“Would you like to send a message back?” Warwick asked.
“No,” the Baron replied. “However, ensure it is charged in the event that I change my mind. We will pay Nikola a visit when we reach New York.”
Khalid ducked his head to fit his Eiffel Tower helmet through the doorway. “Can I take this damn thing off now?” he asked.
“Yes,” the Baron answered. “Khalid, I am going to find Mr. Abernathy and invite him to have a brandy. Please see to Mrs. Abernathy in our absence.”
“It will be my pleasure,” Khalid said as he bowed and smiled.
Wage W. Pascal
August 8, 1914
Newark Penn Station
Newark, New Jersey
“Ramshackle” barely described the white-washed Penn Street Station. The roof above the open-air platform would sway and creek with the faintest of breezes. On the platform, Wage sat on the cobbler’s bench as a young boy with charcoal hair tucked behind his ears shined his boots. Ol’ Bill sat next to him reading the morning paper. They were waiting for the last morning train to West Orange. Wage scratched his now well-groomed beard and pulled his slouch hat over his eyes for a few moments of rest. The shoe-shine boy talked anyway.
“Where ya from?” he asked.
Wage did not reply. He was thinking about Pascal Manor back in Baton Rouge. It would be a while before he got back there again, if ever, now. His invalid father and political candidate brother probably disowned him after hearing of his incarceration. It was not his first incarceration, nor would it likely be his last, but it was the first one they knew of. He was now a fugitive who killed two prison guards, though strangely had heard no news of it. Despite his unheralded escape act, however, he was still framed for a crime he didn’t commit and wanted by the authorities; a twisted game concocted by unfair judge working for a mysterious outfit.
“Me? I’m from Brooklyn,” the boy continued. “I ride the train down now and again and stay with my uncle. Less customers down here, but I make more in tips, if you can believe it.”
Thirty-two dollars and 47 cents. That’s all Ol’ Bill and him had left after some new clothes, grooming, hotels, meals, ammunition, cab fare, train fare, bourbon, brandy, rum, the occasional courtesan, and of course, a shoe shine. Having been cut off from his trust, it was what was left of Mr. Jade’s payoff after Bill’s luxurious stay at the Dauphin Hotel for forty-five straight days. He insisted on steak and French wine every night.
“Where are ya headed, now? Next train is headin’ north, I think?”
Wage and Bill had narrowed down all their options before they left the Dauphin Hotel in New Orleans. Before Mr. Jade’s mysterious exit from the House of Black Curtains that night, he left a scrap of paper in Ol’ Bill’s coat pocket. Bill didn’t find it until later, although it was only a matter of time because he always wore the same coat. The initials “T.A.E” were scribbled across the top of the paper; the rest was in a much stranger script. He paid a number of Chinese men to try and translate it before someone finally told him that it was actually Japanese—another added expense. Eventually Bill found someone to translate it. It was an address in West Orange, New Jersey. Below that it translated to:
More work. Give him this paper. —Jade.
There was another curious symbol below it, one curvier then the linear brushed characters above. No one could translate that particular character. From one angle it looked as though it could be an eye with an iris of flame.
West Orange became their first option. Make their way northeast with what money they had left. Find more work, earn more money, and then, some way, clear Wage’s name.
“Gonna be a hot one, today,” the boy said, wiping his brow.
Wage tried to suppress the second option in the back of his mind, building an imaginary brick wall around it. But the wall came down after drinking three glasses of liquid sledgehammer and staring at the red light cast on the walls by a chandelier with colored glass. Find Mink. She couldn’t have been too hard to locate, the wife of one of the richest men in the country, who everyone knew resided in Chicago. She would help an old friend get back on his feet; she would most likely oblige, anyway, seeing as how he knew her little secret regarding her rather unscrupulous hobby. After hearing the idea, Ol’ Bill made a joke about Wage rekindling an old flame. Wage did not find it very funny, despite the secret intrigue that boiled inside him. Three more liquid mortars later, however, and he rebuilt the brick wall.
