The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus Read online

  “That, golem, is not your concern.” Chaim took the fedora from the top of the coat rack. He set it on top of Clay’s head. “My brothers asked for my help. They wanted you rebuilt and so I arrived and now you are rebuilt. That will be the end of it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Chaim stroked his beard, his fingers moving through the stiff, spiky hairs. “I didn’t do it for you, golem. I have little love left for my brothers—one was always a criminal and the other has grown up to hate his people and his faith—but there is still enough of a bond between us that I was willing to rebuild my creation.”

  “Am I still an abomination?”

  “In my eyes, you will always be an abomination,” Chaim replied. “When I see you, I see the blood on your knuckles and the swords driven into your skin. I hear the cries of men and horses as you destroyed them.” He leaned closer and tapped Clay’s stone eyes. “But there are other eyes that have seen you. They don’t see you as an abomination at all.”

  The hatch on the floor of the attic fell open with a clatter. Zipporah Sarfati and Harvey Holtz, wearing a dark formal suit and a matching bowtie, walked into the room. For a moment, they stared at Clay in surprise, and then they ran to him. Clay opened his arms. He embraced both of them, his thick fingers strong against their backs. They held each other for a few moments. Their bruises and wounds had faded and healed. Harvey pushed up his spectacles and wiped tears on his sleeve. Zipporah simply smiled. They were glad to have him whole.

  Zipporah clasped his hand. “You’re back. Right as rain, eh, Clay?”

  “You’re okay?” Harvey asked. “No parts of you will fall off or anything?”

  “I don’t think so,” Clay agreed.

  Harvey faced his uncle. He bowed politely to Chaim. “Thank you, Uncle Chaim. I would like to extend an invitation for you to stay with us, for as long as you like. You can join us for dinner or spend the night and the weekend. We have guest rooms, and I would be very happy to talk to you about your mysticism, and particularly those books that you dropped off.” His voice shook. “Please?”

  “No, my child. I cannot.” Chaim’s eyes remained on the round window and the dancing waves outside. “I must find passage on a ship and return to Europe. I cannot stay in this country, so crude and cruel. I belong back in my home.” He patted Harvey’s shoulders. “The books I gave you are precious. I brought them here because they are not safe in Europe. Tell your father, and watch them yourself. Read them if you’d like—but make sure they are protected and do not fall into the wrong hands. Do you understand, Harvey?”

  “Yes, sir,” Harvey agreed.

  “Good.” Chaim folded his fingers. “Then I have nothing more to say. I have burdened my brother enough.” He reached for his valise, his thin fingers curling around the handles, and then went to the stairs in the floor. He left the attic without looking back, humming some prayer to himself as he strolled into the shadows. Harvey made to follow him, but then paused and thought better of it. Chaim Holtz had walked out of Clay’s life again.

  Clay adjusted his tie and buttoned his vest. “Don’t mind him, Harvey. That’s the way he is.”

  “I suppose so,” Harvey said. “But I would like to see a little more of him. He is my uncle, after all. Whatever else he is.”

  “He’s a bum,” Zipporah replied. She grinned at Clay. “We got dinner at the rabbi’s house—the real rabbi, as far as I’m concerned. You’re invited, Clay, even if you can’t eat. He’s sent out quite a few invitations and it should be a real dandy soiree. You in?”

  “A dinner party?” Clay asked.

  Harvey nodded, full of boyish excitement. “It’s Shabbat, sir. Do you want to go?””

  He was right. It was a Friday, several weeks or so after the battle in Arcadia Park. Clay could think of nothing he would rather do than see his friends. “Of course,” he agreed. He pulled his trench coat around him and walked down the stairs. Harvey and Zipporah trailed after him. They left the attic and walked down the length of the Elephantine Hotel, passing the two floors and emerging from the front onto the porch. The park had its usual Friday crowd, and the roller coasters, midway, and freak show all did a brisk business. Clay looked it over and scanned the rest of Haven Street, past the end of the pier.

