Midnight

by Brenden Carlson

  CHAPTER 10

  ALLEN’S WAKE-UP RITUAL WAS VERY different to Roche’s. His day began at seven in the morning: inspecting his suit, getting dressed, polishing his badge and shoes, and getting breakfast ready. His morning meal consisted of oatmeal and bacon, meant to balance the proteins and carbs necessary to keep his synthetic organs operating and his body active. He was technically alive under the layers of interlocking metal, which meant he needed food, as well as a powder mixed into water that made up for the lack of silicon in his system. The tiny table in his kitchen was set with utensils and a napkin, and there was a single chair. He didn’t have anything to read over breakfast; he’d been considering buying a few books to read before and after work each day.

  Allen chowed down and quickly cleaned up afterward. Then he stared at the loaned pistol in his possession for about five minutes. The contemplation wasn’t necessary, but the weapon was hard to look at. He pulled the magazine out, unloaded the bullet in the chamber, placed it back in the magazine, and loaded it without pulling the slide back. Even though he had the safety on, he wanted to be sure he couldn’t discharge a bullet unless he meant to.

  He nearly forgot the keys to Roche’s car but grabbed them before exiting into the cold morning. A thin layer of snow had coated the car and the street overnight. The sun had yet to reach the horizon. He got inside and revved the engine. The distance to the 5th Precinct was short, but he was much happier in the loaned vehicle than he would have been walking. After all, he could still feel the cold, despite his metallic exterior.

  In front of the station, Paddy Sinclair was already outside smoking, getting some fresh air, or at least making an excuse to get out of the stifling office space. He saw Allen approach and waved him over.

  “How’s it goin’, metal man?” he said, sucking in the tobacco. Allen noted that Sinclair had relapsed from quitting yet again.

  “I’m fine, thank you, Detective Sinclair. Has Roche come by today?”

  “Nah, he’s lyin’ low, so he says. Must be real low since he gave you the ol’ girl there. Might play into our favour — Robins wants us to run some patrols around Kips and the Lower East Side. You okay drivin’ an unmarked cruiser?”

  Allen nodded. “I just need to get some files first, Sinclair.”

  “Good, because I’m seriously hung over.” Sinclair finished the stub of his cigarette and threw it into the snow. “And that’s Sergeant Sinclair to you!”

  Allen parked the Talbot a block away from the entrance to the Kips Kompound. The searchlights and watchtowers of Maranzano’s base of operations were visible even from down the street. The first rays of sunlight had peeked out from the east and blasted the side of the Kompound with yellow. Inside the car, next to the groaning sergeant, Allen watched the day begin. He swore he could feel the eyes of a dozen henchmen all over them, perhaps curious whether Roche was inside the vehicle or someone else. Sinclair reclined in the passenger seat, a hat over his face and a heavy coat around his shoulders.

  After two hours of waiting and even after driving around the block twice, there was nothing to report. He’d tried to read through the police reports he’d brought from the precinct, but his mind kept wandering for one reason or another. Half his brain was overridden by self-preservation, the other half distracted by lingering images of the reporter with the kind smile.

  What he did manage to get from the reports was that the violence in Chelsea between the Hands and ’Zano’s gang was tapering off. Turned out everyone at the 5th referred to anything south of Chelsea as the Iron Hands’. Roche talked about them like they were a force of nature. It was hard to make sense of. Many believed them a group of ragtag bootleggers; others thought them a veritable underground army. It seemed no one had the straight story when it came to who the Iron Hands really were. Besides Roche and the Rabbit, he had yet to meet anyone who truly worked for them, whereas he had seen Maranzano’s base of operations.

  “Sergeant Sinclair.” Allen’s voice pierced the silence, and his companion groaned in acknowledgement. “Do you think the Mafia observes the holidays as a time for peace and compassion, despite their morally questionable stance?”

