Clementine (4 page)

“That might change, soon enough.”

“How you figure?” Hainey asked.

Barebones said, “I’ve heard things. Folks have been asking after it, wanting to know where we get it, and how it’s made. The more customers want it, the more it costs and the more of it we have to find; so I’ve heard tale of chemists moving west, thinking of hitting up that blighted little city and taking up the gas-distilling for themselves.”

The captain smiled a real smile and said, “They’re welcome to try it. But I think they might be surprised by what they find.”

“What’s that mean?” Barebones asked.

And Hainey said, “Not a thing, except I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“But I heard the city is abandoned. Surely some of these folks can find a way in to harvest what they need?”

“You heard wrong,” the captain assured him. “It isn’t abandoned, and the people who live there don’t much care for visitors. So if you, personally, have sent somebody west to look into it—and if you give half a damn for this person’s continued health—I recommend you send him a telegram urging him to reconsider.”

The hotelman cringed nervously but neither confirmed or denied anything. “Well then, I thank you for the good advice. I suppose you’d know, wouldn’t you? You spend a lot of time out that way.”

“I spent plenty of time out that way, sure enough. And I’m not telling you this because I’m worried about you or your men stepping on my toes. I’m no chemist, and I don’t have one of any preference who I’m interested in protecting. I’m only telling you, in a friendly exchange of information, that there’s a damn good reason there’s only a handful of folks who ever get their hands on that gas. That’s all I’m saying.”

Halliway flapped his hands in a casual shushing gesture and said, “I hear you, I hear you. And I’ll absolutely take it under advisement, and pass it around. I trust you, more or less.”

“I appreciate it, more or less.”

And there they found themselves stopped at a pair of double doors. “Right through here, gentlemen,” Barebones said. He opened one of the doors and held it, revealing a gameroom beyond that was half filled with card-playing men sitting at round, felt-covered tables. Bottles of alcohol were granted to each group, and stacks of red, white, and blue chips were gathered together in puddles and mounds, or clasped between fingers, behind cards.

Most of the men glanced up and held their gaze, surprised and sometimes unhappy to see the newcomers. Three men towards the back folded their hands, placing whatever cards they’d been dealt on the table and gathering their things.

“Fellas,” Halliway said. “Fellas, come on with me, right through here. There’s a spot in the back where we can talk.”

The captain, Simeon, and Lamar threaded their way around the tables and past them like cogs in a watch, keeping circular paths to dodge the chairs and the quietly gossiping players. One man said, too loudly as they went by, “I didn’t know this was that kind of joint, Barebones. You letting just about anybody in, these days?”

To which Halliway Coxey Barebones said back, “Keep it to yourself, Reese. They’re colleagues of mine.” And once they were well out of reach, he said, “And if you have a problem with it, you can get your lightning elsewhere.” But it was a feeble defense, spoken hastily and over his shoulder. “Back here, fellas.”

Simeon whispered to Lamar, “Back where nobody can see us, you want to bet it?”

Lamar said, “No, I won’t take that bet.”

If Halliway heard them, he didn’t react except to usher them into an office space crammed from floor to ceiling with cabinets, crates, and leftover glass bits that belonged in a still. The room smelled like sawdust and hard-filtered grain, but it was spacious and featured enough chairs for everyone—and a desk for Barebones to lean his backside against while he spoke and listened.

When the door was shut, a small panel beneath the nearest cabinet revealed a liquor set and a stack of glasses. “Could I offer any of you boys a sip?”

Simeon and Lamar accepted with great cheer, but Hainey said, “No, and you can stick to calling us ‘fellas’ if you like. You don’t have ten years on me, old man, and I’m no boy of yours.”

For a moment, the hotelman looked confused, and then something clicked, and then he said, “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I didn’t mean it that way, not like…I didn’t mean anything by it. I only meant to offer you a drink.”

The captain believed him, though he didn’t let it show. He only nodded. “That’s good of you, but I still don’t need a drop quite yet.”

“You need something else.”

“We need a ship. It’s like I told you, the bird that brought us here went to ground. We crashed her bad,” he flipped a thumb at Lamar, “But my man here put her back together good enough to get us here, and now we’ve got farther to go—and no wings to carry us.”

