The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1)

by C. A. Sanders

The other two Mets were able to subdue the rest, leaving me with three armed men who don’t like my type. “Easy, fellas. I don’t want trouble.” The crowd that formed around the brawl closed in, sealing any escape. I took a chance and held out my hand to shake.

  There was a long pause, and I saw Hendricks trying to cut his way through the crowd. His head bobbed up and down, visible over the mob. Finally, the Met that I was fighting next to shook my hand. “McGregor,” he said.

  “Hood,” I replied. “How’s your sniffer?”

  He rubbed it. “Not bad, I’ve had worse. We’ve been having a helluva time this week. That fancy English fella an’ his people came in for Thanksgiving with Mayor Wood. His sailors think they’re too important to go to jail. They’re not too important for a good annoitin’.” He glanced back to his friends. “You better get outta here. We’ve got some more fellas coming with the wagon, and they might not be as friendly.”

  “Good idea, but one thing. Do you know a Leenie Hyde?”

  “This isn’t my beat, but lemme ask.” He turned to his friends and mumbled some things. They mumbled back.

  “I know ‘er,” said one of the other Mets, a blue eyed man missing half an ear, but making up for it in mustache. “Lives with her ma’ on Cherry and Catharine. Red brick building, with a butcher on the bottom. She’s a beer maid at the Bloody Knuckle, ‘bout two blocks down. Watch out fer that place, it’s one of Smokestack’s.”

  I nodded and thanked them as the crowd wandered off. Me and Hendricks continued down the street.

  “Smokestack?” Hendricks asked.

  “Smokestack Sullivan. He owns a few saloons, gambling houses, brothels, councilmen, an engine company, whatever brings in the jack,” I said. “He mostly rolls the sailors and Irish just off the boat. He’s a real boss down here. You don’t get in his way.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Talk to Leenie Hyde and hope that Smokestack isn’t involved.”

  Hendricks gasped as we passed a tattooed sailor and a streetwalker kissing in a doorway. Her cat-heads were popping out of her dress top, and the sailor’s hand cupped one of them and squeezed. I rapped on the wall with my nightstick to move them along. Some people have no manners. Keep it in the brothels or on the Hook, where it belongs.

  His wits regained, Hendricks returned to the conversation. “Do you think he’s involved?”

  “We’ll find out. There’s the building.”

  The building looked ready to collapse. The red bricks were blackened around the mortar from soot and grime. A garish sign on the side of the building shouted “Fresh Meat” in bright blue letters, but it was overpowered by the dozen bills posted on the same wall. The butcher shop smelled of bad meat. Combined with the fish stand on the other corner, the entire street reeked like nothing I’ve ever had to bear. It’s hard to believe that people live here.

  The building couldn’t be more than fifteen years old, since most older ones are wood. I’d wager that a wooden one burned down here, and this calamity sprang up like a brick mushroom. It was the new tenement style, a broken O-shape that managed to pack as many people into a space as possible. They’ve been showing up all over the Lower Wards and crawling their way north.

  The front door’s lock was broken, so I let myself in. The hallway was narrow and I smelled coal smoke. Hendricks tailed me as I climbed the rickety stairway.

  I knocked on the first door, and it creaked open. “Hello, Municipal Police.”

  “They’re not here.”

  “No, I’m the Police.” I stepped inside the room. An underfed pig grunted and crossed the room. “Come back here.” An old man stumbled after the pig. There were four more people in the room, which was no more than twelve feet square. Two of them lay on wood and straw pallets in a corner. One was eating a bowl of something brown next to a coal stove. The woman that answered me first walked my way.

  “Oh,” the old woman began, “what’d ye need? We’re not one of those places. We’re not that kind here.”

  “I’m looking for Leenie Hyde.”

  “Oh,” the woman coughed for a long minute. “She’s one of that kind. They live two rooms down.” She looked at me with large eyes framed by deep wrinkles. “Do you have anything to spare? It’s getting cold and we dun’t have enough coal. Jus’ enough for a lump o’ two?”

  I reached into a pocket and handed her a couple of pennies. “For coal, not whiskey.” She nodded happily.

  Hendricks gave her a half-dime. “May the Lord protect you,” he said.

