Boom Time

by Michelle E Lowe

  Pierce and Kelly entered. Chester Lithgow and a couple of others stood on the walkway alongside what could only be the submarine. It was a compact and bulky looking contraption built of black metal. In the front was a large round window of thick glass that bubbled out. It made the submarine look like a Cyclops. Atop of it was the hatch.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Pierce gasped with amazement.

  “All set, Mr. Lithgow?” Kelly asked Chester.

  Chester gestured to a ladder running alongside the submarine. “Just waiting for you, boss.”

  Kelly slapped Pierce on the shoulder. “Let’s go, my boy.”

  “Erm, all right,” he said, following the man.

  They scaled the ladder and went inside. There was a low red light burning from a single bulb above. There wasn’t much room to stand upright. Too many brass and copper valve tanks, pipes, and tubes crowded the space. Pierce bumped into two valve wheels. The entire place felt like being in the guts of some mechanical best. The small helm contained one chair where a man that Pierce had never seen before was seated. Standing slightly hunched beside him was George. He had a gun trained on the seated man.

  “Howdy, boss,” George greeted him. With his coat on, no one could see his mechanical arm. “Hey, Isaac. Heard you had a humdinger of a night.”

  “We need to get moving, Mr. Baxter,” Kelly insisted. To Pierce, he said, “Mr. Chaplin, the hatch, please.”

  Pierce gawked at him, utterly gobsmacked. “Er, you’re suggesting I ride along?”

  He didn’t particularly care for tight places and there was hardly any space for the four men to stand. Kelly’s thick mustache rose when he smiled. He clasped the back of Pierce’s head and held it firm.

  “You’ve earned this. Now, go shut the hatch. Make sure the wheel is fastened properly.”

  Unsure of how to talk his way out of it, Pierce climbed up the short ladder and pulled down the heavy iron hatch. He turned the spoke until it no longer budged. He hoped beyond hope that he had closed it enough.

  “Get us going, Mr. Baxter,” Kelly ordered.

  “Sure thing, boss.” George clicked the gun hammer sharply. “You heard ’im, Cochise. Take us under.”

  The hostage began throwing switches and turning knobs on the dash. He reached overhead and spun a wheel. His hands were shaking. Having been in this sort of situation before, Pierce felt sorry for the wanker. Were the man smart, he’d take whatever Kelly was offering. Better to work for the competition than the alternative.

  The submarine jerked, making Pierce grab hold of the pipes beside his head. The lamplight beyond the porthole sloshed away to murky waters as they descended. Apparently, the ballast tanks worked very well now. Once the sub was completely submerged, the lights outside blazed on and fish and the posts from the pier appeared.

  “Bloody hell,” Pierce whispered, watching as the posts faded to blotchy beams as the submarine went into reverse. The driver turned another wheel, shifting the submarine around in the other direction. When he did, Kelly handed George a sheet of paper.

  “The coordinates.”

  The submarine went eighteen feet underwater—or three fathoms, according to the hostage. The trip was dark, but, once in a while, the submarine’s smoky headlamps illuminated a fish or a patch of kelp—or even some debris. Pierce hoped they wouldn’t come across a body such as the boathouse guards who apparently never saw it coming, as Kelly had stated.

  “It’s something, ain’t it, kid?” Kelly said to him.

  Aye. It bloody well is.

  The allure of underwater travel lessened as the hours ticked by. Trapped inside such a confined space with no smoking allowed, Pierce began getting antsy. He’d spent pretty much his whole life out in wide-open spaces. Just when he thought he couldn’t stand it anymore, the submarine resurfaced. Water slid over the window. The first thing Pierce noticed was the paddle wheel.

  He pointed to the object outside. “Is that a riverboat?”

  “She’s a paddle steamer,” Kelly answered. “She used to sail visitors on tours up and down the East River in the late nineteenth century. When the owner died, the ship was docked here and converted into a restaurant for a couple of years before a rotor boat accidentally rammed her side near the stern, cutting her deep. Now, she sits here, rotting. The perfect hiding place.” To the trembling bloke at the helm, Kelly cautioned, “Mind yourself. The water is shallow here.”

