Boom Time

by Michelle E Lowe

  “No,” Kelly answered, pulling a pack of Lucky Strike from out of his pocket. “I have never been to war. My father fought in the Union during the Civil War, before the First Machine War started.”

  Quinn turned his gaze to the daguerreotypes of the young woman. “My daughter enlisted as a nurse. The hospital she was in was bombed.”

  Blimey, Pierce thought grimly.

  Kelly set his glass down on the small table beside his chair where an ashtray was filled with Frank’s crumpled cigarette butts. Kelly offered him a smoke. Pierce didn’t particularly care for it, but he knew he needed to keep up his persona.

  “How old are you?” Kelly asked as Pierce took a cigarette and lighter.

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Uh,” Kelly remarked. “I would have guessed you were younger. So, what’s your story, kid? What brings you across the pond?”

  Pierce already had a backstory mapped out.

  “After the war, it was tough finding any decent work. War costs and all. I resorted to thievery. Got arrested a few times. The last time I was pinched, I escaped jail. That night, I robbed money in some bugger’s house and bought me a ticket on an Atlantic steamer.”

  “No family, eh?”

  The question caused him to bite his bottom lip. It wasn’t an act, for he missed his own family. His sulking expression betrayed his thoughts.

  “That bad, huh?” Kelly surmised.

  “It’s a long story,” he said, lighting up his smoke.

  This time, he took care when inhaling.

  “I see. Well, Mr. Chaplin, we might need someone of your caliber, I suppose. I had hoped this country would come to its senses and end Prohibition before my supply ran dry, but the forecast says otherwise. To keep my enterprise afloat and my pockets lined, we’re going to have to resort to bootlegging.”

  “Right,” Pierce said, flicking ashes into the standing ashtray beside him. “If you need a smuggler, I’m your man.”

  “Are you?” Kelly challenged, raising his chin a tad. “Good. Then I want to send you off on a mission.”

  Pierce thought he should probably be concerned by that. Instead, he was even more interested—even somewhat excited.

  “What’s the mission?”

  Kelly smirked. “All in good time. First things first. We need to get you a new look, starting with a haircut.”

  Pierce cringed. He didn’t fancy that idea.

  Six

  Lucy

  Despite having a warm bed and plenty of alcohol in his system, Pierce had a trying time getting to sleep. Now that he wasn’t frozen to the bone and fearing for his life, he had a chance to settle into the situation. The world the Trickster had brought him to was vastly different than his own, but he would adapt. He’d always been good at acclimating. Viewing everything in a positive light, he found this was the prime opportunity to learn so many things—and his excitement was growing. A new adventure awaited him in this world of machines and gadgets. The possibilities were endless.

  He rolled out of bed. The snowfall had stopped. Beyond the frosted windowpane, Pierce saw the neighborhood was in a complete whiteout. The street had vanished, as had the sidewalks. Being inside, the snow felt less threatening. In fact, it appeared magical and majestic.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Pierce grumbled, returning to bed. “Get some rest, you daft idiot.”

  Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

  The sound snatched Pierce out of his slumber faster than a bullet leaving a gun.

  “Fuck!” he exclaimed, shooting up and banging the back of his noggin on the headboard. “Ow!”

  Frank laughed as Pierce rubbed the sore spot on his head. The sod stood by the bed, holding some kind of round ringing copper clock with a pair of brass bells set atop it.

  “Wakey, wakey, Chaplin,” the wanker mocked him over the obnoxious trill.

  “Shut that bloody thing off!” Pierce demanded. “What the hell is that?”

  Frank stopped the clock and stared queerly at it as if he didn’t know. “It’s an alarm clock, you dope. Don’t youze have these over in England, or do youze mooks rely on roosters?”

  Pierce gave no answer, only grunted.

  Frank put the clock on the bedside table. “C’mon. Boss wants youze.”

  Pierce dressed in his shirt, vest, and checkered britches, and then went downstairs where the smell of bacon and eggs greeted him. He followed the wondrous scent to a door. Beyond it was the kitchen where a butler and two maids were busy getting breakfast ready. When a maid with the sweet face of a granny noticed him practically drooling at the doorway, her old lips rose in a smile.