Barebones poured himself three fingers of cherry-colored liquor from an unmarked bottle. He took a swallow, leaned with half a cheek sitting on the desk, the other half leaning on it, and said, “That’s a tall order you’re placing. We’ve got docks here, back another half mile at the southeast edge of town, but I don’t know of anyone looking to sell a ship. You got money, I’m guessing?”

“Like always,” Hainey said without resorting to specifics. “We can pay, and pay big if we’ve got to.”

Behind the square glass lenses, the hotelman’s eyes went shrewd. “You’re stopping just short of saying that money’s no object.”

“I’m stopping well short of it,” the captain corrected him. “And this isn’t a money run, or a gun run, or any other kind of run. This is a personal venture, and I’m willing to spend what’s necessary to see it through—but I’m not willing to let anyone take advantage of us, just because we’ve got needs and means.”

“Oh no, obviously not. Of
course
not. You misunderstand me,” Barebones said, but Hainey didn’t think he did.

“I don’t misunderstand a thing, and I want to make sure you don’t, either. We need a ship, and that’s all. We need a ship and we’ll be out of your hair first thing come dawn.”

Halliway said, “But I don’t have a ship to
give
you. Hell, right now I don’t even have one to sell you—and that’s saying something. You’ve caught me between runs of guns down to Mexico and smokes up to Canada, and it’s not that I don’t want to help, but not a one of my ships is home safe for me to spare it. If you don’t believe me, check the docks—you know where they are, and you know where I keep my birds cooped. If I had wings to loan you, I’d hand you the deed on the spot. But now I simply must ask: What on earth happened to your
Crow
?”

The captain grimaced and frowned, and after a moment’s hesitation he laid out the truth. “Stolen. The
Free Crow
was taken by a red-haired crook called Felton Brink—and don’t ask me why,” he added fast. “If I knew, I’d have an easier time chasing him. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him come through here, have you? You couldn’t miss him. He’s got a head that looks like a fire pit, and he’s piloting my ship—you’d know it on sight, I know you would—but he’s calling her
Clementine
.”

“No,” Barebones said thoughtfully. “No, I haven’t heard a thing about that, or I’d have been less startled to see you on my doorstep. But if you ask around down at the docks, you might hear something more encouraging.”

The captain made a small shrug that was not disappointed, exactly, but rather resigned. He said, “I’m not surprised. They filled up outside of Topeka, and can probably run another couple hundred miles. I don’t know if Brink knew I had contacts in Kansas City, but I do know he’s sticking to the rural roads and airways as much as he can.”

“And you don’t know where he’s going?”

“Haven’t the faintest idea,” Hainey said. “If I knew, I’d try and sneak underneath him, and head him off. But it was a damned unfair thing, to steal my war bird. It was damned unfair, and damned stupid.”

“I hope he’s being paid, and paid gloriously,” Halliway said through another mouthful of alcohol. “If the poor fool knew who he was stealing from, I mean.” He sounded nervous again, and Hainey made a note of it. “Crossing you, that’s not a healthy thing for a man to do, now is it?”

“Not at all. But you know that better than anyone, don’t you?”

“I’ve seen it in action,” Barebones said. “Yes sir, I surely have. But I’ve never crossed you before and I won’t start now—which doesn’t change the fact that I don’t have a bird to give you. But then again…” he said, and fiddled with the corner of his glasses.

“Then again?” Hainey prompted him.

He considered whatever he was on the verge of saying, and when he had his thoughts laid out correctly, he said, “Then again, and this is strictly off the books, you hear me, all right?”

“Absolutely.”

The hotelman lowered his voice for the sake of drama, since no one in a position to overhear would’ve cared. “Refresh my memory, now. Your
Free Crow
was a war bird you…acquired, shall we say, from the Rebs. That’s right, ain’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Well let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I’ve heard tale of a Union bird getting a gauge fixed over here at the Kansas City docks, and I think she’s going to be fixed up sometime in the next day or two. She’s on her way back to New York to get a few more tweaks made to her defenses; I think someone’s going to give it a top-level ball turret. Your fellow here,” he pointed at Lamar, “he boosted a crashed-up bird back into the air?”

“Sure did,” Lamar answered.

