The Redeemers

by T. J. Martinell

  He was who he was, and he could be nothing other than that.

  And no one would decide who or what he would be, except himself.

  ***

  Something woke him. Gradually opening his eyes, he listened to the gentle crunch of a foot on paper. Shifting his gaze to the left, he peered into the darkness, scarcely able to make out the shrouded figure approaching like an ethereal spirit. He grinned as he reached for the night stand by his bed and flicked on the lamp.

  Partially illuminated, Emma stood in the center of the paper sheets, her small feet pressed close together. She was dressed in a large overcoat than fell to her ankles. Her shoes were just behind her.

  Sitting up in his bed, Carl chuckled. “Not exactly subtle, though I’m glad you can find your way around.”

  “I’ve lived here for years,” she whispered, taking another step on the paper. “I don’t need an app to find a local hotel.”

  “I’m glad. I would have disappointed.”

  “Oh, you would have, would you?”

  He was quiet, then said, “Yes, very disappointed in you.”

  Untying the knot in her hair, she let it fall to her waist, huffing coyly. “You’re such an ass.”

  “And that coat makes you look fat, so you know how to fix that.”

  She put her hands on her hips, the lamplight revealing the makeup she had put on since leaving the pub. In an exaggerated motion, she unbuttoned and removed the overcoat, leaving nothing else to conceal her pale body as she crept onto the bed impatiently. Carl seized her and brought her close to him, the lamplight vanishing with a click before he took her as he had so many girls before.

  Chapter Four

  “GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!”

  Carl jumped out of his bed, pushing Emma aside. She scrambled for her clothes as he ran up to the door and called out to them, frantically searching for a blunt object that would suffice as a weapon.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “We’re from the Cascadian. Everyone needs to get up now!”

  Carl looked back at Emma. She was dressing as she made her way to the window, slipping out by the time he finally opened the door a bit and found a tall man standing there with a sense of urgency.

  In the corridor, the others were being summoned from their rooms and directed to the stairs.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “It’ll be explained when you get to the newspaper,” the man said. “We don’t have time now.”

  “Do we need anything?”

  “Just your clothes. If you need anything else, we’ll provide it for you.”

  Carl joined Tom, had been in the process of brushing his teeth. He spat out the toothpaste and wiped his mouth, his coat hanging off one arm.

  “Hell of a way to begin the today,” he said.

  “Could be worse,” Carl said. “It could have all been a dream and we’re still working at the Record.”

  “Don’t joke about that.”

  Fred emerged from his room, tucking his revolver in the front of his trousers. He cleared his throat and bellowed out for the rest of the men to hustle and meet at the entrance in two minutes.

  The bus filled, and the driver sped down the road. They reached the newspaper building within minutes. The sidewalk outside of was crawling with people entering and exiting like ants. They pushed through the crowds, forcing their way into the lobby.

  Heading up the stairs to the third floor, they moved through a short hallway and were brought into a large room, where several dozen other men stood with the same anxious look on their faces.

  “Wait here,” the men said before retreating to the hallway and out of sight.

  Carl moved through the line and looked around the room. Rows of oak desks stood neatly aside one another, row after row after row from the back of the room to the front. A typewriter was on every desk, along with a black phone, and small paper bins on the edge, along with a notepad and a pen.

  On the other side of the room was an archaic looking machine with keys like a typewriter but the paper ran into it like a printer.

  Fred saw the machine, too, and laughed. “I never thought I’d ever see a teletype again.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s like what the Internet was a hundred years ago. Like a fax machine. You can send stuff to other people who have the same machine, and you can also receive information.”

  The other recruits noticed Carl and Tom and Fred and their colleagues.

  “Where you boys from?” a man asked.

  “Bellevue,” Carl replied.

  “Cool. My name is Samson. We’ll almost all from Spokane. I couldn’t get a decent job, so I came here.”

  “Y’all came here for jobs?” Fred asked.

  Samson shook his head. “A bunch of us came ‘cause they didn’t like the weather. Or the social climate, if you know what I mean. I heard it’s no better on the other side of the lake.”

  “You heard right,” Carl said.

  “You know what’s going on?” Tom inquired of Samson.

  Samson shrugged. “All I know is they got us out of our beds early. We’ve been here for half an hour and nothing’s happened so far.”

  He then directed their eyes down at the floor. The wooden panels shook from the tremendous noise coming from below.

  “I do know something happened that they aren’t thrilled about,” he said. “Nobody’s been smiling since we got here.”

  The front door swung open. Norton and five men appeared, all of them wearing matching dark black silk suits. Everyone’s posture stiffened.

  Norton whispered to his associates; all but one departed. The remaining man had an uncertain expression on his face. Norton didn’t waste any time, marching closer so that he was within an arm’s reach of the crowd.

