Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  Mink took inventory of everything around her. The workshop, bare and gray with trestle tables and exotic tools everywhere, was a menagerie of mounted animals in various stages of development. Eagles, elephant heads, crocodiles, catfish, roaring bears, grazing deer, a toothless bobcat, and an eyeless water buffalo filled the area. Everything, including a small mattress in the corner, was stuffed, or about to be. Everything save for Raja, the Bengal tiger, very much alive, who slept peacefully in his cage. He was the great beast that Quincey brought back from India for the Bronx Zoo. The nearly year-long expedition paid for by someone he would not reveal. The beasts he killed on that expedition, he would soon prepare for the Smithsonian.

  “What are you looking at, honeybee?” Quincey asked, staring at the ceiling.

  “That one there, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

  Without looking, he knew which one she was referring to. It was a giant eagle with black feathers, predatory eyes, flaring talons, and angled wings. But peculiarly, it had the body, legs, and unmistakable tale of a golden lion. “It’s a gryphon.” The great beast was suspended in the air by four cables halfway between the floor and the two-story-high ceiling.

  “There is no other like it,” Mink said.

  “They don’t sell anymore, the mythical animals. They haven’t been in favor for half a century now. Not that it matters, though, I never intended to sell it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why, Quincey?”

  “Because,” he said as he stretched and placed his arms under his head. “I like it.”

  “So you made it because you like it.”

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t believe you. I think it means something to you,” she said. She turned and pressed her body against his. They kissed.

  After releasing her, he admitted, “It’s a reminder.”

  “Of what?”

  “That I can’t hunt them all. When I see it every day, it reminds me there is more to this life than hunting and stuffing God’s magnificent creatures.”

  “Why, Quincey Gartrell, I had no idea you were so sentimental.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “So tell me, what have you discovered that’s more important than hunting and stuffing?” she asked.

  “You,” he said without hesitating.

  She said nothing.

  They made love again.

  She had told him nearly everything that night on the train. They sat in his cabin and she talked to him as Mink, not Michael, until the early morning hours. She took off her hat, messed her hair, and told him how she ended up a young man on a train bound for New York City. She started with her marriage to Ronald Thomason IV. The uplifting of her station. Her boredom with a loveless marriage. Between her father and husband, how she knew the ins and outs of the railroad industry. Her idea. Her first train robbery. A disaster that ended with her jumping from the train and breaking her arm. Her new idea. A quick change. Hiding in plain sight. No one suspected a lady. No one would suspect the wife of a railroad mogul. Giving all the score to charity, to St. Catherine’s. Watching the increase in ridership on her husband’s trains. She told him about Reginald. She told him about the night on Artemis. The gunshots. Her husband, if you could truly call him that, dead. Her plunge into Lake Michigan. Her flight. Her transformation to Michael. The steel mill. Her sister and her upcoming wedding.

  At the end of her story, she cried. He consoled her. They kissed. They made love. The first time she made love to a man since Wage.

  “I am going to see my sister,” she announced, still lying on the bearskin rug.

  “Would you like me to come with you, honeybee?” he replied.

  “No, it’s not necessary.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am sure, thank you.” She kissed him before retrieving her clothes, which lay over a stuffed spotted leopard in a prowling pose. She wore the navy blue dress with patterned lace, the one Quincey bought for her when they first departed the train. Then she went to the washroom to do her hair, pin on a small purple hat, and put on her makeup with the small kit that Quincey also bought her. It felt good to paint her face with something other than grease and soot. Finally, she squeezed the pump of the glass perfume bottle all around her. He had surprised her last night with the lily-scented fragrance.

  “How do I look?” Mink asked.

  “Radiant,” he replied, still relaxing on the bearskin rug. “You’re sure I can’t accompany you?”

  “It is 1914, Quincey; a lady may walk down the street without the company of man if she wishes.” Mink placed her Steyr-Hahn pistol in her new purse and winked at Quincey.

  “Where have you been all my life, honeybee?”

  Mink blew him a kiss and with a newfound energy, bounded out the door for the streets of New York, headed for the return address written on the last letter her sister had sent her.

  She rode the Manhattan subway to the east end before transferring to the trolley line that took her over Queensboro Bridge. She got off at the 21st Street stop and walked the few blocks north to a sandstone apartment complex with distinctly Baroque angles on the corner. The vigilant doorman eyed her suspiciously as she walked into the tiled lobby. He inquired as to her business in the building. She inquired as to the whereabouts of her sister. “The tennis tournament,” the doorman replied.

  After catching another trolley and then a handsome cab over to 70th Avenue, she made her way up the groomed dirt path to the Tudor-style clubhouse where men and women, all in straw hats, toiled about the grounds picking weeds, watering plants, and mowing grass. A sign by the entry stairs read “West Side Tennis Club.” She could hear the crowds around back gathering for the start of the tournament. She paid the 10-cent spectator fee and made her way to back porch that opened wide to a sea of grass tennis courts. Hordes of well-dressed people sipped iced teas with lemon wedges and cheered intermittently as two men, dressed in sparkling white tennis outfits, volleyed in preparation for their match. A grandstand was erected to either side of the patio so as not to obstruct the viewers who preferred to watch the event from the shade of the massive awning.