  “You must be Mr. Quinn’s guest,” she surmised in a kindly Irish brogue. “Care for some tea, ducky?”

  “Aye, I would indeed. Cheers.”

  She poured him tea while the younger maid set many delicious looking foods on a tray upon the counter.

  “Here you are, dove,” the older maid offered, handing him the teacup.

  The first sip made him levitate. It tasted better than the tea at the diner.

  “Now off with you,” the servant shooed. “Mr. Quinn is in the nook.”

  Pierce followed the butler, who was carrying a tray through another door and into a quaint little room where Kelly sat at a table next to three bay windows that overlooked the small backyard of his townhouse.

  Kelly was dressed in a robe and silk britches. His black and greying hair appeared somewhat disheveled from sleep and shone unnaturally in the dull morning glow.

  “There you are, my boy,” the man greeted him, putting the newspaper he was reading down on the table. “Have a seat.”

  Pierce sat across the way from him. The butler took two plates off the tray and set one down in front of Kelly and the other in front of Pierce.

  Kelly unfolded his napkin and placed it over his lap.

  “Care for bacon and sausage?”

  Pierce was so hungry, he’d have eaten cooked seaweed.

  “Very. I appreciate this, Mr. Quinn.”

  “I heard Mr. Garcia gave you quite the wake-up call.”

  Pierce scowled. “Aye. The cocker got me good, he did.”

  He reached for a cinnamon roll when he noticed that Kelly had his eyes closed and his forehead resting against his folded hands. Quickly, Pierce retracted his arm and bowed his head, watching and waiting for Kelly to finish praying. When he was, Kelly took a piece of toast and began spreading butter over it.

  “Eat,” he ordered.

  Pierce happily did so, trying his best not to devour the food like a starving animal. Halfway through breakfast, he asked, “You mentioned you wanted to send me off on a mission?”

  “Indeed,” Kelly said, pouring himself more coffee. “I want you to bootleg for me.”

  Pierce figured as much.

  “In Nova Scotia, they’re still allowing the distribution of alcohol. They, in turn, send it to Saint Pierre Island to sell off.”

  “Oi, isn’t that some French territory?” Pierce guessed, remembering the island when he heard about it some years ago. Well, many years, in fact.

  “It is, and it’s out of American’s jurisdiction. The booze brought in from Canada is being loaded onto boats by rumrunners.”

  “Rumrunner? Like pirates.”

  “Not entirely. They’re more in the way of fishermen looking to make a greater profit. Last summer, I sailed out to the island and arranged shipments to be made since I knew my supply would be running out come winter.”

  “You want me to go fetch it for you, I reckon.”

  Quinn nodded. “I need men to sail out to drop-off points, located twelve miles from American Water, collect the alcohol, and bring it to my warehouse.”

  Pierce drank his orange juice. “Doesn’t sound so hard, though I’m sure it is.”

  “And you’d be right, Mr. Chaplin. There’s the Coast Guard, but the real threat is the competition sending hired thugs to steal others’ supply. You see, the rumrunners aren’t the pirates, they are.”

&
nbsp; Pierce nearly chuckled when he saw how serious Kelly was being.

  “Are you up for the task, Mr. Chaplin?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You do,” Kelly explained, using his napkin to wipe crumbs off his thick mustache, “but you won’t enjoy the alternative very much.”

  “Then I’m your man, sir,” he quickly answered.

  Kelly snorted. “I thought you might say that.”

  Pierce nearly jumped out of his seat when a loud ringing shrilled in his ear. Again, Frank laughed. “Jumpy little cuss, aren’t ya?”

  “Bastard,” Pierce seethed, snatching the alarm clock out of his hand, and remembering how Frank did so, turned it off.

  Kelly also laughed, then cleared his throat. “Mr. Garcia, since Mr. Chaplin has decided to join us, he can’t go around looking like this.” To Pierce, he said, “Why are you dressed this way?”

  “Er,” Pierce started to say, but honestly couldn’t think of anything.

