“Trust me, Allen. If there’s one thing I’ve shown you, it’s that I know people.”
CHAPTER 7
TEN AT NIGHT THE FOLLOWING DAY, we pulled up to the GE building for the gala. We were directed to the main entrance. Not the entrance I had walked through a month ago — no, that was the employee entrance. The executive entrance was nice and secluded and harder to get into than the Upper City. It was hidden behind a semicircular driveway that went into the footprint of the building itself. The twin entranceways into this crescent drive were protected by titanium poles that prevented cars from ramming into the entrance. At the moment, the poles were retracted down into the concrete, allowing me to creep the car into the building. The lights of the Plate were replaced by the light of silver chandeliers. Around us, humans in their best attire filtered toward the large double doors of the Exhibition Hall.
To say it all felt weird was an understatement. I was used to driving this car through garbage, Automatics, even humans. Rolling up beside a fenced-off red carpet with a waiting valet — that was something I had never done before. It made my skin crawl. Allen, on the other hand, was loving it. Face pressed to the windows, it was absorbing everything it could, taking in the people, the lights, the hubris of the entire endeavour. I could have sworn I saw a smile as it whipped its head to and fro.
I stopped the Talbot, and we got out. Allen was wearing its usual suit, and I was decked in my all-red outfit, as I called it: black blazer, pants, and shoes, with a red shirt and tie. It was a style of clothing I’d gotten used to wearing while under the thumb of the Eye. It felt tight, constraining, and uncomfortable, which was the reason I’d since switched to regular street clothes. But wearing this suit made me feel put together for the first time in a long while. I almost felt like I’d fall apart if I took it off.
“Sir, your keys?”
The valet’s voice shook me from my stupor. He smiled at me. I didn’t reciprocate.
“You won’t scratch her, will you?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
“You damage this car in any way, and I will find you.” I dropped the keys into his shaking hand. “Do not.”
He nodded and got into my vehicle, carefully pulling out of the drive and leaving me and Allen stranded in the midst of the wealthy and powerful.
The guards at the security checkpoint just inside the double doors were decked out in heavy body armour and held Frag Rifles — not the kind of people you’d want to tussle with. They noticed the holster under my blazer and were happy to confirm it was empty. They raised hell upon seeing Allen, but one look at its badge made them back down. They might raise a stink about machines any other time, but seeing the number 5 on the badge was enough for them to shut their mouths and move aside, even for just this evening. And with that, we entered the beating heart of both Manhattans.
Think Maranzano’s Kompound, but bigger. Much bigger. Looking up through the empty space in the centre of the hall, I spotted five floors above us. Each of the higher floors had a glass balcony surrounding a tremendous space that was filled by a brass statue rooted on the floor below ours. I couldn’t tell who the statue was of, but I doubted anyone here cared who it depicted.
Thanks to the open design of GE’s Exhibition Hall, I could see who and what was on each of the floors: small five-piece bands, waiters and waitresses — all human — carrying hors d’oeuvres and drinks, and ritzy people of all ages, all of them with more money and time than sense. The designs of their outfits were strange; most of the suits and dresses were composed of triangular or rhomboidal interlocking shapes. On first glance, the fabric appeared metallic and rigid, but when disturbed, it distorted and flowed like cloth, only to return to its previous shape moments later. Fashion mixed well with stupidity; the eye-catching designs did well to camouflage the dull, unremarkable-looking people.
It was overcrowded and overstimulating in every way. I was sweating bullets in my suit. I hated being in any place I wasn’t in control of. I felt like I was an insect to these people, something to be swept out of the way or crushed, if need be. I had no idea who wanted me to be here, but Allen had a point: we had to be here for the sake of the investigation, whether I liked it or not. Still, I could feel eyes all over me and my partner. They weren’t used to seeing an Automatic in an environment like this. And I was shocked at the lack of machines here. No flanging voices, no squeaky motors and servos, no blue and green lights … just people. Horrible, unpredictable people. They chirped, gossiped, and narrowed their eyes in our direction. Hopefully, Allen’s presence shielded mine.
