Gods of Chicago: Omnibus Edition (12 page)

“So they have you run messages for them?”

Chief nodded. “Just like the rest of the tramps out there freezing their pins off in the cold. We’re their Mail Corps.”

“Not how I’d like to end up after I’ve had my run, but I guess it’s better than a lake of fire, right?”

“I guess,” Chief said. He sighed again and held out his empty glass. Brand filled it and downed his own. They sipped in silence for a moment before Chief gave Brand the rest of the scoop.

“Some of the gods are good, Mitch. Maybe it’s better to say some of them
can
be good. There’s something big brewing back there behind the curtain. Something I don’t like, and I don’t think I can do anything about it. When it finally gets going, it’ll make the Great War look like a game of stickball. Two of the gods are in cahoots, setting things up for a big knockover like you’ve never seen before. They’re going for the whole city, Mitch. They want to take over, run the show by themselves without all the other gods getting in the way. And they can do it, too.”

“How so? Can’t the other gods stop them? What’s the use of being a god if you don’t have the power to stop your enemies making a mess of things?”

“That’s just it, Mitch. Power. These two have all they could want and more just waiting for them out here. All they have to do is give the people a reason to hand it over. Al Capone was small fry compared to these guys. Aw, hell. . .” Chief trailed off and looked away. “You must think I’m nuts.”

Brand stared at his friend, wondering whether to trust Chief’s words or the gnawing feeling in Brand’s guts that said he really had cracked up.

“You are nuts, but that’s all right. I’m nuts, too. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He reached his hand out. Chief moved to shake, but gave a start and dropped his hand into his lap. Brand followed his friend’s gaze down to the leather bag and his eyes widened. The bag swelled in the middle as if something were growing inside it.

“Got work to do now, Mitch.” Chief stood, shaking out his duster and tightening his belt before heading for the door. Brand fumbled with his coat buttons and followed.

“I’m coming with you. We gotta—”

“No, Mitch. You can’t. Us guys work alone. I gave you a lift, and that’s bad enough. They’ll give me hell.”

“You telling me there’s something worse than what they’ve got you doing now?”

“I’m telling you.” Chief’s eyes had that trench-weary look to them again, and try as he might Brand couldn’t argue with that gaze.

“Be careful, Chief. That thing you saved me from seems to have a taste for your kind. And look me up when you’re off duty, hey? I want the rest of the story.” Brand tried to put on a smile, but his face turned it into a grimace. The two men nodded at each other and went back to their duties, Chief down to his bike and Brand trying to get a clear look at the bottom of his bottle.

Chapter 19

A draft crept in from somewhere and stung Emma’s skin. She felt the cold like a threatening knife from every window in the upstairs bedroom. How long had she been lying there awake? What time was it? Two, three in the morning? Memories of what happened in the airship kept dancing up out of the darkness in her mind. Most of all, she kept remembering the sound of Archie Falco’s laugh just before she shot him. A high, thin laugh, like the giggle of a scheming child. Emma had heard that laugh all weekend while she hid out in Eddie’s room. He and the band had a gig to play Saturday night. She’d stayed in and cried in between staring out the windows at the gray skies that haunted her with visions of her father’s face in the clouds. The law man’s patrol boats would sail through sometimes, making the clouds dissipate into damp soot-stained halos, all too reminiscent of the spray that exited Archie Falco’s head. Sunday hadn’t been much different, except that Eddie’d been there trying his damnedest to coax her out of bed.

Now it was Monday night and Emma felt the beginnings of a will to act, her old fire burning again, lighting her eyes and fueling a steady beat in her chest. Eddie curled around her in the blankets and Emma’s throat clenched. She clutched the grip of the revolver under her pillow and let a tremor of fear shake her from head to foot. What if Eddie and the band were with her when she got caught? Downstairs, the band slept under their coats, huddled around the radiator, snoring and probably dreaming about days and nights of stormy weather. Eddie’d told them about his and Emma’s plans to go to New Orleans and they’d all agreed it was a good idea. They’d all feel better living in The South, even if they did have to take along Eddie’s
white girl
. She wished they’d call her something else. Even moll or chippy sounded better to Emma’s ears.

“You ain’t slept a wink, Lovebird,” Eddie said over her shoulder. He nuzzled into her hair to kiss the back of her neck, but she flinched away.

