Wild Cards and Iron Horses, Page 2

  Jon put up his right hand to stop the boy, feeling the brace flex against his skin. “I need someone who can deal with, well, the new technology. Someone’s who’s up-to-date with the latest developments.”

  The boy chewed on his lower lip, frowning. “Well, there’s the Heinrich brothers, but they’re drunk half the time. Or Dayafter, but he’s still recuperating from that electric shock he got from licking something, I heard.” His brown eyes widened. “Oh, you want Miss Sam! Fixes all the newfangled toys that keep showing up in town, she does. Best at what she does.”

  “She?”

  The kid punted a stone into the street. It bounced under the hooves of a pair of horses pulling a mud-spattered carriage. “She’s the one who fixes stuff. Used to be her pa and her, but he got torn up by one of those horses and all. Now she does almost all of the work.”

  Jon frowned. “He got torn up by a horse?”

  “Well, not a live one.” The urchin shuffled back and forth, hands in his pockets. “They was working on the steam horses, the ones they want to put on the stages, and his arm got pulled in. Torn right off, they say.” He grinned. “I heard the other fellow they had working for them fainted. It was her that took him to the doctor with his arm hanging in a bag by her side.”

  “Ah.” The conversation had taken a suddenly morbid turn. The pain in his right hand intensified in sympathy with the unseen man’s injuries. “And they were unable to reattach it?”

  “Nope.” The child spat again into the street. Jon followed suit, noting the darkness in his saliva. This was worse than London, a considerable feat. “So she took over his business whole, and he just does what he can.”

  “A woman.” He couldn’t hide the surprise in his voice.

  “Well, sure.” The boy kicked up a cloud of dust around them with his feet. “This is America. You can be whoever you want to be.”

  If only that were true, Jon’s inner voice mumbled. He had seen too many good men and women held down by the same class restrictions that permeated Europe, before and after the war.

  “And where is this great woman mechanic?” Before the words left his mouth he knew it would cost him. A quick glance at the map showed that he would be hopelessly lost if he moved much farther away from the train depot, much less navigate to the rooming house and this workshop. Another few steps to a new location would have him totally confused.

  The street kid grinned. “Well, that’s another whole thing. She could be anywhere, fixing things. With her pa hurt and all, she’s in pretty high demand. Especially with the new horses. They’re setting out to get the repair contract for the county. Lots of people wanting things fixed. Boilers, airship engines, things like that.”

  “I guess so. What’s going to happen to all the horses if they replace them with these metal creatures?”

  “Well, I never thought much about that.” The boy laughed. “The meat’s good, if that’s what you like.

  So, where ya want to go?”

  Jon fell into the familiar banter that never changed, even if the names of the towns did. “I’m looking for Mrs. McGuire’s place, to start with. If you can take me there first, we’ll discuss further employment.”

  He gave another furtive look at the map in his hand. “Third street to the left, that’s what the stationmaster said. But I don’t see anything that says where—”

  “Nah,” the youngster interjected, “he’ll have you taking the long way ’round.” He pointed at a dark alley. “I’ve got the shortcuts, take you there in five minutes.” He paused for exactly two heartbeats. “For free. To start with.”

  Jon grinned. The boy had a good sales pitch.

  “Done.” He kept a tight grip on his single piece of luggage as he followed the child into the darkness.

  The derringer pushed against his torso, reminding him of its presence. The urchin may be small, but Jon had no doubt that in a scrap he could hold his own. And if that energy were turned on Jon, especially right now, it would be a tough battle. Straightening up, he marched into the shadows behind the boy.

  Chapter Two

  Ten minutes later, Jon Handleston was totally lost, more than he had ever been. And that included a drunken party in London that wandered through thirteen bars and at least three whorehouses, not to mention two airship hangars and supposedly a submarine.