It was difficult for him to think about how beautiful she was. “Ravishing” may have been a better word. There was always something about her presence that both captivated and tortured him at the same time. Nearly all of his antics as a child were done to either gain her attention, divert her attention, or simply to impress. She would always warn him, or voice her concern for his dangerous stunts, but he couldn’t help it. In her presence, he felt empowered, indestructible, truly invincible.
There was also something rather arousing about her secret hobby. Even seeing her on that train, in disguise, he felt the same empowerment, the same invincibility. Despite past tragedies, perhaps they weren’t so different after all. Perhaps they were the same foolish children playing, arguing, fighting, and courting all about the swamp. An inherently dismal swamp transformed into something bright whenever Mink walked through it, never sinking in the mud and murk, but always, somehow, gliding above.
“Looks like another train is ‘bout to pull in; this one yours?” the shoe shiner asked. Bill checked his pocket watch.
At the train station in Jackson, Mississippi, Ol’ Bill left the final decision to Wage: Chicago, Illinois or West Orange, New Jersey? Seek refuge with an old friend and flame, or continue their old endeavors by seeking a new patron. “Chicaa. . .” Wage began to answer before the yell of a platform official interrupted him. “What was that?” Bill asked. Wage opened his mouth again, but nothing came out. Bill leaned in, “Wage?” Wage continued to stare at him. “Captain Pascal!” Bill yelled. “West Orange,” Wage replied. “. . . West Orange.”
“ROSEVILLE! EAST ORANGE! WEST ORANGE!” the Penn Station platform official called loudly.
Ol’ Bill folded his paper and wedged it under his arm, grabbed his luggage by the handles, and hopped down from the cobbler’s bench. Wage adjusted his hat and hopped down as well. He tipped the shoe shiner, slung a large canvas bag over his shoulder, and followed his former sergeant to the train.
With the afternoon sun beginning to heat up the city streets of West Orange, they finally arrived at their destination. “This can’t be—isn’t this Edison’s place?” Ol’ Bill asked.
“You really think some old Chinamen rubs elbows with Edison? Come on, let’s look around,” Wage answered.
At the corner of Main Street and Lakeside Avenue stood a group of red brick buildings adorned with both curved and square windows. The largest building, the laboratory complex in front of them, was three stories high with a smaller power plant at the far end. Intermittent wisps of smoke leaked from the plant’s sole smokestack, which was the tallest structure on the grounds, save for the soot-stained white water tower in the distance.
Wage and Bill navigated through all matter of similarly designed buildings, small signs designating their purpose. There was everything from a glass-blowing house to an onsite machine shop. It even had dormitories. The grounds themselves were quiet; no one stirred about them. This alarmed Wage enough that he moved his six-shooter from his left boot to his inner waist band; the ivory handle of Ol’ Snapper resting next to his left suspender. They entered what they assumed was the entrance into the main building. The sign above the door read, “Edison Laboratories.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Wage said. “Thomas Alva Edison.”
“T. A. E.,” Bill spelled.
The front office was plain, undecorated with dark floor boards and red brick walls all around. A single door led to the heart of Edison’s laboratory, but in front of that door, slightly offset, was a desk attended by a slouching silv
er man with a blank stare.
“What the hell is that?” Wage asked.
“Looks like one o’ them automatons, to me,” Bill said, approaching the static machine. “I saw one once when I was kid. Ringling Brothers had one when they passed through Dallas. It was a dressed like some kinda Eastern fortune teller. For a nickel, you could pull the lever and it would flip a card with your fortune on it and hand it to you.”
Wage rested his hand on the butt of Ol’ Snapper. “Do you remember your fortune, William?”
“Sure do. It said ‘One day you will see one o’ them automatons in Edison’s laboratory,” replied Bill.
“Really?”
“No.”
Wage rolled his eyes.
Bill leaned over and looked at the solitary button positioned on the front of the desk with a sign below that read, “Push for Service.” Bill depressed the button and immediately heard gears and motors turning inside the desk and the man. The man sat up straight and his eyes bounded from left to right to center. More gears clicked.
