by Sean Wallace
Xiaoyan was waiting for me when I emerged from the eating area. I was free to go anytime, as long as I left before the gates closed at eleven o’clock that night. I could have gotten my bags and left through the gates, never looking back. But sentimentality got the better of me, and I suggested that we take one last walk around the premises.
We walked by the training grounds, where an early group of guys had already gathered in full uniform, ready for marching exercises. We took the long walk out to the motor pool, where they were replacing old parts on broken down vehicles. Through the open door, we could see the six Terracotta Warriors, as good as new in their mounts.
I managed to get Xiaoyan to talk about herself this time. Like me, she was an orphan, except her parents were not deceased. She just did not know who they were. Her mother was a prostitute in Xingan and her father was likely one of her mother’s clients. She did not even know what they looked like – her earliest memories already had her out on the streets begging for food with whatever words she learned from the other street orphans.
“Maybe she was an orphan too,” she said wistfully, concerning her mother. “Maybe it’s the curse of my lineage, to go through the same cycles over and over again.”
I told her about my grandfather and great-grandfather, both of whom had fought and died in the Opium Wars that plagued the better part of the last hundred years, and my father, who was involved in the quelling of the Dungan Revolt and Miao Rebellion before I was born. They were soldiers before me, and we never had to worry about food or shelter for that reason. At least not until the second Dungan Revolt came and took civilian lives along with theirs in its wake.
“I wonder if we’re doing the right thing,” Xiaoyan mused as we sat watching the cold winter sun descending toward the horizon. “Maybe our fates are as sure as gravity pulling the water downstream. Or maybe we are already living the best lives we could possibly live, and breaking out of the cycle can only make things worse.”
Moments like these, I wished that I was like Zhihe, ever able to provide the profound question an equally profound answer. All I could say was, “We’ll just have to see.”
It was almost sundown when we arrived back at camp. Captain Lee was surprised to see me.
“And here I thought you had left just before you got what you fought so hard for,” he said. “Such a waste. It would have been a funny story to tell. Anyway, the general has approved your request. But we’ll have to strip the gun from it, for obvious reasons.”
I found the hot air balloon waiting for me atop the wall, still tethered to the stone anchor. There was only an iron mount where the railgun used to be, but everything else was in place. Even the propane tank was still full of gas. On the balloon, they had sewn on canvas flaps attached to ropes, so I could steer it when the wind came.
“I hope you know how to fly this thing,” Captain Lee said. “If you die, there’s no one who’s going to come to retrieve your dead body, or attend your funeral. You’re on your own now.”
I smiled and saluted him for the last time. He did a little raise of his eyebrows, and then did an about-turn and left without a word. Xiaoyan joined me as I fired up the burner, taking comfort in the heat.
“That’s a big fire,” she said. “Won’t the balloon get burned?”
“It hasn’t burned before,” I offered.
“There’s always a first time for everything.”
I laughed. “We’ll just have to see.”
By the time the air was heated up enough and the balloon was just beginning to tug against its anchor, the sky had already turned a deep ebony with tiny pinpricks of twinkling white. There wasn’t a cloud in sight. The gondola took Xiaoyan’s weight without any problem. When I stepped aboard, the gondola swayed a little, but did not touch the ground.
There was a crowd gathered by the foot of the wall. I recognized some of their faces. The rest, I figured, were just here for the show. I gave them a wave.
“I hope you crash and die!” Hou’s voice came shrill and clear from the crowd. “Do you hear me, Mako? I hope you do!”
Someone told him to shut up. It sounded like Zhihe.
“Who is that?” Xiaoyan frowned.
“The man who introduced me to you,” I said.
“Oh.”
I undid the first tether. The whole balloon jerked forward and upward, as though it was impatient to leave, only to be held back by the safety. When my hands closed over the safety – the second and final tether – I hesitated for just the slightest of moments.
And then I undid it too. We sailed upward effortlessly. Within seconds, we were already fifty, sixty feet into the air and still rising.
Behind me, Xiaoyan sighed. “Too late to turn back now.”