  Finally they exited the dank corridors, and Jon took a deep breath of what almost passed for breathable air. He glanced behind them into the darkness, hoping that the liquid on his boots was more water than urine. Whatever that piece of paper was, it wasn’t a map in any sense of the word. The lanes connecting the spokes did so, but also branched off into smaller and smaller alleys as each shop demanded space for their deliveries and outgoing shipments. The constant dripping of unidentified fluids onto the overhanging awnings and roughly built roofs reminded him of some old tale of water torture.

  He blinked the tears out of his eyes, taking in the view of row upon row of wooden buildings, flags and sashes waving proudly in the foul breeze. It was as if he had never left the previous street, except for the air being a bit cleaner.

  But there was some sort of urgency emanating from it all. A sense of speed and charging forward and hell take the hindmost. Everyone seemed to be working at double speed, maybe even triple, in their walking, their breathing, everything.

  Jon snapped out of his reverie as the scamp pulled up in front of a nondescript house. It could have been a shop, it could have been a hotel. The building had no sign in front of it to offer pedestrians any sense of what it contained. The large windows were covered with soot, making it impossible to peer inside. But the steps were swept clean of any dirt or dust and the porch held a single rocking chair for any who dared to sit outside.

  “Here’s Mrs. McGuire’s place. If you want, I’ll take you to Sam’s shop for two dollars.”

  “Two dollars!” Jon tried to sound surprised. He figured the child would ask for five. “I’ll give you fifty cents and not a penny more.”

  The urchin scowled. “You gonna be long?” He poked at the suspenders. “I got things to do, you know. A busy man.”

  “I see.” Jon resisted the urge to smile. “Let me just get my room, drop my things off and then I’ll be out.” He dug in his pocket for a minute. Withdrawing a quarter, he flipped it to the child. “Stay here and I’ll be back out soon enough.”

  “Yessir! Yessir!” The thin fingers turned the shiny quarter over and over. “I’ll be here.” He took up his position beside the rocking chair, snapping to attention.

  Getting hold of the brass doorknob, Jonathan pulled in one last forced shallow breath of the street air.

  He opened the door, moving as quickly as possible to get inside.

  The air was fresher, much cleaner. A scrubber sat on the floor directly to his left, the short stout machine chugging along at a ferocious rate to try and filter out the worst of the soot. It clicked up a gear, reacting to Jon’s intrusion into the room.

  The windows looked onto the street he had left, bright colorful curtains doing their best to hide the dust and ash accumulating on the outside of the panes. Mrs. McGuire’s hotel was a startling change from the soot staining everything and everyone he had seen so far. The parlor was spotless, the paisley sofa in pristine condition. The finely polished oak tables could have come out of the latest catalog, a few thick reference books stacked on the varnished surfaces.

  “Hello,” Jon called, raising his voice slightly.

  A woman appeared on the stairs, wiping her hands on a faded blue towel. Her dress was a neutral blue pastel, the white blouse sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Grey hair with white streaks running through it contrasted with a young, almost girlish face. “You must be Mr. Handleston.”

  Jon reached up to tip an invisible hat, catching himself at the last minute. His fingers touched his forehead instead. “At your service, ma’am.”

  “Your mother can be ma’am. I’m Mrs. McGuire.” She nodded towards the door behind him. “Just
checked on your room. I heard the train had come in, figured you’d be along in a bit.”

  “Yes, well…I had a bit of a problem with…well, adjusting to the air. And finding my way here.” His chest ached as if he’d run a marathon.

  She shook her head as she walked down the stairs. “Aye, we get that a lot from the newcomers.

  Chamber of Commerce had a discussion on mailing out notices to the other train stations, giving out more maps and all that, but decided against it. Be bad for business, don’t you know.” The businesswoman walked into the parlor, waving a hand behind her for him to follow.

  Mrs. McGuire sat on the sofa and neatly folded the towel into a tight little square on her lap. “I’d have sent a runner, but everyone’s busy getting ready for the games and I figured you’d be smart enough to find your own way here.” She eyed him warily, her hair falling into her face from the remains of the tightly wound bun. “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Handleston. I’m a God-fearing woman who doesn’t like your sort. The Lord put us here to do work, not play with cards and take people’s money.”