“Hellooo and welcome,” the machine spoke, shifting its head but barely moving its mouth.
Wage and Bill looked at each other strangely. “Good afternoon,” Bill replied gruffly. Wage shook his head. The automaton snapped up its hand and pointed, nearly touching Bill’s curly black beard. Ol’ Bill flinched.
“How may I beeee of assistanccceee?” the muffled voice asked through pops and cracks.
“We’re here to see Edison,” Wage said. “Thomas Alva Edison.”
The automaton snapped his hand back. “I am very soooorry, but he is indispooosed.”
“We came a long way to see him,” Bill said. “And I think we have something for him.”
“My deeeepest apoloooogies.”
Wage stepped forward. “Tell me where he is,” he demanded.
“Perhaps you may concluuuude your business with him at a laaaaater daaate.” The automaton snapped up the opposite hand, this time in a waving motion. Wage instinctively drew his weapon. After a brief pause the automaton spoke again. “Pleeeeaaase have a pleasant daaaaay.” Its arms fell slowly to its side and head tilted down.
Wage pointed his gun at the automaton’s bald, shiny head. “Now listen here. My name is Captain Wage Pascal—”
“Hellooo and welcome,” the machine said again, interrupting him.
“I need to see your employer, or maker . . . or whatever . . . this instant, or I will pull this trigger!”
A hand snapped up and pointed. “How may I beeeeee of assistanccceeee?”
“You can take me to Edison, dammit!”
The automaton snapped its hand back. “I am very soooorry, but he is indispooosed.”
“I am going to count to three!” Wage announced. “ONE!”
“Perhaps you may concluuuude your business with him at a laaaaater daaate.”
“TWO!”
The automaton shot up his hand to wave goodbye. “Pleeeeaaase have— ”
Wage fired a shot at its forehead, then two more in its chest.
“. . . daaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyy,” the automaton finished before slumping over the desk.
Wage and Bill walked around the automaton and inspected it.
“Is it dead?” Wage asked.
“I’m not sure it was ever alive,” Bill said. Neither of them noticed the door open behind them.
“WHAT IN THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY MACHINE?” shouted an older, white-haired gentlemen who filled up nearly the entire doorway. The three-piece suit he wore was the color of molten lead. It looked and smelled as though it had not left his body in three days.
“Mr. Edison, sir, it is quite the honor,” Bill said, removing his flat cap and putting it to his chest.
“Your machine?” Wage said, leaving his slouch hat on. “Your machine? Why don’t you just get a damn secretary like everyone else?”
“Because then I would have to pay her!” Edison yelled back.
“We’re very sorry for ruining your . . . er . . . um . . . equipment, Mr. Edison, sir,” Bill said.
The imposing Edison was probably the same height as Ol’ Bill, but it felt very much like he towered over both of them. “You must be the men Monomi sent word of—Captain Pascal and Black Vomit Bill? Do you have something for me?”
“It’s 1st Sergeant William Macdonough, sir,” Bill said. He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out the small scrap of paper Mr. Jade left for them. “You mean this?” Bill asked as he cautiously approached Edison.
Edison snatched the paper from Bill’s hand and looked it over, paying special attention to the indecipherable character at the bottom. He used a pair of spectacles chained to his breast pocket to thoroughly inspect it. “You boys follow me.” Edison turned his back to them and walked away. Bill shot Wage a curious look, shrugged his shoulders, and followed Edison through the door. Wage tucked away his gun and followed, too.
A messy laboratory took up the entire third floor. An unobstructed path led from one side to the other, lined on either side by bookcases, desks, drawing tables by windows, and rows of tables topped with buzzing machines, winding tubes, and bubbling glassware. Papers littered with formulas and observations were spread out everywhere, like a Kansas tornado had recently screamed through. Glowing and hissing light bulbs strung from wall to wall replaced what would normally be a gaslight ceiling. Among all the oddities scattered about, Wage took peculiar notice of a dead dog lying prone on the table. Its hair was stiff and blackened, and a distinct smell of charred flesh lingered. Numerous wires ran into the poor canine, whose bloated gray tongue hung out onto the table.
