Clay glanced at Zipporah. She had removed the glass spike from Harvey’s arm and now wrapped a bandage around the wound to stanch the bleeding. Harvey closed his eyes and still didn’t say anything. He shivered wildly, and Herbert put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Clay pointed to the door and Zipporah shook her head. She needed more time. Clay decided that he could buy it for them—even if it meant clobbering a few Sinclair-Koots detectives.
He came to his feet and took a step closer to the doorway. “You really want to do this, Sinclair? You don’t remember what I was like, in Russia?”
“I remember well enough, Clay—you were big, and strong as an ox. But I’ve been thinking about how best to defeat you, and I believe I have a solution. I’d rather not utilize it, but I will bring you down if I must.” Sinclair sounded serious. “I will extend you the same courtesy that I’m giving to Herbert Holtz. This is your last chance. You surrender immediately or we’re gonna come inside and take you. What’ll it be, Clay?”
Zipporah glared at the door. “Stop your goddamn blathering!” she roared. “And get it over with!”
That spurred the Sinclair-Koots detectives to action. Their boots tramped on the grass, breaking bits of shattered glass as they crossed the porch and reached the door. A rapid kick forced the door from its hinges. It spun almost slowly, twisting to the side before clattering to the ground, and the detectives charged inside. They seemed inhuman in their bulky armor and goggles, like armored demons rushing up from an uncaring Hell. Clay squared his shoulders as the detectives hurried inside. They carried night sticks and trench clubs, as they wanted to take their prisoners alive. Clay felt a bit better when he saw their armor. He could do some damage and wouldn’t have to hold back.
The first detectives came at Clay in a row, their clubs humming down and bashing against him. Clay took the blows, letting the clubs rain against his arms and chest. He let the detectives get closer, and then swung with both fists. One blow struck a detective’s chest, the knuckles leaving thick dents in the steel. The detective crumpled, and Clay brought the other down with a rapid kick to the chest. The detective fell heavily into a table and it broke under his armored weight. Clay moved back, as Zipporah finished her work on Harvey’s arm and joined him.
More Sinclair-Koots men poured in through the door. A spiked trench club whistled at Clay’s face. He caught it, his palm stopping the falling club and his fingers closing around the spike. “Herbert!” Clay wrenched the club out of the detective’s hand. An expression of surprise appeared on the detective’s goggled face, before Clay rammed the bottom of the club against his helmet and dropped him. “Get Harvey and get out of here! Get through the back! We’ll join you shortly!”
Harvey called back, his voice thin. “But Mr. Clay, what about—”
Zipporah parried two clubs with her swords. She rammed a handle into a detective’s face, shattering his goggles. “Run, child! Go!” She caught another club on the back of her scimitar, and dispatched her attacker with a swift kick.
Clay grabbed a chair, picking it up by the back and swinging it in rapid circles. The heavy wooden chunk of furniture smashed aside the detectives, knocking them off their feet as it began to break. The legs fell aside, and then the seat and back shattered as well. Clay kept swinging and tossed the ruined chair to the ground. That held the detectives back, or at least knocked them off balance for precious seconds. Clay and Zipporah moved back, heading further into the Bower Green. Glass crunched under their feet. Clay couldn’t see what had happened to Harvey, Hark, and Herbert, but he hoped he could join them after exiting through the back.
Then another boot settled on the glass. Sinclair stepped inside, armed with a heavy, long-barreled revolver. “Hello, Clay.” He turned the pistol on Clay, gripping it with both hands. “I told you I had a way to defeat you.” The revolver roared twice. The noise echoed over the glasshouse, ringing over the shattered panes. Tropical birds and butterflies raced away, terrified by the deafening blast.
The bullets carved into Clay’s knees. He sank down with a gasp, feeling gravel and dust slipping away from him. Clay hit the ground, nothing more than an oversized lump of earth. The wound would fade, but Sinclair had targeted his joints specifically to slow him down. The bullets wedged deep into Clay’s legs. He would need to pull them out, but he simply didn’t have time. Sinclair moved closer, keeping the gun trained at Clay. Zipporah moved in front of him, but Sinclair swung the revolver about and covered her.
