Automatic Woman (5 page)

“Yes?”

I’m sucker for blunt honesty. Maybe Owens wasn’t such a bad chap, if a bit dim.

“Come in, then.” I stepped aside and Owens joined me in the remains of my living room.

“Did you do this?” He pointed to pile of what was once furniture.

“Sure, mate. I loathe my chairs, figured now was as good a time as any for payback.”

Owens stood there. His mouth opened and closed again. Shite!

 “Come on, mate! Close the circuit. You’re not the only one up my buggering line.”

“Who did this?” Now he was playing detective. Who the hell did I piss off in the firm to get this? Owens poked his hand into the rubbish pile and pushed over half of a book shelf.

“I don’t know. I seem to have made new friends in the not too distant past. How are you getting back to the firm?”

“I’ve a carriage waiting.”

“Give me a lift?”

I watched the cogs spin in his head. Obviously, I was not the first choice of people he wanted to be seen with at the home office, but he could find no diplomatic way to say so. I insisted, and off we went.

The Bow Street Firm occupied a three-story structure. A converted tenement chosen strictly for its menacing gargoyles, voluminous storage, and the fact that it was situated on Bow Street, home of the original English thief catchers from whom we took our name. Inside people get the impression that they’ve entered a textile mill or button factory. The click, click, clicking of typewriters and Bouchon punchers competes only with the whirring of the Jacquard loom and the occasional swishing of pneumatic tube deliveries. A legion of secretaries and clerks sit in cubicles clacking away at their trade machines. The whole first floor is theirs. They are the gate-keepers. Floor two belongs to the field operatives and information analysts. Floor three is management and duffers, assuming a bloke can tell one from the other. We have two rooms in the basement, one we can talk about, storage, and the other we can’t talk about, non-storage.

I waded into the cacophony of machinery rattle. The secretaries were producing a night’s shift of reports for Central Bureaucracy, our internal auditors, and our third floor taskmasters. Written reports were transcribed. Transcriptions were duplicated into punch cards through Bouchon processors. As the old saying goes, “Words for my boss, cards for the Queen.” A couple of porters gathered finished products, collated, signed, had the secretaries sign, separated, and sent via pneumatic tubes the reports and cards. Reports in one tube, cards in the other. Low was the fate of the porter who switched a cards tube and a reports tube.

The lead secretary, Miss Walker, rose upon my entry. She was a serious gray bird, old as time and twice as devastating.

“Mr. Fellows, you are not allowed here!”

Owens strolled past and gave me a two-fingered salute, leaving me as Billy No-mates. Miss Walker stepped to and gave me a firm jab in the chest.

“Turn around! Be on your way!”

I tried to soften my face, tried to get my gob to smile nicely. I’ve been told the result of this is hideous.

“Miss Walker, love. I just need my effects.”

By effects, I meant my files, a replacement cobra, and the service revolver I brought back from the trouble in Afghanistan. Her face turned sour, or rather, it became more sour.

“Mr. Fellows, Lord Barnes has specifically forbidden you from entering for any reason, up to and including retrieving your goods. Besides, they are no longer present in your office.”

“Come again?”

“The Metropolitans cleaned your office out yesterday. Even if you got to it, there’d be nothing for you but dust mites and what I assume are gin-addled memories.” She issued me another jab.

“Take it easy, grandmother. I’ll be on my way.”

I stepped lively out the door. Miss Walker is not one to be trifled with. I considered returning to my flat, but realized the futility of taking refuge in a place where all comforts had been smashed.

I wandered down to the St. George & Dragon Public House, a place whose proximity to my work made me a regular. I substituted my lack of home comfort with the comfort of lager pints punctuated with shots of Yank whiskey. I contemplated getting pissed, but a better plan formed itself. When the clock struck one in the a.m., the public house was graced by one Orel Hersh, porter extraordinaire, St. George & Dragon regular, and business acquaintance to yours truly. He recognized me right away and approached. We’d been social on occasion and I once cold-cocked a blighter on his behalf. Some drunk geezer thought Orel was talking up his sweet. Things between Orel and myself were peachy. Better yet, he owed me a favor.

“Oy, guv’nor. Give us some love!” I shook Orel’s wrist and gave him a weak slap on the face. He was a big man like me, only without the fat and hanging jowls.

“I insist on paying for no less than one of your drinks,” he said with fake posh. It sounded like he’d been nipping the flask at work. Good old predictable Orel.

