Moonshine
Page 2
Soapboxers.
It was a clever location, right off the streetcar stop in a neighborhood where the high class with too much to lose collided with the poor with too much to fear. Hardly a surprise that the topic du jour was people just like Daisy. Magicians were all that the huffy, so-called moderates of Ashland quaked in fear over for the past few decades. It didn’t always used to be like that. Magic, alongside ogre technology and industrialism, had probably built half the city less than a hundred years ago. She wasn’t sure what had happened to cause the general population to demonize magicians as a collective, but general populations did love to have enemies, she supposed.
A flicker of masochism hit her, and she decided to stop and listen to the sheltered, middle class homebodies preach about the evil of her secret ways. Not that there wasn’t a price to be paid for magic, but she was fairly certain these fearmongers didn’t even know about that bit. They mostly pulled nonsense out of their own asses, as bigots tended to do. And while they imagined silly things like frantic dances and songs played on flutes made of human bones and magic powered by sex (because of course these puritans were fixated on the notion of sex), they never considered the laws of conservation or the traditions of their ancestors or even the reality that humans were not the only creatures with a command of magic. But Daisy supposed none of that was quite scandalous enough to scream about on a street corner.
She stood amongst the crowd next to a short woman in a tan men’s trench coat, listening to the screeching of the seven soapboxers, one whose voice rose above the rest. A tall, pale man shouted over his companions and the crowd of gawkers that hovered around them. “These wizards are corruptors! They brew their poison and infect our neighbors – good, innocent people – and turn them raving and wild, with the minds of beasts! They have taken over our businesses and temples and universities to drain us of our hard-earned money and hoard it for their nefarious ends!”
Unimpressive, as far as fearmongering went. Basic, bland. No rhythm to his frantic shouting. People loved rhythm – that’s the way to go when looking to captivate an audience. He could have at least waved his arms around a little, give the performance a bit of urgency.
Daisy glanced at the woman next to her. “Ash and embers! Maybe if they shout a little louder they can be heard up in the high heavens. What do you suppose? Think these magicians are as bad as they say?”
The woman – short, a little stocky, probably of Gao or Pheje descent with dark ochre skin and shiny black hair cut to her chin – shrugged with one shoulder, too apathetic to bother with two. “Mana’s already outlawed. Not sure what these protesters think magicians are gonna do. They probably have to go to enough trouble to get their own that they won’t waste any poisoning their ‘good, innocent’ neighbors.”
Mana was the blue fluid magicians typically used to fuel their powers, drinking dosages after casting spells to replenish energy. “The brew of the gods,” it was called by some less conservative than the soapboxers before them. While magic itself was not technically illegal by Ashland or city law, the production, sale, and possession of mana was. The stuff apparently kicked the metabolism into overdrive, and so long as practicing magicians kept themselves well-fed, the thick potion allowed them to keep their bodies balanced. But it was addictive, from what Daisy understood, and non-mages could get manic highs off it, having no lost energies to be replaced. Daisy didn’t need it for her own style of magic, but she had heard even a small dosage of mana ran for a hefty fee, and this woman was probably right that Ashlanders did not need to be concerned about magicians or addicts sharing too much of it with innocent mundanes.
Daisy was tickled with an urge for mischief. “What about their magic, though? I’ve heard that some of those spells require blood sacrifice.”
“And I’ve heard that magicians are trying to create a spell that allows them to eat the sun. Most things that one hears about magic are more shit than what goes in my toilet.”
Daisy laughed, but the woman beside her was quiet and dour. The stranger ignored the soapboxers to watch the light, smoky specks of ash drift downward and back up on the city’s gentle but flustered every-which-way breeze. “It must be handy, I assume,” the other woman said. “Magic. And some people, you know, they just need a little more. The game of survival doesn’t start everyone out with the same resources, after all. Everyone does what they do to get by. It’s not that magicians are so bad – we’re just all animals.” She tore her dark gaze away from the atmosphere to lock eyes with Daisy. “That’s how I see it, anyhow.”