“We should go, Eddie. The van’s all loaded up. It’s just my bag up here that needs to be packed and we can leave. What’s the use of waiting around for the coppers to find us?”

“Who says they’re gonna? Ain’t nobody know what happened in that newsman’s pig but you, me, him, and the dead man. I know you don’t trust Brand for being a newsman, but I got a feeling about him. He’s all right, Lovebird. That means we’re all right, too. Don’t it?”

Emma nodded, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that leaving sooner was a safer bet than leaving later. She slid out of bed, gently pushing Eddie’s grasping hands away, and went to pack up her bag. Eddie sat up in bed and whistled low when she crouched in the weak moonlight that lit up the dressing cabinet. She smiled to herself and set to pulling her garments from the cabinet, folding them and tucking them into her travel bag the way she had when her father had sent her to visit relatives in Detroit. That was just after mom had left. Then he’d sent her to visit other relatives over in Cleveland. Her first trip on a steam ship, through the waterways between the Great Lakes. She’d been so scared as a child, staring out the cabin window at all the water rolling by. She stood and went to the bedroom window. Emma watched the snow falling to the ground. She watched a pair of headlights turn into the alley behind Eddie’s house. Emma’s heart rocketed into her mouth. Her guts nearly followed and she ducked down out of view.

“What is it, Lovebird?”

“They found us,” Emma said. She went to the cabinet and pulled her coat on.

“Who’s out there?” Eddie asked, still not moving from the bed. Emma didn’t answer. She just kept packing, stuffing her clothes into the bag now, grabbing everything in a pile. Slamming the lid shut and heaving the bag up with both hands. She went for the bedroom door while Eddie went to the window. He kept out of sight and peered around the frame.

“Shit!”

“It’s the coppers. Like I said, Eddie. I knew they’d find us.” Tears dripped down her cheeks, but she kept her chin level and tugged the bag beside her. Emma had a hand on the doorknob. “I have to leave, Eddie. I can’t stay here. They’ll blame you or kill you, and they’ll get away with it. I can’t let that happen.”

Eddie flicked his eyes out the window again and he chuckled. “Ain’t but one man out there, Lovebird. Just one man lighting up a cigarette. You sure he’s a copper? Looks like maybe he’s some bird back from a speak, way he’s leaning on his car.” Emma left her bag by the door and joined Eddie at the edge of the window frame. She peered out at the man down below. Eddie was right. The guy had a hard time standing up and seemed to wish he could be anywhere but where he was. Still, his presence sent a stinging fear into Emma’s ears and down her neck. After the man finished his cigarette he shook the snow off his shoulders and dusted off his hat, too. Emma couldn’t be sure but she thought the fellow might be tipping his hat to the house. He got in his car and drove away, but Emma’s nerves kept up a racket throughout her body. She only relaxed when Eddie’s soothing basso voice came to her ears.

“See, Lovebird. Ain’t but some sad fella got left behind at a speak. He come out here to smoke his last and tell himself he’ll do better next time he’s out with the good-timers. He ain’t no trouble of ours.”

Emma let Eddie draw her out of her coat and shoes and lead her back to the bed. After a few moments of fearful half-sleep, the night crept around her vision and drew her eyelids shut. She let sleep come at last and woke to a charcoal-gray morning with a sky full of storm clouds heavy with threat. She and Eddie ate a quiet breakfast while the band got themselves together. The band left first, in the van. Emma and Eddie stayed behind to make sure the place was cleaned of anything that might put the coppers on their trail. Love notes and pictures of the two of them together, anything that could burn went into the grate. They’d packed clothes and Eddie’s horn, plus a few toiletries. Nothing but the essentials, and nothing that could lead anyone back to the lives they’d lived in Chicago City.

In the alley behind the house, Eddie hefted Emma’s bag into the boot. He took out the tire iron and held it close while he closed the lid.

“Why do you need that?” Emma asked.

“Just in case, Lovebird. Just in case. Let’s get a move on.”

Emma’s fear had settled from the night before, but now, seeing Eddie shaking where he stood, she felt the worry and terror climbing back up her spine. They were on opposite sides of the car when a sedan pulled into the alley at the far end and roared up to them. Emma froze with one hand on the door latch and the other tucked into her coat pocket to clutch the heavy revolver. Eddie had ducked down beside the car and began moving around to Emma’s side, but the driver stepped out of his car and called to him.

