The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus Page 20

  They left the lobby, crossed through a small corridor, and entered the Founders’ Hall. This wide chamber served as a meeting place for the Wigwam Club, when they wanted to talk private business and discuss bribes, patronages, and assure that their candidates would always get the needed votes. Leather armchairs and Chesterfield couches rested around glass coffee tables, and the air stank of aged tobacco and alcohol. Skylights looked up at the night sky, while electric lamps covered everything in a warm glow.

  The walls belonged to oversized portraits of the founders and leading citizens of Sickle City. Clay looked them over. It didn’t take long for him to find Sinner Barebone, a severe, hawk-nosed Puritan dressed all in black and scowling under a Puritan's black hat. His sister, Bathsheba Barebone, had another portrait across from him. She wore a black robe and cradled a white goat in her arms as her fierce eyes stared at the viewer. She had just been a young woman struggling against the confines of Puritan society by delving into powerful magic—and she might have been the one to set in motion spells and rituals that would bring Sickle City to its knees.

  Clay selected an armchair and settled down. Sinclair walked to the liquor cabinet and prepared a drink for himself. Ice cubes clinked in a round glass, followed by golden bourbon. Sinclair swished it idly as he walked back and stood in front of Clay. “Fine quarters, this building,” he said. “Particularly compared to the place we garrisoned in Russia.”

  “I remember. We never truly owned that ruined castle. The snows had conquered it, long before we got there. They never gave it up.” Clay rested his hands on his knees. “We had to keep fires burning at all times, and sleep under thick blankets.” He hadn’t bothered with any of that, being used to the cold—but he could see the discomfort and pain the snow caused for his fellow soldiers. “And then the bodies of the Bolsheviks froze on the ice.”

  “So many of them. You could slip on frozen blood during the counter-charge that finally forced them back.” Sinclair had a tentative sip of bourbon and then set it on the coffee table. “I served in France before Russia, Clay, and I sometimes can’t tell which was worse. I still see them, you know, whenever I close my eyes.”

  “I just did,” Clay explained. “In a dream I had, a few hours ago. I walked across the plains of Russia, and listened to the howling of the wind.”

  “The howling of artillery rounds and mortar fire is what I hear. Rouses me at night whenever I try to sleep. Sometimes I wish the fire really would fall from the sky, if only to stop me from wondering when it would finally come.”

  Suddenly, Clay perked up. “Do you remember when Sergeant Sanders went off to piss?”

  “And ran straight into a patrol of Red Cossacks?” A smile appeared under Sinclair’s moustache. “The poor bastard came running back, chased by an army of those bearded devils with their swords in the air, ready to cut him in half, with his—”

  “With his trousers fallen around his knees.” Clay shook his head at the memories.

  “Here’s to those far off lands.” Sinclair raised his glass in a mocking toast. “And all the good men who died there. Died for nothing, I should think, as the Bolsheviks won and we crawled back to our country after giving all of Russia to the Reds.” He drank deeply, and shuddered. “But we made the world safe for democracy, at least. A thousand hurrahs to that noble sentiment.”

  “It has not been easy for you.” Clay looked at his former friend. “To live in peace.”

  “No, Clay. It hasn’t.” Sinclair almost snapped at him. “And it’s been the same for you, I’d wager.” He sighed as he settled into a chair. “It was different for my grandfather, I think. He was in the War Between the States, you know. Marched through Georgia. He came back and he was a hero. I lived in awe of him. Everywhere he went—pats on the back, parades, salutes.” His smile vanished. “But not you and me. Forgotten soldiers from a forgotten war. We didn’t even have the good sense to win. Now look at us—I command a pack of bloodthirsty killers who threaten striking miners and you serve some bootlegger rabbi.”

  “Do you think it’s possible?” Clay asked. “To have a better life after coming home?”

  “Possible?” Sinclair weighed the question. “Probably not. But at least we can hope.” He pointed at Clay. “You have friends, at least. The wild woman with the sword. That nice little fellow with the spectacles.” He finished the bourbon, upending it and drinking down the rest. “I don’t have much of anybody.”