“I’ll hear of no such thing, mate,” I replied. “You drink on my tab and my tab only. I’m a free man today; this is my freedom party.”

I pushed a shot of whiskey to him and motioned for the barkeep to set up fresh rounds.

Orel drank to my health. Then we drank to his health, then to freedom and liberty and Queen Victoria in all her homely glory.

Here’s a secret. One shared by all men of weight. It’s bloody near impossible for me to get drunk. The only rational explanation is that fat filters alcohol and holds it away from the blood. I, and every fat bastard I’ve ever run across, can drink, and drink, and drink. Now you know. You’re welcome.

We had ourselves a party. We drank after the pub regulars and codgers packed it in. We outlasted the young men and the very moon and stars themselves. We kept the libations flowing until the sky turned navy gray and the sun threatened to punch black both my eyeballs.

I paid the tab and walked my new best friend out the front door into God’s accusatory light. Orel hung on my arm like drapes as I escorted us back to the home offices.

“Whaaa?” he slurred. To say Orel was inebriated would be an understatement. I imagine Orel was in that place where he still had control of motor skills, but just barely. He was in a place where balance was tenuous and the memories of this moment may or may not have a future in his mind.

“Back to the office, mate. I forgot my effects.”

Orel stopped and thought for a minute.

“But…”

“Don’t be thick, Orel. I need your help. Take the fire ladder up to my room and bust out the window. Everything I need is in a lock box under the third floorboard.

“Jolly?”

I interrupted him with a good shake.

“This is important! Listen closely. Third board from the door. Big, fuck-all lock box.”

“But the guards?”

I set Orel onto the fire escape and gave him a good shove up the ladder.

“Don’t worry yourself with guards, mate. They know me. Lock box, third board. Repeat it back to me.”

Orel shook his head and started up the ladder, leaving my instructions unrepeated. I’m sure I’ve had worse plans, though none come to mind. I’d lifted Orel’s flask while shoving him up the escape. I uncapped it and poured a good three fingers of bad Scotch down the front of my shirt.

The firm was shut to the world in the early morning hours, but we employ a couple of inside guards to stop the very thing I was having poor Orel do on my behalf. I hefted a dustbin and threw it overhand against the barred entrance gate. The can rebounded with a terrific crash. Just to be sure, I threw the bin a second time with the same rattling, terrifying results. Neighborhood dogs barked, newly awakened blokes looked out windows. I was a regular spectacle.

“Oy, you fuckers!” I yelled at the gate. “Let me inside!”

Both guards came out. I knew them. Blaine, the taller, was a religious chap. Aaron, the shorter, was a dirty joke enthusiast. Both were decked in suits and holding extended cobras. Blaine looked relieved to see me.

“Jolly, what are you up to?”

“I’m up to punching your smug face if you don’t let me inside.” I put up my mitts and exaggerated a drunken sway. I should have been an actor.

“You know we can’t do that, Jolly. You’re not allowed here while your suspension stands.”

“If you Nancies want to keep me out, you’d better call some friends.”

I strode to the door in my best tough guy strut, all legs and arms. To his credit, Blaine stepped first and poked his cobra into my chest.

“That’s it, Jolly. Go home and sleep it off. No need to do something to apologize for later.”

In the far distance I heard the crash of glass and knew Orel had made it in. The bloke just needed more time. I grabbed Blaine’s baton.

“You’re not the boss of me, Jack. Step south or I’ll let you have my best.”

“Um, Jolly. Come on, let’s talk this out,” said Aaron. The shake in his voice told me he was all mouth and no trousers.

“I’ll talk your face in!”

Suddenly, there was a terrific crash in the alley. By the sound of it, Orel had just dropped my box into a dustbin from two stories up. Drunken bastard.

Blaine and Aaron turned their heads and I knew swift action was the only action that wouldn’t get me and poor Orel nicked. I wrapped my arms around the distracted Blaine and lifted him off the ground.

“I want my things!” I shouted and shook the besieged guard left to right.

“Put him down, Jolly or I’ll…” Aaron waved his club but took no step forward. I was roaring like a mammoth and Blaine was wiggling like a wee baby in my arms. A scared, pissed-off baby.

I dropped the man into a heap on the dirt road. Blaine found his legs, sprang up, and walloped me across the face with his cobra.

