Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (33 page)

Detective Simon Hum

August 27, 1914

Carnegie Hall

Manhattan, New York

Wage reholstered Ol’ Snapper and picked up the opera glasses from the ground as well as the knife that lay near Reginald, who was now subtly convulsing.  He put the knife, a quality four inch blade with an antler handle, in his pocket.  Then he peered down at the crowded bazaar. 

With a magnified view, he saw Mink fly through the crowd and beeline for the tiger cage.  She found Quincey Gartrell nearby.  She grabbed him, pulled his massive head to her mouth and whispered something.  Barely a second passed before the hulking man picked her off her feet and carried her toward the exit nearest stage right.  Wage watched the door slam behind them.  His own eyes welled.

Reginald groaned.  Wage mule-kicked him and started to scan the audience for his target.  He saw hordes of inebriated aristocrats lounging about their pillows and discretely withdrawing opium tinctures and packages of cocaine drops.  He saw a troupe of belly dancers taking to the main stage.  He saw the magician performing tricks for a young boy.  He looked once again at Andromeda on her throne.  Her audience had grown.  And then he spotted him.  Lantern light shimmered off his sweaty, bald brow.  The Baron nonchalantly spied on the entire crowd, his one eye evaluating everyone and everything that came into his view. 

“Got you, you sonovabitch,” Wage muttered.

And that’s when he heard the hammer cock.  The sound gave it away; he didn’t need to look.  He knew it was a Remington, a new-model pocket revolver.

“No sudden movements, please,” came a southern female voice whose politeness was not necessary.  The barrel of her gun was close enough to his ear that it sounded like the ocean in a seashell.

Wage lowered his binoculars slowly.  “You have
got
to be kidding me,” he said.

“I’m afraid not,” a man’s voice reassured.  “Our employer wishes to speak with you.  I have been instructed to take you to him immediately upon your apprehension.  It is my hope that we will not find you disagreeable.”

“And if you find me disagr . . . wait a damn minute!  Do I know you, friend?”  Wage turned to look at the English-sounding gentleman who wore a white chamomile flower made of zinc on his lapel.  “I know you, don’t I?  You are that detective fella!  You’re the reason I rotted in that godforsaken jail!”

“Simon, let’s get this over with, sweetheart,” the southern woman said.

Wage turned toward her, ignoring the point-blank barrel now aimed at his face.  “Hey, I know you, too!” 

“Hiya, Wage,” Amber Rose replied.  Her hair pulled up tight into a ponytail.  She wore a purple iris on her sleek, black Mandarin dress.  She shrugged her shoulders.  “Good to see you again.”

“You are that whor . . .” Wage started to say.  Then he heard something he had never heard before.  It had multiple clicks, cocks, and whizzes.  No gun he had ever heard.

Tesla’s contraption deployed with pinpoint accuracy, ripping the detective’s sleeve.  “Watch your goddamn mouth, sir!”

“What . . .  in the hell . . . is that thing?”  Wage said.

“Do you play chess, sir?” the detective asked.

“Yeah, I play chess . . . wait a minute!!  We’ve already had this conversation, too!”

“Mr. Pascal—”the detective started.

“Captain, man! Get it right!” Wage yelled.

“Captain Pascal, you are all out of moves.  Now come with us this instant!” the detective said.

Wage shook his head.  Slowly at first, then faster, then manically fast.  Like a hurricane, he drew Ol’ Snapper and Reginald’s knife simultaneously.  His barrel went toward the detective’s head, the knife to Amber Rose’s throat.

“Now, listen to me!” he yelled.  “I am
tired
of all this secret-society bullshit. I am tired of goddamn scientists.  Tired of goddamn immortality. Of goddamn detectives. I’m tired of goddamn creepy stepsons!”  Wage nodded at the body on the floor.  “I’m tired of good men dying. I’m tired . . . fuck!”

Simon and Amber Rose looked at each other.

“Now, all I want,” Wage continued, “is to find that one-eyed piece of shit down there.  He’s a goddamn Baron.  And I am going to put a
goddamn bullet
in his
goddamn skull
.”

Simon’s eyes now narrowed.

“Wage, honey” Amber Rose said.  “That’s who our employer is.”

As fast as Wage had drawn his weapons, he now returned them.  He raised his hands, but something told the detective and his accomplice that this was not true submission.  “Well then, take me to your employer,” Wage said through gritted teeth.