  The damage from the Dagger Men’s occupation remained, but a great deal of the repairs had already been completed. The flagstones had been replaced, covering up the gray dirt. The stone cabins had been removed as well, and all the Judaic detritus had been cleared away, replaced by the usual collection of vendors, horse-drawn wagons, and automobiles fighting with pedestrians for space. Newspaper boys advertised their wares even as the sky darkened, and the families had returned to their crowded tenement homes. Their lives, hard and unmerciful as they were, had returned.

  Zipporah followed his gaze. “Things ain’t quite getting back to normal,” she said. “But we’re getting there.” She pointed to the end of the dock. “Come on. We got your Studebaker ready. We’re giving Professor West a lift as well.”

  They walked down the pier, passing the line of visitors eager for a Friday night at the Palisade Park, and then reached Clay’s old Studebaker, looking somewhat battered but still ready to drive. Professor West leaned against the side of the car, reading a new copy of the Sickle City Halcyon. The professor had returned to his sartorial splendor, with his usual crimson suit and upturned moustache. He looked up from the pages and stepped aside from the Studebaker.

  “Mr. Clay. Miss Sarfati. Young Master Harvey.” He doffed his top hat. “I was merely perusing the latest periodical, and seeing what the authorities made of our recent troubles. Apparently, there was no attack from the Dagger Men at all. An earthquake and severe storm struck the city, along with a simultaneous attack from an anarchist group which released hallucinogenic gasses into populated areas. That explains all of the recent strangeness, according to our civic leaders.”

  “The government doesn’t want to tell anyone the truth?” Harvey asked.

  “Apparently not.” Clay held out his hand. “Can I drive?”

  “You can.” Zipporah dropped the keys in Clay’s fingers. “Come along, Professor West. We’re going to the rabbi’s house.”