  “I understand completely.” Jon smiled, sitting in the chair opposite her. “My father feels the same way.” Except for the working part, of course.

  “Good. I don’t mean to lose your business, but I don’t want to be misleading to you. I just want us to understand each other before we start. As long as you keep your affairs, business or otherwise, out of my household, we’ll be just fine.” She brushed imaginary dust from her lap before getting to her feet. “I run a respectable place, the best in Prosperity Ridge. Dinner is at six, breakfast at six and lunch at noon, no exceptions. If you miss it, you go hungry. I don’t have an open kitchen and there are plenty of places that will feed you if you don’t like my fare.” The robust older woman wagged her finger at him. “And no women. I’ll not have rumors about my establishment. There are plenty of other places that will…” The words trailed off as she searched for the right phrase, her cheeks turning a slight reddish hue.

  “I totally understand.” Jon stood and offered his left hand. “I’m sure the accommodations will be perfect. And I have no plans for female company either here or elsewhere.” The ten-dollar bill in his palm slid into her hand, a silent trade. One of her eyebrows rose slightly, then the paper vanished into an apron pocket.

  She smiled, her fingers pushing it farther down and out of sight. “That’ll be fine, then. Your room is number eight on the second floor at the end of the hallway.” She handed him a key, the edges well worn from use. “Three days, you said?”

  “Yes.” Three days to make or break a year’s worth of work. He shook his head again, dismissing the thought. Thinking like that was bad luck, to say the least. “Thank you.” Jon gave a slight bow to the innkeeper. He walked up the stairs, his mind turning to the delicate piece of metal still tucked inside his pocket.

  If this Sam could repair the spring, or at least do some sort of adjustments, maybe winning the competition was still within his grasp. The dwindling roll of dollars in his pocketbook reminded him of the importance of his cause. If he won the entire pot here, he would be able to sleep easy for the first time in months, maybe years. If he lost, well…it would be a setback he might not recover from.

  The room was like a hundred others he had visited in his trips cross-country. As usual, a single bed, the mattress paper-thin, and you could probably get a nasty paper cut from the starched dingy grey sheets covering it. The pillow might have held feathers once, but what was left couldn’t have covered a duckling.

  Still, there was no sign of bedbugs, or worse, gnaw bites on the wooden dresser legs or the night table. The small desk had seen better days, the cheap white paint peeling in spots and the mismatched chair a raw, unvarnished piece of rough wood. A small blue and white ceramic basin and matching pitcher completed the scene. A small gas lamp sat on the table, lit and turned up to a reasonable degree. The wallpaper design might have been flowers, once, but had faded into caricatures of themselves, washed out and drooping into the light green background. For a minute he peered through the soot-stained window above the desk and then turned towards the bed.

  Jon dropped the bag onto the mattress, noting the lack of bounce under the weight. He stripped the black gloves from his hands, folding them and placing them on the bed. The steel skeleton on his right hand shone in the dim light. He poured some of the lukewarm water into the basin and washed his face, using only his left hand. The water darkened considerably. Jon dried off his face and hands on the hand towel,checking the small metal bands and rods delicately embracing each finger on his right hand to make sure they were dry. The towel was bright yellow, a startling contrast to the other colors in the room. Of course, after his washing it darkened considerably, more evidence that Prosperity Ridge was well on its way to matching or surpassing the sootiness of the larger cities back East, if not overseas.

  The black gloves went back on easily, the fabric soft and comforting. The gloves had come through the war with him, their latest assignment nothing more than providing protection and comfort to his hand.

  A quick check that the derringer was still hidden, a brush of his fingers through the thick black hair that defied combs and gravity, and he bounded down the steps, key in hand, ready to continue searching for a solution to his spring problem.

