“Cripes.” Harvey whispered. “You’re like some kind of globetrotting hero...” His face flushed red.
“We’re well-traveled, dear heart,” Silver added. She turned to Clay and Zipporah. “But this is one scoop that’s a little too big, even for me.” She sighed. “I hate to say it, but we need to tell Edwin Eames about what’s going on. If these rabid rabbis want the Founding Stone for some kooky spell, the damned rock must be safeguarded.” She gave the wheel of the speedboat another twist, sending it zooming over the waves. “We’ll go straight to the Wigwam Club and meet with him. Tell him what happened and see what he can do about it.”
“Why, Miss Silver,” Zipporah said. “You sound almost like a responsible citizen.”
“Let’s not go that far,” Silver said. “There’s nothing like putting one’s self in the center of a story. The readers of the Weekly Sophisticate are well aware of that fact. Now, let’s see where this story leads.” She directed the speedboat over the sea, returning to Sickle Bay. Sickle City loomed above them, lost in the mist. Clay settled down and listened to Harvey and Sophie talk in quiet tones about all their various travels and adventures. Lucky crawled over to his lap and rooted around in his tattered trench coat. He leaned back and let it happen as they returned to the city.
~~~
The Wigwam Club rested on Damocles Street, about a block away from Tier Tower and Arcadia Park. For nearly a century, this political club had hoarded all power in Sickle City, like a dragon hoarding its gold. It resembled a neo-classical junk heap, all gilded pillars and statues of swooping American eagles looming from the ceiling as ornate chandeliers. American flags bedecked the walls, covering everything in limp displays of red, white, and blue. When Clay and his friends arrived, the place was in an uproar. Clerks darted about through the narrow halls, carrying piles of spilling paper. Phones rang continuously, adding to the cacophony of increased conversation. Clay and the others settled into a waiting room, where ward bosses, businessmen, police officers, and even honest citizens crowded together on the tiled floor and tried to get an audience with Edwin Eames. His harried secretary struggled through appointments as the minutes ticked away.
Harvey stared at the chaos of the Wigwam Club as security guards hauled out a squad of reporters. Flash bulbs clicked and glowed as their photographers snapped pictures of the mess. “Is this all because of the police strike?”
“You hit the nail on the head, kid,” Silver said. “I think old Edwin spoke a little too soon in his big fancy zeppelin about the strike dying down. The policemen in this city are treated like garbage—it’s no wonder so many of them take bribes as a matter of principle—and now they’re being treated like upstart Bolsheviks when they try to get something a little better. They’re gonna strike, and then this whole city will have no law.”
“For how long?” Clay asked.
Zipporah settled into her seat. “Long enough for the Dagger Men to make their play, whatever it is.” No one had even asked her to leave her scimitars outside. She probably could have come inside toting a machine gun and nobody would have noticed. She called to the secretary. “We need to see Mr. Eames. It’s important.”
“He’s not taking any visitors at the moment,” the secretary said, trying to be polite. “Regrettably, he is busy with important matters of state. If you would continue to wait patiently, then I’m certain—”
“Tell him that Rabbi Holtz’s representative is here,” Clay suggested. “That might get him interested.”
The secretary nodded weakly, his pince-nez glasses slipping down his sweaty nose, and ducked into Eames’s office. A moment later, his head reappeared in the door. “Grand Sagamore Eames will see you now,” he said. He held open the door as Clay and the others filed inside. Lucky snapped his teeth at the secretary, who sighed and shuffled back to his desk.
Eames’ office had the refined, elegant look of a place that was more for display than actual use. A desk the size of a grand piano housed rows of sculptures of majestically flying eagles and Revolutionary War soldiers in attitudes of heroism, and assorted plaques, trophies, and decorative trophies and weapons that he had earned in his service. Vast bookshelves occupied the walls, overlooking the sort of walnut furniture found in smoking rooms in gentleman’s clubs. Eames himself sat in shirtsleeves behind the desk. A window looked out on the street behind him, giving him a great view of Arcadia Park—but he wasn’t paying any attention. He torched a Cuban with his desk’s lighter as Clay and his friends came in. Another man stood in the corner, ramrod straight and staring at the books.