“Don’t.” Sinclair kept the gun ready. All around him, his detectives picked themselves up. They groaned, and several of them leaned against overturned tables or slumped down, too battered to do much else. Sinclair watched Zipporah. “You’re a soldier too, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Zipporah agreed. “The Maid of Megiddo, they called me. And I don’t spend my time hunting down innocent college students with a penchant for Karl Marx.”
“No.” Sinclair moved closer, still keeping his gun trained on Zipporah. “You merely serve some Jew Gangster, like Clay here.” His eyes, hidden by his goggles, switched back to Clay. “That’s what you do right now, is it not? A sad fate for a soldier. But no sadder than mine, I suppose.” He walked closer. “Your forehead is your weakest spot, I think. I saw the way you tried to protect it, in Russia. I am not entirely sure what you are, Clay, and I doubt any soldier in the Polar Bear Expedition truly knew. But I am certain that if I put a round through your forehead, you will die.”
Harvey dashed in front of Clay. “No—please—don’t do that, sir.” His words spilled out as he ran through the back door, and raced to Clay. Harvey gripped his hastily bandaged arm, and his face had drained of color. Clay could only imagine all the pain and torment the boy had been through today, but he still rushed to protect his friend. Harvey stepped in front of Clay and faced Sinclair. “Don’t hurt him.” He repeated the words loudly, but his tone remained plaintive. “Please. You were friends together. You don’t have to do this. Please don’t hurt him.”
Sinclair stared at Harvey. “Step aside, son. There’s no need for—”
“My father said that we couldn’t trust the goyim—people who aren’t Jewish, I mean. But my uncle doesn’t believe that and neither do I. You’re not Jewish and Clay is—or he sort of is—and you were friends in Russia.” That wasn’t entirely the case, but Clay didn’t want to contradict Harvey. “So you can lower your gun. You can let us go. You can prove that Jews and gentiles can work together.”
“Step aside,” Sinclair repeated. “Before I—”
“You would hurt a child, Sinclair?” Zipporah asked. “Some soldier you are.”
“That’s not—I would never—” Sinclair glared at Zipporah. “You subversive strumpet! You need to—”
Zipporah didn’t give him a chance to finish his sentence. She crossed the space between her and Sinclair in a single step, and then grabbed his gun hand and pushed the pistol to the side. Sinclair struggled to swing it back, but Zipporah rapped his helmet with the handle of her sword. She hit the brim of the tin bowler. It tilted down, blocking his vision. Zipporah slugged Sinclair in the throat, and shoved him hard to the side. He tumbled straight into a collection of brush, falling through leaves as vines tangled around. Branches shattered under the weight of his armor, and leaves covered him.
“You should never turn your back on a soldier,” Zipporah told him. “Clay, Harvey—let’s go.”
“I think Mr. Clay might have some trouble walking,” Harvey said.
“We’ll help.” Herbert and Hark appeared in the back door. They ran to Clay, along with Zipporah. Even Harvey helped. They gripped Clay’s arms, and pulled him off the ground. Clay forced his legs to work. He could feel the bullets inside of him, grating against his body when he tried to move his knees. He rested his feet on the ground and tried his best to move them. Somehow, Zipporah, Herbert, and Hark helped him along. Clay limped to
the distant door.
Hark glanced over her shoulder. “We need to hurry. The detectives are recovering from the drubbing you just delivered. They don’t seem ready to let us leave.”
“Then let’s dangle!” Zipporah cried.
Clay pushed himself to move into a tottering run. He blundered through the back door, smashing it open with a swing of his fist. He ran madly across the lawn, momentum carrying him along. Herbert and Hark hurried after him. Zipporah held Harvey’s hand. They hurried across the lawn as the first gunshots cracked after them. Bullets flew through the Bower Green and cut over the lawn. Some struck the dirt, kicking up puffs of grass. Clay spotted his Studebaker, resting across the street. He nearly fell in the gutter, but forced himself up and hurried to the car. He wrenched open the door and got behind the wheel.