A woman in a navy-blue dress moved through the crowd and approached. My paranoia sent me groping for my gun’s handle, but my common sense forced my hand away from the empty holster. The woman wore a capelet that draped over her right arm, and she was wearing elbow-length white gloves. It made her look like she was investigating a crime scene, or like she didn’t want to leave any evidence behind. A purse dangled in the crook of her elbow. Given its weight, it must have been holding a gun.
“Elias Roche?” she asked, coming within a few inches of me, her eyes level with my own. She was as tall as me, which was rare, given my height. Her raspy smoker’s voice was familiar, though, despite having previously been distorted by the phone lines.
“What?”
“As blunt in person as you are on paper.” She smiled, more out of pity than amusement. “Elise Schafer, head of finance for GE. Happy to meet you.”
“Why?”
Allen turned, translating my curt dialogue. “We’re thankful for the invitation, truly. My companion here isn’t well acquainted with social situations like this one.”
Schafer turned to face Allen, her prim and proper black hair frozen in place by chemicals. She looked it up and down, conceit radiating from her. “When I said you could bring a plus one, I meant a human date, not one of these … things.”
Allen and I looked at each other before I spoke. “If you want me to go, I have no problems with that. I don’t need any snide remarks about me or my partner from you and your self-righteous, silver-spoon-fed —”
“Relax, Roche. Have a drink.” Unfazed, she handed me a glass of something clear and illegal. “The investors want to see their new poster boy, even without a muzzle. Shut up, smile, take a few photos with the bigwigs, then get out. And make sure that thing isn’t in any of the shots.”
“If I’m your poster boy, where’s my paycheque? No sane lawyer will turn down my case once I tell them you’re using my likeness without consent.”
Schafer smirked. “One of our reporters sent us a transcript of your most recent interview. We paid top dollar for it.” She opened the purse on her elbow and pulled out a small pad, her eyes dancing over the page. “Ah, yes, and I quote: ‘So, do me a favour and tell RCA to fuck off.’ How many lawyers would take the case with that on the record?”
I finished the drink she had given me and placed it on a nearby table. “You don’t know many Lower City lawyers. A case like this, they’d start making corpses to get it done. Trust me, I’ve seen some bad shit in courtrooms. No Upper City prick could ever stop a dirty Lower Manhattan lawyer.”
Her smugness came clean off. “We’ll consider sending a paycheque now and then, Detective. Do enjoy the festivities.”
“Not so fast. You may be done with us, but not the other way around.” I took a dart out of my coat pocket and put it between my lips. I needed to get the nerves out.
“There’s no smoking in here.”
“Assholes over there can have a cigar or a pipe, I’ll do what I want.” I lit the tip and felt a rush of nicotine giving me a mental cushion. “Heard about the Edison Hotel?”
“The murder? Yes, of course.”
“Murders. With an s.”
“Hartley was a stain on the company that needed to be cleaned. His cronies were even less important. No one is sad to see him or them go. I doubt Hartley’s wife and kids are upset, either. They left for a reason.”
“No do
ubt. His reputation for infidelity is noted, along with his illicit activities — smuggling alcohol,” Allen piped up.
Looked like it had done more research.
“He wasn’t a smuggler. He was just a corporate asshole,” Schafer retorted.
But Allen doubled down, and I stood back to watch the show.
“On the contrary, he was a good businessman, so good that he kept a paper trail, which was almost too easy to find. Police seizure of his home and assets allowed me to track down the shipments he referred to as ‘shoeshine.’ His own shoes at home were filthy, I might add — a dirty man in practice and at home. Needless to say, seizing those assets uncovered his involvement in the Maranzano crime family. You must be a little upset, seeing as Hartley embezzled funds from GE in order to fund these operations. He spent your fortune to make his.”
Schafer’s expression turned into a snarl, in response to Allen or the victim, I couldn’t say. Seemed that this was a tidbit she hadn’t uncovered.