Clay removed his fedora. “Mr. Eames.” He nodded. “I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news.”
“And what a shock it will be for me to hear it, after I’ve had nothing but joyous tidings since the sunrise.” Eames put his feet on the desk as he sucked in cigar smoke. “Clay, let me introduce you to a fellow man of action.” He waved his cigar at the fellow in the corner. “Orton—get over here.”
“I don’t think we have time for pleasantries, Eames,” Silver said. “We’ve got a warning for you, and something tells me you better hear it.”
“My dear Miss Silver—I’m starting to wish I had thrown you off my airship yesterday.” Eames stood up and threw his arm around his other guest. “This is Orton Sinclair, one of the founders of the Sinclair-Koots Detective Agency. His valiant guards will be defending our fine city from all threats, especially after the worthless police force goes on strike.”
Sinclair approached Clay. They recognized each other instantly. “Clay?” Sinclair asked. “It’s good to see you.” He looked just like Clay remembered him, when they served together in the Polar Bear Expedition, with a stiff bearing, reddish handlebar moustache, and hooded, dark eyes. He wore his black suit and bowler hat like a uniform. He and Clay shook hands. “I suppose things haven’t changed that much. I’m still hunting Bolsheviks, though now my quarry resides in America.”
“Hunting Bolsheviks?” Harvey asked.
“Exactly, young man.” Sinclair answered briskly. “You see, the Bureau of Investigation regards the upcoming police strike as an opportunity. The enemies of America, many of them aliens—Polacks, Hungarians, Jews, and that sort, will attempt to rise up and create some sort of Marxist Revolution. But we can snatch them up first and see them swiftly deported. The Bureau’s paying me and my detectives a great deal of money to assist them, and we’ll be earning additional funds protecting the city for Mr. Eames. This is good work, Clay. Perhaps there’s a place for you at our side.” He turned to Silver. “But what was your concern, ma’am?”
So Sinclair hadn’t left the soldiering game—though now he worked for hire. And if he was going after Bolsheviks, then Herbert Holtz might end up in the crosshairs. He was an immigrant, after all, even if he had come over when he was barely old enough to walk.
Zipporah glanced at Harvey, recognizing his panic. “One thing at a time.” She pointed to Eames. “Clay already told you about the Dagger Men. Well, we were just spying on them and we found out a little more. They’re going to try and create some sort of spell, which they’ll use to conquer Sickle City.”
“It depends on the Founding Stone, sir,” Sophie said, holding a squirming Lucky in her arms. “You need to protect it.”
“The Founding Stone?” Eames asked. “That old museum piece at City Hall? They’ve got it right in the lobby, you know, so that every visitor can see our noble heritage.” He slumped on his desk. “And you believe that these Dagger Men will make an attempt to capture the stone, as an ingredient in some mystical recipe? And they’ll use the chaos of the police strike to attempt this theft?”
“Yeah,” Clay said.
“Well, it’s certainly an interesting story. And I’ll try to have some detectives guarding City Hall—but there are so many other potential targets for looting or anarchist sabotage that we must defend.” Eames sat at the tabl
e and rested his head in his hands. “Here’s a moment of honesty, a rarity, I know. When the strike is over, I’m not certain this city will remain standing. But I will do my best. I owe Rabbi Holtz that at least.” Eames stubbed his cigar out on the desk, ignoring the way that it burned the wood. “Now, do you have any other concerns?”
Before Clay could reply, a chant reached the office. “Policeman’s strike is here to stay! Better conditions! Better pay!” The chant came from a crowd marching out of Arcadia Park to stand in the street. “Policeman’s strike is here to stay! Better conditions! Better pay!” Some policemen wore their blue uniforms while other dressed in civilian clothes. They wielded their signs and marched straight up to the Wigwam Club, bellowing their slogans.
Eames looked out the window and whimpered. He glanced at Clay. “No more visitors. Get out.”
“But the Dagger Men—” Harvey started.
“You heard him.” Sinclair spoke with a cold tone. “Get out.”