The others reached the car next. Zipporah and Herbert took the back, with Harvey seated behind them. The boy’s wound had begun to bleed through his bandages. Zipporah pressed the bandages tighter and motioned for Herbert to help her. “Drive, Clay!” she ordered. “Get us out of here!” Behind them, the Sinclair-Koots detectives came out of the Bower Green. They left the glasshouse, raising their side arms. The armored cars rumbled around the structure, aiming their machine guns to destroy the Studebaker. But Clay’s feet wouldn’t move. He forced his foot over the gas pedal as he turned the key in the ignition, but his leg wouldn’t bend. The engine roared, but the car didn’t move. Hark thought quickly. She leaned over and stomped on Clay’s boot, forcing it to hit the gas. That sent the Studebaker rushing down the street. Machine guns rattled as they fled, spitting lead into the street, but Clay’s arms worked fine and he could drive.
He sent them zooming down an alley, then turned another corner and kept speeding along. A few more moments of frenzied driving took them away from Finch Bower and closer to Uptown. Clay rolled along a nondescript street before pulling over. He opened the glove compartment and withdrew a short, thin hammer and chisel for himself and a needle and bundle of thread, along with a roll of clean bandages, for Zipporah and Harvey. He wordlessly handed the medical supplies to Zipporah, and then rolled up his trouser legs and got to work with the chisel.
Silence filled the car as Clay used the chisel to find the bullets and the hammer to wedge them out. He drove the chisel into his leg and let the bullets clatter to the floor of the car. Clay grabbed them and tossed them out the window. A jar of clay waited in the glove compartment as well. Clay used that to fix up the wounds.
“What exactly are you doing, Mr. Clay?” Hark asked. Clay stared at her. She had seen the whole thing.
“Mr. Clay has a sort of skin condition.” Herbert talked quickly. “He has a very hard dermal layer, but requires certain poultices and ointments. He just applied some. How are you feeling, Harvey?”
“It still hurts a great deal, Uncle Herbert,” Harvey said. “But it will heal, right?”
“Pass me the flask, Clay.” Zipporah smiled at Harvey. “It will heal. I’ll give you something for the pain.”
“Just don’t give him too much.” Herbert watched nervously as Clay reached for a silver flask in the glove compartment.
Dutifully, Clay handed Zipporah a flask of bootleg whiskey from the glove compartment—some of the rabbi’s wares that they kept inside, strictly for medicinal purposes. Zipporah gave Harvey a few quick sips. He sputtered and coughed, and then settled back into his seat. “I’ll be okay,” he said quietly. He looked at Herbert. “You should go back to Haven Street. Papa—my father will protect you. And it will make him feel better, to have his family around him.”
“But you’ll go with me, right?” Herbert asked.
“I’m sorry—but there’s s-something else we need to do.” Harvey stared in the distance, his voice going hollow. “City Hall. The Dagger Men. The Founding Stone.”
In the chaos of the strike, the riots, and the Sinclair-Koots Detective Agency’s attempt to abduct Herbert, Clay had almost forgotten about the Dagger Men. Rabbi Eisendrath and his goon, Rabbi Geist, were still out there. The Dagger Men could be making their move already, going into City Hall to steal the stone and conduct their final spell. Eames had said he would post guards, but he could easily have been lying—and what good would a few guards do against the Dagger Men? Harvey needed time to rest and heal, but Clay knew that they needed the boy’s knowledge. His respite would have to wait, for just a little longer.
Herbert bowed his head. “There must be someone else—someone you can call.”
“It’s a Jew’s business, Herbert,” Zipporah explained. “And we need to deal with it ourselves.”
Hark opened the passenger door. “I’ll get Herbert to Haven Street,” she explained. “And then I think I’ll go to Chinatown. I have friends there. People from the Party, and some of the Tongs. They can take care of me.” She paused. “You’re all welcome there, of course. Chinatown doesn’t like outsiders any more than Haven Street does, but I’ll make sure that there’s a place for you.”
“In case things get bad?” Clay asked.
“In case things get worse,” Hark replied. She offered her hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Clay. And please, Harvey, look after yourself.” She waved to Herbert. “Come on, Comrade Holtz. I’ll get you back home safely.” She gripped his shoulder, and almost hauled him out of the car.