Allen continued: “Finding his paper trail uncovered some interesting things about General Electrics. He worked to put down several projects besides the America First Bill, such as the Cellular Project, and another called Ferrodermis. And there was talk about him trying to pull funding from a high-risk project, something called the U—”
Schafer took a quick step forward. I pushed myself between them. Her eyes were on fire, hot rage building inside. “You’ll shut your mouth if you don’t want to go into the shredder, capek.”
The standoff between the three of us was quelled by the arrival of a pompous man who smelled of smoke and alcohol. He inserted himself between me and Schafer, forcing her to pull back, her eyes still fixed on Allen. He had a group with him. Our trio suddenly grew into a group of nine.
“Ah, welcome! You must be our Nightcaller, welcome again. David Sarnoff, head of RCA. A pleasure!” He grabbed my hand and shook. “No smoking in the building, by the way.”
“I’ll put mine out when you get rid of yours.”
Sarnoff puffed on his pipe and chuckled, his entourage laughing, too. “I like this one. And one of our metal friends, too? We don’t often use them for intimate events like this, seeing as, well, a machine can only do so much compared to a human. Must have been hell to get through the door, hmm?” Allen offered a firm handshake but no greeting. “It lets everyone breathe a little easier to know they pop out of the factory pre-Greened these days. Speaking of which, when were you built?”
“Don’t,” I said. It was getting crowded. Too many people with too much power.
“Oh fine, can’t be rude to the Nightcaller, our star, it seems!” Sarnoff signalled to a waiter and asked him to bring over something stronger. At least he was enjoying the party. “So, Mr. Roche, how are you enjoying the party? Networking?”
“Trying to find the person who killed Hartley.”
“Oh, move past that! He’s long gone, just a bump in the road to success. Another Farnsworth.” He turned to his entourage. “Remember that little spat in ’31? Tried to beat us out of a television patent. Didn’t last long against the might of General Electrics. Hartley might have had some political protection, but that doesn’t stop a bomb, does it?”
A bomb. This idiot had no idea what had killed Hartley, which meant he hadn’t ordered him dead. Sarnoff was too fat and happy to care about Hartley. He could’ve crushed the man with just paperwork, if he’d wanted to. Maybe I was barking up the wrong tree here; no one seemed to care about Hartley.
“At least Maranzano helped us with that one,” Sarnoff continued, more to his sycophants than to me. “The only thing that tax dodger has ever done for us. Perhaps next time we can get the Iron Hands to help us with cleaning up the streets of America, hmm?” His group erupted into laughter. Hard to believe the Eye had managed to keep the wool over everyone’s eyes for this long.
Any other possible suspects? Maybe Schafer. She seemed like the murdering type, but how would she have avoided leaving a paper trail? The Eye was still on the table, seeing as the Rabbit was around again — no idea how long it had been back, but certainly long enough to pull off something like the Edison.
My eyes wandered from the fat man and drifted through the crowd. Like a magnet, I was drawn to the glare of a man, not much shorter than I, who was smartly dressed, with dark hair and a firm stare. A lot of folks here were probably curious who I was, but that wasn’t the type of look he was giving me.
“Mr. Roche?” Sarnoff asked, snapping me out of my trance.
“Who’s that?” I pointed, and the fat man followed my gesture. The space I was indicating was now empty.
“Who was who?” he asked.
I groaned. “Never mind.”
“Well, maybe not the talking type, but a damn good listener! Heard the show?”
“No.”
“Oh … too bad.” He seemed sullen and upset at that fact. “So, no praise or criticism of accuracy? Nothing to tell us about what we did right or wrong?”
“No.”
“No matter, we have someone under our employ who helps us out with that kind of information.” He turned to Schafer. “Is she here?”
“I would hope so. We sent her an invitation,” Schafer confirmed. “There she is.”
She beckoned with her finger to bring the person in question into the already crowded group. I had a hunch as to who it was, and confirmation came when she made her way through. Blond hair, green dress, confidence in her walk, and a smug smile — not smug like Schafer, but smug like she knew what I was thinking. Simone Morane, the reporter.
“Roche,” Simone said, nodding to me with a grin.
I stared, not sure how to respond. Allen appeared pleased to see her, though, and offered its hand to shake. Feeling my heart in my throat, I threw my cigarette to the ground and stormed off.
