Gods of Chicago: Omnibus Edition (20 page)

Chapter 33

Aiden and the gypsies meandered through the tunnel, taking turns, going down side passages, until Aiden was lost like a stray dog chasing a train. Even if he did get away from the two men, he’d die down here before he ever found a way out. The tall man, Mihalyi, brought them to a halt finally, beside a section of wall lined with fence slats. Aiden thought the boards may have been put in to hold the wall from collapsing until the gypsy reached a hand to a crack between two boards and wiggled his fingers. A section of the wall opened outward and Aiden heard the sounds of a radio playing in a distant room.

Laszlo pushed him forward and Aiden stepped into the cellar of a nice home. He could tell from the quality of dry goods and wine bottles all around him. The fancy looking jars, bottles, and dried meats were like something he’d seen in a dream or the stories Digs used to tell him about Gold Coast houses and the fellas who owned them. His mom found work there sometimes, and those were the best of times for Digs.

Digs.

Aiden kept the tears in this time, but he couldn’t stop his lip quivering. The gypsies waved for him to follow them out of the cellar and the three of them climbed a set of carpeted stairs leading into a washroom off a kitchen. The house was arranged like Aiden’s and for a moment he let himself feel that familiar safety, stepping from the washroom into the kitchen. The interior was different in so many ways that Aiden didn’t for an instant think he’d just been through a bad dream. The gypsies led him through the kitchen and into the dining room, then out the other side and into the front parlor.

A warm light blanketed the hardwood floor and the dark wood of nicer furniture than Aiden had ever seen much less been close enough to touch. Light cast from countless candles, flickering illumination reflected in starlight, coffee, and amber from nearly every surface. Aiden wanted to reach out and touch the sideboard to his right, then the end table and chairs in the middle of the room. He wanted to touch everything, it all glowed so beautifully. All polished wood and gleaming jewel-like glass. A man stood in the middle of the parlor regarding Aiden with gray eyes that smiled out from beneath a deeply furrowed brow. Aiden spotted the front door, across the room and behind the man. He couldn’t run for it, no chance. The guy would stop him.

He motioned for Aiden to take the nearest chair and Aiden sat, flinching upward as he touched the fine fabric. He worried that he might have tracked dirt in from the tunnels and would smudge the chair cushions. The man tutted, motioning for Aiden to resume his seat. He then resumed his observations. Aiden felt like he was being studied and examined, not watched for suspicious moves. All the same, he didn’t like being watched this closely so he gave it right back, examining the man’s face, looking for indications of intent.

He wore a tweed suit and dark leather shoes. Leaning against a chair opposite Aiden was a long black stick with a silver head and tip. A pair of fine leather gloves sat on the chair back beside the stick. The man’s squat, slight figure seemed to hang in the air next to the chair, as though his feet merely rested on the ground and didn’t support his full weight.

Aiden knew how to size a man up, at least enough to know this fellow was bad business in a fight. Unless you had him on your side. The man spoke in a language Aiden recognized from Mihalyi and Laszlo’s conversations, though it wasn’t until he heard it spoken here that Aiden knew it as a language. Before, in the tunnels, he’d been so scared he’d only caught sounds and mutterings, assuming the gypsies spoke too fast or low for him to make anything out. Mihalyi set Mr. Brand’s camera box onto the end table beside Aiden, nodded to him, and patted him on the back before turning to leave. Laszlo followed him out.

“You may stay here.”

Aiden whipped his head around from watching the gypsies leave and focused on the man again. He’d taken a seat in the other chair. “You may, if I may amend my statement, stay for as long as I am here. I will be stepping out rather shortly I’m afraid. It seems those who would upset the balance have taken matters further than I had anticipated, and so I am forced to act without the privilege of preparation.”

Aiden couldn’t make half sense of the man’s words. “Th—, thanks mister. I don’t know but I’m in your debt I guess. I don’t want to be a burden though, so I’ll shuffle along soon as you tell me I gotta.”