  “Huh.” Sinclair laughed under his hat. “I’ve worked plenty of Christmases and busted plenty of crooks on the twenty-fifth.” He sat up, spurred by his own interest. Allen noted that he recovered quickly from his hangovers when he chose to. “I got a story for you about that: the Silver Gun of ’27, one of the finest pieces of detective work I’ve ever been a part of, if I do say so myself.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary …”

  “It’s no trouble, really. I’ve told this to Roche and Toby a few dozen times each.” Sinclair rolled down the window and put a dart between his lips, lighting it. “Okay, so it started in December of ’27. Picture it: the rich were rich, the poor weren’t too bad, and Roche was still running with the 5th. Well, he isn’t the star of this story, but he’s in it. Anyway …”

  Allen yearned to know what Roche was like in his younger years, but Sinclair’s introduction had left him disinterested. His eyes moved around the vehicle, looking for anything to distract him while Sinclair prattled on. Adjusting the rear-view mirror, he spotted someone walking around outside, the only moving thing on this desolate street. His flight or fight instinct kicked into overdrive, and adrenalin made him reach for his gun, alerting Sinclair that something was wrong.

  “What’s going on?” Sinclair peered behind them. “Oh, he came. Relax, Al, it’s Toby.”

  Allen allowed himself to breathe and relax his grip. The familiar Grifter frame and blue eyes came up to the passenger-side door, urging Sinclair to get out and push the seat forward to allow Toby to enter.

  “How goes it, pretty boy?” Toby said, patting Allen’s shoulder as he climbed inside and settled into the cramped back seat. “And you, too, Paddy, you ugly fuck. Three musketeers without our Athos to lead us to victory. We have the new guy, though, and he was a main character last time I checked.”

  “You read?” Allen was genuinely surprised.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Toby didn’t have eyebrows, but if he did, his expression would have been one of offence. “You think because I’m some lowlife Blue-eye that I’m not literate?”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean anything by it —”

  “I’m just fucking with ya, Allen. Roche called himself that a while ago. I never let him live it down.” Toby cackled, making Sinclair put his palms over his ears to block out the flanged laughter. “Take it easy, all right? You’re as stiff as a board and half as useful.”

  “Can do,” Allen responded. “I’d heard that Commissioner Robins allowed you back on the Force.”

  “I guess Robins has a soft spot for me after I helped with that raid in Chelsea. It’s all under the table of course, but I still couldn’t say no. I missed running with the boys.”

  “Amen to that, Toby,” Sinclair agreed. “See anything on your way here?”

  “Nothin’. Not even the Hands are out to play. Too busy keeping Chelsea from exploding. Jesus, that’s a ticking time bomb. What jackasses gave them Chelsea on a silver platter?” Toby leaned forward, looking at Allen as he spoke. Allen stayed quiet, keeping his hands on the wheel and his eyes forward. “Relax, metal man. Whatever we did still ain’t as bad as the 4th Precinct.”

  “Yeah, now that is ancient history we don’t talk about.” Sinclair stretched his legs in his seat and reclined once again. “Well, I say we give it another hour, then take a break at the Funhouse.”

  “Funhouse?” Allen said curiously.

  Toby tried to roll his eyes. “Man, don’t tell the new guy that, he’ll rat us out.”

  “What’s the Funhouse?” Allen asked.

  “It’s a place Paddy and Roche set up for long patrols and stakeouts, a little hidey-hole to pass the time with drinks and cards. Seems you’re in on it, too, now, since Paddy can’t keep his trap shut.”

  “Fuck off, capek,” Sinclair groaned.

  Tob
y snickered. “You won’t be ratting us out, will you, Al?”

  While Allen was indeed uneasy about doing something behind his supervisor’s back, he knew that getting in the good graces of his fellow officers would be beneficial. He didn’t want to be the one to rock the boat.

  “Of course not. My lips are sealed,” he said.

  “I like this guy, Paddy. Better than you, even.” Toby patted Allen’s shoulder again. “All right, let’s get the fuck outta here. Kips creeps me out. Makes me feel like they’ll pull me off the street and tear me apart if I close my eyes for a second.”

  The aptly named Funhouse was a shanty tugboat at the end of the old East 34th Street docks and marina on the East River’s edge. It had been abandoned since midway through the ’20s, and it showed: mould on the wood, rust on the metal, and seaweed on everything else. Inside the boat’s central structure were three rooms: a bathroom, a room with rotting tables and chairs, and the now abandoned driver’s quarters, where the wheel had been removed, leaving the boat unsteerable.

