Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1)

by Lori Williams

  “When have you ever seen me at a bar? Except now. And that other time. When we first met. Anyway, shut up. I know a gent here.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He works at the bar.”

  “Course he does,” Kitt said with a laugh.

  “Shut up. Now, listen. We have to play it easy to get inside. I've seen a few Magnates hang around here after their patrols.”

  “But it's the middle of the day,” Dolly said.

  “Or during their patrols.”

  “Hey,” Kitt said to Dolly. “Did he ever tell you what a Magnate did to him the first night we met?”

  “Shut it,” I interrupted. “All right. The place should be empty this early, but watch yourselves when we get in there. If someone gives us too much attention, slowly head for the door. We don't want to create any leads for the militia. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Kitt said.

  “Yes sir!” Dolly said. Cute.

  “All right. On my signal, we...”

  Apparently the signal was me not giving them the signal because, as usual, Kitt and Dolly started wandering away without me.

  “Keep it together, Pocket,” I muttered. “Keep it together.”

  A cluster of businessman moved through the street, splitting me off from my cohorts. When the path cleared, Kitt and Dolly were already inside. The front door swung back and forth, its brassy handle shining like gold in the light. I chewed on my lip and headed cautiously for that gold. I stood there for a moment, clutching the door handle as if I feared falling off of the face of the world.

  Keep it together.

  I entered the place and slid through a front room filled only with smoke and a few bored hang-abouts pretending to be interested in their round of billiards. Kitt and the Doll were nowhere to be seen, a revelation that filled me not with panic or suspicion but passive annoyance. I was beginning to grow tired of rounding them up. Or being rounded up by them in a runaway carriage. I wiped the nearest patch of smoke out of my face and took in the flicker of an electric sign that shaped glass tubing into the words “WELCOME TO THE GOOSE.” As if waiting for my audience, the sign made a particularly bright spark at one end, dimming a few letters dark. It now appeared to read: “COME TO THE GOOSE.”

  The writing on the wall, heh.

  At least this Goose didn't fly, so I didn't have to worry about Kitt knocking it out of the sky. Still, I wasn't stupid enough to think that letting them out of my sight was ever a wise move. Reconvene, I decided, and soon. But first things first. The aproned man working the counter was hunched over a case of rye. I smiled and took a step toward the bar. I never made it.

  “You,” a man with a broom said, stepping into my path.

  “Me?” I responded with a casual grin.

  The man was clearly the tavern's potboy, a grunt worker sent to refill mugs and clean up peanut shells. The poor sap must've been bored out of his mind, working the room at this uneventful hour.

  “You,” he repeated. “You're wanted.”

  This got my attention. And the look in the filmy glass that passed for his left eye told me he meant business.

  “Am I?” I said, keeping my tone even.

  “Upstairs,” he said, pointing his broom in the direction. The Gilded Goose was originally built to be a bed and breakfast. I don't know all of the details, but apparently the owner became quite indecisive in the weeks leading up to its opening and at the last minute turned the whole thing into this. So the Goose has a pretty solid second floor with a few cheap bedrooms. No one keeps residence up there, so the rooms are usually locked. Once in awhile some drunken slob will attempt to ram one of the doors open, looking for a place of intimate quiet to take some woman he's talked up. The only other time a room was ever opened was if there was a matter to be discussed that required a level of privacy that the main bar floor could not accommodate.

  “I see,” I said, keeping fixed on his eyes. “And what's waiting up there?”

  He shrugged and punched an arrow into the smoke with his broom handle.

  “Up,” he spat.

  “You sure you've got the right gentle—”

  “Up.”

  All right, I decided. Keep yourself loose. Don't let him see you sweat. This invitation wasn't sitting right with me, but to refuse would bring dangerous attention to myself. Plus, I wasn't keen on the way this gent was wielding his broom.

  “Whatever you say,” I said. I stretched my back and moved toward the stairs.