There was nothing else they could do. Clay turned around and Zipporah and Harvey followed him. The Silvers joined them in the hall. They left the Wigwam Club and walked down the marble steps. The protesting policemen stood before them, shouting their slogans as reporters snapped photos. A small crowd had gathered to watch, some of them joining in with the chant.
Silver took her daughter’s hand. “Come along, Sophie. We’ll catch a cab back to the apartment. I think we’ll want to be indoors for what’s coming next.” She waved goodbye to Clay, Zipporah, and Harvey as they walked down the steps. “You should do the same. Get somewhere safe, Mr. Clay—and it was a thrill working with you!” They moved down the sidewalk, Sophie dragging Lucky on his leash.
Harvey waved to them. “Goodbye!” Then he turned to the crowd. “Oh, Uncle Herbert. Hello!”
Herbert Holtz walked over, Bethany Hark at his side. He shook hands with Clay and Zipporah and patted Harvey’s head. “Hello there.” A boyish smile filled Herbert’s face. “Bethany and I were in a Northside coffeehouse when we heard the news and had to come see it for ourselves.”
“And it seems the rumors were true,” Hark added.
“Isn’t it marvelous?” Herbert extended his hands, as if he wanted to embrace the police.
“What do you mean?” Zipporah asked.
“The strike—workers asserting themselves and agitating for their rights.” Herbert squeezed Harvey’s shoulder. “This could be it—the beginnings of revolution in America, and an end to capitalist tyranny. Perhaps other workers will soon follow the police, and they will become the vanguard of a revolutionary struggle.”
He seemed delighted, but Clay didn’t share his enthusiasm. The strike had begun and there would be no law in Sickle City until it ended. The Dagger Men would take full advantage of the chaos. As far as Clay was concerned, only misery lay ahead.
Chapter Five
STRIKE!
They took a cab straight back to Haven Street, only to find Uptown boiling in an uproar over the strike. Newsboys stood on every corner, loudly hawking extras and announcing that the law in Sickle City had vanished. The upper class citizens of Damocles Street acted accordingly. They hastened over the sidewalks, packed into their luxury automobiles and cabs, and struggled to make it home to their families before the lack of law led to chaos. A few accidents slowed traffic even more, as automobiles rammed into each other in their haste to escape. Arcadia Park emptied completely. Even the birds left the thick copses of forests and decorative Greek ruins, escaping into the sky in vast clouds. Clay wondered if the rats and pigeons of Sickle City wanted to leave as well, to get away from what would soon happen. He envied everything with wings.
With traffic a wild crawl of honking horns and packed intersections, it took them nearly an hour to return to Haven Street. As soon as they reached the border of Little Jerusalem and the seaside, poorest neighborhood of Neptune Row, Clay ordered the taxi to swing to the curb and let them out. They would make better time on foot. He paid the cab driver double, and the taxi careened back into traffic with a flurry of honks from its horn. Clay stood next to Harvey and Zipporah, looking over the desolate expanse of Neptune Row. Vending stalls stood empty on the sidewalk, the street had no occupants, and every door and window had been closed. A single draft horse, absurdly large, trotted forlornly down the road and stepped into an alley.
Harvey looked at the street in horror, his face becoming a panicked shade of pale. “W-what happened? Where is everyone?”
“They must have fled—expecting violence,” Zipporah explained. “There’s one place they would go, child—your father’s synagogue.” She pointed down the street. “We should be there too. We need to tell Rabbi Holtz what we discovered on Bone Island. If there’s trouble, maybe we can help.”
“Trouble?” Harvey stared up at Clay. “What do you mean? Do you think we’re in danger?”
“Everyone’s in danger,” Clay replied. “Come on.”
A quick walk down the street and turn around the corner brought them to Atlas Avenue, the wealthier section of Haven Street. Rabbi Holtz and Harvey had their house near the end of this wide, tree-lined block. Closer to Neptune Row, the King Solomon Synagogue offered a constant sanctuary. It loomed over the street, a rectangular structure of somber gray stone under the shade of several leafy trees. A large cement sign displayed a Jewish star and the name of the synagogue in Hebrew, English, and Yiddish. Unlike every other business and tenement building on Haven Street, the doors of the King Solomon Synagogue stood open, and ready to offer sanctuary to anyone who needed it.
