The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus Page 4

  Sapphire grinned, finally revealing his teeth. His smile had a predatory edge, as if he wanted to lean over and start eating whatever he grinned at. Clay knew why people called him The Shark. “Would you rather he ended up like you, then?” Sapphire asked.

  Rabbi Holtz stared at him. “I’d give my right eye to ensure that didn’t happen.”

  “Hmmm.” Sapphire released a muffled, quiet laugh. He was still laughing as Clay and Zipporah walked away from the table, leaving Rabbi Holtz to his guests. They had been given their assignment, and Clay didn’t feel like sticking around.

  Was Rabbi Holtz ashamed about what he did—acting as the pillar of Haven Street’s religious community when everyone knew that he was a kingpin who ran every racket in the neighborhood? He certainly didn’t advertise his career to Harvey, who simply believed that his father protected Haven Street from outside threats. Clay supposed that he couldn’t blame the rabbi for hiding the truth.

  He and Zipporah walked back to Palisade Park, just as it closed up for the evening. The last guests of the night walked past them, ushered along by the park workers. A drunk snoozed against the base of the Ferris wheel, and one of the park’s clowns blasted him with a spray of seltzer to wake him up and get him moving. Professor West stood on the porch of the Elephantine Hotel, overseeing his kingdom. The rickety roller coaster looked almost ghostly in the fading light, like the rib cage and spine of some shadowy animal. Shadows made everything in the Palisade Park look a little odd. Maybe it was best to close it up this late.

  Zipporah stifled a yawn as they walked past the tents and booths and approached the Elephantine Hotel. “I think I’m gonna head to sleep, Clay. Get a little shuteye while I can.” She paused at the porch of their hotel. “You’ll be all right?”

  “Sure. Sleep was another thing that a golem couldn’t do.

  “Okay.” She held out her hand. “Huh. It’s raining.” Sure enough, a few drops pattered down from the sky. More joined in, pouring down over the pier and splashing into the sea. The rain pounded against the brim of Clay’s fedora. “You want to come inside?”

  “No. I don’t mind the rain.”

  He didn’t let Zipporah ask him any more questions. Instead, he turned around and walked into the amusement park. The lanterns and electric lights of Palisade Park flickered off, covering everything in darkness and shadow. Clay wanted to be alone, and Zipporah understood that. The battle with the Tree Men, Harvey’s hasty peace treaty, the meeting with Lilith, and the new job from Sapphire—all of them reminded Clay of what he was and what he had been built to do. He needed to think about that, and so he strolled around the garish decorations, now turned into fantastic silhouettes by the moonlight and shadow.

  The storm worsened. Clay walked to the railing, past a rigged ball toss game, and looked out over the sea. Lightning crashed in the distance. The waves rolled and crested, tipped with points of white, before they fell down into the ocean. Clay knew storms very well. Years ago, right after his creation, he had experienced a blizzard.

  He had wandered out of the little cabin and into the plains of Eastern Russia, while the wind tore into the hillsides and threw up endless volumes of snow and sleet. The wind had blasted his body and knocked him down, but he always managed to come to his feet. The tempest almost pulled him off the plains and dragged him into the air, and the snow nearly buried him, but Clay held fast. When the storm ended, Rabbi Chaim Holtz had emerged from the cabin and gazed at him.

  Chaim, with his tangled white beard, skullcap, and dark robe, looked like a figure out of the ancient past, as opposed to his contemporary brothers. He had the pleasant round face that Harvey and Herman Holtz shared, at least. Chaim looked at his creation, and nodded slowly. He held out his hands, and he and Clay linked fingers. “My creation—you can stand against anything but the power of the Almighty,” Chaim had said. “You are ready.”

  He had given Clay instructions. The next day, an army of marauding Cossacks neared the small shtetl where Chaim had made his home. In the wild days of the Russian Revolution, Cossacks pledged themselves to the White Army fighting for the Tsar, the Red Army fighting for Lenin, Trotsky, and the communists, or the various warlords and independent armies carving their way through the countryside.

