The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus Page 3

  After he left, Zipporah stood up, one of her swords in its scabbards in each hand. “I better go and do a quick exhibition—show the swells and the locals a little excitement of flashing blades and unparalleled speed and skill as I cut up watermelons. Earn myself a few coins from passing the hat around after I show off.” She watched as Clay settled into the Morris chair in the corner. “You gonna be jake, Clay?”

  “Yeah.” Clay folded his massive hands.

  Zipporah looked at her swords. “If my fencing master knew what I was doing with the skills he had taught me, I think he’d skewer me on general principal. If some of my old friends from the Great War knew—well, they’d understand.”

  “What about T.E. Lawrence?” Clay asked. Zipporah always liked telling stories about the famous general she had served with.

  “He’d understand as well. He was always a practical fellow.” Zipporah headed to the door. “We’ll leave in an hour, Clay. That should be all the time I need to make a few bucks.” She stepped outside, leaving Clay alone in the parlor. It made the room seem bigger.

  Clay went to the radio in the corner and fiddled with the dials. They usually listened to radio shows with Harvey here, but Clay preferred music. He found a station with some warbling, slow jazz, and listened to the strumming instruments and lilting voice of the singer. Clay returned to his seat, and looked at his thick hands. He flexed his knuckles. He could have smashed the Tree Men to pieces, breaking and tearing and crushing until they were nothing but twigs. They presented a challenge, but Clay had been built for such acts of destruction.

  He smelled smoke. Clay stared at the doorway. A thin line of smoke curled around the doorway, leading into the hall like a trail. The dark smoke hung in the air, flickering before fading out—as if some torch had been waved in the room and then dragged away. Clay came to his feet. He hurried through the door, and stumbled into the hallway. The line of smoke remained, a dark thread weaving across the hall and past the rooms of the guests. Clay hurried after it. He reached a back door, and pushed it open. Clay stepped into the chill evening air, under the Elephantine Hotel. The line of smoke led down a ladder poised at the edge of the pier. Clay needed to see what was causing the strange emanation.

  The ladder brought Clay to the gravely beach. At high tide, this place would be underwater. Now, the dark soggy rocks rested under the towering forms of the pillars holding up the pier. Clay weaved around the pillars, until he followed the smoke to a patch of dirt right below Palisade Park. The roller coaster rumbled overhead, and piping calliope music sounded faint against the rumble of the ocean.

  The smoke welled up in a cloud right under the pier. It blended in with the shadow, and Clay had to struggle to see it. The smoke coiled up and straightened, becoming a column—and then features appeared in the blackness. A woman’s face emerged, with glowing letters on her forehead.

  Clay smiled. “Lilith Shadowborn.” He crossed the gravel and neared one of the few other golems who called Sickle City home. “How have you been?” He offered his hand. Lilith took it with a clawed shadow. It felt solid and slick in his hand, like was shaking hands with an icicle.

  “Well enough, Mr. Clay.” Lilith Shadowborn had been forged by a group of educated alchemists in the Enlightenment Age. Clay had been built to destroy, but Lilith had been made to satisfy curiosity. After her creators had proved that they could make life, they hadn’t known what to do with her and had cast her out. Lilith had wandered the world ever since. Sometimes, Clay envied her freedom. Other times, he pitied her. “And you?”

  “Well enough,” Clay repeated. “You ever tangled with Men of the Field?”

  “Plant people?” Lilith nodded. “They are a kindly race, as welcoming as the forests they protect—but don’t cross them.” She floated closer. “You have come into conflict with such creatures? That’s odd. They are normally peaceful. Something has agitated them.” Her eyes glowed coal red, framing a feminine, shadowy face.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s why I came to you. You, Mr. Clay, are a man of many flaws—”

  “Thanks.”

  Lilith flashed a smile—lost in shadow. Only her eyes glowed. “But you are a good man nonetheless, and have a keen sense of duty. That’s why I came to you. Unlike most golems, I can enter the world of the spirits. I float alongside the Dybbuks and the Ibburs, the malevolent and benevolent shades, and listen to their stories. Lately, those voices have been raised in a chorus of fear and desperation.”

  “Of what?”

