Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

  The man’s exhaustion seemed to weigh against his anger. Then he shrugged. “Fine. We’ll send a car, ask a few questions. But your story better check out—or it’s curtains for you.”

  Mick gestured at his wound. “You’re a bit late, pal. The curtain already fell, and it hurts like a bitch.”

  The cop shrugged… and left without another word.

  When he did, someone else pulled aside the cloth divider of the hospital alcove, and slipped inside. A rat-like face loomed around the partition, and Mick grimaced.

  Chance Le Grange.

  Chance was a Cajun bounty hunter, and like Mick, he’d signed up with Pinkerton after the war. He was sharp-faced and quick-witted, a small guy with a pencil mustache. Despite his slick attitude—or perhaps because of it—he was great at infiltration, and strike-breaking. All the ugly jobs other agents turned down, Chance took with a smile.

  “Mick, cher, so good to see you.” Someone else was with him; Mick could see a silhouette, standing guard outside the curtain. Another Pinkerton agent, probably.

  Mick’s lip curled. He didn’t like being fenced in by his own co-workers. “Chance. They got shit security, if they let you in here.”

  “Dis is Prohibition, Mick. Everybody’s got their price.” Chance flashed a wide grin. “I hear you not doing so good, today.”

  “Some clown tried to play surgeon with me. I’ll be fine.” A steady pumping throb of pain coursed through his body, threatening to paralyze him. Only his determination to close the case was keeping him awake—but Chance didn’t need to know that. “Tell the Company I found their bank robbers. Soon as I can stand, I’m going after them. I’ll need my camera back—”

  “Dat won’t be necessary. We’ve already paid a little visit to de evidence locker.” The agent smiled, toothy and wide. “Dey could have put us on trial, Mick. Put the Company on trial. You almost gave us a lotta paperwork.”

  “You destroyed my pictures?” Mick felt a chill creep up his neck. “Why? They had the stones, Chance! Those pictures were evidence, for the Company’s case!”

  Chance pulled a shattered lump of stone from his pocket. It was granite, etched with an ancient horoscope symbol. “Dey found this at the docks. Whatever kind of party dat was, it blew up de stones. Company lost big assets.”

  His grin had vanished, and Mick instantly understood Chance wasn’t here to help or offer condolences. He was here to tell Mick how badly he’d fucked up.

  “I… see.” He struggled to find some way forward, some way he could satisfy his employers. “Look, that’s unfortunate. But we have to keep pushing. These goons are onto something, some crazy Bolshevik plan. That’s why they took the stones. If we don’t figure out what they’re doing—”

  “We ain’t figuring nothing. You’re done.” Chance took Mick’s blood-smeared coat and fished out his Pinkerton badge, pocketing it. “Company ain’t in de business of justice. We wanted our stuff, and joo lost it. You’re fired—mal pris, my friend.”

  “No!” Mick’s guts ignited with dizzying hurt, as he struggled to get out of bed. “They can’t drop me like this. People are in danger!”

  “Siddown.” Chance had pulled a long nightstick from his coat, the business end plated with brass. “Les’ you wanna eat my bâton. Company’s done with joo, Mick. Best move on—get into de perfume business or something. Wit dat nose, you’d be a hit.”

  “Real funny.” Mick bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood, trying to counter the pain in his stomach, pushing back against it. But he was getting dizzy, and an ugly red stain was seeping through his bandages. “This is more important than the Agency, Chance. It could put the whole country in danger. If we don’t stop these lunatics—”

  “Nothing’s more important than de Agency.” Chance rapped him on the knee with the strike-breaking stick. He had good aim, and Mick hissed in pain. “Dis country belongs to us. Senators, Congressmen, and you. Remember dat.”

  “I’m the best agent they have. They need me right now.”

  “Not anymore,” said Chance. “We got new help.” He whistled a sharp note, and something came through the curtain.

  In spite of his pain, Mick felt his hair stand on end. The man—if it was a man—was wearing a bowler hat, a neatly pressed brown suit and a fake corsage, as if dressedfor a dance. His face was utterly gray, with patches of pink. On his nose sat a pair of spectacles, and his mouth gaped like a fish. When he turned towards Mick, the detective saw there were no eyes behind the man’s spectacles—just gaping, empty sockets, blackened as if scorched by some terrible heat.