  “Second room!” the potboy shouted once I reached the top.

  “Thanks,” I halfheartedly tossed back.

  I put my weight against the door and tightened my limbs. I didn't know what was waiting on the other side for me, but I was fairly sure that it was something, and if that something turned out to be a lynch mob, I was going to be damn ready on my toes.

  Silently I counted. Four...three...two...

  I barged through the door, knocking it hard open, and thrusted shoulder-first into the bedroom. The door flew back against me and, pivoting out of its path, caught it with my heel and kicked it shut.

  “What are you doing?” Kitt said, sitting on an old bed.

  “I said that you don't have to be so intense,” the Doll said, sitting beside him.

  The three of us were alone inside. I let my arms relax, but just for a moment.

  “The loon with the broom send you up?” Kitt asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Us too,” the Doll said.

  I walked the room and peered out of its sole window.

  “I don't get it,” I said.

  “Get what?” Kitt responded.

  “This. What's it all about?”

  “You don't know? We assumed this had to do with your friend.”

  “I haven't found him yet. Even if I did, he wouldn't have known we were coming. I don't like this.”

  Kitt and Dolly looked at each other. Concern started to set in.

  “Then why are we up here?” she asked me.

  “I don't know.”

  “Who are we waiting for?”

  “I don't know!”

  “Should we stay or leave?”

  “Damn it, I don't know!”

  She balled little fists and stood up.

  “Where are you going?” I asked as she stomped to the door.

  “You yelled at me. I'm leaving.”

  Gently but firmly, I took her arm.

  “Have you lost your mind? You can't leave!”

  “You yelled at me.”

  “We could be shot on sight!”

  “You...yelled...at me.”

  “Look, I'm sorry. But things are a little tense here.”

  “No excuse!”

  “Will you just...” I took a breath and slowed down. “All right. I apologize, but—”

  “You already did.”

  “...but right now, we need to stay together and try to figure our way out of this.”

  “Maybe you should figure a way not to yell at people!”

  “You haven't heard yelling yet, lady,” I muttered.

  “I heard that!”

  Kitt groaned excessively and fell backward upon the bed.

  “Headaches,” he whined. “Nothing but headaches.”

  “You're not helping!” I snapped at him.

  “Whoa!” he said, snapping upright. “Why are you turning on me now?”

  “I'm not turning on anybody!”

  He pulled his wrench and slid out its concealed blade in a mock act of self-protection. “It sounds like you are!”

  “Put that away!”

  “Why?”

  “You're going to hurt somebody!”

  “Stop yelling!”

  “See?” the Doll said. “He yells!”

  The three of us took up our ammunition and continued unloading it into each other. We became so absorbed in our bickering, in fact, that not one of us heard the back window slowly slide open. We also failed to see the hand that appeared on the inside of the glass,
or the leg that hooked into the hole, or the rest of the body that was pulled quickly and quietly inside.

  As a matter of fact, we were so consumed with ourselves that we failed to notice the stranger's presence altogether until he voiced the following sentence.

  “You seem to be having a good day.”

  We jumped, the would-be invisible man suddenly all too present among us. Kitt unfortunately jumped the quickest. His instincts took over and he threw, without thought, his blade at the interloper, who swore and fell backward against the wall. His head connected with a “clonk” and he was soon lying prostrate on the floor.

  A very quiet minute ticked passed us on a witnessing clock near the ceiling. Delicately, Kitt, Dolly, and I circled the unmoving man.

  The switchblade wrench was staring straight back at us, its knifepoint sticking down, deep into the stranger's chest.

  Chapter Seven

  The Bulletproof Gambler

  We didn't talk.

  How could we? No one had the words.

  We tried, sure. I looked at Kitt who looked at the Doll who looked at me who looked at her who looked at him. We all moved our jaws in a mimic of speech, but no one could squeeze a word out.

  The Doll's eyes seemed to lose most of their color. So did Kitt's face.

