She spied the station porter hovering about the edges of the crowd. When he noticed her standing beside her stack of luggage, he limped over. His smile was open and friendly. “Need a hand with your luggage, ma’am?”
“I would be obliged to you,” Alessandra said, thickening her accent. “As you can see, it is more than I can fit in my clutch.”
He laughed politely and nodded. “I think we can rectify that, ma’am. Let me grab a dolly, and we’ll get you situated. Is someone meeting you?”
She hesitated. The question might be innocent. Then again, it might be anything but. “I will require transportation if it is available.”
“Another thing we’re happy to help with.” He moved briskly back the way he’d come, but returned a few moments later pushing a squeaky-wheeled dolly. Despite his limp he moved quickly, and loaded up her luggage without difficulty.
“Thank you…” she began.
“Washington, ma’am, Bill Washington. And it’s all part of the service here at Northside Station. I…” He paused, his smile faltering as he turned. She turned with him, but saw nothing but the rain falling at the edge of the platform.
“What is it?”
His smile snapped back into focus. “Not a thing, ma’am. Thought I heard something, is all. To tell the truth, this old station has a bit of a rat problem.” He pushed her luggage out of the station. A handful of taxi cabs waited along the sidewalk. Bill paused, as if looking for one in particular. He smiled and started towards one standing a bit away from the others.
He banged on the roof when he reached it. “Wake up, Pepper. You’ve got a fare.”
There was a muffled yelp, as if someone had been startled. Then a gawky figure climbed out of the cab. “I wasn’t sleeping,” the cabbie said.
“Sure you weren’t, Pepper,” Bill said. “This lady needs a cab. You’re it.”
The cabbie – Pepper – stuck out his chin and squared off with the much taller porter. He was young – far younger than he was attempting to appear, she thought. He had thin, boyish features, without a hint of facial hair and a spatter of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He wore a battered flat cap, and loose clothes. “Only I say who gets a ride in my cab, Washington.”
Bill’s smile became pained. “You’re embarrassing me, Pepper.”
“Golly, wouldn’t want that,” Pepper said. He glanced at Alessandra and stuck out his hand. Gingerly, she took it. “Pepper Kelly, pleased to meet you.”
“An unusual name. I am Alessandra. Alessandra Zorzi.”
Pepper whistled. “You want to talk names? I think you got me beat, lady.” He paused. “You got a funny accent.”
“My apologies.” Alessandra smiled. She preferred honest rudeness to false bonhomie.
He shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “It’s not a problem. Just thought I’d mention it.” Something about the way he said it made Alessandra’s instincts twitch. Her eyes strayed to the line of his jaw, the set of his face – the way he spoke and moved. Even his handshake. Like pieces of a puzzle.
Alessandra had always had a gift for puzzles. It was what made her a good thief. Being a thief – as opposed to a stick-up artist or a burglar – required the sort of cunning that few people possessed in abundance. She glanced at Bill, and saw the porter’s jaw tighten.
Before he could speak, she said, “You know, in Paris, cab drivers get the door for their passengers.”
The cabbie glanced at her. “We ain’t in Paris.”
“No. Just thought I’d mention it.”
He thought about this for a moment, then laughed and made to open the trunk of the cab. “You’re all right, sister. Hurry up and get out of the rain. I’ll help old Bill here with your luggage.”
Chapter Two
Downtown
“So, you’re what – Spanish?” Pepper asked. “Or Portuguese? Lots of Portuguese coming to Arkham these days.” He glanced at her over one narrow shoulder as the cab wound through the streets of Arkham’s Northside district. It was a crowded sprawl of factories, warehouses and processing facilities. The dark length of the Miskatonic was visible between the widely spaced buildings and the air smelled faintly of fish and industrial runoff.
“No. Shouldn’t you be watching the road?”
“Only need one eye around here,” he said, and was almost immediately forced to face front and grab the wheel in both hands. The cab swerved wildly for a few moments as a produce truck raced past, horn blaring. “Usually,” he added, lamely. After a few moments of embarrassed silence, his curiosity reasserted itself. “France?”
“Morocco, actually.”
“You’re from Morocco?”
“By way of Italy.”
“Morocco’s in Italy?”
Alessandra paused before replying. “No.”
“Huh. Didn’t think so. So where am I taking you anyway?”
She looked out the window. The rain had begun to slacken. Tenements rose to either side of the street, and clotheslines stretched over narrow alleyways. So far, her first impressions of Arkham were not favorable. “The Independence Hotel. Do you know where that is?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be much of a cabbie,” Pepper said, and gave a high-pitched laugh. He glanced at her speculatively. Alessandra, fully aware of the mercenary calculation taking place, straightened in her seat. “Lot of fares heading that way the last few days.”
“Oh?”
Pepper nodded. “Yeah, some big exhibition is happening over at the museum. Is that why you’re here?”
“You’ll forgive me, but that is my business.”
Pepper laughed. “I’ve heard that before, believe it or not. Arkham’s that sort of town.”
“Is it? It seems fairly innocuous at first glance.” She glanced out the window. They’d left the tenements behind. Arkham was bigger than she’d thought. A city masquerading as a town. And still growing by the looks of it.