  They piled into the Studebaker and Clay started the engine and peeled out from the pier entrance. The sun had started to set in the distance, and then the Sabbath would truly begin. Clay didn’t mind. He knew that he would reach Rabbi Holtz’s house in time. He gunned the engine and drove into the usual crowd of traffic, ready for Shabbat.

  ~~~

  That evening, they munched on brisket and wine around the large table in Rabbi Holtz’s dining room. The long table usually just seated Rabbi Holtz, Harvey, and a few guests—but today it was packed with visitors. Clay sat at one corner, next to Harvey and Zipporah. Rabbi Holtz helped the maid and the cook dish out the food. Herbert and Hark, still not quite welcomed in Rabbi Holtz’s home, sat together at the other end of the table. Detective Flynn joined them, wearing his dress uniform with polished brass buttons. Ava and Sophie Silver had been invited as well. Lucky the panda cub raced around below their feet, eager for any kind of scraps. Sophie waved to Harvey as Rabbi Holtz finished with the prayers and the boy blushed. Monk Moss and Carmen Cohen had a place at the table too, and they had arrived without any sort of weaponry—or at least they hadn’t brought their guns to the Shabbat. They talked and ate together, while Professor West poured wine and Clay watched without a plate in front of him. He enjoyed sitting quietly and letting the conversation fill the dining room.

  Detective Flynn sawed at his brisket as he talked about what Clay had missed. “The Wigwam Club and the policemen’s union agreed to make peace—or something close to it. My poor brothers in blue won’t be getting all the benefits they desired, but their pay has increased and the department agreed to clear out the rats and roaches from the SCPD bunkhous
es. Sounds like a windfall.” He munched on the brisket. “But they did put the fear of God into Grand Sagamore Edwin Eames.”

  “His career’s not through?” Clay asked.

  Ava Silver snorted. “Hardly. The wretch is a master at manipulating events. He’s made it seem that he stayed steadfastly at his post as the city crumbled around him—a rock of order in an ocean of chaos, as he called it. His popularity’s increased and now his candidates are guaranteed to win.”

  “The Shark’s back on top as well,” Monk added.

  “His bootlegging and smuggling routes are back in business. Making up for all the lost time.” Cohen ripped her bread into smaller chunks and tossed them in her mouth. “The same with all the other gangsters and hoodlums in town.”

  “Corruption has returned,” Detective Flynn said. “God bless it.”

  “True enough.” Silver spooned sauce onto her plate. “I’ll get him, though, given time. I’ve been doing my best to cover the truth in the Weekly Sophisticate, but my editor doesn’t much care for tales of magic and mayhem. I’ll convince him, though. Don’t worry, Mr. Clay.” She flashed him a grin. “I’ll keep your name out of it.”

  “Thank you,” Clay replied.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble, dear heart.” Silver wiggled a finger at Sophie. “And mind the panda, darling. Don’t let him onto the table. And don’t feed the blasted bear anymore. He’s chubby enough as it is.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sophie set Lucky back onto the floor. The cub whined piteously, but accepted it. “Harvey, did your uncle want to stick around?”

  “I don’t t-think so, Miss Silver,” Harvey said. “He seemed very keen on going back home.”

  “His loss,” Herbert said. “There’s nothing left in the Old Country, from what I hear. The future is in America.”

  “He obviously didn’t feel that way,” Hark said. She had been hesitant about speaking, and watched Rabbi Holtz. He kept his mouth shut. “Some men take comfort in tradition. They need the familiar to survive, and Sickle City is anything but familiar. Chaim is your brother, Herbert, and you should forgive him for not wanting to dip his toes in the same churning waters that you bathe in so regularly.”

  “True enough,” Herbert agreed. “Didn’t he leave some books, Harvey?”

  “He did.” Harvey leaned closer, his food forgotten in his excitement. “There’s some very rare manuals of Kabala, a treatise on Merkabah mysticism—that’s chariot mysticism—and, most impressively, a set of travel journals from this Radhanite merchant and adventurer named Malachi the Mamzer.”

  “Malachi the what?” Zipporah asked.

  “Mamzer,” Rabbi Holtz explained. “It means bastard.”

  “Well, I think was a bastard.” Harvey lowered his voice, his cheeks reddening as Sophie stared at him. “Literally, I mean. But he became a very well-traveled merchant, and always wrote about magic in his various travels. His journal is tremendously rare and tremendously valuable. He writes about lost worlds, ancient civilizations, mysterious ruins, and valuable artifacts in all the big cities in Europe, in Egypt, and even in Asia as well.”

  Silver nodded knowingly. “Sounds like the makings of a treasure hunt. Could be a delightful excursion, particularly after this mess with the Dagger Men.”

  “As long as it doesn’t lead you into danger, boychick,” Rabbi Holtz said.

  “Of course, papa,” Harvey agreed.

  They returned to their dinner, talking about gangland politics and all the ways that Sickle City had struggled to return to normalcy. The meal seemed tasty enough, and the cook and the maid returned with seconds for those who wanted them, and then a puffy cake drenched in frosting and a pile of freshly-baked rugelach for desert. Clay watched them eat, glad that his friends could get a break from the chaos that had conquered their city. It didn’t matter if the corruption had returned. They had each other and that would be enough.