  “Oh, yes, yes, and you too, you wonderful boy.”

  We continued down the hall. “You didn’t need to do that. Give them too much and they spend it on wine and women.”

  “I couldn’t ignore her.”

  “You could. Most people do worse.” Two more steps and we were at the right door. I knocked on the warped wood. “Municipal Police.” No answer. “My name is Officer Hood. I mean no harm.” Still no answer, but I heard scurrying behind the door, maybe a rat, maybe a girl. “It’s about Molly.”

  The door opened. A young woman stood on the other side, a kitchen knife in her free hand and the door positioned like a shield. Her red hair lifted from her head in a tangled mess, and her teeth were small. She wore no shoes, and her rough-spun dress swept the dirty floor before her.

  “Wha’s wrong with Molly? Is she in trouble? Is she well?”

  “You must be here sister. May we come in?” I said softly.

  “Oh no, she’s dead! I know it. IknowIknowIknow…”

  She stepped aside, letting the knife fall to her side, and we walked into the room. It was like the first one, except that clothes and underclothes hung on ropes that ran from wall to wall. A Negro mother sat against the wall, holding a baby to her breast. A cat played with a twitching rat.

  “You’ve seen me Molly?” asked a middle-aged woman with the same red hair as Molly and Leenie, presumably Missus Hyde. She kneeled over a washtub, rubbing underclothes with a hard bar of soap and a wooden washboard. She let the clothes sink into the tub.

  I shared a glance with Hendricks, who had angled his body away from the nursing mother and tugged at his collar. “When was the last time you saw Molly?” I asked.

  “T’ree weeks, I think,” said Missus Hyde. She wrung a pair of knickers like she was wringing her hands. “She brought us money, fer rent and…”

  “Is she dead?” Leenie interrupted. She dropped her knife and grabbed Hendricks by the shirt. “Tell me!” Hendricks stepped back like she splashed him with a chamber pot.

  There was no sense in waiting. “Yes, she died yesterday.”

  Missus Hyde wailed a hundred agonies and beat the tub water until half of it was on the floor. The Negro mother came to her and put her free hand on the mourning woman’s shoulder and murmured in her ear. Missus Hyde buried her face in the mother’s dress and cried.

  Leenie’s reaction was different. She shed her tears, but soon stopped and set her jaw. “Who did it? Was it Smokestack?”

  “We don’t know,” Hendricks said. “We were hop—”

  “Why would you ask that?” I interrupted.

  “Was it him? Tell me. Who killed me sister?”

  “It was a snake bite,” I said. “A snake bit her, and someone took the baby she was nursing. The Vanderlays’ baby. You read about them in the paper?”

  Leenie shook her head. “A damned snake killed me sister? After all the things she done, all the men she’d…a damned snake?” The crying began anew. She sat down next to her mother and the two of them wept into each other’s arms.

  I waited while the Hyde women cried themselves out. Hendricks sat down on a crate not far from the stove and warmed his hands. Finally, Leenie sniffled back into control.

  “Why do you care?” Leenie said, as her eyes narrowed. “People down here die every day and you Munis barely notice long enough to sweep away the bodies.”

  She cut me, but she was right. There were too many people, not enough buildings, not eno
ugh food. With the Winter coming on, half the people in this tenement will be dead by Easter.

  “We’re investigating the Vanderlay kidnapping. I questioned Molly when she was in the hospital. She was getting better, but when I came back a few days later she was dead. We think someone killed her, and we think you might know why.” I faced Leenie. She was the one that Molly called out in her fever dream. Sisters are closer than parents when it comes to misdeeds.

  Mrs. Hyde let out a long, black sob.

  Leenie lowered her voice. “Me ma is upset. Can we talk about this outside?”

  I nodded and we went outside, Hendricks in tow. Once out in front of the butcher shop, she began to speak in a low voice. “Me ma don’t know anyt’ing. She stays in the room and does washin’. I don’t want her to know what Molly did.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I always thought Molly would end up dead, but not like this. I even hoped that she would find a good life once that rich man bought her.”

  “He bought her? That’s white slavery!” said Hendricks.

  “We’re all slaves here,” said Leenie. “Smokestack owned Molly likes he owns everyone else in this neighborhood. Like he owns me.”

