Last Orders

by Laura Strickland

  “Bless you, Brendan.” As always, tears came to her eyes.

  “Is the old man to home?”

  Her expression clouded. “He is not.”

  “Never tell me he’s out to laboring.”

  Alanna turned away. “He will not listen to me. I tell him and tell him to give it up—by the mercy of the saints and our bairns we’ve enough to live on. Still he will go out.”

  Brendan grimaced. After a lifetime spent in hard labor, Sean’s body had succumbed to various ills, the worst being severe arthritis. No one could persuade him to sit at home, though.

  And they called the Irish lazy.

  Bridget and Alan, the two youngest of the clan, came out to greet Brendan. Bridget, the family brain, consistently made the top of her class in school. Ma wanted her to stay in and make something of herself, though most of the others had left school early to work.

  Alan, nearly fourteen, would probably quit his lessons soon and start earning.

  Brendan greeted both of them heartily, and they all went into the kitchen, where he cadged a tatty scone cooling on the board. He devoured it while Bridie showed him her schoolwork.

  “I’m so glad we’re back in session,” she confessed.

  Alan made a face. “I am not.”

  Alanna, fussing around the room, said, “Brendan was always good in school—just like you, Bridie. What a brain he has, they said. I wish you could have finished, Brendan.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ve a good job.” Brendan eyed another scone. He wondered how long till supper.

  “Except when you get punched in the face by some hooligan,” Alanna declared. “How big was the sinner, to lay such a blow on you?”

  “Not that big.” Just the perfect size, actually, for kissing. He could almost feel Virginia Landry in his arms, those fine breasts of hers pressed against him, all of her gathered in—What the hell was wrong with him? Her mother had been a vile woman—he wanted no part of that.

  Except he did.

  “Well, he must have had a powerful arm, to leave a bruise like that.”

  “Ah—yes.” A lot of strength in that slender body. He wondered what it would feel like beneath him.

  He’d had his share of encounters with women—more than his share. Aye so, far more. He didn’t always play it as safe as he might, and there had been some wild rides, the most notable being a few years back when he’d taken on Ruella Whedon. Ruella, who’d at that time worked as a cook at the jail and now worked for the McMahons on Virginia Street, had the heft and brawn of a man and didn’t know the meaning of the word “gentle” when it came to lovemaking.

  He’d collected some bruises then, and no mistake. But the experience—young and green as he’d been—was a challenge he just couldn’t resist. They’d parted after about six months, under protest on her part and a desire for self-preservation on his.

  The point was, Virginia Landry would no doubt be a wild ride but nothing he couldn’t handle.

  And here he sat in his ma’s kitchen, of all places, getting all hot and bothered. Shameful, it was.

  Alanna bent down and spoke in his ear. “When your da comes home, you try and talk him out of going out to work.”

  “I’ll try, Ma. I always do try.”

  “Aye, son. I know how persuasive you can be.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Millie, what’s going on outside?”

  The steamie trundled over to the big front parlor window through which Ginny could see a number of figures congregated on the sidewalk in front of her house. At first there’d been just two—she’d assumed they must be out on some errand. But they seemed to pass by much too frequently and were joined by more…and more.

  Millie looked out. In her squeaking voice she said, “Servants, miss.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Why are they there?”

  “I do not know, miss.”

  Ginny got to her feet from the comfortable wing chair that, with its twin, flanked the fireplace. Three days had passed since her night in jail. During that time, Philip Ballister had taken her everywhere around the city to inspect her mother’s properties and view other enterprises in which she apparently had an interest—some of them questionable.

  Ginny had told Ballister to sell them all. The problem was she’d grown fond of this house, especially the high-ceilinged parlor, which reeked of comfort. She almost wouldn’t mind hanging on to the place.

  Which made a good reason for getting rid of it. She had no time for comforts—or self-indulgence.

  Still, being cradled here, with all four steamies bustling around for the sole purpose of her comfort, made a potent seduction.

  Now she walked to the window and took up a post next to Millie. Her eyes widened. No fewer than ten steamies marched back and forth in front of her house in a determined oblong, all of them silver, some newer-looking and some old and battered. Many carried signs: Free us. Automaton rights. Down with oppression. Abolish steamie slavery.

  “My God,” she breathed. “It’s a protest. I’m being picketed—and only this house. Why?”

  Traffic on the street slowed as vehicles passed the marchers and the occupants stared. Several of the neighbors, standing on their stoops, were also staring.

  Millie made no reply.

  Ginny glanced at her. “Millie?”

  “Miss?”

  “Do you know why I’m being picketed?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Your mother, miss, participated in experiments and activities which many among the automaton community considered oppressive.”

  “The automaton community?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Here in Buffalo?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Do you consider yourself part of that community?”

  “I am in fact an automaton, miss.”

  “And do you and the rest of the automatons in this household want to participate in that?” Ginny waved a hand out the window. “Do you wish to be freed?”

  “Miss, I cannot answer for my fellows.”

  “Please call them in here.”