“My good fellow, I wish nothing of the sort. But come, let us use this brief time we have to prepare as we may. The Governor has crossed his Rubicon, and so should we two do the same.”

Before Aiden could muster up the know-how to respond to the part he understood, the man stood and stepped over to a bookshelf on the far side of the room. Two more of his fine upholstered chairs sat with their backs to the bookshelf, and in between them, on the shelf at about chest height, was a Marconi box. Aiden’s jaw fell open. An honest to goodness, real as you can get Marconi radio set. Inside a house.

Inside this fine as fine can be house. In this old neighborhood.

“Ain’t nobody this side of the river and this far from the lake got a Marconi box, mister. Nobody but. . .” Aiden thought better than to say the words he found on his tongue, but judging by the way the man’s eyes glinted in the candlelight, it seemed clear enough he knew what Aiden had in mind.

“I am not now, nor have I ever been a member, beneficiary, or otherwise involved with the organization known as The Outfit. Please forgive my failure to introduce myself earlier; my name is Professor Timwick Argot Cather.”

“Professor? Like in the university?”

“Yes. Like in the university. Rather, exactly in the university. I am head of the Department of Information Sciences.”

Aiden screwed up his face and his tongue struggled to form the right question, but the man, the professor, responded again to Aiden’s unspoken thoughts.

“I am the librarian. The Chief Librarian, if you wish to know my official title. While it would please me no end to entertain the other questions I see behind your eyes, I am afraid time is not on our side. Please understand that nothing pains me more than to put off the idea of dialogue over
Inquiry
.” The man said the word like it tasted sweet to him, and he turned his face up like Aiden had seen guys do when they sipped hooch. He heard the word like a sigh of pleasure escaping the professor’s lips.

Turning to the bookshelf, the professor fiddled with a knob on the Marconi box. Static hissed out over a low hum.

“This is no good,” he said, and dialed in another frequency on the box. When he settled himself in the chair, the hiss and hum were gone. Aiden heard voices, too. After listening to the first few words, he wished the professor had left the box tuned to static.

“—the Conroy kid got away. They got his folks though.”

“Why did they let the boy go?”

“They didn’t, sir. He wasn’t there, they said. But a team on the ground say they spotted him over by the barbershop. It doesn’t matter though, does it? Brand’s not with the kid.”

A long silence followed, interrupted briefly with a grunt and the sound of distant machine gun fire. The voices returned and Aiden’s heart leapt into his throat.

“So, uh, sir. . .we’re to drop the Conroy angle? Is that correct?”

“Yes. We drop it. Unless the target makes contact with the boy—”

Static washed across the airwaves and Aiden found himself about to paw at the dial, try to fiddle it into focus, clear the channel. The professor reached out a hand and touched Aiden’s wrist with his fingertips.

“It is all right, Mr. Conroy. You are in no danger.”

“How—, how’d you know it was me they were talking about? Are you with them?” Aiden was standing before he knew it, backing into the dining room, glancing over his shoulder and flicking his head back around to keep the professor in view.

“Mr. Conroy, were I as sinister as you now fear me to be, you would be in no position to flee my abode. As it stands, you are free to go, though I do wish you would reconsider and stay here a moment longer. There is much you do not know about that
broadcast
.” He said the word like it was acid on his tongue.

Aiden stopped with his hand on the wall by the dining room. The polished dark wood of the entryway glowed in the warm candlelight, framing the entry between pillars of coffee brown. He reached his hand to touch the dark wood and felt its smooth surface beneath his palm. The sensation tethered him, reminded him of the sense of safety he’d felt in the professor’s presence when they’d first come into the parlor.

“What’d they mean? Conroy angle. What’s that mean?”

“It means that as in all wars, those in power would see the young made pawns when battle is joined.”

“What do you mean? Who’s in power?”

“Who do you think, Mr. Conroy? Were you not unceremoniously removed from your position of employment not two days prior?”