  Clay didn’t know what to say to that. Sinclair had been his friend—but that had been long ago, half a world away, when they battled the Bolsheviks with rifles and bayonets. Now, Sinclair was his captor, and a casual anti-Semite in the bargain. Clay settled into his seat and gazed up at the skylight overlooking the Founders’ Hall. The night sky shone down, the stars faint and distant amongst dark clouds. But something else appeared in the window. A shadowy shape moved to the center. Then, a set of long, thin cracks ran through the glass.

  Sinclair didn’t notice. He had refilled his glass and now walked around the billiards table, spinning the white ball on the green felt. He hummed to himself as he knocked back the bourbon, and then raised his voice in song. “Johnny get your gun, get your gun, get your gun. Take it on the run, on the run, on the run.” He jabbed his finger into the air. “Hear them calling you and me! Every son of liberty! Hurry right away, no delay, go today. Make your daddy glad, to have had such a lad. Tell your sweetheart not to pine—to be glad her boy’s in line!” He let out a sudden gasp and sunk into his chair. “What’s it for, Clay? All the pain. All the suffering? What’s the goddamn point?”

  Up above, the skylight shattered. Glass rained down in a flurry and struck the billiards table. Sinclair jumped back and reached for his pistol. He had it half out of its holster when Zipporah Sarfati swung down from the ceiling, leaping down with a rope wrapped around her waist. She swung low, a child on a swing, and zoomed straight for Sinclair. Both of her boots struck him square in the chest.

  Sinclair tried to stand, his motion slowed by pain and drunkenness. Zipporah didn’t give him the chance. She reached him in a pair of steps and cracked her boot heel against his face. The back of Sinclair’s head hit the carpet. Zipporah withdrew a scimitar and pointed it at the detective’s throat. “Move and I take your life’s blood,” she ordered. Sinclair gurgled and stayed still. Zipporah gave Clay a thumbs-up. “How’s your evening, Clay?”

  “Not great.” Clay walked next to Zipporah. “You’re here to rescue me?”

  “And I didn’t come alone.”

  Rustling and the crunch of shattered glass came from the shattered skylight. Harvey Holtz peered down, and he unfurled a rope. He started to shimmy down, wincing as the rope swung back and forth. His hands weakened and he dropped the last few feet. Clay ran under him and caught the boy before he could hit the ground. He gently deposited Harvey on the carpet. Harvey smiled weakly at Clay and massaged his wounded arm. Clay could see the bulge of bandages under his sleeve, and hoped that the boy was healing.

  “Hello, Mr. Clay. We’re going to save you.” Harvey brushed dust from his coat and straightened his tie. “My father told me that you called, and that you were a prisoner, and we knew that we had to help you.” He paused, his exuberance fading. “He didn’t like it, sir. And Zipporah didn’t either, but I insisted. What if there’s some magic that I can help you with? Besides, things have calmed down at Haven Street. There’s no more mobs, or anything—though the earth did shake a little.”

  “That’s the Dagger Men’s doing,” Clay explained. “They summoned Asmodeus, stole the Shamir from him, and had it inscribe a charm in the Founding Stone. They turned the whole city into a golem.” He could see the fear in Harvey and Zipporah’s eyes. “I’m not sure what that means, but the Dagger Men need to be stopped.”

  “Aces,” Zipporah agreed. “First things first—we gotta get you out of here.” She kept her sword tip hoverin
g above Sinclair’s face. “We can leave the Doughboy here. Mrs. Cohen’s across the street in the rabbi’s Cunningham. We get to that, and we can drive back to Haven Street.”

  “Good.” Clay patted Zipporah’s shoulder. “And thanks for your coming. Both of you.”

  “Of course, Mr. Clay,” Harvey said. “You’re our friend. We’ll always be there to help you.”

  From the ground, Sinclair let out a slight moan. Zipporah pulled her sword away and returned it to the scabbard on her back. She headed to the door, followed by Clay and Harvey. A quick kick opened the door, and then they scrambled into the corridor. Other detectives lurked in the Wigwam Club, but Clay figured they could slip past them, maybe duck out of a rear exit and work around to find Cohen and the automobile.

  Behind them, Sinclair sat up. Clay looked over his shoulder. Their eyes met. His old friend stared at Clay, a bruise shadowing his cheek, and then raised his voice. “The prisoner is escaping!” he roared out the words, and stumbled to his feet as he went for his pistol. “Block the exit! Capture them alive! Don’t let them reach the street!” Sinclair may have been sour about his service in the Polar Bear Expedition, but he still sought to do his duty.