Amber Rose led the way down the stairs with Wage in tow and the detective behind him, his contraption still pointed at Wage’s head.  At the bottom of the stairs, before opening the doors to the party, Amber Rose tucked her Remington into her matching handbag and exchanged it for a compact mirror and lipstick.  She touched up her thin lips with an interesting crimson.  She smiled at Wage, looking like she had literally just ate some poor sap’s heart out.  Simon’s weapon collapsed with a whiz and a whirl, revealing just a simple metal brace that gave his withered arm more mobility.  The detective then refastened his breakaway jacket sleeve.  “Who the hell are you people?” Wage muttered. 

“No sudden movements, please, Captain Pascal.  Or I will be forced counteract,” the detective said, ignoring the question. 

“With all due respect, detective.  Shut the fuck up,” Wage said.   
When Simon and Amber Rose were sure they would not cause any commotion with the bazaar patrons, Amber Rose opened the door and led Wage across the main floor.  On stage, dark-haired, olive-skinned beauties dressed in sheer turquoise robes seductively rolled their bellies to a variety of drums.  Once on the far side, they stopped in front of the makeshift booth; atop the wooden structure in elegant cursive it said “Suleiman the Unnatural.”  Below the sign, an American clad in oriental robes and a turban performed close-up magic tricks for a small crowd. 

The three of them stood together.  A small boy with dark messy hair wearing a crestless school jacket, shorts and long socks eagerly watched the mesmerizing acts of prestidigitation. Next to him stood a Middle Eastern man in a crisp, dark blue suit with a light blue metal carnation attached to his lapel.  Khalid Francois ran a hand through his slicked black hair and smiled at the belly dancers.  And finally, the Baron stood taller than all of them in a double-vented gray herringbone suit; a large red rose made of silver slightly weighed down his lapel.  His one tinted lens flickered when the flame juggler’s batons went high enough in the air.

Wage’s blood boiled at such a temperature that all his plans evaporated.  It seemed fitting then, that the last plan he ever executed, the plan to exact revenge on the man who killed Sergeant 1
st
Class William Macdonough, would be Ol’ Bill’s personal favorite. 
The catastrophic emergency plan.

“Baron DeLacy,” the detective said.  “We have him.”

“Is he armed?” the Baron asked, watching the magician revealing a bouquet of colorful flowers from a covered pot.

“A revolver in his jacket and a knife in his pant pocket,” Amber Rose answered.

“Ah!” the Baron said, still watching the magician.  “And what were you going to use, Captain Pascal, to ensure my demise?  Would you have preferred the intimacy of a blade?  Or the less personal but still satisfying revolver?”

“Take a step closer and I’ll show you,” Wage shot back.

The Baron finally turned toward Wage.  “Me personally, I probably would have gone with a rifle.  It’s far removed and cold blooded, yes, but it is like playing God.  Put something in your sights, and seconds later, it ceases to exist.  Come on, Captain, the upper balconies would have been a prime place to play the deity.  Just divine!” the Baron hissed.  He placed a cigarette in his mouth and a timid, forgettable-looking gentleman quickly stepped out from the crowd.  He wore charcoal livery with a black ascot and small white turban fixed with a wooden pin painted to look like gold.  He bowed slightly, said nothing, and lit the Baron’s cigarette.  “This is my assistant, Warwick.  Warwick, this is Captain Pascal.  Kindly remove the revolver from his inner jacket and the knife from his pants pocket.” 

Like a deft pickpocket, Warwick’s hands nimbly danced around Wage’s jacket and pants, removing all his weapons.  Wage noticed a black lotus flower, very dull, on his breast pocket.

“Khalid, you remember our friend Captain Wage Pascal?” Khalid nodded his head like a hungry vulture.  The belly dancers were still his main concern.  “I am not sure you have been formally introduced,” the Baron said.  “Captain Pascal, this is Khalid Francois Deschamps.  Khalid, do me a favor and escort Simon and Amber Rose here backstage and show them the highlight of tonight’s entertainment.”

Khalid gave a brief look of frustration before patting the detective on his enhanced arm and gesturing for Amber Rose to follow.  He led them to the stage where he helped both of them up.  After hopping up himself he took a moment to blow one of the belly dancers a kiss.  He shouted something in Arabic and winked, then led the detective and his accomplice off to stage left.  Electric lights fixed to brick walls buzzed and illuminated the large space behind the main stage.  They were led past the next performer, a nervous Vietnamese man who practiced spinning his colorful plates on tall bamboo poles.  His young face was concealed beneath a conical woven hat tied up with blue ribbon. 

Khalid gestured for Amber Rose and the detective to take the lead through a far door and down a dimly lit stairwell.