  “So you and Molly work the Hook,” I stated.

  “She worked in one of his places, above The Bloody Knuckle. I’m a barmaid there, but I don’t have to do…that…as long as I make enough wit dancin’. Molly gave me money to keep me off the bed. The money she got from Mister Vanderlay when he came to her.”

  “Vanderlay.” The pieces began to fit. “Did Vanderlay get her with child?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Some’un did, an’ he thought ‘twas ‘im. He bought ‘er from Smokestack to nurse his wife’s babe, an’ made Molly put her baby Aiden in an orphanage.”

  “That poor child,” Hendricks said, his head tilting to the dirty stones.

  “I was glad. She only had t’ lie with one man now, even if she had to give up her own.” The girl sighed. “Mister Vanderlay said ‘twas temp’rary, an’ once Molly was dry, she could get ‘im back.”

  I looked at her and shook my head.

  “Molly din’t believe ‘im either. She was savin’ her pennies…no good now, I guess.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill her?” I asked.

  “I dunno what those fancy men do. Maybe Smokestack wanted ‘er dead. Maybe he wanted money from Mister Vanderlay, an’ it went wrong. He used ta gamble at The Bloody Knuckle and some of Smokestack’s other places. He always came fer the boxing. He used ta try and dress like a b’hoy to fit in, but he stuck out funny. He’s a queer man.”

  I sponged up all of this new information. I knew there was something cross about Vanderlay. Man like that, he’s gotta be dirty somewhere. Now I found a connection between Vanderlay and Smokestack. I wouldn’t put it past Smokestack to kidnap the baby if he had to.

  Molly meant nothing to them, but she died on my watch. She meant something to me.

  I said my goodbyes to Leenie and elbowed Hendricks away. We caught the lumbering, stinking omnibus at Chatham Square and muscled our way through the throng until we found seats. We rode to Thirteenth Street and walked to my flat.

  “What do we do now?” said Hendricks.

  A plan began to form. “Meet me here tomorrow afternoon. Wear something,” I thought on the right word. “Poor.”

  “I hope this is over soon. I never want to go back there.” He hailed a carriage and rumbled back to Turtle House.

  I headed to the local rag picker. There were a few things I was gonna need.

  Nathaniel

  Rabbi Manuel Levitt is a broad man with a broad beard and broad humor. He lives with his granddaughters on Henry Street in the Seventh Ward, which the Germans and Jews claim as their own.

  Levitt is a different kind of mageling than someone like Tom. His magic comes from his faith as much as his books. He performs a type of magic called Kabbalah, known to the Jewish people alone. It’s a magic that I don’t entirely understand and as ancient as anything that Master Sol ever taught me. The art of petitioning the Lord is lost on most of us, but the good rabbi seems to manage.

  As luck would have it, I can apparate down to the Seventh Ward with no concerns of being seen. I own a fish market on Pike Street, with a back room that I can flash into. I traced the proper rune in the air, and the world disappeared. When it came back, I stood in darkness.

  A mere thought filled the room with light. In the center of the room sat a Troll, now cursing and shielding his eyes from the light. “God’s balls, didja have ta make it so bright?”

  “Sorry, Mak,” I said. I noticed that he was sans apron and covered in fish guts. He sat on a stool, claw deep in a fish’s belly. A pile of gutted fish lay in a wooden crate to his side. “Do you always work in the dark?”

  “Easier on the eyes.” He pointed to one of his bulging, yellow globes. “If ya don’t mind, I’ve got some work ta do.”

  “Oh yes, carry on.” I opened the door to the front room, dismissing my light spell as I went. I walked out the front door, nodding to the Troll behind the fish counter.

  I do my best to find Dwellers jobs elsewhere, but I also hire many of them. I own all sorts of groceries, factories and shops in the city, and I own quite a bit of land. Despite the rumors, I don’t spin straw into gold. The Star of Nine forbids such a thing, as it could ruin a city’s economy, but immortality breeds its own wealth.

  The moment I stepped out into the street, I took in the unique scent of fish guts, urine, coal smoke, and manure. As I headed north on Pike, I picked up overtones of spilled beer and sizzling sausage. It seems like every ward has a signature smell. You can find your way by nose alone.