“How’d you know? That wasn’t on the radio, too, was it? Jeez, how’d—”

“Not on
the
radio, Mr. Conroy, but on
this
radio. Don’t you want to know whose voices we heard just now?”

Aiden had to admit that he did want to know who’d been talking about him like he was a loose end to be tied up. Or cut off. Like Jenkins? Like Digs Gordon?

“Was it The Outfit?”

“No, goodness no. That organization, I am pleased to say, is no longer a threat to Chicago City’s people. No, the voices we heard belonged to a much more deadly foe.”

“Who?”

“The Governor and his Minister of Public Information. Your former employer. Jameson Crane.”

Aiden let that sink in for half a second before the questions came spilling out. He wanted to know why the Governor was involved in kidnapping his parents, and what Minister Crane was doing? Why were they interested in Mr. Brand
making contact
with him? And what did the professor mean about wars and battles?

“I will answer those questions as best I am able, but not now,” the professor said as he tucked a pocket watch back into his waistcoat. “Time has run its course, Mr. Conroy. We must be off. If you will collect your observation equipment.” The professor aimed a nod at Mr. Brand’s camera box. Aiden crossed the room and snatched it up and draped the strap around his neck as he turned back to face the professor, who now stood and shrugged into a heavy coat he pulled from a peg on the wall by the front door. His cane he tucked under his arm as he pulled on the gloves. A second coat hung on another peg and this he offered to Aiden. Putting it on, Aiden found his tongue again. “You said battle. We going out to fight now?”

“Not if I can help it, Mr. Conroy. But as you already know, the battle has been joined. You can still hear the machine guns.”

Aiden listened and sure enough he heard the
rat-a-tat-tat
of machine gun fire.

“The bombs will begin falling soon enough.”

“Bombs? Jeez! What’s happening, mister? What’s this about?”

“As I said before, Mr. Conroy, what
it
is about is power. The obtaining and possession of power. I see you looking disturbed but not yet truly concerned. I would caution you to wear a more thoughtful grimace. Your future is out there, Mr. Conroy.”

“All them words sound important, but I can’t follow you. What’s this got to do with me?”

Shaking his head slightly, the professor regarded Aiden through narrowed eyes. He seemed ready to holler at Aiden, but good. A blast echoed from outside, shaking the neighborhood and rattling the glassware and cabinets in the room. When gunfire split the night on the street outside, the professor seemed to reconsider giving Aiden the business and instead took him by the arm.

“We must depart now. But I will answer your question first. You wish to know what tonight has to do with you, is that correct?”

“Yeah. And what’s going on out there? That sounded like—”

“War? Yes, Mr. Conroy. As I told you, the events of this evening are undertaken by those in pursuit of power.”

“But what’s that got to do with me?” Aiden hollered back, half-fighting the professor’s grip on his arm as they moved through the house to the basement.

“Mr. Conroy!” Professor Cather shook Aiden, nearly sending him sprawling. For his size, the man had a lot of strength packed away somehow.

“Lacking the wherewithal or any real means of providing an outlet for youthful vigor, those in power are always ready to see battle joined. What better way is there for them to enjoy the benefits of power whilst simultaneously avoiding concomitant responsibilities?”

Aiden let the mumbo-jumbo roll off his back and got to the point. “What’s there to fight about? It’s been aces up all over since the Great War. And that was the one to end them all.”

“It pleases me not one bit to remark on your naiveté, Mr. Conroy, nor to inform you of this most dastardly truth: Where there exists no reason for war, those whom war benefits most will find one.”

The professor led Aiden through his kitchen and washroom and stopped. He pulled aside a curtain over the washroom window and looked at the neighborhood outside. Flashes of gunfire spattered in the dark clouds overhead as airships fired down into the neighborhood streets. Aiden jerked aside when a burst of light a few blocks over was followed by a rumbling that rattled the house and turned Aiden’s legs to jelly.

