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The Redeemers

Page 18

by T. J. Martinell


  He waved down the hallway with his hat. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  “As I recall, last time you left me on the sidewalk.”

  He bowed low in an exaggerated motion. “A thousand apologies, ma’am.”

  “A thousand insincere apologies aren’t worth a single authentic one.”

  “If you only get the first, or nothing, which would you choose?”

  Kaylyn pressed her lips together, putting a small hat on her head and butting up her coat.

  “I don’t have time for this,” she said.

  “Then stop fighting me and let me take you home.”

  “Fine. Where are you parked?”

  “Nowhere. I’ll get someone to drive us.”

  “Then why did you offer to drive me home?”

  He chuckled. “I didn’t. I offered to take you home, not drive you myself. Why do something you can get someone else to do for free?”

  On the street surface, Carl waved down one of the many independent cabs that operated out of their territory. He knew the driver inside, a local named Stefan. He wasn’t under Norton’s payroll, but he knew who buttered his bread.

  “Where do you live?” Carl asked Kaylyn, helping her inside the car.

  “Just take me to Chinatown.”

  “You live there?”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “You men never listen.” She then called to Stefan. “Chinatown, please.”

  They drove off. Carl glanced at her dress. “Where did you get that?”

  “The same place you got your suit.”

  “I doubt it. Mine was tailored.”

  “So was mine.”

  “How much did it cost you?”

  “More than it cost you.”

  “Can you ever give a straight-up answer?”

  She tossed her soft chin, smiling. “Can you ask a straight-up question?”

  He moved over in his seat so that their thighs touched, leaning over her. “Alright; here’s a straight-up question for you. Why did you leave the newspaper?”

  She seemed disappointed. “Why do you care? You didn’t seem to care when I did.”

  “I don’t like it when people quit,” he said.

  “I don’t need to be treated like a child.”

  “You aren’t a child.”

  “I’m glad you realized that. For a while I was convinced otherwise.”

  Stefan was astute enough to keep his mouth closed until he stopped them right on the border of Chinatown. Aside from the car, there was no other source of light along the city block. Kaylyn tried to get out her side, but Carl got on the sidewalk first and insisted on helping her. She glared at him but accepted his hand. He told Stefan to wait, tossing him extra money in advance. He then asked Kaylyn where she lived.

  “I can find my way back home quite well without you handling me,” she said. “I don’t need your help.”

  “When was it ever about that?”

  She was quiet. “Is that a direct question?”

  “Depends on whether you want it to be.”

  Stepping out of the car’s headlights, she was a darkly-formed silhouette in front of him, her face like a veil.

  His reached out and kissed her. Her body was taut and remained so. But she didn’t fight him or forcibly pulled away. She put her hand under his arm, her fingers pressing firmly against his back.

  Then something changed in her. She instantly turned her head from him, her arm coming out from his back and pushing against him. He fell backwards, blissfully relishing the kiss after it had ended. She took several loud steps and put some distance between them, her arms wrapped around herself protectively.

  “You should stay away from me if you know what’s good for you,” she said in a near-whisper. “I’m not good for you.”

  It started to rain. Carl was oblivious to the raindrops splattering on his coat and hat, his hands shoved deep into his front coat pockets. He nodded slowly, then hopped back in the car. As they drove away, Carl lit a cigarette and leaned back against the seat.

  “Sorry, man,” Stefan said quietly. “Maybe it’s better this way.”

  Carl didn’t answer.

  Chapter Twelve

  It didn’t take long.

  The next day amid a downpour, columns of ISA armored vehicles rolled up the old interstate from the north and south, pouring into the city like ants. Guiding them from above were surveillance drones that swept across Lake Washington and formed a defensive perimeter around the convoys moving across the interstate and bridges.

  As if to show their dominance, the drones roared into downtown, racing between the decrepit skyscrapers as people fled the streets.

  Carl watched the scene from the newsroom window. He glanced at Tom, who shrugged.

  “Not much we can do,” he said.

  Norton ordered them to avoid all contact, while sending reporters to find out what they could.

  The news arrived fast and grim: All the officers wore Seattle and King County uniforms; the vehicles and equipment shared the same insignia, but they were all ISA, except for the police chief and county sheriff. Even then, they were puppets; the ISA director called the shots.

  The campaign was codenamed Operation EMERALD.

  The objective: Destroy all newspapers by subjugating the city residents.

  From thereon out the city acted as though besieged. ISA agents routinely patrolled the sidewalks, ending the open possession and sale of newspapers. Communities restricted local activities to the indoors and prohibited children from playing outside unless carefully watched. The Pike Place Association moved all their vendors underground and out of sight. The neighborhoods doubled down on their insular nature, distrusting anyone not already known and trusted.

  For all his connections, Usher’s tips became less and less frequent. Fortunately, Carl had amassed other helpful contacts, but it was still unsettling someone with Usher’s influence could be undermined.