Random men, some in suits, a few in overalls, and even more in lab coats, toiled about writing, sketching, tinkering, and tweaking, creating a symphony of science; a symphony whose tempo sped up as Edison walked near the orchestra’s numerous players. Edison was not interested in being the conductor, however. He proceeded to his desk at the far end of the lab like he was more of a monarch parading past his scientific subjects.
Wage and Bill sat in uncomfortable wooden chairs in front of Edison’s throne and his red oak desk. Their chairs creaked loudly with the slightest movement. Edison leaned over his desk, clasped his hands and stared at the two of them. Wage noticed the revered scientist’s labored breathing and the sweat pooling under both his arms and on his massively rectangular forehead. “Now, you boys tell me when last you saw Monomi,” he said.
Wage went to speak, but Ol’ Bill interrupted him. “We don’t know no Monomi, sir. We came by your name by an old Chinaman down in New Orleans named Mr. Jade.” Wage let his former 1st Sergeant take charge for the moment. Wage knew that anytime Bill stepped in, it was probably an attempt to keep his former captain out of avoidable danger. Wage crossed his arms; the chair creaked as he leaned back.
“Is that the name he’s going by now? Boy can’t keep a name for more than week it seems. Well I guess it’s better than Black Vomit Bill now, isn’t it?”
Bill cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. He was the old fella who hired us to steal a stone off a man named Hamilton in Winston-Salem.”
“I see. And he thought I could use men of your talents?” Edison asked.
“That’s correct, sir. He wrote your name down on a scrap o’ paper, the one I gave you.”
“Yes, Monomi has been in our employ for a while now, so it seems you have actually been in our employ for a while,” Edison said.
“Uh, I hate to concern anyone,” Wage interrupted, holding up a solitary forefinger. “But this stone was, in fact, sewn to a man’s chest. Whoever the hell these people are, they sew rocks . . . to their chests. Rocks. Stones. To their chests!” Wage pointed to his own chest.
“Yes, that means he was a disciple, the lowest member of their organization, typically recruited for their abilities and know-how” Edison replied. “Once they discover it’s missing, they will kill him. It is only a matter of time. We don’t often kill the lower ranks for this reason; it keeps our slate clean and out of the public e
ye. Plus, it leaves more work for The Hand to mop up. Midlevel members are eliminated in such a fashion that it looks like an accident. And top level members, well, our official policy is to trail them—understand them and their methods. Once enough intelligence is accumulated then we neutralize them. Of course, we have yet to ever neutralize one.”
Ol’ Bill began to speak, but Wage interrupted again. “On that note, who the hell is ‘they,’ and on a similar note, who the hell is your ‘we’?”
Edison took a deep breath. “All right, Captain Pascal . . . by the way, what exactly are you captain of?”
“Well, I . . . we . . . once rode with—”
“Once? So you don’t command now?” Edison asked.
“Well, no, but . . .”
“All right Mister Pascal, I will make this as brief as a can.”
“Can we be brief over a drink?” Wage asked.
“Dickie!” Edison called loudly. A gentleman with curly black hair and a handlebar mustache and dressed in a lab coat ran up and stood at near attention. The right sleeve of his lab coat was pinned up. He was missing an arm. “Give our guests some of our finest.”
“Now that’s more like it. Much obliged Mr. Edison,” Wage said as he took off his slouch hat and placed it in his lap. Seconds later, Dickie reappeared with two tumblers filled with a clear liquid carefully balanced in his only hand. Wage grabbed one, took a hearty sip, and coughed uncontrollably. “What in the hell is this?” He coughed again. “Tastes like moonshine distilled out the devil’s own ass.” Ol’ Bill placed his tumbler on the desk without taking a sip.
“It’s our own brand of moonshine, Mr. Pascal, highly concentrated ethanol with a touch of capsicin, and some other . . . proprietary ingredients. It is the most effective at inducing inebriation. We use it as an anesthetic.” Wage nodded and took another hearty sip.
Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) Page 17