“Very philosophical.” Daisy didn’t mean for it to sound sarcastic, although the other woman turned away from her again. She wondered if the stranger had, like Daisy herself, more than just a passing interest in magic. But that was too dangerous a question to ask, for the both of them and for too many reasons. Instead, Daisy left the stranger to her lofty musings, returning to her task for Mr Swarz. The woman would understand – Daisy only did what she did to get by, abrupt and impolite goodbyes included.
Moving away from the intersection of posh and drab to the out-and-out slums of northeast, Daisy located the rickety townhouse that her final delivery was destined for. It was a sizable building – bigger than an apartment, certainly – but the paint was peeling down the outside walls, and only one of the four front single-paned windows was without a massive, spiderwebbed crack in it. Packed all along down either side were other townhouses of matching quality, stretching in a line both directions until either corner of the street. She knocked on a door that had “307” nailed in wooden letters at eye level, pulling out the envelope labeled “Pasternack” as she heard heavy, uneven footfalls approach. When the door flung open, she took an instinctive step back while the home’s occupant staggered to lean against the frame.
Much like Sparrick and Cadwell, he was pasty and apparently inebriated to some degree. To match the condition of his residence, he was not nearly as fancy – smudged pants and an oversized stained shirt hung from his medium frame. He squinted at her, his pose and expression almost identical to Cadwell’s earlier. Were all of Mr Swarz’s clients drunken slobs half-blinded by brandy? It seemed so contrary to Mr Swarz’s own prim, prickly manner.
“What d’ya want?” the man asked. He mumbled a bit, which Daisy might have mistaken for a side effect of his condition if not for the way he pronounced his vowels, all as a half-formed “uh” sound. It was apparently his accent, some holdover from whatever northern country his parents or grandparents had hailed.
Daisy held forth the letter, putting on a smile she was too weary for. It was nice to stretch her legs on the job, but if she had to run around dealing with this sort to accomplish a light exercise, she wasn’t sure it was worth it. “I was sent by Mr Andre Swarz to deliver this to you, sir.”
The man – Pasternack, she assumed – relaxed, his scowl melting into something not only more neutral but also lucid-seeming. There was a vividness to his eyes that had been hidden under all the squinting. “Swarz? What’s this about?” He pushed himself off the doorframe to take the envelope and open it. Pulling out a note and discarding its shell on the doorstep, he unfolded it and scanned its contents twice before bursting out in rough laughter.
“Oh, hell and brimstone, can you believe this? Look at this!” He waved Daisy closer to read the note, and she resigned herself to humoring him. Stepping closer and glancing over his shoulder, she read:
Pasternack,
It is imperative you return to work by tomorrow. Any further truancy, barring medical emergency, will result in termination.
I’m not kidding.
Swarz
The man laughed again as Daisy pulled away, looking him over. This wasn’t a client – he was one of her coworkers. He smirked at her as he crumpled up the note in his calloused hands. “Listen to that! ‘Imperative.’ Ha! Thinks he can scare me with his big dictionary words.” He gave the note a firm squeeze, and she could hear the light crinkle of paper under his rough laborer’s grip.
“He had you running errands today, didn’t he? Got you hauling documents and secret gifts up to the fancy-pantses out in northwest?”
Daisy felt inclined to smile back, sincerely this time, finally feeling that she no longer had to put up a polite front. Clients were one thing, but she could be casual around a coworker, so long as Mr Swarz wasn’t there to be a crotchety raincloud about it. “How did you know?”
Pasternack dropped the note and hooked a thumb proudly toward himself. “That’s my job, most days. Course, I’ve been playing hooky the past week. Guess not no more, huh?” His smile shrunk – not disappearing, just mellowing – and he held out a friendly hand. “Vicks Pasternack. I work in the warehouse. You must be the new desk lady. That cranky bastard Swarz got you down yet?”
Vicks might have been the very picture of a ne’er-do-well, the kind of caricature on posters put up by groups like those uppity protesters she had seen by the streetcar stop, but his easy attitude was charming in its own right, and he was upfront and friendly with her. Daisy saw no reason not to be candid as she took his hand.
