The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1) (12 page)

“I’m sorry about your Uncle Shmuel.”  I winced and coughed until a stream of what looked like liquid coal flew from my throat.

“Oh, him?  Don’t worry, a little boiling water and some hard work and he’ll be back to normal.  He’s right over there.” Levitt pointed to the corner.  In the dim light, I saw Shmuel’s head and half of his torso, along with a pile of clay lumps.

“He’s a Golem, isn’t he?” I said.  “Master Sol told me that they were stuff and nonsense, a myth hiding as religion.”

Levitt puffed out his chest.  “Man cannot breathe life into clay like The Lord.  Many have tried, but the creature always goes mad in the end.  Our Golem is the first to have a…not a soul…but a conscience.  It was the mantle that Ruchel knitted and I prayed over that granted it.  Uncle Shmuel knows to defend The People, but he knows right and wrong, too.”  He looked at the pile of rubble.  “Ruchel will have to make a new blanket.”

I began to speak, but he spooned another bit of soup into my mouth.  My mind was going hazy, and it became too much to speak.  I swallowed.  “I need to go.  I need to find the baby.”

“You need to rest.  Stay here, eat some soup. Tomorrow you’ll find the baby.” He handed me the bowl, and I reflexively swallowed another spoonful. It wasn’t quite so terrible as before. “Eat, sleep, and we will pray for you.”

I wanted to resist. I wanted to leap out of bed and continue my search—or at least find that Rabbit Pooka that set the Elemental free.  Despite my struggles, my eyes grew heavy and the bed grew soft, softer than any bed before.

The last thing I remember, Levitt turned to Ruchel and said “Do we have any more
schmaltz
?”

I awoke the next day to the smell of something decadent.  With caution, I crawled from bed and followed my nose into the kitchen.  My skin was red, with clusters of yellow blisters along my arms. One of my legs didn’t respond the way that I expected, and it radiated hurt with each step.

The kitchen smelled of frying potatoes and chicken fat.  Rifka sat at the table and sliced apples.  Ruchel stood over the stove, frying potato pancakes and onion slices.  Levitt was stirring a pot, pieces of Shmuel lying on the floor next to him.

Even from the kitchen, I saw that the main room was demolished.  Much of the furniture was burned away, and the giant hole in the wall let in the cold November air.

“Good morning,” I said to the trio as I yawned.

Levitt bustled over to me. “How are you feeling today? Please, have a seat. Ruchel, are those
latkes
finished?”

“Yes,
Zaydee
,” she answered, followed by the wet splat of greasy potato pancake onto a wooden plate. Ruchel placed the plate in front of me with a fork and cloth napkin.

Levitt smiled over the plate. “I made it special for you, and you will eat every bit or break this old man’s heart.”

“Old man? You’re still a pup to me.” I sat—doing my best to hide my limp—and poured a cup of tea from the pot on the table.

“Yes, you must have so many stories to tell. I would love to hear them someday.” He placed some apple slices on my plate.  “But first you must eat. I’m sure it’s not normal morning fare for you, but these are not normal times, are they?”

I took a bite of pancake.  “It’s delicious, and it’s amazing how much better I feel today.  That was some powerful soup.”

He winked at me. “Some magic comes from The Lord, some magic comes from the Man, but the best magic comes from a good soup.” Levitt went back to his boiling pot.  He threw a few pieces of Uncle Shmuel into the pot and stirred it.

“I’m grateful for the meal, but you can’t remake your Golem.  Such magic has not been approved by the Star of Nine.  I have to report this to them and follow their judgment.”

Levitt continued to stir.  “For over three thousand years, the Children of Israel have been conquered, murdered, and persecuted by the rest of the world.  The Romans destroyed our sacred temple and scattered us to the winds.  The Christians make sport of burning our homes and defiling our women.  We came to America seeking a safe haven, but there is none.  The
goyim
will always seek to destroy us, and our sole protection is faith in The Lord.  Uncle Shmuel is that faith made whole.  He is not magic, he is God’s love.  Your Star of Nine has no power over The Lord.”

“They might disagree with that.  I’ll think on it, but I can’t make promises.”

“I’m sure that you’ll come to the right decision.  Pray on it, and the answer will come.”  He added more clay to the pot.

I finished the meal and rose to my feet. My cane and hat flew to hand from the other room. “Thank you for the meal.”

The old man beamed. “It’s the least that I could do. You saved me, my grandchildren, my entire neighborhood.” He lowered his head towards me. “But if it’s not too much bother, could you get
Yosef’s
coat from that rich
shikse
?”

“After the baby, Rabbi. After the baby.”

Jonas

“Jonas, are you home?”