  They traveled toward the vessel, which was lying slightly askew. A hole in the bottom allowed them to pass through and enter the engine room.

  “We . . . we’re here,” the driver stuttered, halting the sub next to the grasshopper engine with the boiler dead ahead.

  Pierce was glad to hear it. He turned the spoke and unlatched the hatch. The lights of the submarine briefly shined over the rusted steamer equipment, forever at a standstill. Then the power was cut. The place wasn’t completely dark, though. Frank, Chester, and Brody, who must’ve headed out as soon as the submarine went under, were waiting with flashlights and hanging lamps.

  Pierce climbed down the ladder and stepped cautiously onto the broken floor, grabbing hold of the boat’s telegraph to keep from falling.

  “How was it, boss?” Frank asked as Kelly emerged.

  “It’s perfect, boys. We’ll make plenty of dough from this!”

  The man practically danced his way down the ladder. Pierce was thrilled just to be out.

  Everything the lights touched was reddish brown. Flakes of decaying iron frayed from the walls. The engine room wasn’t too far from the open waters beyond—maybe six feet or so. The rotor boat’s impact had pushed the wall inward, making it look like the broken ends of a tree. Most of the paddle steamer was built from wood, but the metal innards of the engine had halted the rotor boat’s damage as effectively as a brick wall. As long as the sub stayed mostly submerged, no other boats would be able to spot it from outside unless they were really looking.

  The submarine operator stepped out after Kelly, George and his gun behind him. They soon joined everyone in the dark, dank room that reeked like some foul, watery tomb. Kelly came up beside Pierce while he was lighting a much-needed cigarette.

  “You did well, Chaplin,” Kelly praised him, patting his shoulder. “Very well, indeed.”

  “Cheers,” Pierce said adjusting his stance on the uneven floor. “What’ll happen if Leon finds out who took his sub? He could just as easily find your boathouse as we did his.”

  “I’ve already sorted it all out. My vessel will stay in Inwood and go out on pretend runs and bring back empty barrels that we’ll keep stored inside the boat. It won’t be long before Clark sends people out to investigate, and when they locate my boathouse, it’ll appear as if everything is normal on my end.”

  Pierce saw that as plausible.

  “Mr. Lithgow,” Kelly addressed Chester.

  Chester, who had positioned himself behind the hostage, threw a line of wire around the man’s neck and tightened it.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Pierce gasped.

  The poor bugger struggled, which did him little good. His face turned red and his eyes bulged. The lack of oxygen weakened his legs and he collapsed to his knees and then to his belly with Chester never letting up on the cord. The sound of his sloppy choking and desperate attempts to suck in oxygen were horrifying.

  “Mr. Quinn . . .” Pierce protested, but Brody suddenly clasped his arm.

  The Irishman shook his head, an earnest look on his face. By the time Pierce looked back at the murder in progress, the hostage lay motionless.

  Chester rose, winded from the struggle, and tossed the murder weapon into the water.

  “He’s done for, Mr. Quinn.”

  “Good,” Kelly said in an eerily chipper tone.

  A cold shudder ran down Pierce’s spine as if frigid drops of water were rolling over it. Perhaps it was cold sweat. Whatever the case, it left his vertebrae utterly rigid, especially when Kelly faced him.

  “You wanted to say something, M
r. Chaplin?”

  His little protest would do the dead man no good now, and the way Brody had looked at him with such warning in his eyes reminded him of the kind of bloke Kelly Quinn was. Any fickle action from Pierce could etch an unfavorable mark on Pierce’s otherwise perfect record. Pierce needed to tread carefully.

  “Er, who’s going to drive the submarine now?”

  Kelly casually put on his hat, the thick fog of his breath breezing from his nostrils as densely as cigarette smoke. “I have connections. Someone I know from the old country is flying in tomorrow. He has experience in operating machines such as this.”

  Pierce swallowed thickly. “I see.”

  He eyed the body as Frank and Chester lifted it. Pierce didn’t know how he felt about the murder that had been committed right in front of him. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t witnessed someone’s death before. He, himself, had taken a life when he needed to. It was a brutal practice in this world. Underneath the parties, beyond the money and good times, this was the gritty price of it all.