  The urchin hopped off a wooden crate near the entrance, snapping to attention again as if he’d never moved. “Sir, I waited for you like you said.” He touched his forehead with an index finger. “I forgot to introduce myself earlier. Gil Grassfeathers, at your service, sir.”

  “And I am Jon Handleston.” He shook the hand of the young boy, leaning down to make the connection. “Now then, please take me to this engineer.” Jon smiled. “I’m looking forward to meeting this woman of yours.”

  “All the men usually do.” Gil allowed himself a smirk as he led Jon down the sidewalk.

  The dense air, spotted with dark flakes floating in all directions, began to clear as they traveled outward along the spokes towards the fringes. Fewer smokestacks spitting out darkness, more wooden buildings that reminded him of all those newspaper drawings of what the American West was supposed to look like. The pedestrian traffic continued to ebb and flow, everyone on their way to or from someplace with the same sense of urgency. It was as if everyone had a timetable to keep and they kept falling behind.

  The only people Jon saw strolling along the wooden sidewalks with any ease were seniors, and most of them, he suspected, were only held back by their infirmities from bounding along like the rest of the town’s inhabitants.

  “Why does everything lead back to the station?” Jon asked Gil. The kid skipped ahead of him on the sidewalk, deftly sidestepping the pools of spit and saliva on the rough wood. “I understand the town’s design, sort of, but why make the train station the center of activity?”

  “Well, some towns got the railway to build by them. We got built on the railway instead.” He jumped over a large puddle with a laugh. “So we’re built around the station ’cause that’s how we all got here.”

  “Ah. I see.” Jon shook his head at the shaky logic, but he couldn’t deny the truth of the matter. While other towns had raced to seduce the railroads into laying down tracks nearby and expanded to the stations, Prosperity Ridge had literally been born out of a single train station and an airship tower.

  “Here we are.”

  The brick building stood out from the other wooden structures, the double chimney spewing dark smoke into the air. A set of large double doors heralded the entrance instead of the usual single shop door, both firmly closed. The sign over the door read “Weatherly” and nothing else, no title or description of what lay within. Two windows sat on each side of the doors, covered with soot and dirt. There was no chance of light getting in through that mess and no hope of anyone spying what was going on inside the mysterious shop.

  Gil lightly knocked on the left door first, waited a minute, and then pounded with the side of his fist.r />
  “Sam? Sam? I got you a customer here.”

  A small slot in the first door slid open, revealing a pair of dark blue eyes surrounded by black. “Gil?

  You in trouble again?” The gruff voice reminded Jon of his own father berating his son after yet another argument.

  “I’m fine. This gentleman here…” a sooty thumb jerked over his shoulder at Jon, “…wants to see Sam.”

  “Hmph.” The grunt was loud and unforgiving. “Whatever you’re selling, we’re not interested.” His eyes raked over Jon’s fine waistcoat and jacket, right down to the new shoes now stained with various fluids. “Not. Interested.”

  “Sir…” Stepping past the kid, Jon peered into the slot. “I wish to engage your daughter’s services in a delicate matter.”

  The dark eyes widened.

  “I mean…I need a piece of machinery repaired. A very sensitive and delicate piece that is rather unique.” Jon lowered his voice. “I will pay handsomely for the work.”

  “Hmph.” The eyes blinked rapidly for a second before the lid slammed down.

  The door edged open slowly, just enough to allow Jon in. A meaty hand pointed down the street over the child’s head.

  “You, go get us some more coal. And food. One of Mrs. Kettishire’s pies, and be quick about it. Tell

  ’em to put it on our bill, as usual.”

  “Yessir!” Gil looked up at Jon, his right hand outstretched. The thin fingers curled up slightly, twitching with energy “The rest of my payment?” His lower lip trembled for a second before standing firm.

  “Please?”

  “As I promised.” The coins dropped into the tiny palm. The child grinned, making the pay vanish like the best street magician.

  “I’ll be around if you need any more help, sir.” Before Jon could respond, Gil melted into one of the dark alleyways bordering the street.