Recognizing Jim’s voice, I grumbled and crawled out of bed.  It was another gray day in the city, with a low fog that hid the street from my window.  My cap fell off of me sometime during my sleep.  I sometimes have trouble sleeping. I end up half off of the bed, or sometimes on the floor. Even in my sleep I have wanderlust.

I stumbled to the door and opened it, not caring that I was in my nightclothes.  He knocked, he can suffer my indecency.  “It’s too early.”

“For you, maybe, but I have to get to work.  Asides, the faster I get away from the wife, the better.” He leaned against the wall and fixed his hat for the perfect lay.  “You left a note on my door, it said you had some news about the Vanderlay baby.” 

I nodded and led him inside.  “Coffee?” I asked.  “I need some.”  I knelt by the stove and tried to get the fire going.  My fingers slipped and felt like they were those sausages I buy on the street.  My head pounded like someone drove a rail spike through it. I suppose I drank too much last night.

“No, thank you.  I’ll find a coffee cart by the
Tribune
.” He fidgeted with his hat once again, took it off, ran a hand through his hair, and screwed his top down. “So what’s the news?” He tried to look calm, but the eager gleam in his eye said otherwise. 

“I need you to post something in the
Tribune
.  Tell them that Officer Hood of the Municipal Police is seeking information about the kidnapping.”

“Are you offering a reward?”

I got the coals lit.  “If I do that, I’ll get a thousand witnesses with a thousand stories.  No, I’m clutching at straws, but I’d wager that one of the domestics knows something and they were afraid to talk with Vanderlay in the house.”

Jim nodded.  “Not a bad idea. I should be going.  Greeley gets rather rumbumptious when his men’re late.”

“Fizzing,” I said with my back to him, warming my hands by the coals.  “Wait, one more thing.”  I stood up and turned to face him.  “What do you know about Franklin Wythe?”

“Oh, that fella?  The usual.  Son of an upperten.  Adventuring type, took to sea a couple of years ago when his father bought him one of those new clippers.  His work isn’t always legal,” Jim said. “I heard he lost his eye in a duel.  You’d like him. He’s like a living penny dreadful.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue, as if the stove in his mind sparked to life. “Is he back in port?  I’d wager he has a story or two about some Oriental adventure or pirates in the Antilles.”

“I saw him in a groggery on Catharine Street.  Seemed like an odd place for a Wythe,” I said. 

“If I didn’t know you, I’d say it was an odd place for a Hood.”

“I’m fond of odd places.” I left out what I was doing there.  Leary would snap my neck if I let on too much about the crime.  Of course, he might anyway for talking to a paperman.  “You should be off. I’ve got coffee to keep me company.  Thank you for the help.”

“My pleasure, just come to me first when you find the culprit.  We’ll make each other famous.  Maybe then the wife’ll stop complaining.” He turned to leave, and I shut the door behind him, leaving me alone with my precious coffee.

“Boxing is easy, you hit the other guy until he can’t get up.” I stuffed a forkful in my mouth.

Me and Hendricks caught an early supper at a hotel not far from my flat.  I liked this place.  The coffee was always thick, and they served us on a long table where everyone sat together.  I enjoyed it here because it’s the only place in town you can find salmagundi as good as Seabreaze’s.  Today’s dish had roast chicken, sharp cheese, and shrimp over the greens, with lemon slices and vinegar on top.  I slapped on the feedbag like a starving man.

“I’ve never been in a fight until this week,” said Hendricks.  “I’m going to die.”

“You’ll be fine, just wizard them.  Turn your jaw to iron, fill your hands with lightning.  But make sure you give ‘em a show.  We wanna impress Smokestack.”

Hendricks picked at his shrimp. “Isn’t there another way we can do this?”

“Can you read minds?”

He frowned.

“Then you have to get in the ring.  Someone in the bar knows what happened to Molly and the Vanderlay baby.  I can almost smell it.”

“The baby?”

I sighed. “Yes, Hendricks.  I can smell the baby.  His diaper needs a change.”

He turned red. “No need to cut me like that.  It’s my nerves. I need something to calm me down.”

“Have some coffee.  It’s good for you.”

“If you think it’ll help.”  Hendricks ordered a cup from the barmaid.

Four cups later, I had a pencil in hand and scribbled on a scrap of paper.  “We have to solve this logically, Hendricks.  It’s a proof, like at university when I proved that God was imaginary.”

“What?”

“No matter. The man we’re looking for has to have two things.  One,” I wrote the number on the paper and circled it.  “He has to have the ways. Either he uses magic, or has access to someone that does.” I wrote “ways” next to the number.

“What was this about the Lord?”

“Focus, Hendricks.  Two, he needs the will, the reason to kill.”  I wrote a two on the paper, with “will” next to it.  “Who do we know that might have a reason to kill her?”

“Whoever stole the baby,” said Hendricks.  “She might have been in the way.”