“Then I reckon he could fix a valve gauge in ten minutes flat. Maybe, and I’m just saying this for the sake of argument, but maybe he could even fix it someplace else, if you and your boys felt like taking it for a little ride.”

Croggon Hainey wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the suggestion, but it wasn’t a terrible one and he didn’t shoot it down outright. He said, “It’s not a bad idea,” while he pinched at his chin, where there was no stubble for him to thoughtfully stroke. “What’s this Union bird’s name?”

“As I’ve heard it, they’re calling her
Valkyrie
.”

MARIA ISABELLA BOYD

4

The passenger docks in Chicago were out past the slaughter yards, and Maria got a good whiff of them as the coach bore her swiftly toward the semi-permanent pipe piers and the tethered dirigibles that waited there. Out the window she watched not quite nervously, not very happily, as the red-brick city sped by—its streets and walkways gray with the soot of a thousand furnaces, and its roads rough with unfixed holes. A particularly pointed jostle threatened to unseat her hat, so she clutched it into place.

She read and reread the information from the envelope. She fingered the ticket, rubbing her thumb against the word TOPEKA, knowing that she’d have to make new arrangements and wondering how she’d go about it.

Maria had never flown in a dirigible before, but she wasn’t about to admit it—and she was prepared to figure out the details as she went. She was no stranger to improvisation; it wouldn’t have bothered her in the slightest if this weren’t her first case, and if she didn’t have so many questions.

Perhaps it ought to be considered a point of flattery that Pinkerton was prepared to start her off with something so shady and uncertain. Or perhaps she ought to feel insulted, wondering if he would’ve given such an assignment to any of his male operatives; and wondering if they would’ve received the same slim briefing.

Nothing felt right about it.

But she wasn’t in a position to be picky, so when the coach deposited her at a gate, she paid the driver, gathered her skirts into a bunch in her fist, and strode purposefully in the direction of a painted sign that said, “Ticketing.” Lifted skirts and all, filthy slush swept itself onto the fabric and squished nastily against her leather boots. She ignored it, waited behind one other man in line, and approached the thin-faced fellow behind a counter with the declaration, “Hello sir, I beg your assistance, please. I have a ticket to Topeka, but I need to exchange it for passage to Jefferson City.”

“Do you now?” he asked, not brightening, lightening, or showing any real interest. He pulled a monocle off its sitting place at the edge of his eye socket, and wiped it on his red and white striped vest.

Instinctively, she knew this kind of man. He was one of several kinds that were easy enough to handle with the appropriate tactics. The ticket man was thin-limbed and sour, overly enthused with his tiny shred of authority, and bound to give her hassle—she knew it even before she clarified her difficulties.

“I do. And I understand that the Jefferson City-bound ship leaves rather shortly.”

He glanced at a sheet of paper tacked to a board at his left and said, “Six minutes. But you shouldn’t have bought a ticket to Topeka if you wanted to go to Jefferson City. Exchanges aren’t simple.” He spoke slowly, as if he had no intention of accommodating her, and orneriness came naturally because he was essentially weak—and he would not be moved except by threat of force.

She was not yet prepared to resort to a force past feminine wiles, but she could see the necessity looming in the distance.

“
I
didn’t buy the ticket,” she told him. “It was purchased for me by my employer, whom you are more than welcome to summon if you take any issue with my request which is, I think we can honestly agree, a reasonable one.”

“It would’ve been more reasonable if he’d gotten you the right ticket in the first place.”

She spoke quickly, firmly, and with the kind of emphasis that didn’t have time to cajole. The ticket man did not know it because he was a little bit dense, but this was his final warning. “Then indeed, we can agree on something. But the situation changed, and now my ticket needs to be changed, and I’d be forever in your debt if you’d simply accept this ticket and provide me with a substitute.”

He leaned in order to look around her, in case there was anyone else at all whom he might address. Seeing no one, he straightened himself and deepened his smug frown. “You’re going to have to fill out a form.” Maria glanced at the clock on the table, but before she could say anything in protest the ticket man added, “Four minutes, now. You’d better write quickly.”

Before he could utter the last syllable, Maria’s patience had expired and her hands were on his collar, yanking him forward. She held him firmly, eye to eye, and told him, “Then it sounds like I don’t have time to be nice. I’d prefer to be nice, mind you—I’ve made a career out of it, but if time is of the essence then you’re just going to have to forgive me if I resort to something baser.”