  The newspapers did their best to fight back with ink rather than blood. Stories hit the front-page chronicling the ISA invasion, featuring testimony from eye witnesses of alleged crimes from Operation EMERALD’s first day. More security was placed around the newspaper territories. Guarantees of safety were made between or bought from the various police precincts through payouts.

  Despite the occupation, libraries began popping up in every conceivable section of Seattle, from small corner-store locations to an old ballroom. Within six months, there was hardly a city block without at least a small one available.

  Often Carl would see Kenning come to Cascadian’s de facto library, now named Slim Marie’s. Sometimes he would wear his police uniform, amused when people initially thought a raid was underway. He never acknowledged Carl, a sign that he preferred their relationship remain discreet.

  Carl didn’t know what to think of him. He represented the type of person most suited for Seattle, the type of man the city seemed to breed. He was neither likable nor dislikable; neither admirable nor despised; neither upright nor corrupt. He was whatever was most advantageous for him to be at that precise moment. He’d warn Carl about police raids on one of their newspaper storage facilities, only to knock a paperboy senseless for not paying him off on time. He’d tackle a would-be thief stealing from a man on the street, but then demand money from someone he didn’t like as he passed on along the sidewalk. He’d smack women who insulted him, but gave others ride homes if they felt unsafe walking the streets at night.

  However, Carl hardly ever went to Slim Marie’s after his interaction with Kaylyn on opening night. His home remained the Fighting Sailor, as it did for most reporters.

  Then one night, Duong convinced them to crash the library wearing their best suits. Kaylyn was at the entrance to greet them, giggling when Ian teased her.

  She offered Carl a restrained smile when he entered dressed in his suit and freshly polished boots, along with an overcoat he had spent two hours brushing to perfection, and his neck hinted a subtle smell of cologne from two q
uick daps to the skin.

  “Welcome,” she said. “You prefer a specific table?”

  He forced a fake smile. She knew his favorite table in the center of the room facing the stage. She had seen him there before, had heard Fred or Duong or someone else ask for it.

  “Of course,” he said.

  She took a stack of menus, one for food the other for newspapers, and brought them over to the table he liked without him pointing it out. The men had settled into their chairs and asked her to just get their usual drink and papers. She jotted them down and then asked Carl what he wanted.

  “The usual,” he replied.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Guess. You seem like an intelligent young lady,” he said.

  “The library avoids hiring psychics or mind-readers. You’ll have to tell me.”

  “Just get whatever they’re ordering.”

  “They’re not ordering the same thing.”

  “Fine. Make it a brandy. No paper for tonight.”

  She strutted away and tossed the orders over to one of the waiters as she returned to the entrance to greet the large influx of dapper-looking men and ladies in fancy dresses. It was strange to see opulence and wealth displayed where only a few blocks away there was poverty.

  Carl held nothing against them; they hadn’t stolen their money. They had been the fortunate, the lucky ones.

  The orchestra band Marine Marvels moved into one of their regular arrangements, an upbeat swing song. In seconds, the whole room was moving to the beat as the band leader danced and crooned indiscernibly into the microphone. Then his voice became clear as he sang lyrics evoking an optimistic hope.

  Fred hobbled out of his chair and snatched one of the women with a shorter dress. She had no time to protest as he led her down into the open space between the tables and the stage. As soon as they touched the floor, he swung her around in a circular motion and then pulled her close to him. Intimidated at first by his black patch and intense energy, she gradually loosened up and returned the enthusiasm.

  “That’s it,” Ian said as he got up. “I’m not letting that old bastard have all the fun.”

  Calling out to one of the ladies sitting together at a table at the end of the room, approached her and without a word threw her over his shoulders and rushed down to the dance floor.

  The rest of the table found a woman of their own and joined Fred and Ian, except for Carl and Tom.

  “Not into dancing?” Carl asked.

  “Not tonight,” Tom said.

  “What do you like to do? Aside from drinking brandy, working for the newspaper, and being connected to an infamous rogue like me?”

  “So humble, you are.”

  “Well?”

  Tom set down his drink. “I’m content, if you can call it that. I like what we have here.”

  “I agree. And I want to enjoy it as much as possible.”

  “Then why don’t you find yourself a gal too, and sweep her off her feet?”

  Carl instinctively looked over his shoulder at Kaylyn, wincing as she beamed at one of the older, better dressed men who was gawking her dress.

  Tom turned his head slightly. “Wasn’t she the one who ─”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  Carl said nothing.

  “I don’t get it,” Tom said. “You could have any girl. Find one of the girls in here. There’s plenty to choose from. Why set yours eyes on this one?”

  “I’m not obsessed.”

  “Alright.”

  “What about you and Shala?” Carl asked.

  “Shala and I are good. She visits when she can. I see her when I want to.”

  “Aren’t the ladies the ones who can’t wait to get hitched?”

  “When their options start to dwindle, yeah. But Shala has got plenty of options besides me. If she has other men who want her, why should she settle on me?”

  “Because you’re better than them. That’s not settling”

  “Maybe as you see it. She doesn’t.”

  “Then she isn’t the right gal,” Carl said wryly. “Find one of the girls in here. There’s plenty to choose from.”