  Lilith shook her head, making the smoke undulate. “I do not know. But something is coming to our city, Mr. Clay. Something of great power, and of deep evil. I suggest you prepare yourself for this incoming force.”

  “I’m prepared."

  “No. You only think you are.” Lilith rested a smoky hand on Clay’s shoulder. He couldn’t feel the weight. “Goodbye. I need to gather more information, and see what exact threat is heading our way. I’d tell you to keep your eyes open—but you are a golem, and you can never truly close your eyes.” She turned away from him, floating into the darkening air above the sea. Clay followed her a few steps, his boots crunching on the sand. Lilith faded into nothing. Clay raised his hand to wave after her, but she had already vanished. What sort of danger had she been talking about? Clay didn’t know. At the moment, he had to prepare himself for the Garden of Eden.

  ~~~

  That evening, Clay and Zipporah arrived at the entrance of the Garden of Eden. Monk waited for them on the sidewalk, scratching one of the curling knife scars on his broad face. He gave Clay and Zipporah a nod as they arrived, and motioned to the Kosher butcher shop behind him. “You fellows hungry? I hear they got good pastrami and can mix a fine egg cream.”

  Clay grumbled. He didn’t like being reminded about food he couldn’t eat. “How’s the company?”

  “Not so good.” Monk opened the door. “But what are you gonna do? Come on in.”

  They walked past the sliding doors and into the butcher shop. A single bored clerk sat the counter, rearranging the complimentary pickles in their bowl of brine. He nodded to Monk as they walked behind the counter, and to another door. That brought them to the store room, where several hunks of meat dangled from hooks. Monk moved past the sides of beef, selected one and pulled it aside to reveal a closed metal door. It looked inconspicuous, the kind of door that would lead to a simple storeroom. That was just what Rabbi Holtz and all the gangsters who worked for him wanted. Local cops could be paid off, but Prohibition Agents were another matter. It was best to hide the speakeasy, just in case the investigating Prohibition Agents happened to be honest.

  Monk hauled open the door, revealing a cement stairwell. “Here we are.” He removed his straw boater’s hat and started down the stairs. “Welcome to the Garden of Eden.” Monk stepped into shadow. Clay and Zipporah followed him. The stairwell brought them to a barren lobby, where two gorillas in matching tuxedoes watched the door. They nodded when Monk approached and opened up. Beyond that door, the Garden of Eden waited.

  The speakeasy occupied several rooms—interconnected cellars and basements, strewn with colored lights and separated with diaphanous green curtains. Rich green carpets, like the top of a billiard table, covered the ground, and paintings of pastoral scenes covered the walls. The Garden of Eden offered a full bar, with every kind of illegal liquor available behind a large counter with a traditional brass rail. More adventurous drinkers could move to the round tables at the center of the Garden of Eden, facing a small stage where a Negro band, up from Hogshead Street, crooned their way through a rapid jazz number. At the center of the speakeasy, a giant tree stretched out and apparently held up the ceiling with its branches. Colored lanterns dangled down from the boughs of the false tree, adding a shine to every table and cup. Couples wheeled before the stage, fringed dresses flying as polished shoes tapped to the beat.
>
  The usual mix of thirsty locals, dedicated boozehounds, and adventurous scofflaws packed the place. A couple of them glanced at Clay. One Uptown boy, a towheaded youngster sporting his father’s monocle and with a young flapper on his arm, opened his mouth to make some doubtlessly witty comment. Clay glared at him and the kid’s mouth slammed shut. He turned meekly back to his drink as Clay and the others strolled past.

  Zipporah stopped by the bar. “Gimlet, please.”

  The bartender, a stolid lump of a fellow in a dark vest and shirtsleeves, prepared the drink with practiced speed. “Sure, Miss Sarfati. On the house, as always.”

  “Perks of the job.” Zipporah grabbed the cocktail and followed Clay and Monk as they crossed the room. Monk brought them to a damask partition. “So, Monk, you got any idea what Mr. Sapphire wants with folks like me and Clay?”