“Of course not. Mr Swarz might be a bit stiff, but he’s been polite and friendly with me. A better boss than I’m likely to get bussing tables or tending bars, I’m sure.”
Vicks threw back his head and laughed. “Damned if that isn’t the nicest thing I did hear anyone ever say about that snarling housecat. He’s just a hotheaded piece of work with me.” Vicks rolled his shoulders, and that light in his eyes took on a mischievous glint. “But if you got such nice things to say ’bout working for Swarz, then I guess I’m feeling pretty inspired to haul my ass back there, too. You can tell him I said that – he’ll be real impressed. Not a lot that can convince me to go to work on my own accord.” Of course, Daisy had just seen that Mr Swarz had threatened to fire Vicks for his extended absence, but she only smiled again in response.
Vicks chuckled and clapped her on the shoulder. Being a stylish Modern Girl had its advantages, but physical strength wasn’t one of them, and she staggered under the friendly but rough pat. “Well, then. I guess I’ll see you at work tomorrow. What’s your name, again?”
Daisy righted herself and adjusted her dress so the folds fell straight and clean. Prim and sporty, just like on the magazines. “I’m Daisy. Daisy Dell.”
Vicks smirked. “Well, welcome to the crew, Daze.” She was sure the grin was supposed to be friendly, and perhaps it was only that the ordeals of her day had set her on edge, but she couldn’t help the thought that there was something wolfish about his smile.
Chapter 2
When Daisy returned to the offices of Stripes Management to report on her task, Mr Swarz was not there. Rudolph LaChapelle, their bookkeeper and the flighty young beau to Miss Agatha in the office across the lobby from Mr Swarz’s, was at the table in the corner of the front room, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the carafe there. “He went to check on something down at the warehouse,” Mr LaChapelle said when she inquired about Mr Swarz’s whereabouts, though he frowned to himself as he answered, as though just remembering something. Shaking off his uncertainty, he added, “He’ll be back within the hour, I’m sure.” Daisy didn’t think further on it and returned to her post at the lobby desk to finish out her work day. Mr Swarz did, indeed, return little less than an hour after that.
He was almost silent coming in the front door, somehow able to open it without aggravating the squeaking hinges, a feat unmanageable by anyone else in the office. He was an uptight sort, with his black clothes, his tidy little bowler hat, and plain, thin-rimmed glasses. Curiously, though, he also wore his straight black hair long, down to his shoulders, in a womanly style. Not that most women wore their hair that long, anymore. He carried a cane with him, too, though he did not always necessarily need it. It was his hand that bothered him more, most days.
That’s why Daisy’s typist position existed, when a competent desk clerk such as Mr Swarz would otherwise be perfectly capable of dealing with his own paperwork. The contents of the envelopes she had delivered to Mr Sparrick and Miss Cadwell had likely been typed by someone else in the company, and the note to Vicks was short enough that Mr Swarz could have pecked it out on his own, given enough time. His right hand had been mangled in a childhood accident, along with most of the right side of his body down to his hip, and although the wounds had healed as much as they could years ago, his hand was still not flexible enough to handle a task so delicate and precise as typing. Daisy could see sometimes, when Mr Swarz clenched his fists in irritation or while trying to grab small objects, that his right fingers just didn’t close as tight as his left ones.
Mr Swarz didn’t look Daisy’s way as he leaned his cane against the wall and took off his hat and coat to settle them on the rack by the door, and she waited for him to slip into his office before rising from her desk to follow him.
“Mr Swarz.” She hovered in the doorway of his office, glancing around at the cluttered mess. His desk was impeccable – a cumbersome old piece of furniture with chipped dark blue paint, neatly organized with pen holders, and cleared in the middle with a plain black address book and a strange little figurine of a phoenix chicken, with a round little body painted flame-red, set neatly in the corner. It was the row of shelves behind him, stocked with overstuffed binders and uneven stacks of loose paper banded together, that made the room appear untidy. Daisy assumed those were his clients’ records. When she had first met Mr Swarz in this room for her job interview, the frantic disorganization of those shelves hadn’t made sense, but after meeting some of his clients, she was beginning to understand.