  Carl looked over at Kaylyn and saw she was smiling excitedly. He could hear snippets of conversations, but they were too brief to make any sense to him.

  “Hey,” he said to a young woman passing by his table. “You’re pretty good looking and I’m devilishly handsome and charming. How ‘bout you and I make fools of everyone else down there?”

  The woman paused, sorting out whether to take his remark as a compliment or an insult. She gave him a shy smile. “You’re pretty good at insulting people and making them feel good about it.”

  “I’m an even better dancer,” he said as he took her hand.

  After two fast-paced songs, the band began their slow, romantic pieces. By then, the girl had her arms draped around Carl’s neck, her chin pressed against his chest as she looked up at him as though they had known each other for years.

  She pressed her cheek against his arm and closed her eyes and was in a sleep-like trance when the song gradually faded out. He took her back up to the upper part of the library and left her by the tables to retrieve their coats in the coatroom.

  He was rummaging through the hangers when he heard Kaylyn’s defensive voice.

  “Think I’m jealous of her?”

  He turned around, holding both coats in his hands. She was standing by the podium with both hands on her hips, her eyes smalls slits.

  He walked past her wordlessly. She elbowed him in the side. This time it hurt.

  He said nothing and pretended like she wasn’t there.

  Giving the girl her coat, he finally asked her name, Dora.

  He put his jacket on and escorted her out one of the other exits, away from Kaylyn. There was no offhand remark from him, no final glance as the exit door closed behind him.

  ***

  “Damn it, Farrington! Hurry the hell up!”

  Carl swore as he corrected a typo in his story. He had written “and” instead of “hand.”

  He didn’t have the time to make mistakes.

  A cigarette dangling from his lips, he put it down in the ashtray and brought his face low to the paper and read the words as soon as the keys pressed the ink down. He typed even as he looked up at the clock

  Three minutes to deadline.

  He felt ashamed; not for the typo, but why he might be late. During a break, he had seen Kaylyn outside the newspaper talking to one of the reporters. He didn’t recognize the man, but Kaylyn’s perked eyes indicated that her interest in him was more than platonic. He had watched them talk when he should have been working.

  A copyeditor stood by his desk in anticipation. He wasn’t impatient about it, but his presence irritated Carl. He ordered the copyeditor to stand away, but Childs ordered him back.

  There weren’t many of the reporters there. Most had filed their stories already and were downstairs deciding which place to hit up for the night.

  Carl was on the finishing paragraph when one of the keys jammed. He pushed at the mechanism to make it move, then used a lubricant from his desk to break up a sticky substance that had somehow found its way in there. He then pounded out the final sentence and handed it to the copyeditor as he got up and stormed out the newsroom.

  Finding a solitary spot in the corner of the stairway, he hastily smoked two cigarettes until the intensely bitter sensation burned inside his mouth. He cleaned up his appearance and headed down to the lobby to meet up with the others.

  Child’s voice called from the floor above. “Farrington!”

  “What? I finished the story!”

  “Someone’s calling you.”

  He wanted to leave it be and pick it up another time. But he knew the rules; it was when you didn’t pick up you should have. Running up the stairs, he got back to his desk and answered the phone to find Kenning on the line.

  “Can’t say much, but I got something b
ig to tell you,” he said.

  “Sonuva bitch, we just hit deadline. You couldn’t call an hour or two ago?”

  “Didn’t know until now. The ISA is doing some sort of raid. A big one. I’ve been assigned to go in as backup, but they don’t expect me to serve in any capacity.”

  Carl held the phone close with both hands. His voice lowered. “Yeah?”

  “Before you ask, I swear I don’t know the place. I just the number of people involved is big, and it’s going down tonight.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “You’ve got the radio on your car, right?”

  “It’s not mine, but yeah.”

  “Then I’ll call you here. If I don’t get a hold of you, then I’ll reach out to you on the police frequency in code. It’ll be obvious to you, but not to others.”

  “Can’t I just listen to the police band?”

  “No. The ISA is running this thing, and they’re not broadcasting the fact.”

  “How long do you think it’ll be?”

  “A few hours at the most, like two.”

  Carl hated the idea of sitting there waiting for a call. But what else could he do?

  It was going to be a long night.

  “Fine, I’ll be here.”

  Sensing the gravity of the situation, Carl immediately went to Childs and informed him about Kenning’s call. His editor was skeptical, but like Carl couldn’t afford to let it go.

  “I’ll contact my men keep an eye out along the outer perimeters. If the ISA plans to come here, we’ll know well in advance.”

  “Either way, this won’t make deadline.”

  “I could hold the presses if it’s that important.”

  “We won’t know until two more hours, at the minimum.”

  Childs called in Norton and explained the situation. The older man contemplated the matter, then turned to Carl. “What do you think? Should we hold for this story?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a big scoop if it pans out, but if it doesn’t it’ll cost us.”

  Norton moved his head slightly, intrigued. He picked up his phone and called the warehouse where the presses were located, telling them to hold the machines until given further instructions. He hung up and held his hands together in front of him.

 

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