  At last, compelled not so much by duty but by a need to break the silence, I knelt next to the man and cleared my throat. Kitt and Dolly took a knee and dropped beside him. We closed our eyes.

  “God's grace go with you,” I awkwardly managed. I think I heard a priest say it once.

  “...mmm...go where?”

  “What's that, Kitt?”

  “I didn't say anything.”

  “Yes, you did. You said, 'go where.'”

  “No, I didn't.”

  We opened our eyes. The gentleman with the wrench in his chest sat blinking, restrained fire boiling back at us. He watched as we yelped and jumped again. Luckily for him, Kitt no longer had sharp things to throw.

  “How are...” Kitt bumbled. “Did you notice that you're still alive?”

  The stranger tilted his face to glare at Kitt.

  “Yes...” he managed, greatly restrained. “I noticed. Thank you...kindly...for stabbing me in the chest.”

  “Oh. Really?” Kitt sincerely responded. “Well, hell, you're welcome. Don't know why—“

  “Thank you...so much...” the man interjected, fuming. “For...stabbing...me in the...chest...”

  “Uh...right...” Kitt said, the implication lost on him. “No problem.”

  “It was an accident,” I said, trying to help. “Try to go easy on—“

  “Why don't you come over here...” the stranger growled to Kitt. “...so I can properly...thank you...for stabbing me in the chest. I'd walk over myself...but I seem to be having a little trouble...because someone...stabbed me in the bloody chest!” He started thrashing his legs. We backed up.

  “I'm sorry!” Kitt said.

  “You could've killed me!”

  “I told you,” I whispered to Kitt. “Told you to put that toy away.”

  The man, with the Doll's help, managed to get to his feet, the wrench pointing out from him like an accusing finger. He was a young man, maybe a year or two my junior, with longish, blonde hair that stopped above the shoulder and bristled fiery over his eyes. His clothes were all-together tattered. He wore a striped necktie that was half missing and swiss-cheesed with holes that appeared to have been riddled into the fabric from bullet fire. His shirt and slacks were equally bullet bitten, and beneath the bigger holes in his wardrobe he seemed be wearing plates of some sort of metal. He also wore a sort of buckling leather strap around his midsection over his clothes. It ran around his torso, up his back, and seemed to be pushing against the plates. A dog-eared playing card, the ace of spades, was tucked into the leather and curled out over his shoulder. Ace of spades...a little cliché if you ask me, but to each his own.

  He looked like he was about to explode again, but the Doll shook her head at him.

  “You calm down now!” she said to him. “You are fine.”

  Kitt and I stared at her with incredulity.

  “Doll,” I said. “The man's just been wounded. Cut him a little—”

  “No blood,” she said, stamping her foot. The stranger popped his neck to the side and nodded in agreement. The brimstone in his eyes seemed to simmer a little.

  “Yeah...” he said, still angry. “No blood.”

  Kitt and I were dumbstruck.

  “But...how is that possible?” the fox thief asked. “In your chest, there's—”

  “Yes, I'm quite aware of what's in my chest!” the man growled.

  “Calm!” the Doll said. Strange thing about that girl. No matter if they've known her for a moment or a lifetime, people seem to take to her. The hot-blooded gent nodded again, calming himself down. This was the moment that I began wondering about the power this little madame had, and I would soon be questioning the effect her presence was having on me.

  I had no idea what I was in for.

  But that's a given. No man spends his nights telling barkeeps lofty stories of women who barely moved him, no matter what the drink tab.

  “I'm...all right,” the stranger said. “I'm sorry if I frightened you.”

  “Good,” the Doll said with a friendly emphasis. “Kitt-Kitt?”

  “I'm sorry too,” Kitt said. “For...well, you know.”

  “Yeah,” the stranger mumbled.

  “How are...how are you not bleeding?”

  “It hit a plate.”

  “A plate?” Kitt gave a closer look to the man. “Oh! You're wearing boiler plates. Lucky chance, right?”