  “I suppose you’ll have to sit down and see.” Monk pulled aside the curtain. “Hello, boss. I brought them down, just like you asked.” He held the curtain while Clay and Zipporah ducked into the booth, and then let it drop. Monk took up his position outside, his hands folded. He was muscle, and Sapphire obviously didn’t want any extra ears hearing what he had to say.

  They entered the secluded booth. A round table rested in the booth, where two sets of drinks stood untouched on the dark polished surface. Rabbi Holtz sat at the table, his arms folded. Across from him, Sid ‘the Shark’ Sapphire savored a cigarette in an ivory holder. Sapphire seemed more like a mannequin in a store than a man. Every fold of his dark tuxedo, and the black overcoat hanging limply over his shoulders like a cape, looked neat and pressed. His hair had been composed and straightened with copious pomade into a rigid dark, graying mass. His bloodless lips curled around the end of the cigarette and emitted a puff of smoke. It drifted up before half-closed gray eyes, which settled on Clay and Zipporah as they sat down. The only color on his dark tuxedo belonged to the brilliant blue flower, serving as his boutonniere. He smiled without showing his teeth.

  Next to him, his main enforcer tucked a toothpick between his lips. Isaac ‘Kid Twist’ Deutsch committed murders for Sid Sapphire and was quite good at his job. His fedora covered his bald head, a pair of smoked glasses hid his eyes, and thick black gloves covered his hands. His arms, big and meaty, didn’t look like they belonged on his slightly tubby body. Clay had seen him in action with a pistol, a piano wire garrote, and an ice pick on a few occasions. Kid Twist seemed sedentary now, but Clay knew that could change in an instant.

  Zipporah settled down next to Clay. She stared at Sapphire. “Good evening, Mr. Sapphire. What’s the rumpus?” She was never one for formalities, despite her privileged upbringing. “We hear you got a job for us.”

  Sapphire turned to Rabbi Holtz. “Is she this rude to you, Rabbi?”

  Rabbi Holtz lowered his eyes. “She’s simply eager to get to work, Mr. Sapphire.”

  “Heh.” Kid Twist removed his toothpick. “Ain’t we all?”

  “How can we help you?” Clay wanted to change the subject, before Sapphire had a chance to grow angry. “Rabbi Holtz said it was big.”

  “And so it is.” Sapphire waved his cigarette holder in the air, letting strands of dark smoke drift in a loose spiral in the dim air. “As with all important matters, it concerns money—namely mine. A very profitable revenue stream, Mr. Clay, is jeopardized. I want you to assure that it’s safeguarded for the foreseeable future.”

  “What revenue stream would that be?” Clay asked.

  “There’s so many to choose from.” Zipporah counted on her fingers. “Bootlegging. All the speaks like this one. Your rackets, including the work you do for the big shots and swells Uptown, gambling, smuggling, and—”

  “That last one,” Sapphire said. “That’s where the trouble is.”

  “Mr. Sapphire runs a very profitable business in ancient artifacts,” Rabbi Holtz explained. “He ships them in from Asia, the Middle East, and Africa, and sells them to wealthy men from around the country. These days, when there’s so much chaos and upheaval in the world, it’s easy to get your hands on some valuable objects. Naturally, it’s a rather cutthroat trade. Mr. Sapphire’s managed it well, with some help from me and our friends. But it seems that somebody doesn’t know that this is Mr. Sapphire’s business and is trying to get a piece for themselves.”

  “Did an artifact get pinched?” Zipporah asked.

  “Not just one.” Sapphire’s lips swept downward, forming the hint of a frown. “An entire shipment. You see, I bring the shipments in through the sewers. The kinds of artifacts we’re talking about—the kind the silver spoon Goyim have a taste for—are too valuable to be handled by even my most trusted men in the ports. Instead, I have the goods offloaded from foreign cargo ships at sea, and brought into the sewers on rowboats. The little boats paddle their way to a sewer station, right under my Uptown offices. Last night, that rowboat was attacked. Every artifact inside was stolen.” He drummed his fingers on the table, as if he was already impatient for results. “One of my men was killed. The other escaped and spun some fakakta story to me about what happened.”

  Clay listened carefully. “Who was it? Who did the hijacking? A crew from Hogshead? Or maybe the Black Hand or a Chinatown Tong?”

