Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (30 page)

“That is quite the family lineage, but I don’t think I’ll be meeting anyone soon, unfortunately.  I am trying to keep a lower profile these days,” Mink said.

“Now Mink, you have to come to my engagement party,” Andromeda replied.  “It is the celebration of the decade!  The papers are already lauding it.  I need my sister there.”

“First of all, I am presumed dead.  And secondly, if people found out I was alive, Andromeda, everyone probably thinks I murdered my husband.” 

Andromeda covered her mouth and giggled uncontrollably. 

“I don’t find this funny,” Mink snapped.

“I’m sorry, Mink, I’m sorry.  But I never told anyone about your marriage to Ronald Thomason.”

“What?”

“People know I have a sister named Mink
Callahan
, not Mink Thomason.  I never told them about your marriage.  As far as they know, you are barefoot and pregnant in backwater Baton Rouge.  Besides,” she said, blowing more spoke into the awning. “Even if they did know, these people,” Andromeda gestured to all the crowd, “they cared more about their investments and an increase in future ticket prices when your husband died, not your welfare, believe me.”

Morris Randolph came running through the crowd and found them at their table, his white outfit drenched in sweat, his face beet red, and slinging his racquet over his shoulder.  “Andromeda, darling,” he said kissing her on the cheek.  “The first two games are mine.  The buffoon doesn’t stand a chance!”  He grabbed her Mint julep and finished it.  “Who is your friend?” he asked.

“Darling, this is my sister, Mink.”

“Ah yes,” he said and kissed Mink’s hand, leaving a sweaty residue.  “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Mink froze.  Her eyes went wide.

“Birmingham, right?” he asked.

Mink lifted a red eyebrow.  “Baton Rouge.”

“Yes, yes.  Baton Rouge.  I trust you had a pleasant journey?  Andromeda and I are very pleased you could make if for our party.”

Mink looked at Andromeda who smiled impishly.  “Yes, I—”

“No time to talk, sorry,” Morris jaunted back to the tennis court abruptly.

“Told you,” Andromeda said.  “No one knows who you are.  No one cares.  Now, where should I send the formal invitation to?  We had these adorable metal flowers cast—one of a kind, beautifully painted, all varieties of exotics.  People will pin them on, and it will serve as their ticket to the party.  Isn’t that brilliant?  Also, the theme is The Orient
,
so we will have to get you a costume.”

“Andromeda, this is too good to believe.”

“What? That they don’t know you?  Don’t recognize you?  Mink, these people’s lives revolve around the silver spoons that are wedged so far up their asses—”

“Andromeda Callahan!  You will cease this infernal language immediately.”

Andromeda smiled and leaned back further in her chair.  “I will ensure you receive two flowers, sister.”

“Two?” Mink asked.

“Of course, silly; now that you’re a widow, I would assume you would take someone?”

Mink looked around cautiously.  “Well, there is someone, as of late.”

“Do tell, sister.  Do tell.”  Andromeda flagged down the waiter and ordered two more Mint Juleps. 

“His name is Quincey.  Quincey Gartrell.”

“Ah, the Gartrell Family.  They have that place on Long Island.  It’s absolutely gorgeous.”

“You know them?” Mink asked.

“When you are a future Randolph, you must know all the affluent families in town,” Andromeda replied.  “Never met Quincey, though; he was always away on hunting trips and whatnot.”  The waiter returned with their drinks.  Andromeda sipped hers slowly.  “Besides, I thought you would take your former fiancé.”

“My husband is dead, Andromeda.  Please do not jest.”

“No, no.  The one before that,” she said, her blue eyes reflecting light like polished mirrors.

“You mean Wage?”

“He’s here, you know.  Saw him just the other day.”

Mink straightened in her chair.  “Wage is in New York?”

“Of course.  He’s at the Waldorf, room 402.  Do give him my regards.”

The Baron

August 17, 1914

John P’s Pool & Parlor

Queens, New York

The small bell above the door rang with an irritating jingle.  The whites of every pool player’s eyes shone through the shadows and smoke as they cautiously watched the three strangers who strolled through the dingy billiard hall. 

“Warwick,” Khalid Francois sang.  “Get us a bottle of whiskey.”  Warwick scurried to the bar at the far end of the hall, where an unsavory and toothless bartender mindlessly polished his bottles.  Six billiard tables with worn maroon felt filled the center of the large space, and rickety wooden chairs and tables lined the eroding brick walls.  Kerosene lamps hung in pairs along the walls and in suspended lines of six above the full-length pool tables.  A small boy, no older than 10, stood by himself at one of the center tables,  holding a cue in one hand and analyzing the random array of billiard balls, calculating his next shot.  He wore a dark crestless school blazer with gray wool shorts and high green socks.  Khalid and the Baron took the chairs nearest to him and sat down with their backs against the rough brick. 