  “I’ll try to be brief,” he said. “Last night we learned that one of our rival newspapers, the Puget Sound Herald, is putting out their first issue tomorrow. I was hoping to get things ready before our first issue and have some sort of final test to prove yourselves, but we don’t have time. They think they can push us out of the market, and I intend to push them out, instead.”

  He studied the men, offering Carl an additional moment of attention.

  “Today, you’re going to do what you came here to do,” he said. “You’re going to get me stories to fill this paper so that when we go to press at five o’ clock tonight, it’s filled with the best damn content anyone will read.”

  Norton then placed his hand on the shoulder of the man beside him. He was short and stout, but his peculiar appearance made him look tough, not comical.

  “This is Clarence Childs,” Norton said. “He will be your news editor.”

  He then swept his arm through the air. “And this is your newsroom. When you’re finished gathering your story material, you will come and write it here. By four o’ clock, I want your stories in those bins, ready to be picked up by our copy-editing team working on the second floor.”

  Walking around them, he came near to Carl’s side of the room and tapped the side of his leg with the hat in his hand. “If you can get it done, consider yourself in my service. If not, you might as well gather your things and go back to wherever you came from. I don’t care what happens or what you’re required to do. You will procure stories for me. This is not just a charity. Gentlemen, we are making history here, and I intend to leave my mark. Either you will stand with me and help me in that endeavor, or you will be pushed away to allow for those who can.

  “You might be tempted to think this will be easy. I can assure you that unless you are from Seattle, you are truly entering a brave new world unlike anything you’ve seen before. It is a world where you survive or die based on your own capacities as a man, a real man. It is not for the indecisive or the incompetent. You will either be bold, or you will won’t last long. There may or may not be law enforcement there to stop you. They might chase after you, or they might ignore you. There are sections of the city whe
re you will be on your own if you run into trouble. We will not come for you. I expect you all to exercise proper judgment, but I will have no tolerance for cowards, either. The Cascadian will have a reputation both feared and respected, not ridiculed.”

  Norton smirked. “Perhaps if you fail, you can go work for my competitors – if they will take you. But you have not yet earned your place here. Anything of worth must be earned, or it is of no value. Whether you’re here for only today, or for the rest of your life, never forget this.”

  He turned to Childs, who nodded but said nothing. Norton then left Childs to address them. His oddly shaped body gave him a funny appearance, but well-developed arm muscles silently testified to his ability to punish those who mocked him. He didn’t seem to have any proclivity for writing. His demeanor was too business-like and formal.

  “All of your assignments are on your respective desks,” he said in a baritone voice. “Your names are on the right side. The paper on your desk has a description of the story you’re to write. If you have questions, and you will, feel free to ask them. If possible, however, please try to have someone else assist you rather than me so I can attend to those whose questions genuinely require my attention. That is all.”

  As they were searching for their desks, Childs raised his hand and added, “Oh, and I’ve decided that until we sort out who will be with us in the future, some of you have been assigned together based on feedback I’ve received about your performance so far during training. That’s all.”

  Fighting to get through the aisles, Carl squeezed between two men, informing his friends when he had inadvertently discovered their spots. He discovered his desk in the center of the third row. The typewriter was a small Remington. It looked serviceable but rugged, like it had been repaired many, many times before.

  He snatched his assignment and skimmed through it.

  The premise: Rumored had it that the Alaskan Way Viaduct, which had collapsed during the earthquake, was on the verge of slipping completely into the water. The rumor was that a civil engineer for the city had made the discovery while conducting a survey, but the city hadn’t released the report yet and had quietly informed all city staff not to mention it in any emails until they had gone public with the report.

  What wasn’t known was why precisely the city wanted to keep a lid on the matter.

  Carl’s job was to convert the rumor into a credible story by the end of the day.

  Clutching the paper, he shoved it into his pocket. He picked up the notepad and pen and pushed them down his pant pocket, moving with a flow of men toward the hallway. There, he ran into Tom, who had his notepad and pen in hand.

  “What you got?” Carl asked.

  “Same as you.”

  “We got the same assignment? How do you know?”

  “Because the boss wrote it on the paper,” he said, showing it to Carl.

  Carl didn’t waste time reading it, knowing Tom wouldn’t lie. He’d never admit it, but Fred was his first choice for a partner. His practical knowledge would be indispensable if things went wrong.

  Carl was hopeful the day would go smoothly. However, memorizing a map of the streets wasn’t a substitute for having been on the streets themselves. Fred had obviously been in more dangerous situations than anyone else, including Tom.

  “So how do we want to do this?” Tom asked. “Not sure how we’re going to get the engineer himself to confess to us.”

  “We don’t,” Carl said. “You’re thinking way too far into this, as usual. We need the study the engineer did of the viaduct. He can keep his mouth shut all he wants. The city’s trying to avoid anything that might get revealed in a public information request, which is smarter than most. They really don’t want this getting out.”

  “But why?”

  “No point in speculating, is there? We’re not getting paid to write a gossip column, are we?”