While parts of the city were caught fast by the previous century, the rest of it was happily embracing modernity. Revolutionary era brick buildings warred for space with French Huguenot architecture, and art deco facings peered out from among the older structures. Arkham, like the old cities of Europe, lived in a shadow of its past.
“Looks can be deceiving,” Pepper said. He didn’t elaborate and something in his tone kept Alessandra from pressing the issue. Instead, she focused on him. There was something about him that felt off somehow. Peculiar. As if he were hiding something.
Traffic was heavy. The narrow streets were full of automobiles, mostly delivery trucks. Several times Pepper was forced to aim the cab down sidestreets and blind alleys, through corridors of wood and brick that seemed altogether too tight for the vehicle to fit through. He kept up a steady stream of chatter the entire time, and Alessandra found she was warming to the cabbie despite herself.
“You keep looking at me,” he said, suddenly.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. I got something on my face or what?”
“No. I apologize. It is just… you are young to be a cab driver, no?”
“No,” Pepper said, somewhat pugnaciously. Alessandra realized that she had inadvertently insulted the young man.
“Ah. Again, I am sorry. How long have you been a driver, may I ask?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Curiosity.”
Pepper glanced back at her, his eyes narrow slits beneath the brim of his cap. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“I am new in town. I wish to, how do you say, get the lay of the land.”
“If you must know, I’m only driving this heap temporarily.”
“Oh?” Alessandra prompted.
“Yeah. I’m really an entrepreneur.” Pepper patted the wheel fondly. “This cab is my ticket to independent means. Just need a few big fares and then…” He trailed off, as if imagining his bright, shiny future.
“And then?”
He laughed again, but not so loudly or so cheerfully. “We’ll s
ee. I’m not the sort of person to go counting eggs before they’re cracked, you know?”
Alessandra frowned. She’d always had a facility for languages. She was fluent in several, including English, French and German, and could make herself understood in half a dozen more. But the American capacity for idioms was almost more than she could handle. They seemed to have one – or several – for every occasion.
“There was a guy watching you back there, at the station,” Pepper said, barreling on before Alessandra could reply. “Tall, sort of bland. Looked like a government man.”
“Gray suit, blond hair,” Alessandra said.
“That’s the one. Old boyfriend?”
“No.” She frowned, wondering what Whitlock’s interest in her was. He had been unusually keen to get her name. She could ordinarily sense when a man was attracted to her, and she wasn’t getting that feeling from him. It was as if he wanted something from her. Not a friendly feeling at all.
“Sorry I asked.”
“Apologies are not necessary.” She paused, considering her next words carefully. She’d finally figured out what was bothering her about Pepper. “So what is your real name, then?” The cabbie jolted in his seat as if she’d struck him. Pepper wasn’t good at hiding his feelings.
“What?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard. His voice cracked slightly.
“The clothes are good. Someone hemmed them properly, or maybe you just found the right size by luck. The haircut as well. And you’re either blessed with a boyish figure or you’re adept at binding yourself.” Alessandra sat back.
“What I can’t figure is why a girl from Boston is driving a cab in Arkham.”
Pepper pulled over and sat facing forward for long moments. Traffic passed them by, but she paid no attention. “How’d you know?” she asked, finally. She’d had nightmares like this off and on for the past year. Ever since she’d started the charade.
“I told you.”
Pepper took a deep breath and turned in her seat. The woman met her glare with infuriating equanimity and did not look away. Pepper considered ordering her out of the cab, but wasn’t certain she’d go. “Just my clothes, huh?”
Zorzi was silent for a moment. Then she smiled. “You talk too much. The more you talked, the more your voice slipped. If you would like some advice, the key to a good disguise is always simplicity.”
Pepper was silent for several minutes. “I’ll keep it in mind,” she said, finally.
“What is your name?”
Pepper frowned. “Why should I tell you? Hell, why shouldn’t I kick you out of this cab right now?”
“Have I offended you somehow?” Zorzi waved aside her reply. “If so, I can only ask your forgiveness. I did not mean to startle you. You are a long way from Boston.”
“And you’re a long way from Italy. People travel.”
“Yes. You are avoiding the question.”
Pepper hesitated. “Philippa. Philippa Kelly.”
“I can see why you changed it.”
Pepper stared at her, jaw set. “Funny. Are you going to tell anyone?”
“Why would I? It is no concern of mine. I was merely curious, as I said.”
“Oh well, in that case, all is forgiven,” Pepper said sarcastically. “You got some nerve, lady, coming into my cab, asking all sorts of questions.”
“There is no shame in it. I have pretended to be a man myself, on occasion.”
Pepper looked her up and down. “Yeah, I bet you were real convincing.”
Zorzi laughed. “What I really want to know is why you bother?”
Pepper looked away. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is. I assume Mr Washington knows.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Experience and intuition.”