“What’s happening, mister? What’s going on out there?”

“Battle, Mr. Conroy. It begins now,” the professor replied, still looking into the neighborhood.

His words left a thick silence that quickly filled in with the sounds of gunfire and shouts of alarm.

Aiden followed the professor’s gaze into the tangled maze of houses and storefronts. Another building exploded on the next block, sending Aiden to his knees in fright.

When he stood, he saw firelight flicker to life all around him as screams and gunshots echoed against the ink dark night.

Chapter 34

Brand kept his hands in the air while the round-faced man stepped forward, making room for another gypsy to step out from the hidden doorway. A taller man emerged from behind the trick shelf and the two gypsies exchanged words in a language Brand had never heard before. While they talked, the gun was put away, along with a knife held by the taller man.

“I’m Steven,” said the round-faced man, turning back to face Brand. “Call me Stevie Five Sticks though.” The man stuck out a paw and Brand held off taking it until the little man’s round face bent with confusion. If they meant to help him, he’d need more than a handshake to believe it.

“This isn’t where you gun me down?” Brand asked. His suggestion shocked the gypsy. His face twisted up and he gaped. “Huh? What do you mean, Brand? Gun you. . .Didn’t know you’d be down here, but ain’t nobody around here doesn’t know Mitchell Brand did a little story on Al Capone that turned out to be a story about an old beer bottle from a basement over here in the Village. And that breakout you just now pulled, it’s all over the street you know. Out there? Coppers and soldiers aplenty, rounding folks up and questioning them. Seems more than enough if they’re just after one guy, if you ask me. But what do I know, hey? I’m just another Rigo.” The guy let out another chortle. His pal behind him looked at Brand through narrowed eyes and a scowl crept up the sides of his face.

“
Yo-seff
,” he said to his pal, “this here’s the guy on the radio.”

The tall man simply nodded.

“Are you the only one who knows English or is Joszef here working on his dummerer act?”

“Aw, nah. He’s just over from the old country, like a lot of the folks around the neighborhood. Especially all the gray hairs in the crew. They’re all original from Hungary. Joszef here, he came on the last boat a year back. Didn’t need to pick up much English, see? His cousins gave him a job in the stockyards. Doesn’t matter what language you use. You speak cowpoke, you can do the job, hey?”

The little man set himself into a fit of chuckles and his pudgy round face opened up with a funny grin. Something about the guy rankled Brand. His talk, his shifty eyes. When he saw Stevie pull a knife from his belt, Brand went into a fighting stance and backed up a step.

“Hey, hey!” Stevie said, putting his free hand up, palm out. “Just figured you’d want to have something you can use if we end up in the soup.”

“Thanks, but I was never much good with a shiv,” Brand said. The gypsy tucked the blade back into his belt.

“Hey, no sweat, Brand,” Stevie said. “But out there. What gives? They said all about you knocking out that G-man and sabotaging the joint. But that’s a lot of muscle to take down one angry newsie. No disrespect, Mr. Brand.”

“How many are we talking about? I heard some jeeps and a megaphone.”

Stevie answered by moving to the steps and motioning for Brand to follow him. They went up to the passage beneath the porch and carefully stepped out to where Brand had left the airbike.

“Better get this somewhere else unless you want them to spot us. Hey, Joszef,” Stevie waved for his pal to join them outside. The tall man had been hanging back, but he came forward now. The two gypsies talked in the punchy musical language they had and Joszef got on the airbike. He kicked it into gear like he’d done nothing but ride the things since he was born. Before Brand could object, bike and rider had soared around to the back of the house and out of sight.

“Rides those things around the stockyards,” Stevie explained. “Good thing we had him here, hey?”

“Good thing, yeah. What’s happening on the street?” Brand moved to stand in front of the gypsy, trusting him now but not wanting to get his information through him if he could avoid it. Pushing through the branches of the tree, Brand got an eye on the street. Traffic moved slowly along the roadway, with pedestrians leading wagons and horses in a long line. The line was dotted here and there with a man in uniform wearing a visor and carrying a fancy rifle, just like the boys outside the doors at the Daily Record.