They paused for just a moment. Harvey and his uncle clasped hands, and then Herbert and Hark turned away, hurried down an alley, and vanished into the shadows. Clay watched them go. He couldn’t say that he liked Herbert overly much, but he hoped that the young man would make it safely back to King Solomon Synagogue. In the meantime, they had their own tasks. Clay started the engine, massaged his knees to force the extra clay into place, and began the drive to City Hall. The Dagger Men could be waiting for them—along with the doom of the entire city.
~~~
City Hall lay at the top of Jupiter Hill, the center of Sickle City’s old money. The city fathers must have had Mount Olympus in mind when they created the structure, which had a hulking, classical appearance and gazed down at the rest of the city like God in Heaven. Statues of past mayors, Civil War generals, and the other antique heroes of Sickle City flanked the marble steps in mid-strut, as if they would stroll proudly through the large wooden doors. The effect was rather ruined by the riots in the distance, the smoldering fires casting smoke throughout the city, and the way that the doors had been thrown open to show the shadowy lobby. The place appeared to be deserted.
The Studebaker rumbled to a halt on the curb. Clay and his friends got out. Battered and damaged from their various battles, they still faced up the stairs and looked at the open doors. No guards were in sight. If Eames had dispatched any, they certainly weren’t currently guarding the place. Clay moved his legs. They already felt better. Golems healed quickly.
Zipporah pointed to the doors. “What do you think, Clay?”
“The Founding Stone’s just inside, Harvey?” Clay asked.
The whiskey had taken effect. Harvey leaned against the car. “Oh? Yes. That’s right. We visited it on a field trip. It’s just through those doors.”
“Then we’d better—” The pounding of hooves on marble cut off Clay’s words.
The Dagger Men had indeed arrived, and now their servants came to defend them. Cavalry raced through the lobby, with skeletal riders on skeletal horses. These cavalrymen had once served the Romans, but now they rode for the Dagger Men. Long swords flashed in skeletal hands, rusted and thin, while their skeletal horses’ hooves resounded off the marble. The skeletons of large dogs, easily the size of Harvey, ran with them. Their mouths opened, flashing their fangs. They would be baying if they had any flesh between their ribs. Instead, their bones merely clattered. Clay sighed. His friends couldn’t defeat that many skeletons—but perhaps he could.
He turned to Zipporah. “Do you have a grenade?”
> “I took one from Rabbi Holtz’s office.” Zipporah withdrew the pineapple grenade from her pocket. “What do you—”
“Keep Harvey back.” Clay grabbed the grenade. “Leave the Dagger Men to me.”
“Clay, you can’t—” Zipporah cried.
“I’m a soldier,” Clay muttered. “Just like Sinclair. I need to fight.”
He pulled the pin and tossed the grenade at the charging skeletons, then ran after it. The grenade exploded soon after hitting the ground, the blast enveloping the first skeletal horses and riders. Bones flew through the air, along with rusted chunks of armor and broken weapons. Clay reached them next. He hurled himself into the skeletons, lashing out with his fists as swords broke against his body. He decapitated a skeletal horse with a punch, shattered the ribs of a rider, and kicked away an attacking dog. With several rapid punches, he cleared his way up the stairs. His legs still ached, but he forced himself through the open doors and into the lobby.
Light flashed as Clay entered. A large mosaic, resembling a compass surrounded by the different symbols of the zodiac, occupied the floor. The northern point of the compass pointed at the Founding Stone itself—a simple lump of rock around the size of a safe. Words in Latin and English had been carved into the front. They had faded over the years and Clay could barely make them out. Rabbi Geist stood next to the stone, his hand outstretched and reaching for the rock. Clay took a step toward the Stone, and then something else clicked on the tile. He spun around.
Rabbi Eisendrath stood next to him, appearing from nowhere. “Golem. Why do you persist in this folly? Perhaps it is not your fault. Perhaps you were made incorrectly.”
“Leave the Founding Stone,” Clay ordered. Energy crackled from Rabbi Geist’s fingers and shot into the stone. They wrapped around the rock, the coils of lightning rapidly circling the stone. “Leave it!” Clay cried.
The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus Page 17