Flustered, he leaned back to attempt a retreat; but Maria dug her feet into the half-frozen dirt. As the ticket man learned, she was stronger than she looked. “Oh no, you don’t. Now put me on the ship to Jefferson City, or I’ll summon my employer and let the Pinkerton boys explain how you ought to treat a lady in need.”

“P—Pinkerton?”

“That’s right. I’m their newest, meanest, and best-dressed operative, and I need to get to Jefferson City, and you, sir, are standing between me and my duty.” She released him with a shove that sent him back into his seat, where his bony back connected unpleasantly with the chair. “Am I down to three minutes yet?” she asked.

With a stutter, he said, “No.”

“And how long will it take me to find the ship that will take me to Jefferson City?”

“M—maybe a minute or two.”

“Then maybe you’d better hurry up and swap my ticket before I get back in my coach, go back to my office, and explain to Mr. Pinkerton why I missed the ship he was so very interested in seeing me catch.” She planted both hands on the edge of the counter and glared, waiting.

Without taking his eyes off the irate Southern woman who was absolutely within eye-gouging range, the ticket man took the Topeka slip and, reaching into a drawer, retrieved a scrap of paper that would guarantee passage aboard a ship called
Cherokee Rose
.

Maria took the ticket, thanked him curtly, spun on her heel, and ran up to the platform where the ships were braced for passenger loading. The ticket said that
Cherokee Rose
was docked in slot number three. She found slot number three as the uniformed man stationed at its gate was closing the folding barrier, and she held her hand up to her breastbone, pretending to be winded and on the verge of tears.

He was an older gentleman, old enough to be her father if not her grandfather; and his crisply pressed uniform fit neatly over his military posture, without any lint or incorrectly fastened buttons. Maria did not know if dirigibles were flown like trains were conducted, but she was prepared to guess the estimable old gentleman to be the pilot.

He was essentially a strong man, and most easily handled by appearing weak.

“Oh sir!” she said in her sweetest, highest-class accent, “I hope I’m not too late!” and she handed him the ticket.

He smiled around a pair of snow-white sideburns and retracted the gate in order to let her pass. “Not at all, ma’am. We’re only half full as it is, so I’m more than happy to wait for a lady.”

She lowered her lashes and gave him her best belle smile when she thanked him, and said, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your kindness.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” he assured her, and, taking her tiny gloved hand, he escorted her to the retracting steps that led up inside the
Cherokee Rose
. “I’ll be your captain on the airway to Jefferson City.”

“The captain?” she said, as if it were the most impressive thing she’d ever heard a man call himself. “Well isn’t that grand! It must be a terrifically difficult job you have, moving a machine of such size and complexity, up through the skies.”

He said, “Oh, it’s sometimes a trick, but I can promise you,” he let her go first, and rose up behind her. “We won’t meet much trouble on the way to Missouri. It’s a quiet skytrail, generally unremarked by pirates and too high for the Indians to bother us. The weather is fine, and the winds are fair. We’ll have you safely set down in about twenty hours, at the outside.”

“Twenty hours?” Maria’s head crested the ship’s interior, where half a dozen rows of seats were bolted down into the floor, off to her right. The seats were plushly padded, but worn around the corners; and only about half of them were occupied. “That’s a marvel of science, sir.”

“A marvel indeed!” he agreed, releasing her hand. “It’s three hundred miles, and if the weather doesn’t fight us, we’ll hold more or less steady at seventeen miles per hour. Welcome aboard my
Cherokee Rose
, Miss…?”

“Boyd,” she said. “I’m Miss Boyd, Captain…?”

He removed his hat and bowed. “Seymour Oliver, at your service. Can I help you stash your bags?”

“Thank you sir, very much!” She handed over her large tapestry bag and held close to the smaller one with Pinkerton’s instructions.

The captain heaved the luggage into a slot at the stowing bays, secured it with a woven net that fastened on the corners, and he told her, “Take your pick from the seats available, and please, make yourself comfortable. Refreshments are available in the galley room, immediately to your left—through the rounded door with the rivets, you see. A small washroom can be found to the rear of the craft, and the seats recline slightly if you adjust the lever on the arm rest. And if you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to stick your head through the curtain and let me hear about it.”