  Mink scanned the rapidly filling grandstands from a shaded spot on the patio. It had been four years since she had seen her sister last, and she feared she would not recognize her. It was hard enough because every country-club lady wore some kind of sunhat that ranged from simple to gaudy. But leaning against the corner post that held up the great awning, she spotted her sister. She wore a mid-length ivory dress of net and lace with a set of pearls that hung to just below her waist. Sheen white stockings ran down to faded beige boots. Her rounded hat, hiding wavy blonde locks, had a brim that drooped everywhere but above her eyes—eyes that Mink couldn’t see clearly at the moment but knew to be pale blue dotted with hazel. Eyes that, at the moment, probably conveyed the same frustrating apathy she displayed as a child. Mink guessed this because her sister was staring into the sky, her legs and arms crossed, smoking a cigarette from a sleek, black holder, ignoring the shouts and screams from other spectators as the match had just begun.

  “Andi?” Mink said softly.

  Her sister did not respond.

  “Andi,” she repeated.

  “No one calls me that anymore,” she said, not moving her eyes, blowing smoke into the awning.

  “Andromeda Callahan! You look at your only sister this instant!”

  “Minerva?” Andromeda finally acknowledged, emotion now filling her eyes, while tears filled in Mink’s. “Oh Mink, it is you!” Andromeda stood upright and embraced her sister. “The papers said you were dead! Drowned is what they said.”

  “I know.”

  “Devil be damned, Mink, did you kill your husband?” Andromeda asked with more fascination than concern. Her Cajun accent was almost entirely gone.

  “Keep your voice down, Andi, honestly. And for God’s sake, no! I did not kill my husband. It’s a long story, all right, and this rea
lly isn’t the venue.” Mink’s Cajun accent always came back when she was angry.

  “Okay, okay, don’t get your bloomers in a bind. Come on, let’s find a seat.” The two of them made their way to a small table nearby and Andromeda ordered two mint juleps. It was a little early for alcohol, Mink thought, but the taste of the sweet bourbon that cooled her lips overruled the silly notion.

  “It is good to see you, sister,” Andromeda said. “I was downright saddened by the news of your passing.”

  “I am sorry I didn’t contact you sooner, but it was complicated. I—”

  “I didn’t host a funeral for you,” Andromeda interrupted. “I hope you’re not mad at me.”

  “Andi, of course I’m not mad at you. Besides,” Mink said and smiled. “You, Uncle Danny, and Aunt Margery would have been the only ones in attendance.”

  “Actually, Uncle Danny and Aunt Margery moved.”

  “Where to?”

  “Australia”

  “What?”

  “Another harebrained scheme of his to get rich. Wants to build a gravity coaster there, like the ones at Coney Island.”

  “Oh, well. I guess it would have been just you then, and . . . wait a minute . . . your fiancé—I almost entirely forgot for a moment.”

  Andromeda nodded toward the tennis match. “Behold, Prince Charming, Lord of the Racquet.”

  Mink looked over. Through the crowd, she caught glimpses of the well-built young man returning the ball with a devastating forehand. After scoring, he paraded the court like a victorious barbarian with a racquet and perfect hair. “He seems . . . nice.”

  “Nice,” Andromeda laughed. “Believe me, that word is not seen above their family crest.”

  “Andi, honestly!”

  “I told you, no one calls me that anymore.” Andromeda lit another cigarette and looked the most grown up Mink had ever seen her.

  “What do you mean, no one calls you that?”

  “Oh, Prince Charming thinks it sounds too juvenile. Doesn’t want a child’s name associated with the Randolph family. So everyone calls me Andromeda, or Miss Callahan, but usually just ‘the future Mrs. Morris Randolph.’”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Rich people don’t have names, Mink, they have titles. They have roles. I thought you of all people would have known that, Mrs. Ronald Thomason the Fourth.”

  “Andi!”

  “I told you, no one calls me that anymore.”

  “Fine, Andromeda. There is no reason for such insincerity, please.”

  More cheers erupted.

  “Oh, I can’t wait for you to meet the Randolph family. You let me know if ‘sincerity’ comes to your mind.”

  “Andromeda.”

  After a brief sigh she said, “First you will meet Morris, my fiancé, and general counsel for Randolph Industries, where his father, Marshall, is President and CEO.

  “Randolph Industries, that sounds familiar.”

  “Salt mining mostly, but they have their hands in everything now because they will never face criminal prosecution from the state of New York.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you haven’t met Uncle Henry, the District Attorney for New York. His son James was recently elected to the state senate. His other son, Aaron, is a lieutenant and rising star in the NYPD, on the fast track to becoming Commissioner one day, like their other uncle, John ‘Black Jack’ Randolph.”

  “That is quite the family lineage, but I don’t think I’ll be meeting anyone soon, unfortunately. I am trying to keep a lower profile these days,” Mink said.

  “Now Mink, you have to come to my engagement party,” Andromeda replied. “It is the celebration of the decade! The papers are already lauding it. I need my sister there.”

  “First of all, I am presumed dead. And secondly, if people found out I was alive, Andromeda, everyone probably thinks I murdered my husband.”

