Automatic Woman (7 page)

Weeks Café specialized in pretentious coffees and teas. I ordered a Snap Dragon Delight, whatever the hell that was. A young barista, dressed precariously in a blacksmith’s apron and chemist goggles, squeezed a ball of leaves into a mesh pouch. He then gently placed the pouch in my cup and blasted it with a copper steam pipe connected to a bustling apparatus that occupied the entire north wall of the establishment. Pipes shook and rattled and soon the young man was consumed by a cloud of steam. He eventually emerged with my cup. During the assault, the pouch had burst and everything, barista, cup, saucer, was covered in beaded moisture.

“Make sure you let that cool, sir,” the barista said.

Heat radiated from the cup. I could no longer see the young man’s eyes through the precipitation of his goggles. At some point in the process, my sinuses cleared for the first time since winter. I took a table and blew on my cup.

Officer McGraw entered the establishment. He’d changed to plain clothes for our chat. Being inconspicuous I guess. A man trying to hide is unbalanced by spectacle, which meant it was time for me to be difficult.

McGraw spotted me and walked to my table with long straight strides. His was the walk of a man with purpose. No tea, no coffee, no looking about, straight to the confrontation. I shoved a stool out with my foot and beckoned McGraw to sit. He disregarded the seat and loomed large and imposing over my little tea table.

“What do you think you have?” He asked.

I casually took a sip of my tea and was instantly overtaken with burns on my lips and tongue. Hot as bloody hell! I wiped my chin and was happy not to see dead skin and blood.

“You know what I have. Take a seat, mate. Order a cuppa. You’re making a spectacle.”

McGraw took a seat.

“Your shirt is a spectacle,” he replied. No point in a retort, the shirt was indefensible. I reached into my pocket and pulled his Boschon card.

“Bow Street knows about your cousin. We also know about the diamonds. No need to explain, mate. Innocent or not this card paints you like Dorian Grey.”

“Is that the only copy?”

“Yeah,” I lied.

“What makes you think I won’t just reach over and take it from you?” He said and puffed up his chest.

“Look into my eyes.”

He looked.

“Now down my chest.”

Oddly enough, he complied.

“Now down my arm, my hand, the one in my jacket pocket. What do you think that bulge is?”

“Give me two guesses?” He asked.

“Sure.”

“Your lumpy biscuit.”

“Give it a second guess?” I cocked the hammer of my Engholm. The click was distinct and audible even in the café bustle. The waiter who’d come to take McGraw’s order turned and suddenly found someplace better to be, somewhere far away from the big ugly men. McGraw gave me his best tough guy grin. Bloody filth.

“So what’s the offer? What does that card cost?”

“Costs nothing, mate. I need friends, not currency.”

McGraw’s face turned red with frustration. Some men have no stomach for clever words and riddles.

“You want me to be your friend? That’s it?”

“Sure. Of course, all my friends owe me favors.”

“Listen, fats. I’ll have it in plain English. What do you want?”

“If I had a friend, a good friend, he’d come to my home with gifts. I love Swan Lake, particularly scenes with the lovely Swan Princess. Call me a fan.”

McGraw caught on. He looked around real careful to make sure we had no listeners. He leaned in and gave me his library voice.

“You’re mad, fats,” he said. “I read your file before coming here. You murdered an old man. Claimed his clockworks came to life and did the deed. Wonkers.”

“Not all his clockworks. Just one,” I whispered back.

“And you want me to lift this clockwork from a secure location? Past Metro guards?”

“Yes.”

McGraw tilted back in his stool. I attempted another sip of my fine Indian magma.

“I don’t get the benefit,” he said. “You’re a dead man, a hangman’s place holder. I don’t know what favor got you bailed out, but making the Swan disappear won’t save your case. She’s not anywhere near the best evidence against you. You’ve got Metro witnesses placing you smack in the middle of mayhem. You’re the only living man near a dead man and a room of absolute nutter carnage. Have no delusions friend, you will swing for this.”