“That’s far enough, boy,” the said, reaching a hand into his coat. Emma had been ready though, and she drew first.

“And that’s far enough for you, too, Detective Wynes.”

Wynes stopped in his tracks, lifting his free hand palm out but keeping his other hand snug inside his coat. “Miss Farnsworth,” he said. “I’m going to suggest you think twice about aiming that my way. We’ve already matched the slug from your father’s office to the one that killed Archie Falco.”

“So what’s to stop me from adding a copper to the tally?” Emma said. She had a hand full of nothing, and she knew it. All the more reason to go out with guns blazing. Wynes had found Eddie’s place, so even if she did get away, the law man would come back and hassle Eddie’s neighbors. That would lead to his mother and sister in their house a few blocks over. Emma had stayed with them when she and Eddie had first met. She couldn’t repay their hospitality that way, no matter how meager it had been.

“You’re not going to shoot me, Miss Farnsworth,” Wynes said. His right hand slowly stirred inside his coat and Emma could see from the bulge that he’d retrieved his gun.

“You don’t think so? A good cop makes a pinch with back up. You’re out here all alone. Like you were last night. I’m supposed to believe you know someone out here? Someone who’s going to make noise about a copper getting gunned down in this neighborhood?”

Wynes stopped moving his hand. His eyes told Emma he bought her act, and she had to admit she halfway believed her own words. She’d shoot him down if she had to. If that’s what it took to get away and make sure Eddie’s friends and family were free from the law man’s corrupting touch.

“Toss the gun over here,” Emma said. It was the only play she had left. If he was armed, he was a threat. He could still follow her and Eddie, and they’d have to make a fast exit from the city. But at least they wouldn’t have to worry about him shooting out their tires, or shooting them. Wynes hesitated and Emma could feel his eyes searching her face for cracks. She steeled her jaw from quivering and kept her eyes hard and fired for the task. Slow as can be Wynes drew his pistol and dropped it in the snow.

“Now walk away. Go on,” Emma said. “We’re leaving this city, so don’t bother looking for us.” Wynes cast a suspicious glance over Emma’s shoulder and she knew he was eyeing Eddie. “I said get moving. Beat it.” She lifted the revolver to sight down the barrel into the copper’s face, just like she had done in the airship when she’d been staring at the back of Archie Falco’s head. This time though, she could see his eyes. The fear in them almost made Emma lose her nerve. Her hand wavered a tic, but she forced her arm to stay straight and kept the growl in her voice when she ordered Wynes to leave the way he’d come. He stayed put a few beats, shaking his head.

“You’re in the soup, Miss Farnsworth,” he said. Wynes stepped away from his car, still eyeing her and shaking his head. He backed down the alley, keeping his eyes on Emma the whole time. She waited until he was at the corner before putting a bullet into the front tire of his sedan. She ran quickly to pick up the copper’s gun and then, stumbling, made her way through the dirty clumps of snow to her car. Eddie slid in beside her and flipped around to look out the rear window while she got the engine going.

“He’s coming back, Emma. Get us moving on.” Emma worked the clutch and whipped the car around in a tight arc to drive down the alley, straight at Wynes. He dove to the side as they roared by. Emma gunned the engine at the corner and slung them onto the street and away into the glowering overcast Chicago City morning.

Chapter 20

The next morning Brand woke up with his feet still in his shoes and frozen stiff. His head didn’t feel too much different. He tumbled out of the chair and limped his way into the kitchenette to make some coffee. The sky outside didn’t look much different from the night before. Brand let his mind wander while he poured himself a hot mug of joe and stared at the empty skies outside. Nothing but bleak, gray clouds and a light dusting of early morning snowfall. He was supposed to help stop some kind of big scheme. Chief gave him the scoop last night, right?

The empty bottle over by Brand’s chair told him he’d earned the woozy head, and had probably dreamed most of what he did remember from the night before. He staggered over to sit by the radiator while the joe did its trick and his blood came up to temperature. Brand stopped short when he saw the ripped up hat lying beside a second chair over in the corner. The chair he’d pulled up by the radiator for Chief. Memories of his conversation with Chief flooded into Brand’s head and spun his eyes. Memories of the monster that had chased them on that electromagnetic bicycle that Chief rode behind the city. Behind. . .Brand peeled his feet off the floor and went back to the kitchenette. He snapped his eyes out the window, wanting nothing more than to see a single skyline criss-crossed down below by the only set of roads he’d ever known. When he saw the empty skies, the mug slid from his hands and landed in the sink with a dull
clunk
.

