A man who could do that just might be able to solve her other problem.
Alicia looked up a number in her computer’s directory and began dialing . . .
RENASCENCE
1.
Under a Harvest Moon
Rasheeda Basemore hid her impatience as one last relative lingered over Graziana Babilani’s coffin. Finally she approached the old woman.
“You were close to the deceased?”
The woman turned. She had a lined face and wore widow’s black.
“Graziana and me,” she said in a thick Sicilian accent, “we was family. She’s a-my baby cousin from Palermo.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Now please leave.
“She just a-come over here to America and now she die.” She dabbed her eyes with a yellowed lace handkerchief. “Such a shame.”
Rasheeda took the woman’s arm and gently tugged her toward the door. “We have to close the coffin now. Will you be at tomorrow’s ceremony?”
“Oh, yes. I’m a-come. And you? You be there?”
“Of course.”
The woman patted her hand. “You nice. You pretty. But you got no ring. No married?”
Rasheeda shrugged and put on a smile. How many times had she heard this? She looked a decade younger than her forty years, but to these people you were an old maid if you weren’t married with a clutch of bambini by the time you exited your teens.
“My fiancé was killed in a dirigible crash.” She worked a tremor into her voice, a quiver into her lips. “There will never be anyone else for me.”
She’d repeated the lie so many times she could almost believe it.
The woman squeezed her hand. “I’m a-so sorry.”
“Besides . . .” Rasheeda gestured around at the funeral parlor. “This keeps me too busy for anything else.”
The woman leaned close. “You do a-beautiful work, but this a-no job for a woman.”
“My darling dearest left it to me. I continue it in his honor.”
Finally Rasheeda ushered her out into the Harlem evening. She locked the door behind her and leaned against it just long enough to take a deep breath, then she was on the move again.
“Toby!” she called as she headed back to the viewing room.
She approached the coffin again and looked down at its occupant. Graziana Babilani was thirty-eight years old but looked fifty. She’d been healthy until last week, when she’d come down with pneumonia and died, leaving behind a husband and two teenage sons. While preparing her for the viewing, Rasheeda had noted her sturdy peasant body with approval. She’d succumbed quickly to the infection with only minimal wasting of her musculature. She was perfect.
Rasheeda leaned over the coffin and sniffed. Not quite to the peak of ripeness. But by tomorrow she’d be perfect.
“Yes, Miss Basemore?” Toby’s voice.
“Is the grave dug for Mrs. Babilani?” she said without looking around.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Time to fetch us a warm one then.”
“Can I do the ritual this time?”
She turned to face him. Toby Hecker stood a brawny six foot plus two with fair skin and blond hair and spoke with a barely perceptible German accent.
“Not till you’ve perfected your technique on animals.”
“But I have!”
“Do you really believe that? The result of your last trial was rather pathetic, don’t you think?”
He dropped his gaze to the Persian rug under the coffin. “I never get to do the important stuff.”
“What could be more important than procuring a warm one? I hope you don’t expect me to—”
“No, of course not, Miss Basemore. I’ll go now.”
He turned and hurried out. Rasheeda shook her head as she watched him go. If only his mind were as strong as his back.
Returning her attention to the coffin, she patted Mrs. Babilani on the cheek.
“Not to worry, dear. By this time tomorrow we’ll have you up and about again.”
Toby picked up the elevated Third Avenue pneumatic line at the 125th Street station and took it downtown. His car was crowded with Negroes, Jews, and Italians. The latter two groups were chattering in their native tongues, and he found himself, as always, resenting that. His own parents had fled the midcentury revolutions in Germany, but he had been born here and had grown up speaking English. He was an American. These were foreigners.
The Negroes spoke a form of English that Toby found hard to understand. Slave-speak, he called it. That’s what they’d all been until twenty or so years ago. The invention of the steam-powered spindle picker in the mid-1850s had dropped the bottom out of the slavery market—one machine could do the work of a hundred slaves—so most of them had been set free. And where did they come? New York, of course, making an already tight job market much worse.