He settled behind the desk and pushed his glasses up his nose. Daisy wasn’t sure how old he was – his angular, pale face was without wrinkles, his black hair without any streak of silver, but he had a gruffness that reminded Daisy of her eldest uncle Basil who had been working as a quarry foreman for the past twenty years. As she told Vicks, though, Mr Swarz had been nothing but cool and polite in all their interactions together so far.
“Yes, Miss Dell?” He flinched just slightly, his left eye twitching in remembrance of something unpleasant. “Ah, you must have finished with those deliveries. Did it go well?”
Daisy considered mentioning the near-brawl that had broken out in Mr Sparrick’s parlor, but she thought better than to besmirch his clients like that. She had no idea how much he respected the wealthy socialites that paid him. “Yes, sir. Mr Sparrick and Miss Cadwell received their packages without complication.”
“Good, good.” He nodded absently for a moment before his brow dropped to a stern, flat line above his eyes. “And did Pasternack receive his note?”
“Yes, sir. He said that he was so inspired by my dedication to my job that he would return to his own tomorrow.”
Mr Swarz scoffed. “What an ass.” Daisy choked down a laugh. “I’m glad to hear it, though. We’ve been needing more hands in the warehouse, which is why Amelia was moved from your current position to one better suited to her talents there, and it doesn’t do to have the workers we already pay refuse to–”
He cut off as a momentous tap to Daisy’s backside sent her staggering further into the room with a startled yelp. She straightened herself to find Mr Swarz frowning at a lovely woman who had hip-bumped Daisy out of the doorway to take her place.
Miss Angel Agatha was the Senior Accounts Manager for the company – a tall, fat woman with shiny platinum blonde hair and pink cheeks. She was the very antithesis of Mr Swarz in her persona and energy, all throaty laughter and conspiratorial winks, dressed almost always in white or pale blue. In the few days that Daisy had been working there, Miss Agatha frequently tried to chat her up at her desk in the lobby, only to be chased away by Mr Swarz, complaining how she was distracting his typist from her duties, and she would laugh at him but comply. They had the rapport of old friends or close siblings – loving but snide. Mr Swarz didn’t care for Mr LaChapelle, though, and only his insults toward the bookkeeper ever coerced a sincere frown from Miss Agatha.
“Yes, Miss Agatha, it was lovely.” Daisy shifted her hips, wondering if the dull sting she was feeling in her backside foreshadowed a bruise. Miss Agatha was solid as a mountain, and she could probably swing her hips into a slender girl like Daisy hard enough to break her in half.
Miss Agatha smiled. She always smiled with her eyelids half lowered. “Well, I hope you aren’t too tuckered out. I’ve a proposition for you.”
Mr Swarz sighed. “Angel, no.”
“Oh, hush. It’s all in good fun, and I don’t hardly know a thing about our new typist. She’s got to meet the girls from the warehouse, too. Besides, Daisy, you’ve been working here long enough that you should be expecting your first paycheck soon. Got to have something to spend that money on, right?”
“What’s going on, now?”
Miss Agatha placed a hand on Daisy’s shoulder. “Maybe Andre has told you already, but us around the office like to go out every now and again after work to blow off some steam. Do you care for dance halls? Rudolph and I are meeting the girls from the warehouse at one tonight, if you’re interested in coming along.”
Daisy glanced Mr Swarz’s way, noticing that he still wore a scowl. She didn’t know if she should take that as a warning or if he was just like that. Regardless, she thought back to her lonely night of celebration several days ago. Every fiber of her being aspired to be the epitomical Modern Girl, to live free and on the edge of society’s rules, and she couldn’t do that without a throng of equally stylish and independent friends. She didn’t know if the warehouse girls were like that, but if Miss Agatha was any indication, they would be just the sort of spunky but elegant working girls that traditionalists on the radio wailed in horror over. Perhaps she would even genuinely enjoy their company, too.