  “Nuts!” Zipporah cursed. “We should’ve cut his throat.”

  “That’s murder, Miss Sarfati,” Harvey pointed out. “We can’t do that.”

  They left the corridor and hurried into the lobby, where the Sinclair-Koots detectives had already prepared to meet them. About a score of the detectives assembled in the lobby, overturning chairs and aiming their rifles and Tommy guns into the hall. One Thompson fired early, an undisciplined soldier leaning on his trigger. Bullets stitched the wall. Clay grabbed Harvey and hauled him back, before the boy could run out. He and Zipporah crouched by the wall as the Tommy gun rattled. The bullets sawed through an American flag, and the strips of striped cloth floated down. One bullet hit a large brass eagle, knocking the bird from its perch with a ring. It bounced on the ground before landing at Clay’s feet.

  Clay glared at Zipporah. “You’ve got a plan for getting out?”

  “I came prepared, Clay.” Zipporah reached into the pocket of her coat and withdrew a round steel cylinder, topped with a ring. She pulled the ring and tossed it aside. “We used to use these little fellows in the war. Toss them into a machine gun nest from horseback, and the gunners could see nothing. We’ll make a dash for the exit soon—just stay together and keep moving.”

  A quick underhand throw sent the cylinder flying into the lobby. It struck the marble floor, rolled under a chair, and then began spewing smoke. The smoke grenade expelled great gouts of blue smoke, which billowed around the room, seeped over the furniture, and obscured everything. The detectives stumbled about, waving their guns and shouting in panic. Zipporah chose that moment to run. Clay and Harvey followed her, and they dashed into the mass of smoke together.

  The detectives couldn’t fire into the smoke cloud for fear of hitting their own. Clay could hear their commands, even if he couldn’t see anything in the smoke. “Get to the doors—don’t let them out!” He kept running, still holding Harvey’s hand, and bumped into someone in a khaki uniform. He caught a glimpse of the detective, a stout fellow with a lazy eye, as the Sinclair-Koots man tried to raise his Thompson. Clay slugged him, driving a heavy fist straight into his gut. Another blow knocked the detective onto his back.

  He kept moving, tugging Harvey along and nearing the door. Another detective stumbled out of the smoke and took up a position in front of the door. He had a weasel’s grin and packed a carbine rifle– which he aimed straight at Clay and Harvey. “Not another step, you big, Bolshevik bastard,” he ordered. “I’ll cut you in half if you—”

  Zipporah’s scimitar slashed down from the smoke. The sword hacked into the wooden stock, splintering the wood and smashing apart the metal. She stepped from the blue fog and grabbed the surprised guard’s shoulder. A head butt shattered his nose and sent him reeling, and another punch knocked him into the door. Zipporah stepped over him and pushed open the door.

  She pointed down to the street. “Shall we?”

  “Why not?” Clay and Harvey hurried out next.

  They raced down the steps, approaching the machine gun posts. The detectives inside turned to meet them, trying to swivel their heavy machine guns completely around to face the stairs. Zipporah was ready. Another pair of smoke grenades flew from her hands and landed in the sandbags. Smoke poured out as they ran down. Zipporah leapt into the first nest, her feet landing on the edge of the sandbags. Rapid kicks took care of the gunners, and Zipporah motioned for Clay and Harvey to follow. They hurried past the sandbags and into the abandoned street.

  The Cunningham Touring Car waited for them. It sped out from around a corner, the engine and tires screaming, and braked hard right in front of Clay and his friends. Cohen manned the wheel, sporting a pair of driver’s goggles. Clay picked Harvey up and set him into the back, and then Cohen scooted over to let Clay take the wheel. She had her rifle leaning against the passenger seat and stood as she readied the gun. Zipporah hopped into the back next to Harvey. Cohen worked the bolt on the rifle, and aimed it straight at the steps of the Wigwam Club.

  “Good to see you, Clay,” Cohen said. “Cómo estás?”

  “Eager to leave.” Clay turned the key, preparing to leave.

