Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

Mink leaned forward.

  “It’s getting late,” she announced. She pulled a pocket watch out of her purse. “It’s after midnight. I need to get going. I’m sorry.”

  “It ain’t safe for you to go walking this time a night, Mink.”

  She went to the dresser, grabbed her pistol, and put it back in her purse. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I know you will. You always are.”

  “I almost forgot.” She dug into her purse and removed a red metal flower and threw it on the bed next to him.

  “Mink, you shouldn’t have,” he said with a smirk.

  “No, Wage. It’s the invitation to Andromeda’s engagement party. The date and time are engraved on the back. It’s at Carnegie Hall. I hope you will come. I’ll look for you.”

  “I don’t know, Mink. I—”

  “Goodnight, Wage,” she interrupted. “I have to go.” She turned and closed the door, leaving him in an eerie silence he wasn’t ready for. A silence he didn’t want.

  “Bonsoir, mon amour.”

  The Baron

  August 26, 1914

  Waldorf-Astoria

  Manhattan, New York

  The curtains were open for the first time in days. Early morning light extended into the room like a giant pillar but still left the corners of the room in angular shadows. Wage carelessly shoved his effects into a canvas duffle bag.

  There was a knock at the door, a muffled voice behind it. He grabbed his six-shooter and aimed it at the door. “Come in,” he barked.

  The bellboy opened the door slowly and looked down the barrel of the gun. He immediately put his hands up. Behind the black eye of the barrel were two ice-blue orbs nestled between unkempt black hair and a wild beard. Wage lowered the gun.

  “What do you want?”

  “Ya . . . ya . . . your presence is requested in the courtyard.”

  “I’m not interested.” Wage threw the gun on the unmade bed in front of him.

  The bellboy adjusted his hat. “He said you would say that. Then he said to give you this.” The bellboy reached in his maroon pocket and dug out a small locket. Hesitantly, he stepped into the room. He threw the locket on the bed. It sprung open, revealing a small drawing of Delilah, Ol’ Bill’s wife, worn down with the caring touch of a thumb.

  Wage made a half-hearted attempt to straighten his clothes. He left his suspenders dangling by his mud-brown trousers and concealed his revolver under his untucked white shirt. “Take me to him.”

  Outside in the sunlight, the Baron sat by himself at a wood and wicker table, devouring poached eggs and glazed ham. Plush green foliage not only divided the Roman-style courtyard from the busy New York Streets, but it also gave those who dined there the feeling that the whole place was carved out from an ancient hedge maze.

  “Have a seat, Captain.”

  Wage stood for moment. Silent. Ready to pull out Ol’ Snapper and empty a full cylinder of lead into the man’s chest.

  The Baron talked while chewing on a piece of ham. “Well, if you are going to shoot me, I suggest you get on with it.”

  Wage looked around at other diners. He looked at the waiters and busboys.

  The Baron took a sip of his tea. “You’d be dead before you made it to the lobby. Now please, join me.” He gestured to the wicker chair in front of him.

  Wage sat down.

  The Baron took another bite of ham and then pointed with his fork. “You know, I was a Captain myself, a long time ago. Infantry. You were cavalry, I believe.” Another sip of tea. “I talked to E.J. Delacroix. I believe you are acquainted. He tells me he offered you a position in our organization?”

  Wage said nothing

  “Quite a spectacular way to decline. Would you like something to eat?”

  Wage only stared.

  “No? I don’t blame you. The food here is rubbish.” The Baron took a bite of egg. “Your gun— it’s a Peacemaker, isn’t it?”

  Wage thought again about killing him in that moment. He decided against it. He reached into his trousers and pulled out Ol’ Snapper, laying it flat against the table, the barrel aimed at the Baron just in case he changed his mind.

  “Do you find it ironic that we would name something with such destructive capabilities a ‘peacemaker?’” The Baron leaned forward, the sun reflecting off his scalp. “I don’t. You see, Captain, peace only comes with the threat of violence. Violent is what humans are. You and I know that, of course; every soldier does. Civility is a disguise, a thinly veiled veneer. It is the mask we wear to hide the true nature of what we are. Killers. Survivalists. Swindlers. Opportunists. Wouldn’t you agree? Sure, kings and politicians make laws that require us to be kind to one another. But what are laws without guns? Just words, I suspect. Meaningless words. You see, most people don’t understand that. But you do, don’t you?”

