung from the piping overhead. There was hardly any room to move, and considering that the market had to be emptier than usual, like most of the underground, she could hardly imagine it during peak hours.

  Since there were so few visitors the vendors and the shopkeepers descended upon them immediately and began hounding them for their custom. She saw that though most booths had an Eastern look about them, more than a few of the vendors were as white as she. Garvey took out his wallet to pay, fumbling with his badge as he did so, and as soon as the light found the glint of his shield the vendors all calmed somewhat, and some disappeared entirely. He sneaked Samantha a sly grin, and then purchased some sweet, crackly honey cakes and strange, spiced meats on wooden skewers, and paper cups of soup with vegetables and fruits of many colors. They drank spiced wine as they walked through the subterranean marketplace, Garvey ducking through the lanterns as they moved, and he showed her many strange goods and services that could only be found here, or possibly at the shore, he said.

  She nodded, believing him entirely. She felt suddenly that Garvey knew the city better than any other living soul, and though to her it offered only lonely, scarred alleyways and skies of gray smoke, for Garvey it behaved differently. He could sweep aside all the loneliness and the struggle and find gems and wonders hidden among its many crooks and niches. He knew its subtle joys and eccentricities as one would know an old, wayward friend. And as he showed her each oddity, rich or poor, tasteful or gaudy, she saw in his eyes that he truly loved this place, this anomalous city on the edge of the world, a hodgepodge of towns and technologies and peoples that should not ever be.

  They ascended to find the streets had emptied of cars and a light rain was falling. One by one the street lamps flickered on with an angelic hum, filling the streets with pearly light.

  “Sometimes I think this city has a voice,” said Garvey as they walked.

  “What does it say?” she asked.

  Garvey thought for a long while as they walked back to her apartment. He finally said, “That it’s dying.”

  “Dying?”

  He nodded.

  Samantha thought about this. It seemed an impossible notion after he’d show
n her so many colorful veins in the city, still alive and thriving. “Dying of what?” she asked.

  “Of itself. Under its own weight. And when it’s done, more than Evesden will hurt.”

  “How do you mean?”

  He kicked at a pebble in the gutter. “You remember what almost happened in Europe?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Yeah. All those bastards out there are just waiting to get at each other’s throats. The only thing that keeps them from doing it is McNaughton, because the second a shot gets fired, they turn off the tap. No more airships, no more telephones. It’d be bad for commerce. I don’t like your company, Miss Fairbanks, but they’ve made a peace, of a very tense and bastardly sort.”

  “You can call me Samantha. And I’m aware of the agreement that was laid down after the Crisis.”

  “Yeah. I should have figured that. I’m just venting. Samantha,” he added.

  “I know. What do you think we can do?” she asked.

  He sniffed, thinking. “We just hope we catch this goddamn killer and end this union nonsense in the cleanest way possible, I guess. It wouldn’t be a victory. And I don’t know if it’d be easy to live with. McNaughton would just keep doing what they’re doing. But it’d keep the blood to a minimum. I hope.”

  They came to her apartment and the porter tipped his hat to her. She waved back.

  “What time is it?” asked Garvey, searching for his watch.

  “It’s half past eight.”

  “Hum. Well. Thanks for the dinner.”

  “But you paid,” she said.

  “I can still thank you, can’t I?”

  “I suppose. For going to a Newton restaurant?”

  “For having an excuse. Yeah.”

  She nodded. “Have you ever seen a Newton apartment?”

  Garvey stared at her, dumbstruck. Then he quickly recovered and said, “No. Never have.”

  “Would you like to?”

  He stepped back and looked up the face of the apartment building. “It’s awful tall.”