  “Clay!” Sinclair’s voice came from the steps. “You are not leaving! Kill that engine and come out with your hands up! Do that and I’ll let your friends walk out of here alive!” Despite himself, Clay turned to look. Sinclair came down the steps, his revolver at his side. More detectives followed him. Some of the smoke had wafted away, giving the machine guns a clear shot at the Cunningham Touring Car. “If you attempt to flee, we will fire—and you will be destroyed. Don’t make me do such a thing, Clay—not to a fellow soldier.” Sinclair’s voice sounded pained, but he still covered the Cunningham with his revolver.

  Perhaps they could still escape, but then the Sinclair-Koots armored cars rattled out from behind the Wigwam Club, speeding into the street. The guns in their cupolas swiveled to face the Cunningham. Clay kept his foot poised above the gas pedal, unsure what to do. Zipporah pushed Harvey’s shoulder, keeping the boy’s head below the windows of the Cunningham. Sinclair reached the bottom of the steps. A handful of detectives followed him, and they advanced on the car. The armored Sinclair-Koots autos stayed put, watching everything.

  Cohen at least knew what to do. She gripped her rifle in one hand and pulled a pineapple grenade from her leather jacket pocket with the other. She stepped onto the runners. “Drive, Mr. Clay,” Cohen ordered. “Leave me. I’ll hold them off. I can kill a hundred of these fools and slip away before they return fire.” She glared back at Clay. “Go!”

  “Wait, p-please!” Harvey stammered. “We can think of some peaceful solution! We don’t have to fight!”

  Sinclair and his detectives drew closer. “Out of the car, Clay!” He aimed his revolver at Cohen. She covered him with her rifle. “Tell your greaser friend to stand down or, by God, I will put her down.” He cocked his pistol, ready to fill the street with death. Cohen’s thumb neared the pin of the grenade. It looked like nothing could stop the battle.

  Then the earth shook. Tremors ran through the street, filling it with long cracks. Glass shattered on the windows of the Damocles Street skyscrapers. The trees in Arcadia Park shook and several collapsed. Pigeons lifted up in a thick cloud and raced into the dark sky. The Cunningham rolled backwards and rumbled to the side. One of the Sinclair-Koots Armored Cars slammed into the other, and they both careened across the street and smashed against a nearby brick wall. A street light fell from its moorings and shattered against the asphalt. The detectives in the street struggled to keep their footing. The whole city shook.

  “W-what’s happening?” Harvey asked. “Is this an earthquake, perhaps?”

 
Clay knew the answer. “No. It’s the Dagger Men.”

  Almost as soon as it began, the earthquake stopped. The street ceased shaking. Silence filled the city, apart from distant shouts, and the calls of pigeons, along with a few more crashes as momentum and gravity did further damage. The Sinclair-Koots detectives had lowered their guns, as had Cohen. Throwing lead at each other just seemed pointless now. Everyone stared around the street, wondering what would happen next. They didn’t have to wait long.

  A deep, melodic noise rang through all of Sickle City. Every window and bit of shattered glass shook at the noise, which resembled the brassy burst of a trumpet. The sound seemed to come from the street itself, as if all of Sickle City was clearing its throat. More rumbles came from the steps of the Wigwam Club. The statues moved. Civil War generals stretched their arms, and politicians in their top hats and frock coats waved their hands. Their stone mouths opened, and the trumpeting noise projected from their throats as if they were part of one stone choir. The whole city appeared to sing. The noise wasn’t particularly harsh, but it still seemed eerie and terrible. Harvey spun around in his seat, looking from the singing statues to the surrounding buildings.

  Then he pointed to the skyscraper next to the Wigwam Club. “Look! It’s Eisendrath!”

  Clay folded his hands into fists—but Rabbi Eisendrath himself hadn’t arrived. Instead, his tattooed face had been projected onto the side of the skyscraper, like a screen in one of the moving pictures he took Harvey to see. The window sills and cement and brick of the building distorted Rabbi Eisendrath’s face, but those tattoos and that scowl were unmistakable. However, unlike the silent movies, sound came from Rabbi Eisendrath’s mouth as it moved. The effect was uncanny, and Rabbi Eisendrath’s voice projected from the building, the street, and the mouths of every statue in the city. More images of Rabbi Eisendrath appeared, taking up every wall. He appeared on the street as well, and the sidewalk. His image blossomed on the steps of the Wigwam Club, and on the dome roof. Everywhere Clay looked, Rabbi Eisendrath’s tattooed face stared back. He must be giving this message to everyone in town. Sickle City spoke with the rabbi’s voice.