  Ginny paced while she waited, still shooting incredulous looks out the front window as she did. The number of protesters continued to increase. She would have to do something about it.

  Millie returned with the other three units in tow. Ginny waved her hand again. “Do you see this?”

  “Yes, miss,” Floyd replied. “It used to occur sometimes when Dr. Landry was alive. Not often.”

  “What did she do about it?”

  “Called the police, miss.”

  “I’d prefer to avoid that if possible.” She’d seen quite enough of the police for the time being. “Floyd, do you think you could go out and disperse them?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “But first I’d like to ask you, all of you—do you wish to be freed from my service? Because if you do, I’ll let you go today. Right now. And I’ll have Mr. Ballister draw something up granting you your independence.”

  None of the steamies reacted.

  “Well?” Ginny looked at Frannie, the smallest—and shiniest—of the four. The newest? “Frannie?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Yes, you wish to be freed, or yes, you hear me?”

  “I hear you, miss. I do not wish to be freed.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, miss. Where would I go? Where get my coal?”

  “I’m sure others in this…this movement would assist you.”

  “Since being put in service I have never worked anywhere else.”

  “I understand. But I must tell you this house will most likely be sold eventually. Quite possibly you will not be able to stay here then.”

  A barely perceptible tremor passed through the unit.

  “What about the rest of you? Do you all wish to remain here?”

  Floyd and Millie answered in the affirmative. Gus, who seemed to be the rough-steamie-about-the-house, merely nodded.
Ginny had never heard him speak and didn’t know if he could.

  “Well, then, how about this? What if I draw up papers to free you but you keep on living here and working for me?” She certainly didn’t want to lose them. “I can pay you a wage.” Heaven knew her mother had left enough money, an obscene amount.

  Floyd jerked, appearing to become distressed. “Miss, on what would I spend a wage?”

  “I don’t know. A supply of coal of your own, so you needn’t be dependent on anyone?”

  Floyd’s voice box rattled alarmingly.

  “Very well, you can work for your keep—silver polish and all the coal you can burn.”

  “Yes, miss. That would be acceptable, miss.”

  “Thank you, Floyd. Meanwhile, please go out and see if you can chase away those protestors.”

  Floyd jerked into motion. Ginny and the other steamies watched through the window as he emerged from the front door and rolled down the walk. The protesters clustered around him.

  An odd scene, one that made Ginny wonder how steamies communicated among themselves. Did her servants chatter away when alone in this house? It boggled the mind.

  She experienced a sudden flashback to Dakota—home—and the Sioux reservation where she’d sometimes accompanied her father in his official capacity of physician.

  She remembered Pappy telling her one time, when she’d asked why most of the Sioux lived apart, “Well, kitten, there are folks think they’re different from the rest of us—that they don’t think and feel the same as we do.”

  Pappy had known better. He’d met his second wife, Winona, on the reservation. Winona had been the only mother Ginny ever knew.

  Now she wondered if the same ridiculous prejudice affected these automatons. But they truly were different, weren’t they?

  Floyd’s apparently peaceable conversation with the protesters continued several minutes before he broke away and returned to the house. The automatons resumed their slow loop on the sidewalk.

  “Well?” Ginny asked Floyd when he entered the parlor.

  “Miss, they refuse to disperse.”

  “Dammit. I really don’t want to call in the police.” Though, come to think of it, the Buffalo force must have many members. What were the odds Brendan Fagan would respond to the call?

  Perhaps she should just ignore the protesters.

  She returned to her wing chair, only to be brought out of it by a clatter some short while later. Two uniformed officers now approached the protesters outside her home.

  Even as she watched, another drew up in a paddy wagon.

  Her eyes narrowed. One of the neighbors must have called them—not too surprising, really, given the number of steamies now gathered.

  The paddy wagon half blocked the street. Its driver got out and approached the protesters.

  Ginny recognized him by the way he walked. Oh, hell. Oh, damnation.

  She switched her gaze back to the first two officers—one tall and built like Fagan, the other shorter and decidedly rounder. The tall one spoke steadily to the gathered automatons, which at last began to leave.

  The three police officers put their heads together and consulted. One glanced at the house.

  Ginny’s heart stopped and started up again with a kick. Why him?

  The shorter, rounder officer climbed into the paddy wagon and drove it away. Brendan Fagan peeled from his companion and jogged up the walk.

  Scenarios flitted through Ginny’s head: She let Millie answer the door; she answered the door herself and invited Fagan in; she dragged him upstairs with her to the yellow bedroom for a night of unbridled passion.

  That thought froze her where she stood—her, a woman who barely knew the meaning of the word “indecisive.”

  She remained poised in the center of the room until Floyd brought the sergeant in. No, maybe it hadn’t been the size of Addelforce’s office that made Brendan Fagan appear so imposing; he looked equally so now in her parlor doorway.

  “Sergeant Fagan,” Floyd announced.

  “Thank you, Floyd.”

  Brendan Fagan pulled the uniform cap from his head, which did unexpected things to Ginny’s pulse. His impossibly blue gaze inspected her swiftly from her hair downward, making her more aware of her body than she’d been in quite some time. He might as well have stripped her naked.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Landry.”