  Wage kept his hands in his lap. His fists were clenched.

  “Yes. You do. Which is why . . .” The Baron reached into his pocket.

  Wage raced a hand to his gun.

  The Baron laughed. He lifted a round stone from his inner jacket pocket and slowly placed it on the table. “I will make this quick. I am going to offer you one more chance. Your friend died because you chose poorly in not taking the job before. I am willing to give you one more opportunity to choose correctly.” The Baron speared more ham and put it in his mouth, then pointed at the round stone. “You killed the man wearing this one, I might add.”

  “You killed my friend,” Wage shot back.

  “Then I’d say we’re even. I’ll even overlook the recent incident on the train.”

  “You . . . killed . . . my friend,” Wage repeated.

  “Yes. And what are the odds that we would be staying at the same hotel. I will admit, that was a surprise. Are you sure you don’t want any breakfast?”

  Wage clenched his jaw. A full minute of silence ensued.

  The Baron sighed. “Do you recall the myth of Bellerophon, Captain?”

  Wage said nothing.

  “You see, Bellerophon was the son of Poseidon, and the greatest of monster slayers. Like you, it seemed nothing could defeat him. He always seemed to come out ahead. Until one day, he demanded to reside on Olympus itself, the home of the gods. He wrangled Pegasus and decided to fly to his new home. But Zeus, to punish his hubris, sent a gadfly to sting the winged horse. And do you know what happened? Bellerophon was thrown from his mount and fell into a thorn bush far below, living out his days crippled and blinded before he died. Now—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” a waiter interrupted. He laid a small wooden box on the table. The box was so polished that it looked slippery to hold. “This just arrived for you.” The Baron dismissed the waiter and peered inside the box. He plucked out a palm-sized metal flower. It was a red rose with tinges of silver. He plucked out another. It was a light blue carnation also made of some kind of metal. He admired the craftsmanship on both as though their previous conversation was utterly meaningless. He then read a small note that was inside.

  Wage regarded the flowers with wide eyes.

  The Baron scooped up both and put them in the box, closing the lid. “Sorry about that. Where were we? Ah, yes. Bellerophon.”

  “I don’t want your damn stone,” Wage said.

  “Very well. Have it your way then, Captain.”

  Wage got up from his chair abruptly. He pulled his suspenders over his shoulders and replaced Ol’ Snapper in his waistband. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I fully intend to kill you,” he said, turning and walking away.

  The Baron laughed. “I wish you the best of luck. One captain to another. But do know, my men will never stop hunting you. You are far too dangerous to be left alive. And there is nowhere you can hide from me. Beware the gadfly, Captain.”

  Wage stopped. “I don’t intend to hide, either. Send your men. I’ll kill them, too.”

  A bustling waiter nearly ran into Wage on his way out. Wage grabbed him by the collar and whispered so the Baron couldn’t hear. “Have a
shaving kit delivered to 402.” He pulled the waiter in closer. “And find me a goddamn tailor.”

  The Baron watched Wage leave the courtyard. When he was out of sight, Detective Simon Hum and Khalid Francois approached the table from behind a flowering hedge.

  “Simon,” the Baron said, pushing his empty breakfast plate aside. “Excellent work tracking down Captain Pascal. Perhaps The Witchdoctor was right about you after all. But now, I would like you to keep an eye on him. Follow him everywhere. When the opportunity is right, and he is unsuspecting, apprehend him, and bring him to me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Simon answered.

  “Do not toy with him. If he gives you trouble, exterminate him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now run along.”

  The Baron waited until the detective was out of earshot. “Khalid, when the good detective is finished with Captain Pascal, kill him and his whore.”

  “Do I have to kill her right away?” Khalid asked with a smile.

  “Please do not clue me in to your perversions, Khalid. Do what you must.”

  “With pleasure,” Khalid said.