  Some Cossacks spurned any flag. They attacked everyone, looting and killing for their own gain instead of a cause—though every army looted and pillaged in that chaotic, mad conflict. Cossacks had long hated Jews, seeing them as weak targets and objects of revulsion, and now they turned against them in endless bloody pogroms. Chaim Holtz decided that the Jews needed a protector, just as they did in Medieval Prague when Rabbi Judah Loew had made the first golem. He crafted a golem, gave it no name, and sent it to battle against the Cossacks.

  As he had been ordered to, Clay met the Cossacks. They charged across the open plains in a great horde, snow flying from the hooves of their horses. Their sabers reached high, shimmering in the moonlight. Laughter left their bearded faces when they saw a single Jew standing against them. They had charged him, ready to cut him down. Clay met them. Their sabers shattered against Clay’s sides. Their carbines and revolvers thundered into his belly, but barely made him pause. Then Clay had attacked. He tore Cossacks from the saddle and ripped them to pieces. His punches shattered bones. He ripped off limbs and broke skulls. Horses and men died under Clay’s blows. A wagon with a mounted machine gun—a Tachanka—rode against Clay. It didn’t stand a chance. Clay killed the crew and the gunners and then grabbed the machine gun from the wagon. He turned that gun on the survivors and mowed them down as they tried to attack.

  When the battle had ended, not a single Cossack remained alive. Clay returned to Rabbi Chaim Holtz, his arms and legs covered in blood. Sabers had been stabbed in his chest and shoulders and remained wedged in his skin. He stood before Rabbi Holtz, a giant in his enemy’s gore. Rabbi Chaim Holtz had shuddered.

  He had cursed his creation. “Abomination!” He roared the word, realizing what he had done. “Monster! You are a killer in the eyes of the God—and in my eyes! Be gone from here!” Chaim had pointed away from the shtetl, and so Clay had left and wandered through Russia—a hulking, forlorn figure with no discernible purpose.

  Eventually, he wandered north and encountered a strange scene. Soldiers in olive green uniforms and tin bowler helmets had been outnumbered by a large force of Bolsheviks. Clay waded into the battle, intervening on the side of the soldiers—who happened to be Americans. They had been sent to Russia alongside the Allied Intervention, England, France, Japan, and many other countries fought the Bolsheviks. These soldiers belonged to the Polar Bear Expedition, and they welcomed Clay back to their camp, even if they didn’t know exactly what he was.

  The doughboys gave Clay his name by asking him some simple questions. “Where’d you come from?” The answer was Clay. “What does that scribbling on your head mean?” The answer was Emmet. After that, everyone called him Emmet Clay. He fought alongside the Polar Bear Expedition, engaging in numerous risky missions for them until the Revolution ended and the communist victory was clear. The grateful American colonel brought Clay back to America and looked up Rabbi Chaim Holtz’s brothers on Haven Street. Clay had been working for the younger Rabbi Holtz ever since.

  Now, he turned away from the ocean and stared over the dark amusement park. Statues of Indians, clowns, imps, and animals grinned at him, strange and frightening in the darkness. Another face appeared in their ranks for half a second—a hairless face, with pale skin surrounded by dark tattoos. The mouth opened, uttering a single word—”Golem”—and then the strange face vanished. Clay stared at the shadows. He must have imagined it.

  Still, his imagination was correct. Clay was nothing more than a golem. He emitted a low sigh and trudged back to the Elephantine Hotel for the night.

  Chapter Two

  UNDERGROUND

  The day after the
battle with the Tree Men in Arcadia Park, Clay and Zipporah prepared for their next job. They sat together in the parlor of the Elephantine Hotel, readying themselves for the case to come. This assignment had come from Sapphire himself, and they knew they couldn’t foul it up. Clay flexed his fingers, making fists and preparing for a scrape. He tried a few blows, rapid jabs in the air followed by powerful right hooks. He pantomimed punching the elephant statue in the corner, aiming his blows at the round head and tusks. Just because Clay hit like an avalanche didn’t mean that he could afford to avoid practice. He watched and imitated some of the best pugilists in Steele City, to make every blow hit harder. Because he didn’t care for guns or blades, finding them unwieldy and imprecise, he had to be sure he could rely on his knuckles. They hadn’t failed him yet.