  “Sergeant Fagan. I’m assuming one of my neighbors called you.”

  “So they did. It’s not the first time we’ve seen protesters here. Unfortunate, but it’s happening all over the city just now.”

  “I see you’ve made no arrests.”

  “My fellow officer persuaded them to leave.” He smiled, to devastating effect. “I’d like you to meet him. Just wait there while I’m after calling him in.”

  She waited, not at all sure she could move anyway. She found herself hoping his fellow officer might be ugly and ordinary—something she could handle.

  She was fated to disappointment. Fagan soon returned with a still-more strapping fellow at his side, also red-haired but with eyes of startling green.

  “Miss Landry, this is Officer Patrick Kelly, a leading light of the Buffalo Police force and one whom I’m sure you’ll encounter frequently if you remain in our city for any length of time.”

  “Officer Kelly.” Ginny extended her hand.

  Kelly’s fingers engulfed it very gently. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Landry.”

  She heard something strange in his voice but failed to identify it. He too had a rich Irish brogue, and he too seemed almost too good looking.

  “The same, Officer. Thank you for dispersing the protesters.”

  “They tend to listen to me,” Kelly said. “Perhaps because they know I have a certain amount of sympathy for their cause.”

  “Oh? Are the police encouraged to take sides?”

  “Not officially, no. We are required to remain objective to the best of our ability. But of course that is more easily said than done.”

  “Of course.” What was it about his voice?

  Brendan Fagan watched their exchange closely, and an odd smile curled his lips.

  What did that mean, precisely? Ginny had the distinct impression she was missing something.

  Kelly said, “I will do my best to assure I and other members of the Squad patrolling here keep the protesters clear of the area. Please enjoy your stay in Buffalo.”

  “Thank you, I will.” Squad? Why did that jog her mind?

  Kelly looked at Fagan. “I will now return to the station, Brendan.”

  “Fine, that. I’ll join you in just a few.”

  Kelly went out. The curious smile remained on Fagan’s face, and Ginny had a sudden desire to slap it off. Or kiss it off—yes, that.

  “So, Miss Landry, what did you think of Officer Kelly?”

  “He seems very accommodating, though I’m not sure why you felt it necessary to introduce him to me.”

  The smile turned into a grin. “Do you not?”

  “No.”

  Fagan jerked his head toward the door. “That was the star of Buffalo’s Irish Squad.”

  “Wait. They’re…”

  “Automatons, yes—very similar to the ones your mother created. Have you never seen one before?”

  “Not up close, not one like that. I had no idea they were so realistic.” No wonder Kelly had a connection with the protesters. He was, in fact, akin to them.

  Fagan went on, “The units your mother created are still more sophisticated than Pat. You can perhaps see why they’re poised to start a revolution.”

  “Well, I can, yes.”

  “Just thought you should be made aware of the situation.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. I appreciate it.”

  He slapped the cap back on his head and turned to leave, only to swing back and scrape it off again. His gaze once more touched her in a way that swiftly rendered her breathless.

  “Miss Landry…”

  “Yes, Sergeant
Fagan?”

  “Would you be interested in having dinner with me sometime before you leave the city?”

  “I…” Ginny’s eyes went wide. All the words she might have said stuck in her throat.

  Patiently, Sergeant Fagan waited, a force gathered and held.

  “I—I’m very sorry, Sergeant Fagan, but I’m afraid I can’t. You see, I make a habit of walking out only with ugly men.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Makes a habit of walking out only with ugly men,” Brendan Fagan repeated in a mutter as he stalked away from Virginia Landry’s house and off down Linwood. “What in hell is that supposed to mean?” What kind of woman preferred an ugly man?

  He didn’t consider himself handsome; that would be conceited. But he knew he’d been blessed in several ways: with a good brain, a strong body, and a face that most women seemed to find pleasing. Why should Virginia Landry be any different?

  Because she was. His mind told him so, and his heart acknowledged it as truth; he’d sensed that from the first he laid eyes on her. She possessed an indefinable something that had made him overstep his own good judgment and suggest they see each other socially.

  Just as well she’d turned him down, then. He didn’t need the complication.

  But he needed to kiss her, and soon.

  Better get that right out of his head. Life held enough hurdles without erecting more. And given the identity of her mother and the current mood in the city, she was a problem just waiting to happen.

  Ah, but hadn’t it been worth it all, just to introduce her to Pat Kelly? A sudden smile broke over his face. She’d had no idea Pat was an automaton. Didn’t she have any idea what her mother was doing before she died, what an automaton, taken to the limits, could be?

  Captain Addelforce called him into the office as soon as he reached the station.

  “Sergeant, I’m sorry to say there’s been two more.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Two more murders. The calls just came in.”

  Brendan’s heart sank. “Two, sir? Where?”

  “One at a private residence over on Porter Avenue. A businessman grew concerned when his colleague failed to show up at their office. He went to the man’s home, only to find his body and signs of an apparent struggle.”