  After the meal, Rabbi Holtz and his guests retired to the drawing room. They played cards and watched Monk juggle apples—a trick he had learned during his youth on the streets of the slum known as the Rookery. Herbert fiddled with the radio and found some strumming, easy jazz. Clay stayed with them for a few minutes, watching everything, and then left the parlor. He walked past the bookshelves and headed out to the porch, where he could look at the stars.

  Electricity had returned to Sickle City, and the flashes of lights drowned out the stars, as they always did. The sky seemed dark and far away. Clay sat on the steps of the porch, looking at the faint glimmer of stars through the extended branches of the great tree in Rabbi Holtz’s yard. It seemed that Sickle City had been rebuilt without lasting damage—just like him.

  The door opened behind him. Harvey and Zipporah stepped out, both shivering a little in the night’s chill. They went to join Clay on the steps, and looked up at the night sky together. Nobody said much for a while.

  “What happened with the Founding Stone?” Clay asked. “And the letters?”

  Harvey stared at his polished dress shoes. “I did end up turning the word for ‘truth’ to the word for ‘death,’” he admitted. “It wasn’t easy, and I didn’t like doing it—but a living city was too dangerous. I did something else too, though. On the back of the stone, I used the Serpent Yad to write the word for ‘freedom.’ I had read about that in some of my books, but I’m not sure it worked. It keeps the spirit of the golem around, freeing it from the physical confines of the body, and letting it filter into the air and fill another frame. In this case, the frame is still around.” He smiled sadly. “So in many ways, Sickle City is still alive.”

  “Maybe it always was,” Zipporah said. “All the magic that went on here, thanks to Bathsheba Barebone and her witches in the old days, and all the occultism that’s taken place since—maybe they did give the city some kind of consciousness and Harvey just set it free.”

  “It could be,” Clay agreed.

  Zipporah put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s wrong, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Your creator. Chaim Holtz.” Zipporah settled onto the steps, almost reclining—a rare position for her. “He’s wrong in the same way that the Dagger Men are wrong. He’s set in his ways and he can’t accept the truth about you.” She stared back up at the faint stars. “But you need to accept that truth, Clay. You truly do.”

  “I don’t know if it is true,” Clay muttered. “Maybe Eisendrath’s right. Maybe all a golem can do is hate, and live for decades off that hate. Maybe my creator is right as well and I am nothing more than an abomination.”

  “No, Mr. Clay, that’s not—” Harvey started.

  “But Zipporah? Harvey?” Clay faced them. If he could smile, he would. “I am eager to prove them wrong.”

  Rabbi Holtz’s voice came from the doorway. “You want some tea? And Harvey, that radio show you like is on. We’re all gonna give it a listen. Come on, boychick. Don’t stay out there and catch cold.”

  “He’s wrong, you know.”

  “Okay, papa.” Harvey turned back to the door. “Mr. Clay? Do you want to accompany me?”

  “Give me a few more moments,” Clay said. He turned back to the sky.

  “Come on, child.” Zipporah steered Harvey to the door. She looked back at Clay. “Don’t take too long, Clay. Don’t be as slow as the mud that made you.” She and Harvey returned to the house and walked to the parlor. Light and laughter came from the drawing room. Harvey and Zipporah shared in the conversation.

  Clay remained sitting on the steps for a little more, as an evening breeze fluttered his trench coat. Then he walked down to the street and knelt down. He rested his palm on the notched pavement. He could feel the city under his skin. It was free now, and so was he. He wondered if he could feel the pulse through his fingers. Clay kept his hand on the street for a few moments, and then stood. He returned to th
e rabbi’s house to rejoin his friends.

  THE END

  MODERN GOLEMS

  A Bonus Tale of the Clay Shamus

  Haven Street had changed. The tenement buildings had been transformed into high-priced condos, suburban streets, and spacious apartments. The old speakeasies and kosher butcher shops and bakeries had all but vanished, with only a core surrounding Haven Street’s Jewish enclave, and trendy coffee shops, upscale toy stores, and boutiques inhabited their empty shells. Bicycles replaced the pushcarts, and they buzzed around streets that had become greener, with trees and flower beds shading the assembled chairs of outdoor eateries. Banners advertising some new exhibition in the city’s art gallery dangled from the streetlights, while one-sheet posters for some new album, or movie, or whatever, had been plastered on barren walls. Emmet Clay, a golem turned detective who had lived in Haven Street since the Twenties, didn’t quite know what to make of the changes. Everything had changed, but him—or at least, not in any way that mattered.

  He parked his car—a beautifully restored classic Studebaker—outside one of the new high-end coffee shops on trendy Atlas Avenue. Clay had spent a fortune on the Studebaker, with its white-rimmed tires, boxy form, and jutting runners, and he considered it money well-spent. Because he was a golem, he didn’t really need many other amenities. He didn’t like the look of modern automobiles either. He walked onto the sidewalk, aware of the occasional odd gaze sent his way. Clay still wore a trench coat and brown suit like he had in the old days, though they were both of a modern cut. He sported the fedora as well. He looked like someone pretending to be a detective from a black-and-white movie, but he didn’t care. In Haven Street, people wore plenty of outlandish costumes and he could still fit right in. At least he projected an illusion to hide his stony skin and round rock eyes, though he couldn’t hide his bulk. He strolled across the sidewalk, paused to let a bicycle and a couple walking their oversized dogs pass, and headed into the coffee shop.