A slight breeze was carrying us southwards. I stuck my head out beyond the edge of the gondola and continued looking at the wall. I heard that if you went up into space, you could still see the Great Wall, if the clouds weren’t in the way. I continued looking until the lights on the wall became little specks of orange in the distance, and then finally disappearing into the darkness. Only then I exhaled heavily and turned my gaze back to the inside of the gondola.
“Well,” I said, “it’s time to go.”
I took hold of the ropes connected to the sails and steered us off into the sky.
The Double Blind
A. C. Wise
Ronnie looked up at the blinking lights of the theater marquee. People swirled around her, snatches of conversation and laughter washed up against her and barely registered. In broad daylight, it was all so innocuous. There should be a scar, something to mark the violence.
She pictured it at night, the sidewalk empty, Sarah pausing under the marquee’s glow to steal one last sip from her silver flask before heading home. Ronnie tried to remember what her sister had been wearing that night, fix an image in her head of the moment before Pruitt’s men grabbed her, dragged her into the shadowed alley beside the theater, and beat her nearly to death.
Ronnie blinked against the ache building behind her eyes. If she’d been with her sister, like she was supposed to be, would they have grabbed her instead? Or could she and Sarah have fought them off, together? Ronnie crossed the street, setting her pace to leave the what-ifs behind. Once the theater was out of sight, she stopped to light a cigarette with shaking hands.
It brought a measure of calm, but not enough. Tension remained, knotted in her belly. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come, but she’d felt the need to remind herself why she was doing this. By the time she finished the cigarette, her hands were no longer shaking. Ronnie ground the stub beneath her heel and dug the newsy cap from the leather satchel slung over her shoulder. She pulled the cap low, tucking any stray hairs beneath it before moving on.
The padded motorcycle leathers were too warm for the day; sweat already stuck her shirt to her skin under the jacket. But they would offer at least some protection if things went wrong, and more importantly, they hid the shape of her body, making her anonymous. She wasn’t Sarah Dutton’s sister, J. T. Dutton’s daughter. She could be anyone inside them, and it was liberating.
The streets quickly lost their grid structure, tangling into a warren of tenement buildings. Ronnie took the motorcycle goggles from her satchel and pulled them on, obscuring half her face. Now she was truly invisible.
She ducked into the narrow alley beside the building, the place where Pruitt’s men were supposedly laying low after he’d bought them out of ever having to stand trial. Nerves fluttered in her stomach as she scanned the zigzagging fire escape bolted to the bricks. There was an open window halfway up.
Reaching the landing, Ronnie crouched, peering inside. As her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, she spotted a boy who looked about five playing with a wooden toy. Before she could change her mind, she let out a low and sharp whistle. She tensed as the boy looked up, but gestured him closer.
The boy glanced over his shoulder. Ronnie braced for a shout that would bring his mother running, bu
t he rose, taking in her outfit with wide-eyed silence. Ronnie drew a coin from her pocket. His eyes widened further. He hesitated only a moment before snatching it, turning it over in wonder.
Her hands trembling, Ronnie drew the worn newspaper from her satchel. The faces of the two men under the blaring headline “Dutton Heiress’s Assailants Captured!” were burned into her mind, but hadn’t stopped her from unfolding the page almost every day since Sarah’s attack.
“Do you know these men? Have you seen them around here?”
The child chewed his lower lip. It took all of Ronnie’s strength not to climb through the window, grab the boy, and shake him. After a moment, the boy nodded. Ronnie’s pulse beat in the roof of her mouth. The child glanced over his shoulder again, then beckoned furtively.
As quietly as she could, Ronnie eased through the open window, hoping the floor wouldn’t creak, hoping the boy’s mother wouldn’t choose this moment to check on her son. The boy reached for her hand, and Ronnie flinched before taking it. He tugged her toward the door.