“So the Governor’s getting into the relocation business. Listen,” Brand said, turning to face Stevie Five Sticks and stare him in the eyes. “There’s more going on than just evacuation, if that’s even what this is. My money’s on it being something worse. But even if it isn’t, you and your people, Joszef and anybody else you can get to, you have to get out of here and to someplace safe. If you can take me with you, that’s fine and I’ll appreciate it. If you can’t, that’s fine, too. I’ll make do on my own.”

“See, now, that’s just the thing, Brand. We spotted this action down the street and were coming to get everyone out so we could cop the sneak. Shouldn’t be more than two people in there anyhow. Just the lady of the house and her daughter. They run the shop.”

Brand nodded and moved to go back into the cellar when the clomp of boots sounded on the front steps. A soldier rapped on the door with a gloved hand and held his rifle up at the ready, tucked under his other arm. When nobody answered the door, Brand and Stevie both let a breath out slow and quiet. The soldier pulled a sheaf of pages from his pocket and slapped one against the door. Using his rifle to hold it up, he dug a pin from his shirt pocket and tacked the page in place. Then he banged on the door again and retreated down the steps. Brand watched the man rejoin the line of citizens and soldiers marching out of the neighborhood.

“What do you suppose that was?” Stevie asked.

“Let’s find out,” Brand said and ducked back into the cellar. Stevie followed. They came out in the kitchen and spotted the lady of the house and her daughter hiding in the breakfast nook off to one side. Stevie came out from behind Brand and greeted the women, speaking to them in their language.

Brand moved out to the foyer and cautiously cracked the front door open. The line of people continued to wind along the neighborhood street. Wagons and horses, livestock. Brand saw mostly women and children, but some few men mingled in with them. He wondered if the men were absent because they’d stayed behind or been taken elsewhere. Brand snaked his hand out and snatched the page tacked to the door. He closed the door and rested his back against it while he read the page.

He recognized the symbol at the top. He’d spent an entire day reading from a piece of paper with the same markings.

Citizens of Chicago City are advised of the implementation of Eugenic Protocol 421. Persons meeting criteria for internment under EP421 are advised to report to the nearest containment and dispersal facility immediately.

These actions are in accord with the Governor’s Guidelines for Eugenic Enforcement.

That is all.

A list of ethnic groups followed, beneath the words
eligible for internment
. Brand’s breath came in gasps in between snarls. Stevie Five Sticks came into the room with the women and they all drew up short when they saw Brand fuming by the front door.

“What is it, Brand?”

“It’s war. That’s what it is. The Governor isn’t satisfied with a little friendly neighborhood relocation. No. He’s taking the whole city. By force. By storm. By god, if he thinks he’s going to get away with this he’s got another thing coming.”

Brand flung the page away from him and stormed around the room some more, shouting until he was hoarse. He finally collapsed into a chair by the hearth and let his head hang onto his chest.

“I can’t stop it,” he said. Stevie came over to him; the women hung back. “Let’s go to the safe spot, Brand. Some folks there I think you’ll want to meet.”

Brand let himself be led back downstairs. He walked in a half daze, unable to believe what he’d read on the page, but unable to deny the truth of what he’d seen on the street. Stevie led him and the two women into the hidden tunnel he’d emerged from. Candles lit their way, and Brand got his crank torch working. His mind walked away from him at times, and he’d stop turning the crank. Eventually the daughter took it from him.

After that, Brand retreated into his mind and mentally tore the Governor and Crane apart with a tirade of accusations; he watched the two men cower in fright as he excoriated and vilified them relentlessly. Finally, Brand had to admit his powerlessness in the situation. If he would be remembered for more than finding an old beer bottle, he’d need to find those who could actually do something to stop the Governor or at least fight back. He’d need to tell their story, loud enough to reach the ears of people who were too comfortable to fight back.