  Andromeda covered her mouth and giggled uncontrollably.

  “I don’t find this funny,” Mink snapped.

  “I’m sorry, Mink, I’m sorry. But I never told anyone about your marriage to Ronald Thomason.”

  “What?”

  “People know I have a sister named Mink Callahan, not Mink Thomason. I never told them about your marriage. As far as they know, you are barefoot and pregnant in backwater Baton Rouge. Besides,” she said, blowing more spoke into the awning. “Even if they did know, these people,” Andromeda gestured to all the crowd, “they cared more about their investments and an increase in future ticket prices when your husband died, not your welfare, believe me.”

  Morris Randolph came running through the crowd and found them at their table, his white outfit drenched in sweat, his face beet red, and slinging his racquet over his shoulder. “Andromeda, darling,” he said kissing her on the cheek. “The first two games are mine. The buffoon doesn’t stand a chance!” He grabbed her Mint julep and finished it. “Who is your friend?” he asked.

  “Darling, this is my sister, Mink.”

  “Ah yes,” he said and kissed Mink’s hand, leaving a sweaty residue. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Mink froze. Her eyes went wide.

  “Birmingham, right?” he asked.

  Mink lifted a red eyebrow. “Baton Rouge.”

  “Yes, yes. Baton Rouge. I trust you had a pleasant journey? Andromeda and I are very pleased you could make if for our party.”

  Mink looked at Andromeda who smiled impishly. “Yes, I—”

  “No time to talk, sorry,” Morris jaunted back to the tennis court abruptly.

  “Told you,” Andromeda said. “No one knows who you are. No one cares. Now, where should I send the formal invitation to? We had these adorable metal flowers cast—one of a kind, beautifully painted, all varieties of exotics. People will pin them on, and it will serve as their ticket to the party. Isn’t that brilliant? Also, the theme is The Orient, so we will have to get you a costume.”

  “Andromeda, this is too good to believe.”

  “What? That they don’t know you? Don’t recognize you? Mink, these people’s lives revolve around the silver spoons that are wedged so far up their asses—”

  “Andromeda Callahan! You will cease this infernal language immediately.”

  Andromeda smiled and leaned back further in her chair. “I will ensure you receive two flowers, sister.”

  “Two?” Mink asked.

  “Of course, silly; now that you’re a widow, I would assume you would take someone?”

  Mink looked around cautiously. “Well, there is someone, as of late.”

  “Do tell, sister. Do tell.” Andromeda flagged down the waiter and ordered two more Mint Juleps.

  “His name is Quincey. Quincey Gartrell.”

  “Ah, the Gartrell Family. They have that place on Long Island. It’s absolutely gorgeous.”

  “You know them?” Mink asked.

  “When you are a future Randolph, you must know all the affluent families in town,” Andromeda replied. “Never met Quincey, though; he was always away on hunting trips and whatnot.” The waiter returned with their drinks. Andromeda sipped hers slowly. “Besides, I thought you would take your former fiancé.”

  “My husband is dead, Andromeda. Please do not jest.”

  “No, no. The one before that,” she said, her blue eyes reflecting light like polished mirrors.

  “You mean Wage?”

  “He’s here, you know. Saw him just the other day.”

  Mink straightened in her chair. “Wage is in New York?”

  “Of course. He’s at the Waldorf, room 402. Do give him my regards.”

  The Baron

  August 17, 1914

  John P’s Pool & Parlor

  Queens, New York

  The small bell above the door rang with an irritating jingle. The whites of every pool player’s eyes shone through the shadows and smoke as they cautiously watched the three strangers who strolled through the dingy billiard hall.

  “Warwi
ck,” Khalid Francois sang. “Get us a bottle of whiskey.” Warwick scurried to the bar at the far end of the hall, where an unsavory and toothless bartender mindlessly polished his bottles. Six billiard tables with worn maroon felt filled the center of the large space, and rickety wooden chairs and tables lined the eroding brick walls. Kerosene lamps hung in pairs along the walls and in suspended lines of six above the full-length pool tables. A small boy, no older than 10, stood by himself at one of the center tables, holding a cue in one hand and analyzing the random array of billiard balls, calculating his next shot. He wore a dark crestless school blazer with gray wool shorts and high green socks. Khalid and the Baron took the chairs nearest to him and sat down with their backs against the rough brick.

  “Good afternoon,” the Baron said.

  “Who the hell are you?” the boy snapped back, eyeing his next shot.

  “Impeccable manners,” the Baron commented.

  The boy’s cue struck with pinpoint precision, and after a loud crack, a ball sank into the pocket with a muted thud. “Does this look like the kind of establishment that upholds any semblance of etiquette?”

  “No. I suppose not,” the Baron replied. The boy lined up another shot and sank another ball. “I am the Baron William DeLacy. This is my associate, Khalid Francois, and my personal attendant, Warwick.” Warwick placed a bottle of whiskey and two dirty tumblers on the table separating the Baron and Khalid before preemptively pulling out a cigarette, giving it to the Baron, and lighting it. Warwick then found a seat a few feet away and sat like a contemplative statue.