Captain Seymour Oliver retreated with two or three backward glances, and when he was gone Maria chose a seat in the back, without any other occupants in the row.

The seat was as comfortable as she had any right to expect on a machine that was made to move people from one place to another with efficiency. Though padded, it was lumpy; and though she had plenty of space to stretch out her legs, she could not raise her arms to stretch without knocking her knuckles on a metal panel affixed above her head. This was no flying hotel, but she could survive almost anything for twenty hours.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat’s edge, holding her smaller bag and its informative contents in her lap—and covered with her hands.

Through the speaking tubes, the captain announced that they were prepared to depart, and asked everyone to make use of the bracing straps built into the seats before them. Maria opened one eye, spotted the leather loop, and reached out to twist her fingers in the hand-hold; but it wasn’t as necessary as she’d expected.

The
Cherokee Rose
gave only the slightest shudder as it disembarked, leaving behind a pipework pier with barely a gasp and a wiggle. The feeling of being lifted made waves in Maria’s stomach. The sensation of being swung, ever so gently, from a gypsy’s pendulum, made her wish for something sturdier to grasp, but she didn’t flinch and she didn’t flail about, seeking a bar or a belt. Instead, she leaned her head back again—eyes closed once more—and prayed that she might nab a little sleep once the sun went down, and the cabin inevitably went dark.

It was a curious thing, the way her belly quivered and her ears rang and popped. She’d risen once before in a hot air balloon, but it’d been nothing like the
Cherokee Rose
—there’d been no hydrogen, no thrusters, no hissing squeals of pressurized steam forcing its way through pipes. Under her feet she detected the vibrating percussion of pipes beneath the floorboards and it tickled and warmed through her ice-chilled boots. She wormed her toes down and let the busy shaking soothe her, or mesmerize her, or otherwise distract her; and within five more minutes the ship was fully airborne, having crested the trees and even the tallest of the uniform, fireproof brick structures that surrounded the dockyards.

“Quite a performance there, Miss Belle.”

Maria blinked slowly; and through a rounded window to her right, she could see the tips of roofs falling away beneath the craft—and the dark, scattering flutter of birds disturbed from their flights.

To her left, the empty seat beside her was no longer empty. It was now occupied by an average-looking man in an average-looking suit. Indeed, everything about him seemed utterly calculated to achieve the very utmost median of averageness. His hair was a moderate shade of brown and his mustache was of a reasonable length and set; the shape of his body beneath the tailored gray clothes was neither bulky nor slender, but an ordinary shape somewhere in between. Only his shrewd green eyes implied that there might be more to him than blandness, and even these he hid behind a pair of delicate spectacles as if he were aware of the threat they posed.

Maria replied, “I’m afraid you must have mistaken me for someone else.”

“Not at all!” he argued, settling in the seat without her welcome to do so. He shifted his hips so that he could almost face her, and he said, “I’d know you anywhere, even without that outstanding display.”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea—”

“—What I’m talking about, yes. Here, let me begin another way instead. Let’s pretend that these are the first words I’ve said to you, and that my introduction is as follows—my name is Phinton Kulp, and two…perhaps three years ago…I saw you perform in a very fine presentation of Macbeth in Richmond. Your interpretation of the wicked Lady was not to be undervalued; I’ve seen far worse from far more expensive productions.”

For a few seconds she merely stared at him. Then she retreated, shifting so that she nearly leaned against the window in order to face him, in return. She said, “Phinton. That can’t possibly be your real name. I don’t think it’s anyone’s real name. Did you make it up on the spot?”

“You were wearing the most lovely blue gown, as I recall, and the pig’s blood on your hands was as convincing as if it’d gushed freshly from the torso of an inconvenient Lord.”

“I’m not entirely sure what you’re doing here, Mr. Kulp, but I’m fairly certain that you’re a liar, an unrepentant flatterer, and someone who has his own seat several rows away—to which he probably should return. The flight ahead is a long one, and I’d prefer to be left alone to rest.” She folded her arms across her chest, crossed her legs at the ankles, and reclined more fully against the window. The metal and fabric siding was fiercely cold when pressed against her back, but she made no sign that it bothered her.