“Good afternoon,” the Baron said.

“Who the hell are you?” the boy snapped back, eyeing his next shot.

“Impeccable manners,” the Baron commented.

The boy’s cue struck with pinpoint precision, and after a loud crack, a ball sank into the pocket with a muted thud.  “Does this look like the kind of establishment that upholds any semblance of etiquette?”

“No.  I suppose not,” the Baron replied.  The boy lined up another shot and sank another ball.  “I am the Baron William DeLacy.  This is my associate, Khalid Francois, and my personal attendant, Warwick.”  Warwick placed a bottle of whiskey and two dirty tumblers on the table separating the Baron and Khalid before preemptively pulling out a cigarette, giving it to the Baron, and lighting it.  Warwick then found a seat a few feet away and sat like a contemplative statue.

“Tell me,” continued the Baron. “Would you be—”

“Happy if you left me the hell alone?” the boy interrupted.  “Yes, very.”

“Actually, I was going to ask your name.”

“People call me Jules.  But I hate that name.”

The Baron poured Khalid and himself a glass of whiskey.  Khalid drank his in one gulp and immediately refilled it.  The Baron sipped his aristocratically.  “Jules.  Julius,” the Baron said.  “I quite like that name.  Apparently, so did the people of Rome.”

“The people maybe, but not the Senate.  They killed him, remember?”

The Baron laughed.  “They did.  They did, indeed.  Tell me something, Jules.  Shouldn’t you be in school?”

Two more balls sank into leather netting.  “Why do you care?  You a truant officer?”

“No.”

“Then why don’t you piss up a rope.”  The boy sank another two balls in an awkward silence that Khalid cured with another drink.  “What happened to your eye?” the boy finally asked.

The Baron sipped his drink again and leaned back, his bald head resting on the rust-colored brick.  “Lost it in a duel outside Madrid.”

The boy finally looked at the Baron.  “Really?”

The Baron nodded.  “Really.”

“What happened to the other guy?”

“Buried.  In the Cementerio de Nuestra Señora de La Almudena,” the Baron said in perfect Spanish.

“
Hablas español?” the boy asked.

“Sí,” replied the Baron, “Y tu tambien?”

“Yeah.  I speak French, German, Latin, and Greek, too.”

The Baron rose a glass to him.  “Did you learn all those languages in school?  Or amongst these enlightened denizens?”

“My school is a haven for ignorant oafs,” the boy snapped.  He looked squarely at the Baron again and struck the cue ball blindly.  The last ball fell into the pocket. Khalid laughed.

“Is that why you ripped off your school crest?”  The Baron asked, pointing to the few threads that hung from his breast pocket.  “Didn’t want anyone to know of your oafish education?”

“Gimmie a drink and I’ll tell you,” the boy said confidently.

Khalid laughed.  “You are a child.  This is not good for you.”

“And you are probably a Muslim.  So it’s sinful for you,” the boy replied.

Khalid refilled his glass and slid it across the table.  “Touché,” he said. 

The boy took a swill and winced.  He appeared as if he wanted to cough, but suppressed it.

“Allow me to be candid, Jules,” the Baron said.  “Do you recall a gentleman named Kasper Holstrom?”

“Gimmie a cigarette and I’ll tell you.” 

“Warwick,” the Baron called.  Warwick gave one to the boy, lit it, and then returned to his station. 

The boy took a deep inhale and shook his head.  “I know your man.  Sure.”  He exhaled and coughed.

“Good.  I am wondering if you could help me. You see, he has gone missing as of late.”

“Seriously, you a cop or something?” the boy asked.

“No.”

“Why do you want to know about Kasper?”  The boy took another drag and drank the rest of his whiskey. 

“Because he mentioned you.  Now stop playing games and answer my goddamn question,” the Baron said.

“Yeah, I know him,” Jules answered.  “Haven’t seen him in a while.”

“When did you see him last?” the Baron asked.

“The 12
th
of May, 7:34 p.m.  He walked through that door.  We talked.  Played four games of eight-ball.  Two games of one-pocket.  He left at 9:12 p.m.”

“Interesting.  You recall the exact date and time.”