He spotted a tattered copy of the morning Tribune under his seat and shuffled through it to the shipping news. He nodded as he found a notice that the German freighter Von Roon out of Bremen had docked yesterday with a cargo of fine fabrics and precision machinery. That meant clumps of German sailors staggering through the streets in search of wine and women. Perfect. All he had to do was find one who had strayed from his fellows.
That settled, he turned to the major news. As usual, all the bigwigs were decrying. President Greely had issued a statement from the White House decrying Germany’s superiority in the dirigible field and urging America to develop a superior alternative. Governor Westinghouse had already electrified Albany and was making progress in Manhattan; he wanted to run electric power through the entire state but was decrying the shortcomings of direct current.
Toby dropped it and kicked it across the floor. Why did he even bother reading the news? Nothing ever changed.
Just like his life. Sure, Miss Basemore paid him well—very well, in fact—but he wanted more. He wanted her respect. Truth be told, he wanted even more than that—he wanted her. Yes, she was an older woman, probably fifteen years older, but she didn’t look it. Her olive skin and her dark, dark eyes, and her voice . . . oh, Lord, she spoke perfect English with a British accent and an Indian lilt that sent shivers down his spine. Even her name: Rasheeda . . .
He knew she’d had an English father, but she’d spent the first half of her life in India. What had she learned there? He’d heard it said that Hindu women knew fabulous secrets about sex, and that a single one of them could please a man in more and better ways than a brothel full of whores.
But she didn’t seem interested in men. At least not the living kind. She seemed to prefer the dead. Toby could count on getting admiring looks from women almost everywhere he went, but never the slightest sign of interest from Miss Rasheeda Basemore.
He sighed. Perhaps his own interests would be best served if he could stop thinking of her as a beautiful woman and see her simply as his boss. Becoming personally involved could only lead to trouble for him. Not that it would ever happen. She was above and beyond him . . . unobtainable.
Still, he wished he could find a way to impress her. Just the slightest expression of admiration from her would complete his life and allow him to go on admiring her from afar. But all she assigned him were menial tasks like preparing the dead for burial and hunting down a “warm one” when needed.
When his train hissed to a stop at the Bowery station, he exited the tube and hurried down the stairs to street level. The Bowery area was full of brothels, faro parlors, and German beer gardens, just the sort of neighborhood visiting sailors from the Von Roon would seek out. If Toby came up empty here, he could always head a few blocks west to Five Points. That journey had proved unnecessary in recent years since a group called the Young Men’s Christian Association had opened a combination gymnasium–boarding house for, well, young men.
He had just crossed Delancey Street when he saw a lone sailor weaving along the sidewalk in his direction. He recognized the German merchant marine uniform.
“Guten Abend!�
�� he called.
The bearded sailor grinned. “Sind Sie die Deutschen?”
Toby told him his parents had moved here from the old country. He and the sailor made small talk in German and he learned that the man’s name was Gustav and he was indeed on shore leave from the Von Roon. It didn’t take long for the inevitable question to surface.
“Where can I find women? Where’s the best place?”
Toby made a face. “Not in this neighborhood, that’s for sure. I mean, if all you’re looking for is a bend-over-and-lift-the-skirt type, fine. But if you’re interested in quality, you’ll have to travel some.”
“Where then?”
“Uptown.”
He frowned. “How far?”
“Harlem. The tube will take you there in minutes. Fine, clean women, good brandy and cigars for after.”
The sailor’s eyes widened. “Can you show me? Can you take me?”
Toby backed up a step and shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d feel like a procurer.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re helping a new friend from the old country who’s a stranger in your city.”
Toby pretended to think about it, then shrugged. “Very well. I’ll do it for a countryman. But let’s buy some wine for the trip.”
“Excellent! I’ll buy!”
“No, I won’t hear of it. You are my guest.”