I blinked once or twice, not sure exactly what had happened. The skin on my face grew taught and uncomfortable and the world went topsy. I suddenly found myself on hands and knees staining the earth with blood and tears.

All the circuits connected in my head and registered pain, pain, good God almighty so much pain. I cried out and rolled to my back. Blood ran with gravity and streaked my face like war paint. My nose was definitely broken. My forehead was gashed and under the gash grew a sizable goose egg. My compliments to Blaine’s swinging arm.

To his good credit, Blaine put a hand on my shoulder.

“You alright, Jolly?”

I ran a hand down my face, taking assessment of the damages. I let the tears in my eyes get into my voice and continued the role of the drunken sod.

“I just want my things.”

Aaron turned away. I guess he had no stomach for fighting or watching a grown man cry.

“Just let me get my things.”

Blaine gave me a hand up. My legs wobbled like a baby horse. Blaine guided me to the gate and let me lean up to it.

“Listen, Jolly. You can’t come in. The big man says so. That’s the way it is. Listen to me, mate. Go home, get some sleep. Your job will be waiting after we clear up all this murder rubbish.”

He was using his dad tone. In the alley, Orel was stumbling and clobbering rubbish cans, so I cried even harder, making a regular spectacle of myself. If possible, the crying made my face hurt worse, which caused my eyes to tear up even more. I was caught in some weird drunken pain grief cycle and everyone involved was deeply discomforted by the event. I made like I was going to try for the gate and both Blaine and Aaron put hands on me.

“Go home, Jolly. Sleep it off.”

They walked me to the center of the street. Blaine pressed his handkerchief to my gushing nose.

“‘Kay, Blaine. I’m sorry,” I blubbered.

I held out my hand and he gave it a good shake. I didn’t bother with Aaron. The instinct to hurt him was too strong and my act was almost concluded. The guards returned to their gate, watched me stumble on my way, and then went back into the building, to their actual posts. I took a few more unsteady steps and looked back to the firm. When I was sure Blaine and Aaron were gone-gone, I strolled to the alley.

Orel ran up with a smug look on his visage, like a man who’s done well and deserves a biscuit. One look at my misshapen melon face and Orel vomited copiously down his front. He fell to his hands and knees, much like I had when Blaine laid into my face. Orel took three deep breaths and then let loose the Red Sea all down the alley cobbles. I continued to mop blood off of my face with Blaine’s now-saturated handkerchief. No point in returning it I guess.

Somewhere among the pukes and heaves, Orel had the good sense to pass out. Guess who caught the burden of taking him home?

Lucky for me, Orel’s flat was not too far. I fireman-carried him so as to have a free hand for my lock box. His wife, Emily, opened the door and I got to watch her face change from rage to shock to concern and then back to rage as she regarded my busted face and the comatose sack of her husband over my shoulder.

“Go easy, love. We’ve had a night.”

I dropped Orel arse-first into a rocking chair and straightened the crick he’d put in my back.

“And where were yoo?” She was mad enough for me to hear the brogue in her voice. You’d think an emerald lass like Emily wouldn’t have taken offense to a drunken husband. Part of the culture and all. I approached her with honesty.

“Your husband was helping me. I’ve been charged with murder and I needed him to get my investigative tools.”

I don’t know where her hand came from, but it moved with blinding speed as she slapped my miserable face. My eyes filled with little lights and everything went topsy again. My hands balled to fists and by some grace of God I didn’t lash and put both through her sodding gob. Maybe I’m a gentleman after all.

“How dare you come in here half-pissed with some story! The next time you and Orel stay out, you might as well take him home with ya!”

I rubbed a hand down my cheek. I could feel my pulse through my skin.

“Yes, mum,” I said. “Sorry about the story. I’ll be on my way then?”

“Aye.”

No use explaining the reality of things. A wiser man than I once said that men and women live in different worlds. The man’s world is one of harsh realities while a women’s world is one based on rosy dreams. That bloke, Conrad, was half right. Yes to different worlds. To be sure men and women exist in places wholly different, one from the other. But a woman’s world, as best as I can figure, is not necessarily one of rosy dreams. A woman’s life is filled with harsh realities all its own. A man’s harsh reality is crushing labor and living with the fact that he’ll never be as strong or as smart or as capable as he was in his twenties. This is true for all men, it’s our shite. A woman’s harsh reality is dealing with the fact that she will never be as clever or charming or beautiful as she was in her twenties. That’s their shite. Also, they have to put up with our shite.