  “I want to offer you a position, Mr. Chaplin,” Kelly stated. “I want you to be the new manager at The Attic.”

  The offer caught him off guard. “Come again?”

  “You’ll start tomorrow night.”

  And with that, Kelly strolled off with George following him up the stairs. “Watch your step, Chaplin. It can be tricky through here.”

  “Congrats.” Frank walked by, smiling like a daft fool as if he wasn’t actually carrying one-half of a dead man.

  Pierce hated seeing the unfortunate cocker being lugged off as if he were trash. He turned away and took a drag of his half-burnt smoke.

  “Told you, English,” Brody reminded him, coming up alongside him and lighting his own cigarette. “We’re nothin’ but disposable employees.”

  Twenty-One

  The Old Man

  Leon Clark’s gut feeling about the break-in gnawed at him. He eventually sent some men over to the boathouse. An hour later, he got the call.

  He needed to see it to believe it. The bodies were found nearby, and the missing submarine was almost to be expected.

  “They must’ve ganked the sub the moment the crew left with the product, boss,” Carl suggested unhelpfully.

  Obviously, it was exactly what the thieves had done, for the shipment had arrived at the speakeasy over two hours ago. At least the thieves hadn’t taken his cargo. However, without the submarine, he couldn’t bring in such a large haul again.

  His lungs tightened through sheer rage, forcing him to breathe through his mask.

  “Who do you think done this, Mr. Clark?” another of his goons asked.

  His thoughts immediately went to two people, that good for nothing mick, Kelly Quinn, and the Italian sorceress, Violetta Romano. Yet, the rumors about Oisin Charke’s submarine had been swirling around since last spring and many had speculated that Leon had taken possession of it after he rubbed out the Clergymen Gang. Anyone could have swiped the thing with the intent to use it for smuggling. If Leon jumped into an assault on either organization, he risked drawing the attention of the wrong people, such as that bastard, Hawk Geo. He first needed to find out exactly who had robbed him. From there, he would handle the matter quietly and without a whisper.

  Pierce couldn’t get the murder he’d witnessed out of his mind. He didn’t necessarily feel like retiring to his flat, for all he would be doing would be listening to the radio and smoking cigarettes until his throat became sore. He needed some books since finishing The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

  As Pierce hailed a taxi, he slipped his hand into his coat pocket and instantly felt something inside.

  “Oi, what are you doin’ in there, fella?”

  He held the praying mantis, which had apparently hitched a ride with him.

  “You’ve been with me this whole time?”

  The mantis did nothing but stare back at him, cocking its tiny copper head from side to side. It didn’t seem too inclined to leave.

  “S’pose I could use a pet, especially one I don’t have to feed. I hope.”

  He rode a taxi to Harlem. On their way to The Brass Ring, Pierce had spotted a jazz club. The joint was blocks from Leon’s nightclub, so he didn’t fret about running into any trouble. However, it wouldn’t surprise him if he did.

  Soon, he found himself sitting alone, happily enjoying the music. The place was much smaller than The Brass Ring, only a single room with brick walls and lighted by low-lit Tiffany lamps. Fiery cigarette ends winked slowly in the dimness. The stage was set in the far rear, with small, round tables arranged on the floor in front of it. Apparently, the club was legit, no booze sold, but they served the best fried fish Pierce had ever eaten. If alcohol was being secretly peddled, Pierce didn’t know and didn’t bother to ask. He was content with being a regular tosser who wasn’t doing anything illegal for once.

  The band on stage was a five-person group. A robust black woman wearing a rhinestone hairband and a sparkly purple flapper dress sang with such heart-wrenching passion that she had the entire house captivated. The sound of her voice alone seemed to undo the damage in Pierce’s soul.

  “Beautiful singing, eh?” came a voice from the other end of his table.

  Pierce looked over and saw an old man through the firelight of the single candle burning on the table. He had taken the chair that had been vacant only moments ago. Pierce had been so engrossed in the music, he’d failed to notice someone joining him.

  “Aye,” Pierce agreed, reaching into his jacket for his Lucky Strike pack.