Buying the bottle would put Toby in control of it, allowing him to add the envelope of opium waiting in his pocket.
Rasheeda sat at the steel mixing table in the top level of the tower and stirred the latest batch of sustaining oil. She’d brought it up from the cellar, safe for addition of the final spice. It had been curing for one lunar cycle now and had one more to go before it would be ready for use. Tomorrow she would have to start a brand-new batch.
She sighed. The process never ended.
The limited wall space of the tiny room had been put to full use—the exotic ingredients needed for the sustaining oil lined the narrow shelves. She’d been mixing a new batch on a monthly basis for over a decade now—she had no choice in the schedule since the oil didn’t keep—and knew the proportions by heart.
She heard the house creak below her. Although not that old, it always creaked. Initially she hadn’t cared for the blocky Second Empire building with its mansard roofs and central tower and feared the wrought-iron cresting would require extra maintenance. But it had come with the graveyard, and so she hadn’t had much choice. As the years passed she’d changed her mind, however. The first floor had proved perfect for the viewing rooms, and she’d put the basement to excellent use. Plus, the roomy backyard offered more than enough space for her gas-fired crematorium.
But the central tower was the best. The four eye windows in its fourth-floor room, one facing each point of the compass, let in the moonlight, which was crucial to this step in the process.
She rose and gazed up at the high moon through the north window. Tomorrow would mark the last night of its full cycle; she’d have to get an early start in the morning to finish the third and last round of monthly anointings for her clients. If only Toby’s fingers were a little more dexterous, she could send him on the monthly rounds. He’d like that—he’d think he was doing “important stuff.” But although he could repeat the chant phonetically, he couldn’t seem to master the necessary Sanskrit—Vedic Sanskrit, to be precise—and the sacred words had to be transcribed accurately or else they were useless.
A flash in the moonlit cemetery below caught her eye. Was someone out there—in her cemetery? Grave robbers perhaps? She couldn’t help a tiny smile. Slim pickings out there, fellows.
She picked up the telescope from a nearby shelf and extended it to its full length. Usually she used it to watch the stars, but now it could help her spot intruders.
She scanned the entire grounds but saw no one, and the flash never repeated. Probably just a trick of the light. She—
The outside door to the cellar slammed four stories below. She hadn’t imagined that. Toby most likely, but she wasn’t going to take a chance. She pulled her Remington derringer from the compact work desk against the wall and checked the over-under double barrel to make sure each chamber was fitted with a cartridge. Yes. Good. She placed the tiny pistol in a pocket of her lab coat. With the flask of sustaining oil in one hand, she slipped through the trapdoor and descended the ladder to the tower’s third floor.
She hurried down to the ground level. As she unlocked the door that led to the basement, she heard the metal clang of the cell door and knew it had to be Toby. Only she and Toby were allowed down there. Descending the steps, she found him hanging the cell key on its hook on the far wall.
The walls were heavy granite block, broken by the stairs to the first floor, the steps to the backyard entrance, and the heavy wooden door to the earth below the cemetery. The furnishings were minimal and functional: an extra embalming table, the iron-barred cell, and the steam-powered burrower, resting under a tarpaulin. The only items that might pass as decorative were the map of all the plots in her cemetery and the pair of silver collars linked by a ten-foot silver chain, all .999 fine. These hung on the wall next to the cell key.
“Well,” she said, eyeing the limp form of a bearded seaman on the floor of the cell, “that was quick.”
Toby smiled. “Yes, ma’am. He’s German. And since I speak the language, he was ready to follow me anywhere.”
“And a sailor. Excellent.”
Not uncommon for one or two to jump ship in a larger port. No one would be looking for him once his ship set sail again.
She spun the dial on the safe embedded in the wall near the cell and placed the sustaining oil within, next to the remainder of the ripened batch. If those flasks ever broke or spilled, there would quite literally be hell to pay.
Toby said, “He drank enough of the spiked wine to keep him out well into the morning. I left him the rest of the bottle just in case he wakes up.”