“Yeah, well, my brain works that way, you know?”

“Yes, I do.  Do you recall the conversation you had?”

“Every word of it,” the boy said as he plucked the balls from each pocket.

“Perhaps you could oblige me,” the Baron said, feigning patience.

“We talked about physics.  We almost always talk about physics.”

“What about physics?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” the boy said.

The Baron refilled the boy’s whiskey glass and handed it to him.  “Try me.”

The boy threw down his whiskey—not wincing this time as he did so—and organized the yellow and red balls in a wooden rack while the cigarette dangling from his lip spilled ash on the table.  “We also talked about why I liked billiards so much.”

“And why do you like billiards?”

“Jesus, you ask more questions than Socrates,” Jules said.

“Khalid,” the Baron said.  Khalid Francois withdrew his Bodeo revolver and set it on the table.  “You were saying?” the Baron asked.

The boy shook his head.  “I like billiards because it is demonstrative physics.  The movement and trajectory of the balls is predictable.  The transfer of momentum, angles of incidence and reflection, all of it.  Predictable.  It’s a scaled model of our own cosmos.”

“Then your conversation progressed to cosmology?”

“Quantum mechanics, actually.  Science at a near-infinitesimal scale.  Physics at such an impossibly small level we need all new math, new units of measurement, just to understand it.  The movement of atomic and even subatomic particles.”  The boy grabbed the one white cue ball and placed it for a proper break. 

“You discussed particle physics, then?”

“Imagine the rack of balls there is an atomic nucleus of some heavy metal,” the boy said.  “And my cue ball is a neutron.  At the right velocity and angle of incidence . . .” The boy struck the cue ball and the rack of yellow and red exploded.  The solitary black ball rolled precariously close to a corner pocket.  “The forces that bind a nucleus together are, theoretically, one of the strongest in the known universe.  The ensuing fission then would release the untold amounts of power contained in those bonds.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because I did the calculations myself.”  The boy lined up shot after shot, the cue ball rolling to an advantageous position every time, until no yellow balls were left.

“Fascinating,” the Baron finally replied.

“The implications are staggering,” Jules said.  “That kind of power.  Harnessing it could mean . . .”

“What?” the Baron asked, leaning forward.  “Tell me.”

“It could mean an unlimited power source.  Machines that run forever, run faster, produce exponentially more.  If everyone had access to it, it could usher in a global utopia.  Or . . .” Jules paused, “the potential destruction of the entire world.”  He sank the black ball with an overly slow and dramatic bank shot.  “All of it.”

“Destruction of the entire world?  Really?” the Baron asked.

“That kind of power, improperly handled, yes.  I mean, the kind of energy we are talking about here is unfathomable.  It obliterates.  It vaporizes.  It annihilates.  Your revolver is less than the bite of flea by comparison.”

“I suddenly see why you are friends with Kasper,” Baron DeLacy said.

“I need physics more than friends.”

“What about morals, Jules?  Do you need those?”

“I need physics more than morals, too,” the boy replied, removing the balls from their pockets.

“Yes I’ve never much cared for them myself,” the Baron said.  “Jules, how would you like to have your very own billiard table?  Brand new.  All to yourself.”

The boy stopped resetting the game and walked over to their table.  He poured himself another whiskey.  “What’s wrong with these billiard tables?”  He took a swig.

“Do you find this environment conducive?”

“Of course.  That’s why I am here, and not at school.” Jules’ words were starting to slur now.

“The table I provide you will be in your own laboratory,” the Baron said.

Jules regarded him for a moment, staring into the Baron’s one eye.  “I would need a library, too.”

“Make a list of books you need, and I will have Warwick procure them.”

“I want an ice cream maker.”

“Done.”

“I want a view of Central Park.”

“All right.”

“I don’t want to go back to my school.  Ever.”

“I will pay a visit to your headmaster this evening.”

“I have other demands.”

“I am sure you do.  I am also sure I can accommodate them.”

“Really?”

“You have no idea,” the Baron replied.  He dropped his cigarette and buried it into the wooden floor with his boot.  “Why don’t you come with us now?”

“Two more questions,” the boy said.

“Yes?”

“Is Kasper missing?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean to find him?”

“Eventually, perhaps.  I’m afraid something bigger has recently come to my attention.

“One more question.”

“Yes.”

“What’s in it for you?” Jules asked skeptically.  “I mean, why give me everything I want?  A new lab?  A new library?”

“Because I want the power that’s inside an atom,” the Baron said.