My head was ringing, and my body was shaking, switching from ice-cold to on fire every other second. People called to me, but I ignored them. My hand grabbed a glass of something and drank it. The alcohol was soothing, but not healing.
I pushed past people to get to the safety of a smaller room I could calm down in. My shoes squeaked against the marble floor as I walked into a washroom. The mirror reflected my panicked expression. I would have felt less afraid walking into Maranzano’s without a gun. Why was I like this? These people were rich, but they weren’t anything special. Schafer was frightening, Sarnoff complacent, and Simone was too curious for her good or mine. I splashed water on my face, trying to rid my head of this swirling panic. I needed to get out of here.
“Goddamn it, focus!”
Without thinking, I punched the nearest thing, which happened to be the mirror in front of me. My right hand was bleeding, and there was a crack in the glass, splitting the reflection of my hazel eyes. I hoped there weren’t any shards in my skin. I should clean it, make sure I didn’t get blood on the floor. I didn’t want to go out there again. I’d make any excuse to stay in here.
“Losing it, huh, Roche?”
The man who’d spoken was emerging from one of the toilet stalls. He left without washing his hands. It was the same man I’d noticed a few minutes ago. As badly as I wanted to run after him, it wasn’t worth it. Not with everything else that was out there.
CHAPTER 8
“IS HE OKAY?”
Allen was sitting in a small booth opposite Simone. Both had drinks in hand. He wasn’t one for partaking while on the job, but since it was customary here, he didn’t mind wetting his throat.
“He’s … yes, I hope he is. I’ve never seen him like this.” Allen scrunched up his face, the taste of the alcohol and concern for Roche making his thoughts fuzzy. “I would have thought, given his past, that he was accustomed to large crowds. Just the other day I saw …” He stopped.
“Saw what?”
Simone leaned forward, spinning the large ice cube in her drink with a stir stick. Allen’s eyes locked onto the glass, then glanced up at her. If he were capable of sweating, he would have been now. The
re was something comforting, but at the same time, terrifying, about looking at her.
She smiled and repeated herself. “What did you see?”
“Oh, he was speaking to Maranzano and —”
“Salvatore Maranzano, the crime lord? Are you kidding me?”
“Not a bit.”
Simone leaned back, laughing. “Who is this guy? Helping old ladies and talking to crime bosses? Is he a cop, is he a vigilante? And you! You must see all sorts of things with him. Have you been to the Plate?”
Allen was entranced by her voice and everything about her. He kept staring and forgetting to respond. “Y-yes, once. Indeed, Roche is … unique. I believe he prefers to work only loosely with the police because he likes dealing with criminals himself. I’m not sure about his relationship with the Mafia, however.”
“Aren’t you a cop? I never got your name, by the way. You know mine?”
“Yes, Miss Morane. I’m 41-EN. Allen. Allen Erzly.” He shot out his hand again, which she shook gently. “I work for the 5th Precinct.”
“The 5th! I shouldn’t say anything too risqué around you, then. I could let slip a crime I may have committed.”
“We — they aren’t like that. Roche used to be part of the 5th. They’re good cops.”
“Haven’t heard a cop called ‘good’ in a while. ‘Rough’ and ‘opinionated,’ yes.”
“Rough, but effective. You need to be rough down here to survive. The Lower City will chew you up and spit you out if you aren’t careful.”
“For a second there, I thought I was talking to Roche.” Simone smiled again, laughing to herself.
“He does have a way of talking. I guess it rubs off on people.”
“I’ll say. He’s strange … charming, almost, in a dark and dangerous sort of way.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, some of our listeners, and our executives, too, have said that just the thought of a man prowling the streets in search of justice and retribution is … attractive! You know, dominance over the city, not letting anyone tell you what to do — it’s a sort of wish fulfillment for people too poor or weak to do anything themselves. And the way he talks is all part of that. He doesn’t let anyone push him around, and people enjoy that. Could you imagine if they saw a picture of him? I mean, he’s not half-bad, even if he is rough around the edges.”
Midnight Page 8