  “Jesus. What is that thing, a Myth?”

  “Oh no, we don’t hire Myths. You never see what happen to a guy who gets drained for Humours? Turns out dey’re obedient. And dey don’t mind bullets, too much…” Chance patted the thing on the back; it didn’t move or speak, simply staring ahead with its eyeless face. “He’s made for de job—gets things done. Unlike you. It was jus’ a matter of getting him moving wit’ electric shocks… and now we got a new agent.”

  Mick struggled not to retch. Replacing men with Drained husks… My God. “Why’d you bring him here?”

  “Because de Company wanted you to meet your replacement. His name is Gerald. Say hi, Gerald.”

  “Good morning,” croaked the gray thing. It sounded like a victrola playing a scratched record.

  “See? He’s friendlier den you, too.” Chance stowed his club, patting Mick’s shoulder. “Just be glad joo’re out. Leave de hard work to better men.”

  And with that, he departed, pinching a nurse’s rear on his way out. The gray-faced thing followed, its gait stiff and mechanical.

  For the first time, Mick wondered if he dared to keep pursuing this case. If things like that monster were in his way, what chance did he have? And what was the point, if the Company wasn’t going to back him?

  But he couldn’t stop, not now. Losing his badge was a problem—without Pinkerton’s authority, he wouldn’t be able to get into a lot of places. He wouldn’t be able to work bribes and connections. Hell, he wouldn’t have a damn paycheck, and that was kind of important living in Boston. But he’d be damned if he was giving up… not when he’d finally seen the face of the enemy.

  The man in the long black coat.

  He still had no idea who’d stabbed him, but it didn’t matter. The enemy thought he was out of play. That meant he could still get the drop on them. And he had another lead, now—Carla. He hadn’t heard a word about her in the papers, and her body hadn’t been recovered. If these anarchists were as smart as he suspected, they’d probably taken her hostage. A celebrity was a useful bargaining chip. At the same time, a hostage would slow them down, make them easier to trail. All he needed to do was get up and start sleuthing.

  But this wound, this damn wound… He winced, as he tried to sit up. His country needed him, and here he was, lounging in bed like a worthless jake-leg. He needed to move; he needed to reach Gus, find out if any of the boys were still alive. Get some witnesses. He needed cash, information, allies.

  But first, he needed to stand up.

  When he tried it, it felt like getting stabbed all over again. The sutures on his injury strained, and he could feel blood trickling out. Bright, furious pain washed over him—and he collapsed, furious.

  Come on, goddammit, he thought, biting his lip. You had worse when they blew your leg off, in France. Get a move on!

  But his body wouldn’t obey. He stared at the bottle of morphine, beside his bed. Its contents seemed to mock him. He’d seen men down bottles of Rage and Courage, and it had changed them. Turned them into monsters.

  Morphine was no different. It might not mutate him, but it would get its hooks in him all the same.

  Damn it…

  Drugs and alcohol were a cheap shortcut, a coward’s path. Yet… what choice did he have? There was no ignoring it. He was in a bad way, and choices needed to be made. With a shaking voice, Mick called for the nurse.

  “Hey there, doll. I…. I
need something for the pain, please.”

  That, he knew, was how addiction began. With a simple and reasonable request: another drink, a few days off to see the madame in Scollay Square. He was no different from the scumbags he was chasing, he thought, as the nurse slid the needle into his arm.

  The only difference was, he still gave a shit about his country.

  CHAPTER 19

  IT WAS A beautiful day, outside Carla’s tiny prison.

  She was shackled to the floor, her dress filthy. Drapes had been placed over the windows, blocking sunlight. The small room was roasting with summertime heat, and her mouth felt like sandpaper. In the center of the room, an enormous oil-burner surrounded by mirrors lay silent and glimmering.

  They were in the lamp-room of a lighthouse. She’d seen that much from the boat, before they put a sack over her head. Since then she’d waited patiently for a chance to escape… a chance that never arrived.