Every morning he’d had his coffee and watched the city’s transport boats haul workers up from Dearborn Station and into the factory districts, the lakeside warehouses, the stockyards. Where were they now? The empty sky draped over the city like a funeral shroud, except for a few patrol boats that Brand hadn’t noticed before. These were circling around the waterfront and moving north. Shaking off the sleep that still hung from his eyelids, Brand staggered into his washroom and cleaned up as best he could. He still hadn’t picked up a new razor. Chief wouldn’t knock him for coming into work—

No, Chief wouldn’t knock him at all. Would he?

What about the new boss? Brand tried to remember the man’s name, but his foggy head could barely remember how to knot a necktie. He did up the buttons on his shirt and shrugged into his suspenders. He reached into the closet for his coat. If he made double-time, Brand could get to his barber’s for a quick shave. He checked his wall clock and put the idea of a shave out of mind. He’d slept later than he’d thought. It was nearly eight o’clock. Snapping up a half-empty pouch of tobacco, Brand scooted out the door. He had a new boss to meet, and it wouldn’t do to show up unshaven and late to boot.

The streets clapped and clattered with traffic by the time Brand’s feet touched pavement. The soreness was either retreating or his feet were numb from the cold. Either way, it was a little easier to walk and he took advantage of that, making time up from Dearborn to Harrison and then onto Printer’s Row. The Record’s building was across the street, and when Brand saw it he barreled into a couple of newsboys from one of the other outfits on the Row.

Banners hung across the entrance to the Record, proclaiming the building home to the
Ministry for Public Information, Chicago City
. What caught Brand’s attention first were the two uniformed guards standing on either side of the entrance. They held some kind of fancy rifles and saluted as a group of men in suits strode into the building. The sedan that had let the men off slowly moved away. Its headlamps burned away the early morning chill in front of the car, and Brand didn’t miss the two little flags flying on short posts mounted into the sedan’s fenders. The Governor’s emblem showed clearly on the flags.

The newsboys brushed themselves off. One of them spoke up as Brand stood there.

“Hey, Mr. Brand, yeah? Huh. Hey, get this,” the kid said to his partner. “We’re giving the news to Mitchell Brand, eh, Robby?” The kid held out a paper. It fell open as Brand swiped it. Across the top, the now all too familiar sigil of the Governor’s office stood out in bold red, black, and gold ink. Beneath the symbol, Brand read a message that sent his gorge one way and his heart the other.

Citizens of Chicago City are advised of the implementation of Eugenic Protocol 421, which allows for the registration, relocation, and sequestration as necessary of affected individuals. All persons meeting descriptions of ancestry related to African, Irish, Italian, Balkan, Central European, and Semitic birth are advised to report to the nearest processing facility without delay.

Brand’s mind whipped to what Chief had told him the night before. A play for power, and all it needed was for the people to let it happen. He shoved the ragsheet into his pocket and sneered, “Thanks, boys, but that’s yesterday’s edition.” The newsboys let their mouths hang open for a second before they shuffled off, looking like a couple of hunted dogs. Brand turned and saw another sedan pulling up in front of the Record. This one had flags like the other, but curtains darkened its windows. Only the windscreen allowed a view into the car, and Brand could see a partition between the driver’s seat and where passengers would sit in the back. He dashed off the sidewalk and into the street ready to spit at whoever stepped out of the sedan. Thoughts of impressing his new boss forgotten, Brand chewed on the pile of words on his tongue. It was big enough to fill a front page, and somebody would hear a few of them before the morning was out. Brand’s feet hit the next sidewalk and two men exited the vehicle. The driver worked some lever from inside the car to close the door. Brand drew up even with the car’s bonnet and stared hard at the men who’d emerged. One of them stood no more than five feet high if that, and nearly as big around the middle. The other stood just over Brand’s sixty-six inches and probably weighed in a few pounds heavier. The taller bird spoke first, putting his hand on the squat fellow’s shoulder as he spoke.