Ronnie followed him down the stairs. Sounds filtered from other apartments, raised voices from one, Gershwin playing on a radio in another. On the first floor, the boy pointed to the end of the hall where a door had been propped open with a brick. A slight breeze came through the gap, along with more voices. Before Ronnie could question the boy, he slipped his hand from hers and scampered back up the stairs.
An announcer’s voice crackled over a radio, excitedly narrating a horse race. Invisible. Even if she was spotted, no one would recognize her. Ronnie breathed out and peeked around the door. A group of men clustered around the radio in a small interior courtyard, smoking and passing a bottle in a paper bag between them. One rose to pace as the announcer’s voice grew louder, and Ronnie jerked back.
She pressed her back against the wall, counted to ten, then pulled the Leica from her satchel. With shaking fingers, she extended the camera’s lens and locked it in place, setting the infinity focus as well. She glanced through the door again. The men were absorbed in the race, not paying the slightest attention. The one closest to her, he looked like the same man from the newspaper, now folded carefully back into her satchel. But she had to be sure.
Ronnie clicked, advanced the film, and clicked again. She ran out the film before slipping the camera into her bag, and fleeing down the hall and back outside.
Ronnie smoothed her dress as she climbed the steps over the garage and knocked on the Double Blind’s door. She schooled her expression, trying to keep her excitement in check until she could talk to Emielle alone.
“Password?” The door opened a crack, showing Vincent’s mock-serious expression.
“Hmm.” Ronnie pursed her lips. “Is it Bit-O-Honey today? No, wait, Baby Ruth?”
The corner of Vincent’s lips twitched, and he stepped back.
“Kidder.” He swatted at her arm.
“You know me.” She blew a kiss over her shoulder, making her way deeper into the smoky club.
To the left of the bar, a trio played soft jazz on a small, spotlight-washed stage. The clack of billiard balls came from the right. In-between, a scatter of low tables circled the cleared area serving as a makeshift dance floor, and Emielle held court at one of these.
The girl perched on Emielle’s lap was done up in Mary Pickford curls and a white peignoir tonight. Last time, it had been a Louise Brooks bob and long ropes of pearls. As Ronnie approached, she fluttered her eyelashes, affecting a coquettish giggle. The pearls had done a better job of hiding her Adam’s apple, but the blonde hair suited her more.
“You look darling, Tommy.” Ronnie air-kissed as the girl slid from Emielle’s lap, careful not to smudge either of their makeup jobs.
Tommy tossed a wave over her shoulder, wiggling her fingers as she made her way toward the bar.
“How’s my best doll?” Emielle leaned back, grinning, but didn’t pull Ronnie into her lap to take Tommy’s place.
Once upon a time, that had upset Ronnie, until, in a quiet moment, Emielle had whispered in her ear, “Because you’re not for show,” answering Ronnie’s unspoken question.
“Your best girl needs a drink. But come find me later? I have something to show you.”
Emielle’s expression flickered, showing strain, and guilt kicked in Ronnie’s gut. Was she that easy to read? Emielle’s lips pressed into a thin line, then her smile returned. Emielle – with her pinstripe three piece, slicked back hair, spats polished to a high shine, and the white carnation in her lapel – was part of the Double Blind’s image, its unflappable owner, always dressed to the nines. If she guessed at Ronnie’s news, knew where she’d been, and was upset, she wouldn’t let it show. Not yet.
Ronnie put on a smile of her own and blew a kiss as she moved past Emielle to the bar. She let her hips sway, hoping to distract Emielle from her disapproval. Of course she’d tell her everything, later, when they were alone. Ronnie was gratified at the appreciative gaze following her.
“What can I get you, sweetheart?” Phillip asked.
Ronnie leaned against the oak bar, once gleaming and now scarred with the memory of drinks and cigarette burns. Emielle had gotten it second hand, salvage, and despite its battered condition it was still the pride and joy of the Double Blind. Ronnie scanned the bottles behind Phillip, each with a carefully hand-written label.
“Sidecar, please.” The bar was well-stocked tonight. Either the boys who legged booze were getting bolder, or Emielle had turned up the charm requesting this week’s shipment. Ronnie suspected a little of both.