I wrote that down.  “That’s one possibility. They might want revenge or money, and not care about Molly at all.” I sloshed the remains of my coffee in my cup, and gestured for another cup.  “Who else?”

“Smokestack,” Hendricks offered.  “We know that they had dealings, and he has that magic ring.”

“Good.  He could’ve used any of those Dwellers to help him too, or that wizard Wythe.”  I wrote “Smokestack” and drew arrows from will and ways to his name.  “We have to consider Vanderlay as well.”

“Why?” Asked Hendricks.  “He has no magic.”

“He has money, and wealth equals ways.”  I wrote his name down as well. “He’s hiding something, and I intend to find out what.”

A barmaid brought over another cup of coffee for me.  I thanked her with coins and a smile.  I looked at the paper—which was now indecipherable to anyone besides me. “We have Vanderlay, Smokestack, Franklin Wythe, and all those Dwellers that were in the bar.”

“There are probably more that we haven’t thought of,” Hendricks offered.

“The simplest answer is the most likely,” I said as I sipped my coffee.

“But not always.”

“We don’t have time follow every theory.  If it comes to that, the child is lost.”  We both frowned.  “What else do we know?”

Hendricks looked out the door, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “The Redcap said that whoever hired him had a funny voice.  That eliminates Vanderlay.”

I shook my head and
tutted
. “Vanderlay would hire someone to do his work.  Why are you defending him?”

“I,” Hendricks began.  “No man would kidnap his own child.  It makes no sense.”

“It does seem odd,” I admitted.  “But he might have other reasons to kill Molly. The kidnapping might be a cover up, and he hid the baby.”

“What happened to the simplest answer being the most likely?”

“
Touché.
  Call it intuition, then.”  I looked at the paper.  It was covered in chicken scratch and coffee stains.  I folded it and put it in my pocket.  “Tonight, I’ll try to eliminate as many suspects as possible.”

“And what will I do?”

“You, my friend,” I said, “are going to become famous.”

I practiced my accent and straightened my hat as we stepped into The Bloody Knuckle.  The crowd was different from the night before.  There was still a peck of b’hoys and g’hals there, but there were as many Germans, English, and even Turks.  The foreigners looked like they were sailors.  It made me think of the big flotilla of diplomats that landed for Thanksgiving with Mayor Wood.  At the station house, they wouldn’t stop complaining about it.

Smokestack greeted us with slaps on the back.  “Good to see ya, lads.  You ready to make me some money?”

“I…uh…reckon we are, pardner,” I said as I stuffed some chaw that I bought earlier into my cheek.

“That’s terrible,” Hendricks whispered.  “No one’s gonna believe you.  We’re gonna end up floating in the East River.”

Smokestack nodded and puffed his ever-present cigar.  The rings on his fingers sparkled like champagne.  “Good.  You fight second tonight.” He looked Hendricks over and shrugged. “Your lad here needs a good fighting name.  No one’s gonna cheer for a Hendricks.”

“Hmmm.”  I turned to Hendricks.  “What do you think?”

Hendricks hopped from leg to leg.  “I think I need the outhouse.”  He shuffled out the back door.

Smokestack put his arm on my shoulder, and guided me toward the bar. “Willis, I want you to meet someone.”  He turned to a whapper of a man all dressed in black.  “Shadow!  Come here.”

The man he called Shadow walked over to us, pushing his way through the crowd as if they were brambles.  He looked about forty years old, tall and broad and slashed on both cheeks.  He wore a crow’s feather in his plug hat and kept his face clean shaven. A white kerchief wrapped around his throat. Like Smokestack, his fingers were all adorned with rings.  The one on his right index finger stood out, a silver skull with rubies in the eyes and diamond teeth.  There was a bulge inside of his vest.  From the shape I figured it to be one of Colt’s children.

“Shadow, this is our new friend, Jawful Joe Willis.  He’s gonna make us a pile of jack tonight.  Willis, this is Shadow McGuirk.”

We shook hands and I looked into his eyes.  It was a look that I had only seen in the most depraved criminals.  They were dull and empty, like a doll’s or snake’s eyes.  A man like that is made for one thing: blunt, unthinking violence.

“I’m setting the odds against your b’hoy at three to one.  Make sure he lets everyone wager before he knocks his man out,” said Smokestack.  He leaned in closer. “If he loses, Shadow is gonna smash up your stones.” 

Looking at the expressionless Shadow, I didn’t doubt it.  I nodded solemnly.

Smokestack showed his teeth in a wide smile.  “Good man. Thirty minutes ‘till the first fight.  Have your b’hoy ready.”

Hendricks returned in time, shaking like a bride on her wedding night.  I took him to the warehouse arena, where we could get seats close to the ring and I could show him the basics of boxing.