  The Angel of Death was tuning an accordion, in a chair nearby. He’d dispensed with his long coat, donning suspenders and a sweat-stained dress shirt. The casual outfit struck a bizarre contrast with his gas-mask. The tanks for it lay on a small table, the hissing of Noxious an ugly backdrop between honks of accordion music.

  Carla was dehydrated, starving and miserable, but her tongue still worked. And so, despite herself, she couldn’t help but use it. “Knock that noise off. I’m trying to sleep.”

  The Angel twisted a knob, cocking his head. The glass circles of the mask regarded her. “Sleep? No time for sleep, not on the march to glory. We must keep morale up!” And he began playing a jaunty rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” tapping one foot for timing.

  Carla gritted her teeth, curled in a ball, and growled into the straw pillow they’d given her. She was alive, sure, but they were breaking her—with an accordion, no less. She’d been awake for two days with no sleep, minimal water, and no food. Hell of a diet plan, at least.

  If she could break a window, get out of the chains… but she had no guarantee they wouldn’t kill her, if she tried to escape. These people were maniacs.

  The accordion music stopped. She sat up, because whenever the noise stopped it meant the Angel was bored, and when he was bored he became dangerous. The few furnishings in the room offered no place to hide; a moldering piano sat against one wall, and under it a loop of iron where she was chained, and besides the oil burner, that was all.

  The Angel was looking out the window. The screwdriver he’d been using on it had fallen to the floor.

  Carla leaned forward and snatched it up, as quietly as she could. The scuff of her knees sounded loud to her, but the Angel didn’t move.

  “He’s here,” said the assassin. “Father Buda is here. Oh, joy and Rapture.”

  There were steps on the staircase wrapping around the Deer Island Light. She knew that was where she was, because everyone was familiar with the silhouette she’d glimpsed out of the window. The Deer Island House of Corrections, sitting on the edge of Boston Harbor, was an ugly lump staining every coastal sunset. They were less than three hundred yards from it, across a calm and glittering length of sea.

  Brilliant light washed in from the door, and was quickly cut off. Blinking away sudden blindness, Carla saw the Red Queen, dressed in an ordinary blouse and skirt with high leather boots. There was someone else, too: a short, compact man, hairline receded, cheeks lined and sunken. A bristling mustache clung to his lip, and his eyes were full of malice. A cigarillo hung from the corner of his mouth.

  “Christ, what a dump.” He took the measure of the place, and sat down when the Queen pulled out the Angel’s chair for him. The two of them held position against the door, lit by shafts of sunlight, the Queen fidgeting with her braid. She was watching the stubby man with an obsessive stare.

  “Who’re you?” Carla had pressed herself against the wall.

  He’d nearly reached the end of his smoke, blowing clouds out through his impressive nose, and he ignored her, stubbing it out. “Angel. Go get the radio. Don’t be seen.”

  “Master, if you wish for music, I can play for you—”

  “I said, get the radio, you crazy shit.” The short man snapped his fingers, and the Angel bowed, vanishing out the door. “You.” He pointed at Carla. “You hungry?”

  She swallowed, her throat dry and papery. At this point she would have eaten a live bird, if one were offered to her. “Yeah.”

  “Here.” He pulled a package of peanuts from his pocket and tossed it. She snatched it, ripping it open and sinking her teeth into one of them without even cracking the shell. Fragments bit her gums, but she hardly noticed.

  She gobbled the food down, the nuts dry and scraping at her throat, before she saw the two of them staring. “What? Am I supposed to be thanking you?”

  He grunted. “It’d be polite.”

  “Then, politely, go fuck yourself.”

  He laughed. “Locked up all day and night, and you’ve still got grit. I knew you were paisan, but this proves it.”

  She eyed him. He didn’t look Italian, but his accent was intuitive, familiar. He was from the old country, too—though clearly they’d chosen different paths. “You gonna play games with me, or tell me what you want?”

  “Straight to business, very good.” The man leaned forward, thick fingers laced together. “You’re Carla Ponzi, right? You’ve put a lot of people in debt. How old are you? Thirty-five now, maybe forty?”