Clay led his friends past the lawn and to the door. Monk Moss and Carmen Cohen leaned against the stout pillars flanking the entrance, both watching the empty street. Monk had his trench gun leaning on his shoulder, while Carmen had a hand firmly wrapped around her machete. They nodded politely as Clay, Zipporah, and Harvey approached.
Monk leaned over and patted Harvey’s head. “How’s it going, little fellow? Solve some mysteries on your day off from school?”
“A few,” Harvey said. “What’s going on here?”
“We’re protecting our people,” Cohen explained. “The city’s got no law at all, not with every worthless cabrone in blue on strike. Soon enough, all the scavengers are gonna come creeping out of their holes, eager to steal as much as they can. Old scores can be settled, and new crimes committed without fear of arrest. Haven Street could be a tempting target.” She patted the handle of her machete. “We’re here to make sure it ain’t so tempting.”
“We’ll help,” Clay explained.
Zipporah nodded. “Amen to that. Say, how’s the rabbi?”
“He wants to talk with you.” Monk jabbed a thumb into the hall. “He’s in his office, getting some things ready.” He grinned at Harvey. “You’d better bring the boy with you. The rabbi’s been worried sick about him, and seeing that Harvey’s all right will put his mind at ease. You go and see him, then come out here and stand guard.”
“Could I stand guard too?” Harvey asked. “Maybe I could—”
“We’re going to see your father.” Clay put his hand on Harvey’s shoulder. “Come on.”
He steered the boy into the synagogue, with Zipporah trailing behind. They stepped through the barren marble lobby and entered the main synagogue hall. The residents of Haven Street packed the place—perhaps a hundred or so people crowding the pews or sitting in the aisles. Men and women huddled together, clutching quickly chosen bags of their most precious belongings. Children played, stepping around the seated adults, or slept on the wooden pews or floors in makeshift beds of jackets and crumpled hats. Even several Chasids, with their ear-locks and beards, huddled together in their own corner of the synagogue. They had all gathered here, seeking the protection that they knew Rabbi Holtz could offer. Back in the Old Country, they had done the same thing whenever Cossack pogroms threatened to break out
. Here in America, the old nightmare had come true, and all they could do was gather together and pray for the best to a God who never seemed to listen.
Harvey looked them over. “My father will protect them.” He spoke quietly. “And you’ll help too, Mr. Clay—and so will Miss Sarfati. If there’s trouble, these people will be safe.” He looked up at Clay. “Right?” Hope made his voice quiver.
“Yeah,” Clay said. “Come on.”
They walked through the synagogue. The citizens of Haven Street pulled back, clearing a path. Parents pulled their children close. Fingers pointed at Clay and his friends, and hushed whispers filled the synagogue. Harvey turned away, focusing on staring ahead at the distant door beside the large, silver cabinet where the Holy Torah scrolls rested. He must have heard the whispers—the same ones leveled at him wherever he went in Haven Street—but he ignored them, and walked ahead to the door. Zipporah held it open, and they passed through a small corridor into the back room, which Rabbi Holtz had turned into his office.
Bookshelves lined the chamber, surrounding a desk currently covered in weapons and ammunition. A pair of rifles, a shotgun, and numerous pistols sat on the dusty wood, beside several holy books. Rabbi Holtz stood behind the desk, carefully sliding bullets into a revolver. Detective Flynn sat in the Morris chair in front of his desk, talking quietly. They both ended their conversation as Clay and the others entered.
“Papa!” Harvey hurried around the desk and ran to his father. They embraced quickly. “I’m sorry I missed school, but we went to Bone Island, and found the Dagger Men, and I think we know their plan. Well, we sort of do.” He stammered as everyone looked at him. “They’re gonna try to capture the Founding Stone, the first stone laid by the settlers of Sickle City, and cast some kind of spell on it. You see, the Founding Stone is part of an enchantment left by the witches of Bone Island, which has been building for centuries, and we think the Dagger Men want to use it.”
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