  “Sure...very lucky. Considering the plates are there to deflect that sort of attack.”

  “It wasn't an attack.”

  “And considering the chances that I would turn in the very necessary, specific way to catch the knife-tip in the crack where these two plates meet—”

  “Okay. I get it.”

  “Well, sure! I'm an absolute pillar of good fortune!” The man grabbed onto the weapon that was lodged in his chest and started tugging. It wouldn't budge. “Oh, there's good news.”

  “It's stuck?” the Doll asked.

  “You must've had a pretty solid throw, fox-head,” the man barked. “Nine times out of ten these things bounce off.”

  “You've had knives thrown at you before?” I asked.

  “Weren't you listening? I'm not wearing this scrap around for the hell of it.”

  “A man of enemies?” I asked, tapping my bottle.

  He snorted. “Maybe I don't feel like answering questions like that.”

  “Hmmm?” I wrapped my arms behind my neck and pondered. “Maybe...Yeah...that's certainly a possibility. But how about this? Maybe we feel like knowing why you were sliding into a second-story window. Or what, for that matter—”

  “I don't owe you anything, Pocket.”

  I raised a brow and approached him.

  “Pocket, eh?” I said. “So you know who we are.”

  “That's right.”

  “Which I suppose means you know who she is.”

  “That's right.”

  “I see. Well, it seems that you have an advantage over us then.”

  “A sap with a knife in his chest rarely has any advantage at all.”

  “Unless that sap doesn't bleed.”

  A grin slowly formed in the corner of his mouth.

  “Good point,” he said, extending a formal hand. “Name's Gren Spader.”

  “Heh...”

  “What's funny, Alan?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Come on.”

  “You don't ever meet anyone sane, do you?”

  “Normal people make for boring stories.”

  “You're in no risk there.”

  “I'll remind you that you exist in this story, Alan. What's that say?”

  “Yeah, yeah...”

  “What's wrong, barkeep? You
’re a servant to the drunken underbelly of this town. No sympathy for the damned?”

  “My job is to fill a glass for them, not trust them. Getting cozy with knifed strangers is not my bread and butter.”

  “Even if it was a butter knife?”

  “What?”

  “I was trying to make a joke.”

  “Next time, try harder.”

  “I'll ignore that.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So what happened next with this guy?”

  “Well, it's interesting that you mentioned butter.”

  A piano was being tuned as I strolled back down the stairs. In the back of the main floor of the bar was a built-in stage. Small traveling acts would swing by, play a few notes, sell a few more drinks for the gents behind the bar. At this moment the stage was half-filled with an assortment of really worn instruments. Five men in suspenders were adjusting, tuning, and restringing the mess back there, while a tall woman in pants and necktie dictated excited directions to them. At one moment, she laughed and clapped, and the five workers proceeded to lift the wobbly piano from one corner of the stage to the other.

  I can't say that I was interested in their antics. I had a man to see.

  I took a seat at the bar and talked to the bartender's back as I waited to be served.

  “Some day, isn't it?” I said to him.

  “Not especially,” he grumbled back.

  “How I wish I could agree, Alan.”

  “Eh?” The man revealed himself to me. He was a bushy-bearded man with wiry sideburns.

  “Oh!” I said, at a loss. “I'm sorry. I thought you...I came to speak with Mister Dandy.”

  “Who's that?”

  “Alan Dandy. He works here today. Or he was supposed to. Bartender.”

  “Oh, the other gent. He isn't here.”

  “I can see that. Where, uh, where is he?”

  “Vacationing.”

  “Vacationing?!?” I shouted.

  Everyone in the room stopped and looked at me.

  “Vacationing?” I repeated, softer. The patrons returned to their affairs.

  “Is there a problem?” the bartender asked.

  My answer was only the resignation of my head to the bar top. The crash of a piano clanged in the background.

  “Wait, Alan. What's that look for?”

  “What do you think?”