Simon peered down the stairs.  “Where are we headed, exactly?” he asked.

“A first look at a special performance.  You will see.  Go, go,” Khalid urged them on. 

“Are you sure?” the detective asked.

Khalid only nodded.

Amber Rose led the way down the stairs.  At the bottom, candles lit a narrow hallway.  One of the belly dancers, supple and sultry, one of the Japanese acrobats, shirtless, chiseled, and ghost-white, and a wizened Oriental man all shared a pipe shaped like a dragon.  The gaping maw of the dragon hovered over a smoking opium cube.  They all whispered and giggled.  Amber Rose skirted around them, but the detective stopped.  The smell of opium—it brought something back.  It triggered images of his childhood, sneaking into his father’s den, smelling the same sweet vapors, finding his gray-haired father in his underclothes, hovered over his desk, sweating and sucking the fumes from a small pipe.  Through a small boy’s eyes, his father looked like a man who just gulped oxygen after a lifetime underwater. 
My God.  My gracious God in heaven.

“What’s the matter?  You want to partake?” Khalid Francois asked.  He sensually streaked his hand across the dancer’s stomach.  “Go ahead, I will wait.”  Khalid nuzzled his mouth into the girl’s neck.  She moaned and grabbed his jet-black hair.  The other two men simply giggled.

More images came roaring back to the detective.  Kneeling alone in the living room with his mother, surrounded by candles, the smell of opium now old and acrid and clinging to the walls.  “We must be punished,”
his mother would say before throwing a corded whip over her shoulder.  With his father spending a late night at the university, there was plenty of time to break open the skin on their backs, bleed, pray, bleed more, pray, and apply a salve, all before he got home. 
My gracious God!
  His back started to burn with the memories.

“Simon!” Amber Rose shouted, alarmed by the look on his face.  “Are you all right?”

“Fine.  I’m . . . I’m fine,” he replied.

“Then let’s get going,” Khalid demanded.  “I’ve got something special to show you.  Turn right at the next door.”

Amber Rose led the way again, this time into an actor’s vanity room.  The large mirror at the far end of the room amplified the only flickering candle.  Khalid closed the door behind him.  The loud creak concealed the sound of his Italian Bodeo revolver being drawn.  He quickly strode across the wooden floor and hit Amber Rose on the back of the head.  She fell to the ground.  Khalid turned and parried the detective’s gun just as quickly as it deployed.  A shot rang out.  Khalid hammered the butt of his gun into the detective’s forehead.  Simon fell to the ground.  Khalid quickly stepped on the contraption pinning Simon’s arm. 

“Khalid! Stop!” Amber Rose yelled from the floor.  She clutched the back of her head with both hands.  She could feel warm blood matting her hair.  “Don’t do this!” 

“What’s your game, Khalid?” Simon asked to further stall him.  He raised his good hand to wipe away the blood flowing over the bridge of his nose into his eyes.

Khalid pointed his gun squarely at the detective’s forehead.  “My game?  My game is to kill you.  Then, I will have her,” he nodded to Amber Rose.  “Then I will kill her.  Then . . . I will probably have a belly dancer.”  At such close quarters, the alcohol on his breath was so overwhelming it made the detective wince.  Khalid pulled the trigger.

A hand jutted out from the darkness, jarring the barrel of his gun.  The shot went wide.  The detective’s adrenaline slowed everything down.  A look of befuddlement came over Khalid as he missed a point blank shot.  Another hand connected with Khalid’s jaw.  Khalid stumbled, and the phantom acrobat from the hallway slithered across the room, keeping the distance between himself and Khalid close, intimate.  The acrobat looked like a spirit of rage as he unleashed a barrage of punches.  In the candlelight it looked almost like a dream, as some punches were struck with an open hand and others with a closed.  Khalid had no defense; his arms fell to his side and his body undulated with every strike.  He was a doomed mouse being toyed with by a savvy house cat.  The revolver finally fell from Khalid’s hand, hitting the wood floor.  Immediately after, the acrobat grabbed Khalid’s wrist, stretched out the limb, and with a powerful upper cut broke his arm at the elbow.  The sound of bone snapping filled the small brick room.  The acrobat then kicked the side of Khalid’s knee; it bent in an unnatural way with the sound of ligaments snapping.  Khalid fell to the floor.  His mouth was so full of red that it was impossible to see his golden tooth.  For a moment, the acrobat looked at his downed opponent like he was a bird with two broken wings.  Then he put the bird down with a quick, well-placed stomp to its throat.