Adding the derringer to the safe’s contents, she relocked it and turned to smile at him. “What would I do without you, Toby?”
He blushed. She could always make him blush.
“I’m sure you’d survive, ma’am.”
“Yes, but you make it so much easier. See you in the morning then?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“After we get Mrs. Babilani up and about tomorrow, we’ll try another Sanskrit lesson, yes?”
His eyes lit. “I’ve been practicing.” He made a squiggle in the air with his index finger. “I know I’ll be able to get it right this time.”
“I’m sure you will. Good night, Toby. See you tomorrow.”
She hoped he did get it right. And soon. Her business—Renascence Staffing, Ltd.—was expanding steadily, and she needed someone to share the monthly burden of anointings. If he couldn’t get it right, he’d wind up in the cell like the sailor.
Just like his predecessor.
The next morning Rasheeda escorted the last of the Babilani mourners through the cemetery gate—the same cousin who’d lingered at the wake last night had lingered again at the graveside—and then locked it. When she returned to the open grave, she found Toby waiting.
“Let’s get this over with.”
He nodded and jumped into the grave. Straddling the coffin, he lifted the lid and reached down past Mrs. Babilani’s corpse where he unfastened a set of latches. He climbed out and closed the lid. Anyone watching from a distance would assume he’d simply adjusted the position of the coffin.
As Toby slipped on his goggles and fired up the gravedigger/filler, Rasheeda walked back to the house and descended to the cellar. The German sailor was still out cold. Good. She didn’t want to have to listen to pleas for release—in German, no less.
She pulled the tarp off the burrower, revealing its fusiform shape and screwlike nose. On the wall above it she consulted the grid map listing the coordinates of every plot in the cemetery. According to the map, Graziana Babilani was buried in plot G-12. Rasheeda li
fted the hinged cover over the navigation board and placed a peg in the G-12 hole. The Babbage analytical engine nestled beneath it would do the rest, guiding the burrower to plot G-12.
She closed the lid and patted the machine. It had made her life so much easier. Before its arrival, she and her assistant would have to go out in the dead of night and dig up the recently buried, then cart the remains back to the basement. It was not only difficult physical labor—they couldn’t risk the noisy gravedigger—but dangerous as well. They might be discovered in flagrante delicto, or a family member might notice alterations in the surface of the grave and raise an alarm. Or worse, demand an exhumation. The burrower obviated all those concerns.
All thanks to Purvis. He had been her second assistant and a bit on the lazy side. But laziness is often the mother of invention, and Purvis had found a way to modify a diamond-mining probe into an efficient grave-robbing device.
Purvis was long gone now. As valuable as he had been, his growing avarice and ambition—not to mention his pathetic attempt at blackmail—had outstripped his usefulness and so he’d wound up in the cell, just like this sailor. But his legacy of innovation remained.
Toby, goggles pushed back atop his sandy hair, arrived then.
“Time to start the burrower,” she said.
He nodded, lowered his goggles, and ignited the steam engine. While that was warming up, she opened the wall safe and removed the carafe of ripe sustaining oil. This older batch had perhaps twenty-four hours of usefulness left before it spoiled.
“I wish I could help you with that,” Toby said over the hiss of the burrower.
Rasheeda forced a smile. “I wish that too, Toby. Later we’ll try another lesson.”
Toby returned her smile, then pulled open the thick wooden door to reveal the entry tunnel to Rasheeda’s own private underground. Over the years the burrower had riddled the earth beneath her cemetery with wandering passages. It no doubt resembled a giant anthill in there.
Toby rolled the burrower to the entrance until its drilling head was just beyond the threshold, then put it in gear. The machine hissed as it trundled into the opening and disappeared from sight. It would follow existing tunnels and dig new ones until it reached plot G-12. Once there it would expose the bottom of Graziana Babilani’s coffin. Her body would fall through the trapdoor cut into its floor, and the burrower would return her here for the ritual.
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