  The Seventh Ward is at the southern end of what they call Kleindeutschland, or Little Germany. Once away from the docks, the ethnic peculiarities take over. The streets hum with the dream of a new life far from the oppression of their homelands. I passed a beer garden on one corner. The thump of drums and whine of accordion mixed with the sound of sellers and shoppers. Peddlers lined both sides of the street, men and horses crowded the center. A gaggle of goblins in their human disguises haggled with a fruit peddler over some apples.

  I found Levitt’s building. It was another one of those brick tenements. This area had been destroyed by fire several times, but they keep rebuilding, bigger and better. It makes me proud of my people.

  Despite the air of everyday business, something struck me as wrong. I felt tension in the air, like the tingling before a storm. Maybe it was the furtive glances people leveled at each other—or maybe it was the editorial I read in the Subterranean. The locals looked ready to find bolt holes at any moment. Then again, in this part of the city, it’s always good to know an escape route.

  The lock on the building’s front door was broken, so I let myself in. I walked up the black stairs and knocked on the first door.

  “Rabbi Levitt? It’s Nathaniel Hood.”

  “Hood? You want the Rebbi?” Came a thick voice from beyond the door. “Moishe!! Someone here for the Rebbi! Some goy named Hood! I don’t know, just bring the Rebbi!” There was some shuffling behind the door, and then Rabbi Levitt filled the open doorway.

  “Herr Watchmage! So good to see you. Please come in.”

  He closed the door behind me. It was a small room, but quaint. The furniture looked as if they crafted it from wooden crates, straw, and cloth. The table was plain, but a bowl of fruit sat in the middle. The walls were lined with shelves and stuffed with books. A desk sat in the corner, stacked with open books and papers. I smelled fried garlic and onion coming from a room beyond.

  “I have some tea brewing. Would you like some?” He brushed off a chair by the table and gestured for me to sit. “Ruchel, is the tea ready?”

  “Yes, Zaydee,” came a girl’s voice from the other room.

  He bustled out of the room before I could answer, and soon returned with two cups of tea. “Forgive me, Herr Watchmage, but I have no milk or sugar. There’s a lemon in the bowl,
and you can have some, if you like. Or I can go to the grocer and buy sugar. Would you like that?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Are you sure? It’s no bother at all.”

  “No, thank you.”

  The door opened behind me and a man of middling years entered. “Good evening, Rebbe,” he said.

  “Evening, Hershel.”

  Hershel took an apple from the bowl, tipped his hat to me, and left for one of the further rooms.

  “Yes, well.” Levitt raised one finger. “I have a new joke. I know you love them.”

  I stifled a groan and rested my cheek on my palm. “Go on.”

  He smiled and rubbed his meaty hands together. “Wonderful! May I? Good.” His smile turned wicked. “What did the parents give the rabbi after the bris?”

  “What’s a bris?”

  “The…um…how do you say…circumcision.”

  “Oh…I don’t know.”

  “A tip!” Levitt burst into roaring laughter. “You can laugh, Herr Watchmage. It’s good for the spirit.”

  I forced a smile.

  “Wait, I heard a good one from a pickle monger the other day.”

  “Please don’t…”

  “Mister Klein worked in a pickle factory for ten years. One day he says to his wife, ‘Rebecca, for ten years I’ve wanted to stick my finger in the pickle slicer, and today I finally did it.’

  “She said, ‘Well? What happened?’

  “‘I got sacked.’

  “‘Oy vey! What happened to the pickle slicer?”

  “‘She got sacked too.’”

  I stood dumbfounded as he grinned in his tea. “Aren’t you a man of God?” I asked. “You can’t say that.”

  “My dear friend, I was born in Dvinsk, in Russia, many years ago. My mother and two brothers die in a pogrom. They burn half the shtetel down. My father moves us to Hamburg. I live, I laugh, I marry. I have three sons, and they do me proud. My wife dies. The revolution comes. My children fight. I fight. We all fight. They kill my boys, my beautiful boys, and I’m left to bury them. I take my grandchildren and move to America, streets paved with gold. Now I live with ten other people and ten thousand cockroaches. We have little food, and the people hate us. If you don’t learn to laugh, you’ll kill yourself.”