  Carl went back to his desk, rummaging through the drawers. Lots of pens and spare paper in one drawer, ink ribbons and spare typewriter parts in another. The center drawer had notepads. He also found a small phonebook with his name on it. Inside, it had a list of contacts Norton had collected, along with the specific issues they were considered experts on. The phonebook had them categorized under “unofficial” and “official sources,” albeit none he saw were willing to talk on the record.

  Of course, for that specific story he didn’t need an official source. Just someone willing to get him a copy of the study, or tell him how to get his hands on it himself – without using the Internet.

  Flipping through the pages, he came across a name underneath the list of contacts pertaining to municipal issues.

  Usher. It sounded like an alias. No cell phone, just a landline.

  Picking up the phone he dialed the number and listened restlessly to the ring. No answer, no voicemail box. He hung up and sighed, looking through the phonebook again. No other contact.

  He then noticed a weird note added to the bottom of the Usher’s contact’s info; frequents the Ming Dynasty Club.

  “What do you guess that means?” he asked Tom as he handed him the notebook. Tom read the remark, then went to his desk and took out a map of the city. Unfolding on his desk, he placed a finger on the International District, moving it in a circle until he finally stabbed at an intersection.

  “The club is an opium den,” he said. “I don’t know much about them.”

  “You shouldn’t. But it’s our best lead right now. I’m not sitting around waiting for him to pick up. It’s only a few minutes from here, and if he isn’t there then someone will be able to tell us where.”

  “What if they aren’t willing?”

  “I’ll make it worth their while.”

  They were passing through the lobby when someone called to Carl. He stopped and saw Fred approach him and take him to the side. Without saying a word to explain himself, he slipped his revolver into Carl’s hand. There was a genuine concern in his eyes.

  “Remember, don’t hesitate this time,” Fred said.

  Carl still wasn’t comfortable carrying a gun. He knew he was ill-trained to use it. But it wasn’t the time to be timid.

  He put it away and thanked Fred. “Don’t you need it?” he added.

  “It’s not my only gun, kid. Besides, I’ve gotten myself out of some pretty crazy spots in the world with just a Ka-Bar.”

  He patted Carl on the back. “Just don’t shoot your eye out, alright?”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind, Cyclops.”

  Carl caught up with Tom getting his Mustang ready in the parking lot in the back of the building. Setting it into first gear, they pulled out onto the street and drove north toward the surreal scene of dilapidated skyscrapers and ruined edifices.

  Reaching to his pocket, Carl touched the outside of his coat, sensing the lethal nature of the gun underneath the wool exterior. The power of death, contained in such a small object, terrified him, but also lifted his spirit as they were drawn into the ominous remains of what had once been a prosperous city.

  If there was trouble ahead, he would be prepared.

  ***

  They both looked out through their windows at the one-story building where the opium den was presumably located. The front door was a piece of thick solid wood, a small keyhole in the center. The façade was distinctly Chinese, the business name written above the door with gold and red paint in Cantonese. Out the top of the building, a faint line of hazy smoke seeped out of a ventilation pipe.

  If the men who ran the operation were trying to be discreet, they had failed miserably. Carl surveyed the abandoned environs, growing increasingly circumspect. It was akin to an Old West ghost town; the sidewalks were empty, the streets all but silent. In the general vicinity, there was no one to be seen.

  Either he was becoming paranoid, or he detected a trap of some kind. He touched his gun for reassurance as he turned to Tom.

  “You ready for this?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

&nb
sp; Parking alongside the curb, they approached the front door and knocked hard. As they waited, Carl gripped the revolver in his hand but kept it concealed in his pocket.

  A short Chinese man with a thin moustache peeked his head out the doorway and peered at them, a sneer forming.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  They looked at each other, wondering which one of them would assume control. As it had always been in their friendship, Carl spoke first.

  “This the Club?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Who are you? You aren’t from here. How’d you find out about it?

  “I enjoy smoking myself, but it’s hard to find a good place, know what I mean? An acquaintance of mine said this was the place to come. In fact, he said it’s the best in Seattle.”

  “Ha! That’s not saying much. There’s not many of us left.”

  Carl feared he would close the door, but the man kept peering at them.

  “You’re not going to turn us away, are you?” he asked, moving up the small steps to the door. “We’ve been hoping to come for a long time. You should have heard my friend rave about this place.”

  The Chinese man held his chin high incredulously, doubtful, but nevertheless curious.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “You might not know his real name, but he goes by Usher. You know him, right?”

  The man’s eyes grew large as he smiled. “Ah, yes! In fact, he is here right now.”

  “Perfect. We can enjoy a smoke with him, too.”

  “Excellent. Welcome!”

  The inside of the front door had five deadbolts and two chain locks, which the man clacked back into place before leading them into a small darkened foyer. Opening a door to the right, he flicked on a light fixture in the ceiling and took them down stairs.