“Hey, and here we are,” Stevie said while Brand leaned against the wall. The tunnel ended in a stout wooden door with a catch set into it. Stevie worked the catch and the door popped open. Light flooded into the passage from a cavernous space beyond.

Brand followed the gypsies into the larger room. They were in some kind of basement, maybe an old root or cider cellar. It had been turned into an underground speak. Lamps hung from the ceiling and off of posts that stood in a grid and supported a wooden floor above them. Off to one side a wooden ladder was mounted into the wall beneath an open trapdoor.

Around the space, gypsies sat at tables alongside negroes, some sharing bottles. A crew of people worked in one corner, digging into the earthen wall.

“Hey, Five Sticks,” Brand nudged the younger man. Stevie turned to face him, his old twitchy glee back on his face.

“Yeah, what’s the news, Brand?” Stevie let out a laugh. Brand spied a few of the people nearby cast tired looks in Stevie’s direction.

“Think it’s a good idea to dig into a wall like that when there’s a building on top of us?”

“Oh, it’s all right. Just a short dig through and we’ll be on the railroad.” Stevie said it like Brand should know what he meant. Since he didn’t, he asked.

“It’s how we’re getting out of here. The niggers are helping out because the Governor’s after them same as us. And, hey, extra hands make for easy work. You know?”

Brand knew. Stevie had said it all.

Through the trapdoor Brand heard the familiar sound of glass against glass. Someone laughing. A piano tinkling and then going silent. Then the crackle of a radio and Franklin Suttleby’s voice filtered down from the room above.

…are advised to remain indoors. Patrols from the Ministry of Safety and Security will be sweeping these areas, and citizens can rest assured that the criminals will be captured and prosecuted for—

“Someone turn the damn radio off,” a woman’s voice said from the room upstairs. The radio crackled into silence. Brand crossed the cellar in a few strides and put a foot on the ladder. At the top, the warm light of a speakeasy settled Brand’s nerves. The cigarette someone handed him went a long way to settling him further, but the drink he reached for really did the trick. He had a second for Jenkins and a third for Digs.

Brand took in the room, the olive and coffee mix of gypsy and negro faces. Some stood in exclusive clutches, but musicians from both groups gathered by the piano and took turns tickling the teeth. Against the far wall a lone woman sat draped in a heavy wool blanket. She sipped wine from a glass and held a book open on the table beside her. Her red hair stood out in the flickering candlelight, the only sign of color in the otherwise drab space of the speak.

Brand caught a fluttering movement out the corner of his eye. Madame Tibor emerged from a crowd of gypsies by the bar. Her scarves danced in a slight draft as she approached with a mixture of disappointment and hope on her face.

Brand set the glass down on the bar and turned to meet the fortune teller as she approached.

“Where’s your husband?”

She put up a hand to stop him. Her eyes confirmed what Brand feared.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She brushed a hand at the air and moved away, motioning for him to follow. They went into a back room where men, negroes and gypsies alike, worked in a fevered rush packing items into boxes and barrels.

Brand stared at the scene. Cases and bags were strewn amidst the people packing dry goods and perishables into crates. The personal bags sat like they’d been discarded, spilling their contents onto the floor. Pocket watches, picture frames, knives, letter openers, tea sets. Bits of lace and fabric. Some old tools rested on a shelf in one wall. Hand planes, hammers, chisels. A long saw. A shorter one hanging on a peg beneath the shelf. A man went to the tools and removed them. He packed them with care into a long wooden box at his feet.

“You see us preparing,” Madame Tibor said. “For danger. But danger is already here.”

“When did this start? The Governor hit town two days ago—”

“Is long time coming, Mitchell Brand. Is not beginning. Now is the end. Is what happens when criminals own city and people are made slaves who think they are free.”

Brand could barely have put it better himself.