“Maybe I’ve unfinished business with the Swan. Something I want to wrap up before my big day.”

McGraw stopped smiling and gave me a long regarding look, like he was trying to spot the crazy on me.

“Alright, if you’re playing the fool, then I’ll give you a fool’s bargain. The Swan for my card.”

“And all the pieces found near her.”

McGraw nodded. I took my gun hand out of my jacket pocket and we shook on the deal.

“Come find me at the Piece Work Inn when you’re done. When will you have her?”

“Soon, fats. Real soon.”

McGraw got up and left in the same deliberate point A to B line he’d entered with.

I abandoned my molten cup. Our waiter was talking to a manager and from the way he glanced over at me, I’m sure the conversation was not complimentary. I’m not an expert in the finer points of law, but I imagine armed conflict in a tea shop violates the terms of my bail. So I left.

The Piece Work Inn was really more a brothel than an inn. It was an inn in the barest sense. There were furnished rooms that a gentleman could hire for long or short terms. The building itself stood three stories, making it the largest structure in its neck of the city. It even contained a lift, a modern marvel strangely placed among the whores and desperate men. Prostitutes dominated the first floor. Women of all ages and not a few races, made common to each other in their dress. They wore bright silks and fur like plumage on tropical birds. Also like birds, they cooed and squawked and loosed words without meaning. Faces painted like Zulu warriors. The dominant smell of the lobby was talcum layered onto the musk of sex. I’d like to say that my past dealings with the Piece Work were purely professional. I guess they were if you take into account the oldest profession.

What the Piece Work lacked in respectability, it made up for in discretion. I’d met the doorman and clerk on half a dozen occasions, but never exchanged names. The sign-in ledger read like a Smith-Jones family reunion. Ever the contrarian, I signed myself in as “Hugh Jarse” and proceeded to my room.

The room itself was clean. The walls were cleaned and scrubbed; a faux-Persian rug centered the room. Regardless, I stripped the quilt and sheets off the bed. Gross is gross and I’ll not risk sleeping in the residue of strangers. I took stock of my surroundings. The Piece Work had natural security in the form of a pimp conglomerate, who technically stood as the owners of the establishment. On the down side, my window was nailed shut, a preemptive measure against customers skipping out on their tabs. There was a knock on my door. Not authoritarian this time, but soft, polite, almost apologetic. Far too early for McGraw, I hoped for one person to be on the other side of that door. I opened it, and there she was.

Mary Kelly, often called Dark Mary, but never by me. She claimed to be Black Irish and possessed the dark curls to prove it. I knew better. Her eyes were cornflower and her voice turned to Welsh inflections when she got excited, meaning she was about as Irish as a Scotch terrier. Mary smiled at me.

“Jolly, I saw you in the lobby. Here for fun?”

She invited herself in and put a hand on my swollen face. Her fingers were weightless, like chicken bones ready to break at a rough grasp. The skin of her face was covered thick in beige makeup, then blush. Her eyes were painted gold to compliment the cornflowers. Some of the shadow seeped into crow’s feet. She had once been beautiful, but her face was losing shape from too much drink and long nights of being a whore.

“My poor big baby,” she cooed. I never liked that pet name.

“Listen, Mary.” I reached up for her hand with my own. She grasped my bandaged paw with both of hers.

“Jolly, this is serious.”

The wound was turning red and tender. I figured a doctor’s visit would be in order when all this business wrapped up.

“Nothing is serious, love, nothing but death and debt. I’d love to talk, but I’m on the job.”

Mary looked into my eyes and smiled. We had a past, one I don’t want to talk about. Though given her profession I guess the math is simple. We knew each other.

“You need someone to take care of you, Jolly. You look like you fought a bear.”

“You should see the bear.”

She giggled and put her hand over her mouth. “You want me to come back? When your business is over?”