  Thankfully, Kelly waved off his own question. “Never mind. You, young man, need some tidying up. Mr. Garcia will take care of it.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Frank said, giving Pierce a slap on the back and sending an earthquake rumbling through him. “I’ll make sure he looks all respectable.”

  Only basic clothing. Nothing too fancy,” Kelly added. “Now, the first boat goes out the day after tomorrow, Mr. Chaplin. You will stay the night here, but we’ll set you up in an apartment in Greenwich Village.”

  “My own flat? Marvelous!

  The hot water pouring from the shower faucet was a blessing. If Frank hadn’t banged on the bleedin’ door for him to come on, Pierce would have stayed in longer. After Pierce was ready, he and the oversize buffoon went to a store selling white-collar working man’s clothing. Pierce picked himself out new undergarments, socks, some vests, shirts, slacks and a pair of boots more equipped to handle the conditions rather than the Oxford shoes he wore. He also added a cap and a plaid jacket, as he considered it unwise for him to be walking around in the coat he’d stolen from Leon. While Frank put the clothing into the trunk, Pierce changed into an outfit in the store’s fitting room. Once dressed, he immediately blended in with the rest of the citizens of the twentieth century.

  Yet, there was one last thing to do, and he dreaded it.

  The barber had a hard time combing through his long hair to prepare it for cutting.

  “Boy, I ain’t seen nobody with so many shades like yours,” the barber commented. “You put dye in this?”

  “Nope. All natural,” Pierce answered.

  When asked why he kept it so long, Frank chimed in with a quip. “He just came outta the box dat way.”

  The hair butcher went to work, cutting it short—shorter than Pierce had ever had it in his life. He then took what he called “clippers” and buzzed the back down even more.

  When done, Pierce ran his hand over his scalp. The stubble prickled his fingertips. At least it wasn’t his entire head. The rest was short, even his bangs, but they were still long enough to hover past his eyes.

  “Where’s the nearest library?” Pierce asked Frank as they left the barbershop.

  He swiped what was left of his hair from off his face and put on the cap. The cold bit at his now exposed ears. He tightened his new scarf around his neck.

  “Library?” Frank queried. “Why?”

  “I enjoy reading. I want to check out a book or two.”

  “Youze don’t have a library card,” Frank pointed out.

  “I’ll sign up for one.”

  “Youze need an address first. Can’t have a card without a residence.”

  Pierce huffed as they stepped over the dirty snow piled on the side of the street. Apparently, the snowplows had been busy all morning. He followed Frank across the road where he’d parked on the other side.

  “Then I’ll just browse for a bit. Can you take me?”

  Frank unlocked the door, got in, and reached over to unlock the passenger door. Pierce slid in and eyed him, waiting for an answer.

  “All right,” Frank yielded, cranking up the engine. “I’z has shit to do, anyways. I’ll drop youze off.”

  They drove to Thirteenth Street, where Frank halted the automobile in front of a stone building built after the Greek style.

  “I’ll come get youze ’round three,” Frank informed.

  “Cheers, mate.” Pierce opened the door to leave when a firm hand latched onto his shoulder.

  “Hey,” Frank said, “don’t think ’bout runnin’ off. Boss wouldn’t like dat.”

  The thought of fleeing had never even crossed Pierce’s mind. And for the same reason, he’d chosen not to run the night before when he’d had Frank’s gun. Simply put, he had no place to go.

  “I’ll be here, eh?”

  Frank slid his big, gloved hand off him. “Good. I’z likes youze, Chaplin. Wouldn’t wanna ice ya or find out that Clark got his mitts on youze.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Frank tilted his chin up at him. “Youze crossed a seriously dangerous man. He ain’t the same as he was before a rival gang boss filled ’im full of lead, but he has a reputation for doing things to people dat would make Vikings puke der guts out.”

  Grand, Pierce thought grimly.

  “Aye. Understood.”