  He was still dressed in his fancy suit, which had already seen plenty of action in the single night he’d worn it.

  “Can I have one of those?” the Englishman inquired. “It’s been ages.”

  Pierce slid a cigarette out and handed it and the lighter over to him.

  “Cheers, lad,” the geezer said.

  The club was very dim. The flickering candle flame between Pierce and the old man was the only source of light by which he could see the man. The geezer wore a fedora hat with some feathers sticking out of it, a vest, and a black-and grey-striped dress shirt. His jacket and coat were draped over the back of his chair. He wore red-tinted spectacles and his white hair reached past his shoulders, though it was tied back. He had a thin build, similar to Pierce’s.

  “Care for a drink?” the man offered, handing over a glass of Coca-Cola. He patted his vest over the inner pocket and smirked. “I added a little Southern Comfort.”

  The geezer must be carrying a flask on him. Pierce eyed the flask, then noticed his guest had his own glass of Cola. It seemed a tad odd, but he accepted it anyway. He sniffed it. The alcohol burned his nose. After such a long day, he really could use a stiff drink.

  “Been a hell of a day, hasn’t it?”

  Pierce snapped his head around to his guest, who seemed to have caught his thought. The old man lit his smoke with the compass lighter and then stared at it with a wistful grin playing across his face. He handed the lighter over and took a draught of Coca-Cola and Southern Comfort.

  “That’s Holly Young,” he informed Pierce, pointing to the singer on stage with the hand he was holding the glass in. “She and her lot come to this dive every Friday night to perform. I daresay, they’d make a great addition to any establishment.”

  It was as if he was implying something.

  “S’pose.” Pierce lit his own smoke. “What part of England are you from, mate?”

  “Salisbury. Originally. I’ve moved around a lot, though. You?”

  “Blackpool.”

  The old cocker snorted at that. “Blackpool, eh?”

  The praying mantis climbed out of Pierce’s coat pocket and scurried across the table. By the time Pierce noticed, it was too late.

  “Well, ’ello, ol’ boy,” the old man greeted. “How have you been?”

  Pierce arched an eyebrow.

  “You know each other?”

  The stranger lifted the mechanical creature up a
nd delicately patted its head with his finger.

  “Oh, aye. We’ve met long ago. I’d recognize this bullet body anywhere.”

  He lowered his hand to the tabletop, allowing the mantis to step off his palm like a passenger leaving a ship. It then scampered over to Pierce’s coat, where it hid just as the waitress came over to ask if they wanted anything else.

  Pierce couldn’t figure out what to make of the Englishman. A certain familiarity wafted off him like heavily applied cologne. Was he really the Trickster fucking with him again? Was it time to return already?

  “Not quite,” the old man answered before taking a drag of his cigarette.

  “Pardon?” Pierce quickly asked. “Did you just say ‘Not quite?’”

  “Did I?” he said, sounding not so surprised. “Huh. Wonder what I meant by that?”

  Pierce narrowed his eyes at him.

  “You’re a cheeky fellow, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

  The man looked over at him. The firelight reflected off his round specs. The brim of his hat hovered low on the right side, halfway over his eye.

  “My name? I’m nobody, lad.” He knocked back his drink and stood, stabbing out his cigarette. He stole a lingering look at Pierce. “Bloody hell, I’d almost forgotten how young you looked,” he whispered. He slid a napkin over the table towards Pierce. “Remember what I told you about the band, eh? Cheerio.”

  With that, he grabbed his jacket and coat and slunk away into the darkness. Pierce watched him vanish. He thought about following him and demanding to know who the bloody hell he was. That, however, might lead to some unwanted attention, and in this part of town, with Leon’s people possibly stalking about, he knew it wouldn’t be wise. Instead, he huffed, picked up the napkin, and flipped it around. A handwritten message read:

  Watch out for the wild elf.

  Twenty-Two

  Blue Skies

  Dr. Fischer had completed the heart and inserted it into the automaton lying on the table. It was hooked up to the voltage box. He turned the meter knobs this way and that until he found the correct current level. It hummed, and when he lowered his goggles over his eyes, Violetta did the same.