“Yes.” I didn’t have to think hard about that one.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” She turned but I grabbed her hand and searched for more to say. It’d been a long time since I’d heard a friendly voice, and Mary, well, ladies of ill-repute often have specialties, things they are known for. I never asked, but I can guess Mary’s specialty is making blokes think she cares, like a wife or a sweetheart. Whenever we talked she looked into my eyes. When I joked she smiled and laughed. The times we’d been together. Well, there I go again.

“Thanks, love. Don’t mention to anyone I’m here.”

She gave me a look that said the request was unnecessary. Discretion was law in this house.

“Let me know if any strange blokes stop by. Any non-regulars.”

 “Of course.” She kissed my cheek. Paused for a moment, then kissed my mouth. It was just a peck, but… Lord. Why did God make creatures as complex as women for creatures as simple as men? Before I could say anything smart or funny, she left and closed the door behind her. I sat on my mattress and started the waiting game, the long wait. The unpredictable length of time from the now to the moment McGraw returned with what’s mine.

Antiphon the Philosopher said that time is an illusion. Buddha agreed with this sentiment. Fucking bollocks! Time is the reality of each and every moment and sometimes it’s long and sometimes it’s short but regardless it is the sling throwing us toward our inevitable demise. It catches us out of our mother’s womb and hurtles us towards whatever our last day is and we have no choice but to live within it. I lived within time, waiting for McGraw, minutes as hours, hours as days, and on, and on, and on.

Jolly has three reunions, some more pleasant than others

At some point I’d fallen asleep with my gun clutched to my chest. I’m not an easy sleeper, so sleeping with my gun was a bit of poor judgment. One bad dream, one twitchy finger, and I could have woken in the fluffy hereafter. Given the circumstances, sleeping altogether was poor judgment, but the body wants what it wants.

My wounded hand throbbed and pulsed. I unwrapped the shirt bandage and found the laceration framed with red lines. Pus rimmed the edges of my skin. Not good. I took a towel from a stack in the closet. It smelled like bleach and glowed white despite the lack of sun or room light.

I shook my disoriented head and wondered why I’d woken at all. I suddenly remembered. A knock on the door. Now came another. Not Mary, but a man’s knock. I wondered where Mary was for a moment, then diverted my thoughts. Best not to dwell on the evening goings-on of sex workers. I ran my fingers through my hair. It felt like a bird’s nest of mats and tangles. All things considered, my hair ranked low on my worries.

I opened the door to a clearly irritated Metro.

“Are you Jacob Fellows?” The Met asked.

“Yeah.” I had nothing clever for the man. No one is clever in the minutes after they wake.

The Met pushed my door all the way open. He got a good look at me.

“Is that for me?” He motioned to the gun I was still holding. I’d forgotten it.

“No. Sorry about that.” I threw it on the bed. The Met went back into the hall and pushed a wheelbarrow into my room. The contents were covered by a king-sized blanket. The Met pushed the barrow to the rug and tilted it. Everything dumped onto the ground in a cacophonous crash. I winced at all that precision machinery, dumped like garbage. There she was, the Swan Princess, laid in a pool of screws and cogs, looking exactly as I’d left her. The cracks and scars I’d inflicted on her skin seemed like sacrilege. Like I’d gone and ripped into the Mona Lisa.

“McGraw mentioned you’d have something for me,” the Met said in absolute disinterest. I pulled the Boschon card from my jacket pocket and handed it to him.

“Give McGraw my compliments,” I said.

The Met smiled. “Won’t have to. He gave me a message, real clear. He said that if he spots your ugly face any time between now and when you’re executed by the state, he’ll put a fucking bullet through it, savvy?”

“Crystal.”

“Good then.” And the Met left.

I looked the Swan over, timid at first, like she was going to pop up and bite me. The bruises left by her teeth lined my stomach and shoulder, a sickly yellow but no worse than the damage I’d incurred since our fateful dance.

I lit the gas lamps of my room. I’d want to say for a better look, but the truth was she spooked me. I needed the light for comfort, like ancient men gathered around the campfire.