  Wage W. Pascal

  August 27, 1914

  Carnegie Hall

  Manhattan, New York

  The man was a New Yorker, but he dressed in flowing silk robes of vermillion red and lapis lazuli, his white turban decorated with golden, Arabic swirls. His outfit fluttered in a cool evening wind that collected in the main entrance to Carnegie Hall. His facial hair seemed freshly groomed in an oriental fashion. A dark, pointed goatee complemented a thick, abbreviated mustache and small tuft of hair immediately below his lip. “Ticket, please,” he demanded with a Bronx accent.

  Wage stroked his now-clean-shaven face and straightened the lapels of his midnight suit with tortoise shell buttons. He pointed to a brilliantly red, metallic pomegranate flower pinned to his left breast pocket. He had nearly cut his finger in half trying to pin it on. “I believe my invitation is right here, friend,” he replied.

  The man in the Arabian disguise placed a hand on the blunted scimitar that hung on his hip, reached over, and inspected the flower, ensuring its authenticity. “Thank you, sir, and welcome,” he said with a bow. “Please see your way to the main hall.”

  Wage passed through the brass doors that led to the lobby. An usher in a beige and bronze Sherwani coat that fell to his knees also bowed, then requested Wage’s jacket and hat. Wage handed over his derby hat, revealing side-parted black hair with a pomade shine, but he kept his double-breasted suit coat buttoned, concealing the shoulder rig that housed Ol’ Snapper. The usher asked if he would prefer any appropriate props for the party, like a turban, silk robe, or Egyptian scepter. Wage declined. He was instructed to simply follow the faint trail of pink and white rose petals, which led along the tile and sectional red carpets to the main hall. A waiter patrolled the perimeter of the petal-strewn carpet, offering those entrants their choice of either mint schnapps, champagne, or lemon water. Wage downed two schnapps before he entered the party. “Let us commence with this evening’s activities,” he whispered to himself, the first time he had ever uttered that phrase without Ol’ Bill around. A magnesium flash lit up the lobby as a photographer and his assistant snapped a picture of Wage before he entered the party. Two more ushers in bright-orange Indian garb opened the double doors into what was possibly the grandest party in the Western hemisphere.

  When the doors opened, a blast of sandalwood and frankincense filled Wage’s nostrils, but it hardly covered the smell of both the recognizable and more exotic tobaccos. Steady drum beats, chimes, curiously stringed contraptions, and what sounded like a snake charmer’s flute rhythmically intertwined and entranced Wage’s ears. The music was indeed foreign, but it touched a primitive, familiar part of his soul. The whole scene was an explosive medley of color—vibrant cherry reds, deep burgundies, effervescing lilacs, cool aquamarines, and dandelion yellows.

  Carnegie Hall was indeed a spectacle. The space felt even larger because all the seats on the parquet floor had been removed for the occasion. Whatever bolts or brackets were left in the floor after removing the numerous rows of seats were invisible underneath the nearly 100 Persian carpets that spanned the entire floor. Makeshift wooden structures of various sizes that were decorated with colorful silk and cotton filled the edges of the hall. Each one housed a different attraction—a smoking hookah lounge, an eccentric fortune teller caressing a crystal ball, shirtless and spastic flame jugglers, stoic and lithe sword swallowers, an impressive and impossibly twisted contortionist, a cautious and focused snake handler, a flourishing magician sweating in layers of Eastern-style robes, and a troupe of veiled belly dancers whose finger chimes blended in with the ambient music. Most of the younger guests, festively dressed to some degree, lounged about in the numerous circles of oversized and frilled pillows, drinking, smoking, applauding, and laughing. Everyone was sporting some type of metal flower on their ensemble.

  Wage approached the stage, navigating through men and women who scurried about in sarongs who delivered sweet and spicy kabobs to eager patrons. The scent of the kabobs was one more element that transformed Carnegie Hall in New York City into an Oriental bazaar. Surely, Wage thought, this must have rivaled Nebuchadnezzar’s Babylon. Another flash of magnesium, and a photographer immortalized Wage’s mouth-gaping awe.