  The three officers faced eastward as the sun crawled up through the sky. The Plate was several dozen metres behind them, leaving open sky above. The sight enchanted Allen; he didn’t want to look back down. Seagulls called while flying across the water, and the lapping waves elicited a tranquil calm in him as he listened.

  Toby skipped a stone. It slapped the surface of the water three times before sinking. Paddy sat against the nearest wall, drinking an old expired beer to help with the hangover. Allen sat beside Toby on the edge of the anchored, tied-down tugboat, taking in the view.

  “Sorry to burst your bubble, Allen, but police work isn’t all paperwork and action,” Toby said, sending another stone across the water to hit three times again before sinking. “Ninety percent is boredom. Well, usually ninety-nine percent, but things have been rough recently, huh?”

  “Yeah, haven’t seen violence and kerfuffles like these since before the Purge of ’30,” Sinclair commented. “Remember before then, when the Five Families were tryin’ to gut each other for territory and cash?”

  “Man, plenty of roughhousing then. Then things got boring. Still can’t believe the precincts actually had to lay off cops because of the ‘peace.’” Toby snickered. “Peace, my ass. They’ve just had too many guns and not enough targets since then. I miss the raids. Remember the stakeouts we used to have?”

  “Yeah, those were great.” Sinclair chuckled and turned to Allen. “How was your first stakeout with Roche?”

  “Uh, it was fine, I guess.” Allen shrugged. “It was entertaining. We played darts.”

  “Ah, world champion he is,” Toby commented, Paddy laughing in response. “Robins doesn’t need us back from Kips for a few hours, and seeing as we’re parked in the middle of Maranzano’s territory with ‘The Nightcaller’s’ own Talbot, I envision a boring day ahead of us. So, any topics of conversation? You’re usually talkative.”

  Watching the sunrise and the stones skipping, Allen felt a peace that he hadn’t thought he ever would again. He didn’t remember his dreams, but he did remember his last thoughts before sleeping last night. Now, with nothing but bliss surrounding him, his mind drifted again to her face.

  “I … I think I need advice. About a woman.”

  Toby, midswing with another stone, released the rock early. It plummeted straight down into the water. Sinclair fumbled with his beer as it almost escaped his grasp and peered at Allen. The Synthian felt violated by their gazes. He tried to defuse the situation, but all that came out was a series of mumbles and gibberish.

  “Are you fucking with us?” Toby asked.

  “No, no, no. I don’t joke. Well, you know that.”

  “A woman? Oh boy.” Sinclair laughed and drank from his bottle. “Allen, my boy, a woman is much more complicated to deal with than a case. I would suggest giving up. You don’t have the body to do anything about it.”

  “How in the fresh hell does a machine even think about a human that way?” Toby seemed almost disgusted.

  “You don’t?” Allen responded.

  “No, we don’t. We ain’t programmed like that, not even Red-eyes, I don’t think. It just ain’t in the code! What makes you so special?”

  “Well, Allen ain’t an Automatic,” Sinclair said. “Don’t you remember? I thought you saw inside that cranium of his. His brain.”

  “Right, yeah. The rest of us Blue-eyes ain’t blessed with great memories.” Toby slapped the side of his head.

  “Shit, yeah, you’re gettin’ old. What’s your capacity limit, again? Like six years? You probably forgot an entire war. When’re you gettin’ the ol’ hard drives swapped?”

  “When I damn well please, Paddy,” Toby snapped back.

  “Can we get back to the topic at hand?” Allen asked, feeling forgotten.

  “I just needed a jostling is all, keep your pants on. Cells and electricity, a brain, lungs, and a stomach, et cetera, you’re special. I always wondered if you had anything down in yonder parts.” Toby laughed and threw another rock. “I guess we know now.”

  “Who’s the girl?” Sinclair asked, grabbing a fresh beer and cracking the top, then offering it to Allen. The machine accepted the drink and leaned against the same wall as the senior officer. “Some pretty face down by Times? Or a big name?”

