Nathan Yocum - Automatic Woman

If Darwin hadn’t rattled me with the strange Irishman, if the Hellfax had turned a dud, the next logical step in the investigation would be to move toward Nouveau. Darwin had claimed the man was in hiding, as was his family and close contacts. Smart move that; people are terrible at hiding and always reach out to family, even weird silky Frenchmen. The odd detail was the porter. A last minute kidnap for the poor brothel servant I’d sent at all those days prior. The minutiae, the detail, the porter.

I returned to the Piece Work, back to the fancy rental women with their dyed hair and dyed feathers and lipstick colored and smeared like old blood.

The desk clerk recognized me immediately. I must have made an impression on my last visit. His hands vanished under the counter and tripped what I assume was a hidden buzzer because the lobby was suddenly occupied by two thuggish gentlemen. They were decked out in matching black trousers and white collared shirts. The collars were purely decorative seeing that neither man had a neck.

“You’re not welcome here, Mr. Jarse,” the clerk said.

Ha ha. Hugh Jarse.

The thugs stepped closer. I cleared my Colt Army from its holster. I didn’t wave it or point it or make a scene, I let the pistol rest against my leg real casual like. The shiny nickel plating spoke more words than I had. It was a real show stopper. The thugs stopped walking, the whores stopped talking. The lobby became frozen in time, still, a room without air. I broke the silence.

“Everyone keep your feet glued to their respective location, and I’ll make this brief. I’ve been tasked with finding your missing porter. I need to speak with his family and friends.”

The clerk’s hands were still invisible under the counter, but his arms moved slightly and the end of my little speech was punctuated with a click. I’m no expert, but I imagined that sound was the closing of a scattergun breach, maybe a Stevens Tip-Up, maybe a D & J Fraser. Like I said, I’m no expert, and I couldn’t be sure. I levered the Colt and gave the busy clerk my toothiest smile.

“Your Cherokee name must be Fool Busy-Hands. I’m sympathetic to your plight, Fool, but if you draw on me there’ll be three dead bodies to contend with.”

“Three?”

“You, me, and the unfortunate soul you catch with the second barrel of that shotgun while you convulse and choke on your own blood.”

Busy-Hands turned white. Up went one hand, then a thump of dropped weight, then the other hand.

“There, now you’re smart and handsome. What’s your missing porter’s name?”

“Willie.”

I rolled the tip of my gun in the universal sign of “give me more, jackass.”

“Willie Forsmit. He’s my cousin,” one of the thugs offered in a thick gutter accent.

“Would you be so kind as to escort me to Mr. Forsmit’s residence?”

“He lives with his mum.”

“Step lively, big man. You’re my escort.”

No-neck number one and I left the Piece Work. I imagine I’m permanently banned from that establishment, though I’ve yet to test this hypothesis.

“Willie is not missing,” No-neck said.

I holstered my gun for our street walk. No need for nastiness.

“What do you mean? Is he home?”

“His mum got a letter yesterday. Says he’s been drafted for special government work.”

No-neck said this in an honest and straightforward manner. Like it was no big deal that the government was conscripting midnight whorehouse porters.

“Right, let me confirm the letter and I’ll be on my way.”

“Okay. Real quick, you wave that shooter at Willie’s mum and I’ll break your neck.”

“Fair enough.”

We walked from the Piece Work into a neighborhood of filthy tenement buildings, starving animals and urchin beggars. Then we turned a corner into a neighborhood that was like the first neighborhood’s poorer desperate brother. Everything was covered in soot and ash: walls, windows, the faces of children. A group of men huddled around a fire. All hands reached for ember warmth. Hovering above the fire was the thin and spitted carcass of a dog.

“This way.” No-neck grinned. He was missing a good eight or nine teeth, which I imagine still put him ahead of the norm for this neighborhood. The building we stopped at was slanted at a sixty degree angle.

“Remember what I said about your shooter.”

“I’m not looking for trouble, mate. I just need to verify the letter for my employers.”

No-neck knocked on a door. It was promptly answered by what appeared to be a large bundle of rags.

“Woo, Jeffery!” The rags cooed. I could see no part of the woman, just brown bits of cloth puffed out like a dirty cloud.

“This man needs to see Willie’s letter.”

The rag pile turned to me. Near the top center of the pile a face revealed itself. The woman was a hundred if a day. Dust darkened the lines of her eyes, her mouth, her forehead. Her toothless smile was radiant, free of all malice and cynicism. It was like looking into the face of an angel. A muddy, filthy angel.

“Are you from the government?” Willie’s mum asked.

“Yes, ma’am. I just need to verify his communications.”

“He’s not in trouble is he?” Her smile told me that this was not a possibility, that all was right in the world. She made my heart ache for my own mother.

“No, ma’am. Quite the contrary. Your Willie is doing special work for us and receiving top accommodations for it. In fact, I’ve been authorized by the Queen herself to give you a portion of his bonus.”

I pulled a ten pound note from my pocket and handed it to the old mum. She gave a little animal hoot and the currency vanished into some part of her rag outfit.

“The letter please.” I smiled and held out my hand.

Mum ran back into her room and shuffled through bits of garbage and debris. She returned with a poshy cream-colored envelope.

“May I keep this, mum?”

“Sure, mister. Can I invite you in for tea?”

I looked inside her single room home. It didn’t look like there would be enough room for me to sit, stand, or turn around. I politely declined and was on my way.

I couldn’t get out of the neighborhood fast enough. Even armed as I was, this felt like a place where I’d likely get a knife in the back as I would a “good day.” No-neck followed.

“That was a good bit,” No neck said.

“What was?”

“Giving my aunty that money.”

We turned one corner, then another. The surroundings started to freshen a bit, and desperation lifted from the air.

“Got any more?” he asked.

Fucking hell! I reached into my dwindling supply and produced a pound note for No-neck. More than he deserved but I had no smaller currency to give.

No-neck pocketed his tip and was on his way. The sun had gone past the horizon and I found myself in yet another public house for yet another meal and pint. One of these days, you mark my words, I will settle down and find the family life promised to me by my father and school and all the authorities who explain life to children. I’ll find the regular existence that has eluded me these past thirty years.

After a meal of spiced potatoes and roast beef, I laid out my paper work before me. The first item was the note Stoker gave me. It was a map of a circus camp outside of Stoke Poges. The notations were in what appeared to be my handwriting. How the bloody hell did Darwin copy my script?

I unfolded Willie the Porter’s letter. His hand was blocky and childish. Given his home, I’m lucky the man knew any script at all. It read as follows:

Dear Mom,

I will not be home for several days.

Men from the government have asked me to help them with a special job. I am an acting messenger for a science research camp. Do not worry.