“Mitchell Brand. What exceptional timing. I do hope you can keep to a slightly tighter schedule in the future though. We need all employees in the building before I arrive. And. . .,” the guy took in Brand’s scruffy appearance with a sneer. “There’ll be time to discuss protocol later. First, I’d like to introduce you to your new colleague.” The tall man slapped his squat companion on the back. Brand couldn’t help but notice the pained look that passed across the little fat man’s mug. “This is Franklin Suttleby.”

Brand just stood there half gaping at them. The fat one, Suttleby, beamed under his boss’s attention, the pain now gone from his face. Brand didn’t know where he fit into the mix yet, so he held off replying with his signature half-sneer and swallowed his smart remarks. The tall bird spoke up again. “Please accept my condolences for the loss of your former employer. I understand you knew each other a long time. This is probably quite a change for you.”

The tall man paused, giving Brand a shot at some air time. Brand didn’t buy any. He’d guessed the bird doing the squawking must be Jameson Crane, the name coming up from the fog in Brand’s head as he stared at the odd couple from the fancy car. Whatever conversation Crane hoped for would have to wait. Brand wasn’t about to get chatty with
the new leadership
until he could call their play for certain.

Crane piped up again. The G-man seemed too busy to care about Brand’s stonewall act. “Until new leadership is in place, Chicago City is under governance of the Great Lakes Territory. We have everything under control and are rapidly improving conditions around the city. You’ll be working with Suttleby here on the hourly bulletins, scheduled broadcasts, and special reports. Of course, anything not strictly approved beforehand will need my say-so before it can be broadcast.”

“Sounds all right,” Brand said, hiding his true feelings with the calm of a boiler. “I guess you’d be Crane, then. Is that right?”

“Jameson Crane. Yes. My full title, of course, is Minister of Public Information, and you’ll address me as Minister Crane from here on out.”

Brand couldn’t help but smirk at that, and he saw Crane’s face darken in response. Before either Crane or his pet, Suttleby, could say anything else, Brand tipped his hat and stepped to the doors.

One of the soldiers moved into his path.

“Identification, sir.” The soldier and his partner wore a new style of military uniform, black cloth with gold piping along the collar, crisp starched lines down each arm and pant leg. They each carried some new kind of rifle. It had a wide-mouthed barrel set into a metal box with a glass vial on the back end. The trigger was bigger than anything Brand had seen before, even on the shoulder rockets the army used. The rifle wasn’t the only dingus these soldiers carried though. A visor extended from the lip of their helmets to conceal the top half of their faces, just like the G-men had. The soldiers also carried a metal baton on their belts. A coil of wire connected the baton to a small box on their opposite hip. Brand had seen some fancy dressed soldiers in the Great War. These guys were something else. And they weren’t patient either.

  “Identification is required to enter this facility, sir.”

  “How about you tell me who’s asking first,” he gave back, resting both hands on his hips. “And since when did the Daily Record become a facility?”

  “This facility houses the Ministry of Public Information, sir. All persons entering through these doors must show identification.”

  Brand spun around and looked at Crane. The G-man seemed content to let Brand sink or swim on his own, so the newsman turned to face the soldier again. Then Brand spat out a few of the words he’d been chewing on.

  “A man’s not even cold yet and you come walking in here with your boots, a fancy pea shooter, and that pig sticker on your belt. You ever see any action overseas? No? Oh, I get it then. They picked you and your pal here special because you were so good at standing around while everyone else climbed over the trench wall and into the meat grinder.”

  That last remark got the sentry’s blood up. Brand could see his neck flush with anger and his lips had curled back. Through a growl, the soldier repeated his demand for identification, barely keeping the spittle in his mouth. Brand just smiled and then laughed. Turning around, he addressed Crane.

“Well, Minister Crane. It seems these two battle-hardened veterans need me to prove I belong in the building. Can you vouch for me, or should I go to the trouble of sneaking upstairs to get my identification from my desk? It’s just that I’m not too good at climbing fire escapes these days.”

“You’re free to enter now, Brand,” he said with a tone that fit the mask he’d let fall over his mug. “In the future, you’ll be expected to show identifying documents whenever you enter or leave the facility. And you’ll arrive in a timely manner, no later than zero seven-thirty hours on the dot.”