  On the great stage, a company of Japanese acrobats flew around with the poise and grace of jungle animals. A few held a long chalked pole steady and upright. Two other men stood nearby, their backs bent and their hands cupped. An acrobat, covered head to toe in white powdered makeup, came sprinting from stage right, jumped into their cupped hands, and was launched nearly halfway up the 20-foot pole. The pole oscillated as the small acrobat twisted and turned about it, his moves almost convincing spectators that humans were meant to live among the trees. The acrobat ascended to the top and balanced there on one foot, hovering seamlessly like some kind of phantom.

  Looking up at the ghostly looking acrobat, something else caught Wage’s eyes. Hanging from the high ceiling was an ocean of flickering and swaying paper lanterns. They were all different colors and sizes, showering the guest in subtle hues. The lanterns surrounded one enormous and fixed silver chandelier that hung from the highest point in the ceiling.

  Four curved balconies loomed above the stage. On the second level, older patrons, dressed in formal attire, sat comfortably at tables and dined on what looked like less eclectic food. The third and fourth-level balconies were vacant, but a few shadows stood near the railing of the fifth-level balcony, separated from Wage by 137 steps. The shadows were difficult to see clearly, but they loomed over the hundreds of guests as though they were apparitions trying to once again inhabit the realm of the living. Wage ignored them and continued to a pistachio-colored tent adorned with bright-yellow streamers that sat to the left of the stage.

  Inside the silk-strewn tent sat two gilded thrones with hieroglyphs etched along both edges, encircled by numerous padded stools. Also inside the tent was a large black cage where a Bengal tiger laid half asleep but still keenly aware of all the prey swirling just outside the iron bars. Two women were inside the tent.

  Mink stood in a sheer, indigo Indian sari and hijab. Small strands of her red hair grazed her forehead like scarlet snakes looking for refuge in the emerald pools that were her eyes. Her eyes, more dangerous than the tiger’s, focused on her sister, who sat in the smaller of the thrones, dressed like Cleopatra. Her black Egyptian wig and golden headdress perfectly covered her blonde hair. Her blue eyes were framed by jet-black eyeliner applied in pharaoh-like fashion. Wage approached unnoticed.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he said. “And may I express my utmost jubilation at your forthcoming nuptials, Andromeda.” Wage took the pharaoh queen’s hand and kissed it politely.

  “Well, isn’t this a happy reunion,” Andromeda exclaimed. “How long has it been since all of us were together?”

&nbs
p; Wage turned to Mink, took her hand and kissed it sensually, savoring the taste, the smell, the moment. “Entirely too long,” he said.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Wage,” Mink said. “Are you holding up all right?”

  “Fine. Just fine,” Wage replied. “Thank you for your inquiry.” His tone pepped up and he slapped his hands together. “Now, Andromeda, do tell me where this strapping future husband of yours is? I am just dying to meet him.”

  Andromeda squinted out into the party and pointed to the second level balcony. “There,” she said.

  Wage looked up and saw the pharaoh king. He wore a white linen sarong and wide sash, a fake Egyptian beard, and a massive headdress. He was entertaining some of the older patrons.

  “Ah, and where might his friend be? The Baron?” Wage asked. He leaned in closer and whispered, “He’ll just die when he sees me.”

  Andromeda laughed. “Oh Wage,” Her cold eyes met his. “I suppose nothing will deter you, will it? If you must know, I haven’t seen him yet this evening. I am not entirely convinced he will even show.”

  Wage scanned the bazaar again. “Oh, he’ll show. He’ll show.” The tiger grunted and lifted himself up to stretch.

  Mink put a hand on his shoulder. “Wage. Whatever it is you think you’re doing, I urge you to reconsider. Please, Wage,” she pleaded. She knew this mood. She knew the kinds of things that produced it, she knew the kinds of actions it precipitated. She knew the results would be him leaving again or him dying. She squeezed his shoulder and leaned in closer to him. “Wage Winchester Pascal, I know you. I know you are up to no good, but whatever your plan is, it ain’t gonna bring your friend back. Please Wage, listen to me. Don’t make me beg.”

  Wage reached over and took her hand. It felt right. “If you tell me—” Wage started.

  “Honeybee!” Quincey Gartrell shouted as he entered the tent. Mink released Wage’s hand instantly. “Darling!” she replied as they kissed each other’s cheek simultaneously. “How are you?”