  On the other hand, Zipporah had plenty of weapons. She sharpened her scimitars and placed them in their scabbards, then set the sheaths over her shoulders. The Maid of Megiddo had taken them from the bodies of dead Turkish officers, and cared for them ever since. She had set a valise on the glass coffee table and carefully undid the straps. The valise fell open, revealing a variety of British army pistols, a bayonet, and a few black and white pictures. One showed T.E. Lawrence himself, standing tall with a younger Zipporah at his side in a wide, pale white desert. Clay stopped shadowboxing and looked at the picture.

  The mouth opened, uttering a single word – “Golem.”

  “A friend?” he asked.

  Zipporah shrugged. “He was my commander, Clay. But yes, I suppose he was a friend. Just like Rabbi Holtz is now.” Her hand moved to a trio of grenades—Mills Bombs, that looked like ridged, olive green metal fruit. “Think I ought to bring a grenade? A pineapple might come in handy.”

  If their previous missions were any indication, there would be certainly be a need for firepower. “Bring the grenade,” Clay said. Zipporah tucked the Mills Bomb in her pocket, and came to her feet as the door opened.

  Professor West poked his head in. He had been applying pomade to his dark hair, and it glistened in the afternoon sunlight. “Young Harvey is at the door. I believe he wishes to invite you to some sort of event. He seems most insistent.”

  They gathered up their supplies and headed to the porch. Sure enough, Harvey waited for them on the wooden planks, staring out at the gaudily painted structures of the boardwalk. He turned around when Clay and Zipporah emerged, a smile splitting his pale, freckled face. “Mr. Clay, Miss Sarfati—I would like to invite you to see a political speaker at the Sylvan Cafe.” He sounded like he had carefully practiced this invitation in his mind. “My Uncle Herbert invited me by telephone after Mr. Moss drove me home from school, and told me that I should bring my friends. I can think of no one else I would rather go with.” He pointed down the street. “It’s in North Haven Street. Would you guys like to attend?” Enthusiasm leaked from his words.

  Clay considered it. “Uncle Herbert?” That was Harvey’s young uncle—and Rabbi Holtz’s baby brother. “And the Sylvan Cafe?”

  “This is Bolshevik business, ain’t it, child?” Zipporah asked. Herbert attended university and had fallen in with several radical organizations. The Sylvan Cafe catered to Bohemian types, and would be a fitting place for a radical speaker.

  Harvey examined his Buster Browns. “I suppose it might—but Uncle Herbert promised that it was enlightening and important. He’s very smart, and he knows all about this sort of thing. Would you like to go with me?”

  “I’ve had enough of Bolsheviks in Russia,” Clay muttered.

  “Come on, Clay.” Zipporah patted his thick shoulder. “Humor the kid. Besides, I like Herbert. He’s a good pup, and he cares for his nephew. I say we go. You never know—you might learn something.”

  Clay released a rumbling groan as he stared at Harvey. He couldn’t deny the boy’s request. “Fine. We’ll take the Studebaker.”

  “Swell!” Harvey’s smile almost made it worthwhile.

  They headed to the waiting Studebaker and left Palisade Park. Haven Street had been glutted with the usual afternoon traffic, and it took them an annoyingly long time to arrive at the Sylvan Cafe. Clay parked a block away, and they headed toward the large crowd gathered before the wide glass windows and conglomeration of leafy plants surrounding the outdoor section of the coffee house. A crowd had already gathered, made up of scruffy North Haven Street types, mixed in with a few Little Jerusalem natives who seemed eager to hear the speaker. Young men and women with red armbands moved around, handing out flyers with insistent eagerness. Clay and the others reached the back of the crowd and sidled in, trying to get a view of the speaker. Harvey stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck, searching for his uncle.

  Herbert Holtz spotted him first and hurried over. “Harvey!” Herbert embraced the boy, and then offered his hand to Clay and Zipporah. “I’m delighted that you could make it.” Herbert had the same pleasant round face of his older brother and nephew, though he sported a few strands of boyish stubble. He wore a rumpled gray suit, with mustard stains on the vest, and the knot of his tie looked like it couldn’t quite handle the task that had caused its creation. Like Harvey, he wore a newsboy cap and round spectacles. He pointed to the speaker. “This is Enrico Neri, with the Socialist Worker’s Alliance. We disagree on a few key points, but he’s still a wonderful man and a fine speaker.”