Pepper took a breath. “Yeah. He knows.” Bill Washington had been a friend of her father’s, back before the war, but she saw no reason to tell Zorzi that. “He doesn’t say nothing, though.” She still wasn’t sure why he’d never ratted her out, but she was grateful nonetheless. Washington was always careful to make sure she got a few fares every night, and he kept the other cabbies from stealing her spot in the line. Maybe he thought he was looking out for her.
“And neither will I. After all, who would I tell?” Zorzi sat back, the picture of refined contentment. Pepper looked her up and down again, with just a touch of envy. “Besides, I feel that this might be something of an opportunity for both of us.”
Suspicious now, Pepper said, “Yeah? How so?”
“I am in need of a… well, a native guide, you might say. Someone I can count on to take me where I need to go, and not ask too many questions. I think that might be you, if you are up for it.”
“You trying to muscle me?” Pepper asked, defensively.
“Not in the least. If you say no, I’ll find someone else or do without. It wouldn’t be the first time.” Zorzi smiled again. “I can pay, if that is what you are wondering about.”
Pepper frowned. She always needed money, but it seemed too good to be true. “I’d have to ask my boss…” she began, doubtfully.
“Say, twice your normal rate?”
Pepper blinked. “Then again, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” She turned back to the wheel and put the cab into motion, pulling away from the sidewalk with a tap of her horn to warn oncoming traffic. Brakes screeched behind them, but she ignored it. “So, what does a lady like you need a guide for?”
“I am in town on business, you might say. I find it easier to conduct my affairs when I do not have to consult a map or ask directions every few moments.”
“I can see where that might be helpful here. It’s easy to get lost in Arkham, even if you’ve lived here for a few years.” Pepper shivered slightly, as she said it. She’d often found herself in the wrong part of town, especially at night. Arkham played tricks on you, if you weren’t paying attention.
She’d often wondered why her father had wanted to return here, after her mother, Moira, had died. Patrick Kelly had been a big man, loud and friendly. At least before her mother’s death. After that, he’d become taciturn. It was as if all that he was had gone into the ground with her. He’d retreated from the familiar, upped stakes and gone home.
It had been a shock. Arkham was nothing like Boston. And yet it seemed somehow bigger, as if it contained multitudes. The streets went on too long, the river was too wide, the buildings loomed like skyscrapers even though they barely topped three stories in most places. Even worse were the tales. It seemed like everyone had at least one.
But she’d gotten used to it quick enough, or as good as. You never really got used to Arkham, you just adapted. That was how her father had put it. You adapted. Learned what to look for – and what not to see.
She’d thought he was getting better, for a while. He was off the sauce and working. They’d had a nice place for Northside. Nothing fancy, but four walls and a good view of the river. Not that she wanted to spend much time looking at the river.
But then had come the war, and off he’d gone. There’d been a bullet with his name on it waiting for him on the Western Front. Or so Washington had said. But Bill refused to talk about it, no matter how much she pressed him. Maybe he thought he was protecting her, not telling her how her father had really died. Or maybe he was protecting himself.
Either way, she was counting the days until she had enough saved to get back to Boston and away from Arkham for good. She didn’t belong here, and some days it felt like the town knew it. She glanced back at her fare. Maybe this Zorzi woman was the answer to her prayers.
Pepper smiled. Things might just be looking up.
Chapter Three
Independence
The Independence Hotel was tall for Arkham. Eight stories of brick and mortar. It wasn’t a patch on the Savoy, but Alessandra hadn’t expected it to be. It towered over its nearest neighbors, rising from amid a stretch of storefronts and offices.
The lobby stank of self
-conscious modernity. White and black checked tiles, black marble paneling, limned with gold. A colorful mural stretched across the domed ceiling, detailing a curious scene from what she guessed must be town history.
Alessandra glanced back over her shoulder at Pepper. The cabbie followed awkwardly in her wake, lugging several heavy suitcases. Alessandra herself carried the smallest of the lot and her clutch. “What do you have in here, bricks?” Pepper groused.
“One must come prepared with an outfit for all occasions. Remember to be back here at eight. I need you to take me to dinner.”
“Lady, we just met,” Pepper protested. “What, nothing?” she added, when Alessandra didn’t reply. “Not even a smile?”
“Forgive me. I am still unfamiliar with your American sense of humor.”
Pepper rolled her eyes. “Where are we going anyway?”
“I believe it’s called La Bella Luna.”
“What? Really?”
Alessandra looked at her. “Yes. Why?”
Pepper shrugged. “No reason.”
Check-in was a long stretch of teak countertop set opposite a small restaurant. Behind the counter was an office and a coat-check. The clerk was a short, nervous man wearing a suit a size too large and a toupee a size too small. He smiled ingratiatingly at her. “Reservation?”
She returned his smile. “Regrettably not. I was hoping you might have a room available. Preferably something overlooking that delightful park across the street.”
“Only the penthouse left, I’m afraid,” the clerk said, somewhat apologetically. “All of our other rooms are reserved. There’s an exhibition at the museum this week. Lots of folks coming in from out of town.”
“I’m sure it will be suitable,” Alessandra said.
“I should hope so. It has a fine view of Independence Square, for which this establishment is named.”
“Is that supposed to be a meteorite?” she asked, as she signed her name to the register.
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