  He exited the car and stood on the icy sidewalk, watching as the car pulled away from the curb and joined the cluster of other automobiles on the thoroughfare. Pierce climbed the stairs to the front entrance. Out of habit, he kept his head lowered until he realized he didn’t need to unless Leon Clark was in the building. He raised his chin and stepped inside.

  It wasn’t often that he was able to visit a library. Librarians in his time usually ran him off because they suspected that such a rag-wearing chum as he was couldn’t read and was only loitering about. No employee protested him being in here. In fact, a couple of librarians smiled at him as he walked by, then giggled and chatted among themselves with impish grins.

  He walked between the tall bookshelves and enjoyed the alluring smell of the books. Eventually, he found the reference section where heaps of old newspapers were stacked on a shelf. Pierce cherrypicked through the papers he wanted.

  In order to keep up with his cover, he first needed to read up on the events that had happened in the last seventy years.

  On his way to a vacant table, he spied a row of strange box-like machines. Each was made of some kind of tan metal, perhaps aluminum, and had a screen inside. Two small spindles were mounted on the bottom of the huge box with some sort of lens between them. Excited that it could be another film contraption, he went over to an occupied machine and peered over the person’s shoulder. There were no moving pictures, only a broadsheet about plant seeds, which the man was reading. Pierce observed the reader as he finished the broadsheet. The man then pressed on one of five buttons in front of him, which slid the old sheet away and allowed another newssheet to slide into view. It was about agriculture. Apparently, the bloke was studying farming.

  Sensing somebody near, the reader turned to look over at Pierce.

  “How does it work?” Pierce inquired.

  “Um, you get the microfilm from the librarians and bring it over here to put on this roller.” He tapped on the right spindle. “Then wind it up on the take-up roller on the left.”

  “Then what?” Pierce demanded.

  “Listen, mac, go find someone working here to help you. I’m busy.”

  Figuring it was best to leave the man to his studies, Pierce requested assistance from the librarians. Both women were very happy to oblige. They showed him how to set the microfilm under the microscope and then to adjust and enlarge the images by turning what they called a rotate knob. The other buttons moved the sheets backward and forward. Once Pierce had gotten the gist of it, the women left him to it, leaving all the boxes of microfilm on the subjects he’d requested. He settled into his chair and began reading.

  For a couple of hours, he read every
thing he could about the twentieth century. He didn’t want to be caught off-guard about anything again, so he browsed through advertisements and learned about some of the new technologies. He studied maps and discovered that America had become a much bigger country, stretching from coast to coast.

  “Ah,” he whispered, tapping on the screen over a state on the other side of the country. “So that’s where California is.”

  And he caught up on Prohibition. There were many daguerreotypes of police hacking up barrels and pouring gallons of booze down sewer drains. There were also photographs of dead gangsters and some innocent bystanders cut to pieces by gunfire inside cars or on the street. A side effect of Prohibition, which was apparently supposed to help humanity. What madness.

  Pierce combed through stories dating back to the last century. He read about the American Civil War and then the First Machine War that followed.

  He turned the focus dial to clear up the headline.

  Automaton Uprising!!

  Mankind Has Gone Too Far!

  “Uprising?” he muttered, reading on in disbelief.

  During the Civil War, the bodies of dead soldiers were turned into fighting machines. A technology to reanimate bodies had been around since the mid-1800s, when two Hispanic women, Emma Rojas and Gabriela Viola, founded the project. These automatons, created from machine and human flesh, were called Living Automatons or Machine People. The achievement marked the official start of the Age of the Machine. Advertisements for these Living Automatons appeared in many newspapers throughout the mid-1850’s and up until the end of the Civil War. Initially, they were marketed as servants for the living. Eventually, the automatons broke free from their masters and retaliated. The fight came to the British Isle during The Age of the Machine Era.

  All throughout his life, Pierce had heard whispers about this upcoming age that was supposedly going to reshape the world with all sorts of mechanical wonders. The Age of the Machine was supposed to signify the peak of the Industrial Revolution. As time passed, Pierce doubted it would ever come about. No matter how many inventions were produced and improved upon or universities built to mold young minds into becoming Contributors, it never seemed enough. Apparently, though, it was.