Her drink arrived. Ronnie turned, bracing an elbow against the bar, and surveyed the room. Emielle had joined the billiards game, handily beating two of the men who worked for her in the garage below the Double Blind. She was just one of the boys, whether she was in her three-piece, or in a grimy, oil-stained jumpsuit tearing down motorcycles and putting them back together again.
Ronnie drew a cigarette from her satchel, trying not to think of the photographs tucked beneath them. Tommy was being led onto the dance floor by a man Ronnie didn’t recognize, and she let that take her focus. The man gripped Tommy’s upper arm, both steering her and trying to keep his balance. His drink sloshed as he spun Tommy, making her Mary Pickford curls fly. The man swayed counter to the music’s rhythm, then pulled Tommy close, his free hand sliding to cup and squeeze her behind. Tommy jerked away. Flustered, the man grabbed her upper arm again, digging his fingers in hard.
She shoved at the man and he staggered, off-balance for a moment before lunging at her. Tommy hurled her drink in the man’s face, stopping him cold. The music died as the man spluttered, face reddening, swiping ineffectually at his suit.
“What’s the idea, sweetheart? A man buys you a drink, and you throw it back in his face when he wants a little gratitude?”
He reached for Tommy again, but Emielle was there, blocking him, jaw set below a tight smile.
“I believe the lady wants to be left alone.”
“This is none of your business.” The man tried to step around Emielle, but she planted her hand in the center of his chest, immovable.
“When a lady tells you to stop, you stop.”
“Lady?” The man snorted. “Lookit the way the little sissy is dressed. He was asking for it.”
“It’s time for you to leave.” Emielle’s voice dropped, her expression hardening to match.
“Yeah? Who’s going to make me? You?” The man pushed Emielle’s hand away with a sneer.
Emielle caught him in a wrist lock. As he tried to twist free, she used his weight against him, dropping him and pulling his arm up behind his back.
Emielle addressed Tommy. “You okay?”
Tommy nodded, stunned.
“Get yourself a drink on the house.” Emielle hauled the man to his feet, keeping a firm grip as she steered him to the door. “This is last call.” Emielle spoke over her shoulder as she ushered the man out.
A gust of cold air came with the door banging c
losed in the man’s wake. Ronnie rubbed at the gooseflesh rising on her arms as Emielle returned, straightening her suit.
“Are you okay?” Ronnie asked as the tentative murmur of conversation returned.
The quick change in mood already had some people drifting to the door, not even bothering with one last drink. Behind Ronnie, the band had started to pack up. Strain showed in the line of Emielle’s shoulders, but she touched Ronnie’s waist, brushing a distracted kiss across her cheek.
“I’m fine. What did you want to show me?”
“Can we talk downstairs?”
Weariness rode her voice and the line of her shoulders, but Emielle nodded. “I think they can make do without me.”
Ronnie followed Emielle down the spiraling metal stairs. The garage smelled of oil and a scent she always associated with dust and rain no matter how many times Emielle tried to explain the actual components of the motorcycles and the various parts and concoctions that kept them running. It was comforting. It was Emielle’s smell, and it released some of the tension coiled beneath Ronnie’s skin.
Emielle paused beside a BMW R32, fingers resting lightly against its paint. Ronnie smiled, thinking of Emielle enthusiastically trying to explain the recirculating wet sump oil system, and why it was so innovative. She’d finally had to kiss her to get her to shut up.
Ronnie’s smile faded, knowing the moment couldn’t last. She tilted her head to indicate the worktable in the far corner, and Emielle withdrew her hand from the bike, regret in the motion. Ronnie turned on a small lamp hanging over the table, drawing the photographs from her satchel and spreading them like a hand of cards.
“I found them. These two are the men who hurt Sarah. I compared these shots to the newspaper clipping and it’s definitely them. Now I know where to find them.” Ronnie tapped the photographs.
Emielle frowned, then let out a breath.
“Okay.” She turned, arms crossed, leaning against the work-table. “You found them. So what happens next?”