  “We met at the RCA gala that Roche and I went to as part of our investigation into the Edison Hotel murders.”

  “No shit, eh?” Sinclair said.

  “Simone Morane. She’s … well, from a distance she’s beautiful. But up close, she’s stunning. Just talking to her, her voice and her mannerisms, all of it is impossible not to be taken by,” Allen said with a smile. “The more we talked, the more it felt as if she could really hear me. The others at the party were less than pleased about my presence, but she treated me, as one woman said, like a person.”

  Toby made a groaning sound. Sinclair clinked the neck of his bottle against Allen’s and finished his drink. “Morane, the girl from the radio, huh?” he asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “Yeah, she has one hell of a voice.” He grabbed another beer. “Must be good lookin’ in person, too. You gotta be to make it in that business.”

  “Can we acknowledge how fucking weird it is that we’re talking about this with Allen?” Toby butted in. “Christ …”

  “At least it’s something positive to talk about, capek,” Sinclair snapped back. “Now, her name, that’s an important bit. You know who her father is?”

  “No,” Allen said, guessing that he should.

  “Colonel Sebastian Morane of the U.S. military. Or, sorry, General Morane now. He’s one step away from being the secretary of defense in D.C., lives in the Upper City. Her word must be law down here with a name like that behind her.”

  “Maybe down here, yes, but from what I heard, it doesn’t seem to matter much up there.” Allen sipped the beer, grimacing at the taste, but fighting through it.

  “You overhear somethin’?”

  “Just a big name at the company telling her to watch herself. The Upper City must not like her too much, but for what reason I can’t say.”

  “That’s politics. It’s everywhere you don’t want it to be. Makes life shitty and complicated. Even those pricks up top aren’t immune to it,” Sinclair noted. “Makes me feel better to know that they’re as trapped under someone’s thumb as we are. But back to the woman — what are you gonna do about her? Woo her with your magical powers of observation?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. You seem to have experience with women, much more than Roche, I think.”

  Toby laughed. “If only you knew, Al.”

  “I’m not a lady’s man, not like I used to be,” Sinclair said. “I mean, plenty of men can tell you what they think a woman wants, but I’ll tell you what they really want.”

  “What?”

  “For you to leave them the hell alone. They got enough to worry about without someone trying to rope them into
a relationship, or worse. Leave it be for now. If she’s into you, you’ll know. But if there’s any advice I can give you, it’s to be confident. Everyone likes confidence.”

  Allen sipped at the beer, his mind wandering back to the gala. The way she’d described Roche as both feared and respected — was that what Allen had to be like? Until now, Allen and Roche had mostly interacted with the people of the underworld. It was eye-opening to meet someone who wasn’t trying to kill them and to learn what she thought about the now famous Nightcaller.

  The crackle of the police scanner in Roche’s car was loud enough for Allen to hear. He stepped off the tugboat and walked across the dock back to the car. Leaning through the window, he adjusted the volume and frequency of the radio to hear the broadcast that was going out.

  “This is Reynolds. Skirmish at Chelsea Piers. Requesting backup. Looks like the Italians are pushing against the Hands again.”

  Allen ran back to his companions to relay the message. Toby skipped his last stone, watching it bounce six times before being swallowed by the rising sun. Sinclair chugged Allen’s beer and threw the bottle in the water, then stretched. With everyone back in the cramped cab of the Talbot, Allen took off from Kips due west.

  He couldn’t help but smile as they drove away. Sinclair and Toby were good people, even if they weren’t the best cops. It had felt good to get everything off his chest. Maybe one day he could feel the same way talking to Roche.

  CHAPTER 11

  IT WAS NOON WHEN I WALKED UP to the barber shop. I wasn’t getting my hair cut today.

  Eight Stuyvesant Street, otherwise known as the Angel’s Share. Back in the 1920s, this had been the place to be. Women, drinks, famous faces, connections, money — everything had passed through that secret door in the barber shop down to the basement. Douglas Fairbanks, John Barrymore, even Gloria Swanson were said to have gone down those very steps to have a drink.