  Enrico Neri stood on a chair from the Sylvan Cafe, which gave his small frame some much needed height. He had graying wafts of hair and pince-nez perched on his Roman nose. His hand cut the air mechanically as he spoke. “And for what purpose was this Great War, in which so many young men lost their lives? Did it improve the lots of their families? Did it make the world better, this great conflict which is burned into the memories of so many? No. The blood of workers was once again shed to enrich the wealthy. So it has always been, and so it is now.” He had a thick Italian accent, but somehow his words managed to be audible. “A change is needed, comrades. A change to Sickle City, to America, and to the world! A change in which the worker fights not for the gold of the rich, but to make himself free of oppression and tyranny!” Cheers followed his words. Herbert jabbed his fist proudly into the air, adding his voice to the roars.

  When the shouts finished, Herbert turned back to Clay, Zipporah, and Harvey. “I would like to introduce you fellows to someone else as well.” He glanced into the crowd, and motioned for someone to join him. “This is Comrade Bethany Hark, of Shanghai.”

  Bethany Hark moved awkwardly to stand next to Herbert, her long legs carefully directing her between the members of the crowd. The Chinese girl seemed around Herbert’s age, but wore a Westernized woman’s shirt and a golden, striped tie under a long overcoat. She even had a bowler hat, framing close-cropped hair. “I am pleased to meet you.” She spoke English extremely well, with a trace of a British accent. Clay accepted her handshake, and she gave him a curtsey that looked practiced. She turned to Harvey. “You are Herbert’s nephew, young man?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Harvey smiled shyly. “Are you really from Shanghai? In China? What’s it like over there?” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I’ve read numerous pulp magazines about the secret mysteries of the Orient, so I have a decent idea.”

  “You do?” Hark seemed amused.

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s full of ancient Tongs and Triads, and evil assassins, and opium dens, people dying the Death of a Thousand Cuts.” He glanced at Clay and Zipporah, who shrugged. “Or at least, it is in the stories.”

  Hark shook her head. “It’s dangerous enough without things like that.”

  “Bethany was raised in a Christian orphanage, before finding her place with the growing communist party in Shanghai’s International Settlement,” Herbert explained. “She worked diligently for her comrades before incurring the wrath of some local capitalist and his petty gangster cronies. That necessitated a rapid flight to America’s golden shor
e, where we became acquainted.” He smiled weakly, looking between him and Hark. “We belong to a few of the same organizations.”

  Zipporah nodded politely. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Hark. I’m Zipporah Sarfati.”

  “And I’m Emmet Clay. We work for Herbert’s brother, Rabbi Holtz.” Bethany bristled a little at that. Herbert must have told her some details about Rabbi Holtz’s business. After all, that was what paid for Herbert to attend University.

  “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Clay.” Hark retained her pleasant expression. “Rabbi Holtz is a good man. There are many like him, in Shanghai.”

  “Rabbis?” Harvey asked.

  “Not exactly,” Herbert added.

  Clay pointed to the speaker. “What do you make of that fellow, and the Bolshevik stuff he’s spewing?”

  They turned and looked at Neri, as he reached another portion of his speech. “Sickle City, like all cities in America and in the industrialized world, now stand at a crossroads. One path leads to the same grinding capitalist existence that has always polluted the world. You can see the results everywhere around you. The poor pack into crowded tenements. They struggle in factories. They are spat on by the rich, and called dirty and stupid. Some advance, some do not—and the failure of those who remain mired in poverty is blamed only on their character and not on a system which is inherently unequal.” He jabbed his finger into the air, as if he was trying to puncture a hole in something. “But there is another path, my friends. Our comrades in Russia follow it as we speak. Are there struggles and problems? Of course there are. But at its core, they struggle for something better. It is a struggle we should all join.”

  Hark listened carefully. “You don’t agree with that, Mr. Clay?”