  “None of your business.” In fact, she was forty-four, but the Noxious she sprayed on kept her looking youthful and beautiful—at least, it had been doing that, until she ran out of money. After her stint in jail and the nightmare of the previous night, her wrinkles were showing. “You must be Galleani, huh? The big anarchist. I should get your autograph.”

  “Galleani? Good try… but no cigar. I’m Mario Buda—inheritor of his word.” He extended a hand for her to shake, and she didn’t take it. “I can understand why you distrust us,” he said, lowering it. “The Soldiers are a very… passionate group of people.”

  “Passionate? You’re insane.”

  “A little insanity doesn’t hurt in our line of work.” The Angel returned with a heavy radio; he set on the piano, and static gurgled from its wood-panel frame.

  “Galleani was a big dreamer,” Buda said. “But I’ve outgrown him. He thought only in terms of human effort, human sweat—human blood. Bigger thinking is required, for the kind of change we need in this country.”

  Carla knew a ranting madman when she heard one. “You gonna give me a sales pitch? Is that it? Save it, fratello. I’ve heard them all.”

  Buda smiled. It was a professional smile, a salesman’s smile, and she found it oddly charming. He could see she was a skeptic, and he wasn’t rushing his pitch. Against her judgment, that made her curious.

  Reaching out, he tuned the radio until he reached WBZ’s city news broadcast. The Angel and the Queen stood at attention behind him, listening to the wavering voice of the radio announcer.

  “…In a few minutes, we’ll be hearing from Governor Cox, with a statement on the frightening escalation of crime in our fair city…”

  “Harken to it, Carla.” Buda lowered the volume. “The capitalist machine stirs to motion. Arrests will be made, suspects brutalized. Isn’t it majestic?”

  “I’d rather have an opera.”

  “Of course you would. You’re a classy dame.”

  The Queen peered outside the curtains. “Father. There’s a Coast Guard cutter, coming up the shoals.” Carla’s heart leapt with hope.

  Buda grunted. “They won’t see us.”

  The Queen checked again. “Father… We should fetch the guns.”

  “No.”

  “Father—”

  “I call the shots.” Buda closed his eyes. “It is foreseen. We are destined to do this. No shit-head Fed in a tinpot boat is gonna stop us. Have faith, Aleksandra.”

  There was a long pause as the growl of the engine passed outside. Even the Angel loo
ked nervous, his hand on the hilt of a knife.

  “They’re moving on,” said the Queen.

  “Told you,” said Buda, eyes still closed. He puffed smoke from the corner of his mouth. “It’s foreseen.”

  Carla saw a chance, in that moment. If she let the Coast Guard slip away, there was no guarantee they’d see another. Determined to get away, she lunged for the window, lifting the screwdriver to shatter the glass.

  Buda, without opening his eyes, stuck out his leg and tripped her.

  She skidded to the floor, bashing her elbows, the screwdriver flying away. The Angel was on her, hauling her up by her neck.

  “Shall I punish the capitalist, Master?”

  “No.” Buda waved a hand. “Put her down, Baxter. We’re going to need her for later.”

  Baxter?...

  She was roughly shoved back into the corner, the Queen watching with open contempt. The Angel pocketed his screwdriver, and resumed his post by the door.

  She stared at Buda, trying to catch her breath. “How did you…”

  “Lucky guess,” he said, but she didn’t believe it.

  Any ordinary gang leader would have been sweating bullets at the mention of the Coast Guard; they were notorious for being merciless, since Volstead had passed. Bullets first and questions later… but Buda seemed to have no fear of them. “Luck runs out. What happens when the lighthouse keeper comes by?”

  Buda shrugged. “Joe McCade? He owes us a debt. We pulled him from the ocean after he… took a little spill. Of course, by the time he proved his worth to us, we’d fed him a little too much Devotion. Now he belongs to Mithras.”

  There was a wet, inhuman groan from below the floorboards.

  Mithras. That was a name she rarely heard outside the backwoods—an old Greek cult, occasionally interbred with other faiths. It wasn’t a popular name, in Boston, and the single church in Roxbury that followed its creed was shunned. It had been burned down three times.