  “It could’ve been a rival crew,” Zipporah suggested. “Turk Brownstein and the Tidewater Rats hang around on the docks north of Haven Street. The Rats are a desperate bunch, and like hijacking shipments of contraband booze, because they know the bootleggers can’t go to the cops. Maybe they’re responsible?”

  “No.” Sapphire dismissed their suggestions with a cursory shake of his head. “The Italian Families and the Tongs respect me. They need my smuggling routes and financing. As for Hogshead? Those schwartzes could never have found out about the shipments. And Brownstein’s a landsman. His Rats are animals, but they know what would happen if they crossed me.” He pulled aside his cigarette and stubbed it on the table, crushing it against the polished wood. “This is somebody new.”

  “An out-of-town crew?” Rabbi Holtz asked.

  “Sure,” Kid Twist said. “And we want to give them the proper Sickle City welcome.”

  Sapphire leaned closer. “Tomorrow evening, another shipment’s going through the sewers. I’m gonna have every one of my men, from the croupiers at my casino to the torpedoes doing shakedowns, talk about it, so that any listening ears in the city will catch on. But there won’t be any artifacts on the rowboat. Instead, it’s gonna be you. You’ll float in, encounter whatever attacked my men, and find out where they’re laying low. Then you will return my artifacts.”

  “You leave the rest to us,” Kid Twist said. That meant that all Clay and Zipporah had to do was identify the thieves. Kid Twist and his compatriots would hunt down the robbers and dispatch them in the proper style. The unfortunate thieves would probably be floating in the bay or end up in some alley, shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, or simply strangled.

  Zipporah sipped her gimlet. “I got a question—why do you need me and Clay for this? You got plenty of palookas who can handle this sort of heat. Why us?”

  “Two reasons,” Sapphire explained. “First off, there’s the artifacts that were pinched. This batch came from British Palestine.”

  “The Holy Land,” Rabbi Holtz said.

  “Exactly.” Sapphire leaned back in his seat, listing the contents of the shipment. “Ancient stone ritual objects, for the most part. A sacred Babylonian prayer dish or two. But the key to the whole collection was a figurine from King Herod’s time—allegedly for demonic worship. Supposedly, the stone depicted Asmodeus.”

  “The King of Demons.” Rabbi Holtz spoke without looking up.

  “Second reason is because of the report delivered by the incident’s survivor.” Sapphire rolled his eyes. “He kept yapping about swords. Shivs of some kind.” He turned to Kid Twist. “What was the exact word h
e used?”

  “Daggers,” Kid Twist said.

  “Nobody in this city uses daggers,” Sapphire said. “It’s weird business. That means it’s your specialty, so you take care of it. All you need to do is identify the thieves and get back what’s rightfully mine. I’ll see that you’re properly rewarded.” He glanced at Rabbi Holtz. “Something else. I want your son to go along. He knows this magic business extremely well. He probably knows all about Asmodeus and King Herod, and whatever ghoul, ghost, or goblin is wielding daggers.”

  Rabbi Holtz’s expression saddened. “Harvey’s only twelve, Mr. Sapphire.”

  “Rabbi.” Sapphire put his hand on Rabbi Holtz’s arm—in almost a parody of a friendly gesture. “How old were you when you went to work for me and torched your first newsstand? Younger than your son, by a good year or so, I’d wager. Besides, I insist.” Rabbi Holtz had no choice but to follow Sapphire’s orders.

  Clay stood up and adjusted his coat. “We’ll protect Harvey, sir. Don’t worry.”

  “You see?” Sapphire asked. “Nothing to worry about. So you agree, then? Harvey can accompany Mr. Clay and Miss Sarfati?”

  “Yes.” Rabbi Holtz didn’t sound happy about it.

  “I’m giving you and the boy a compliment, Rabbi,” Sapphire said. “Your son’s a genius. I’d say he’s even smarter than your older brother. What was his name? Chaim?” Rabbi Holtz flinched a little at the name, and so did Clay. Chaim Holtz had built Clay and given him life. “What’s the matter? You don’t want him to follow in your brother’s footsteps?”

  “Flee America and return to the Old Country?” Rabbi Holtz shook his head. “Abandoning me and his baby brother and sinking into his studies of Talmudic nonsense and Kabala junk? I’d give my left eye to ensure that didn’t happen.”