Chicago Prime, 1931-v2
Old Illinois, 2:00pm
- Dancing with the Details
I left the beat cop, Stu Phillips, with Christopher Cavalier’s dead body and ran back towards Sammy’s to find Captain Mahoney and Lieutenant Delaney. My white jacket flapped behind me in the rough Chicago Prime wind whipping down the alley. I held onto my hat as it was begging to fly off my head.
I rounded the corner and nearly flattened a gentleman just on the other side of it. I clipped his shoulder in my attempt to dodge him, sending me spinning and falling on the sidewalk just outside of Sammy’s Soda Shop.
The man leaned down in an eager attempt to help me up. He had the kind face you might see on the side of a bus stop advertising a new brand of cigarettes. Probably somewhere around forty to forty five years old, but those years had been kind to him. I could tell he wasn’t a muscular guy as he helped me up, but he had a wiry sort of way about him. Kind of like a greyhound mixed with a great dane. He was tall, about six foot six, but probably only weighed about two hundred pounds soaking wet. His skin was pale, but smooth and nearly hairless on his arms.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you coming around the corner. I didn’t hurt you did I?” I said to him as he helped me to my feet. I swiped whatever dirt was on my pants and jacket. I checked my hat to make sure it was on and straight.
“Oh no! More scared me than anything!” He gave a nervous laugh. His voice was oddly proper, almost like a Brit, but with an American accent. He wasn’t from Chicago Prime, that was certain. He pronounced his hard consonants with a staccato-like pattern and his soft ones in more of legato.
He also checked himself for any damage that might have occurred in the process of us nearly colliding. He was wearing a short sleeve button up shirt buttoned all the way to the neck, and a pair of khaki pants that looked like they were made for someone six inches shorter than he was. He straightened his glasses on his face and smoothed down his hair. It was cut in a bowl cut and parted straight down the middle.
“Well, I appreciate you stopping to help me up and not just leave me here. What’s your name, mister?” I asked, extending my hand in greeting.
He looked at my hand in hesitation, almost as if I had offered him a rotten fish.
“Oh, um, my names, uh, Lester. Lester Peabody.” And he reluctantly extended his hand out to grasp mine.
“Nice to meet you Lester. Name’s Jones. Mercury Jones.” I said
I shook his hand, which felt more like a dead fish than anything–cold and clammy–but I gave it a nice squeeze like my father had taught me to do when shaking another man’s hand. Lester quickly pulled his hand back once we had concluded our handshake. He pulled a handkerchief out from his pocket and wiped his hands with it.
“Well, I’m afraid I must be off. Nice to meet you Mr. Jones. Do be more careful next time.” His voice weirdly emphasized his S’s. missster Jonesss.
I watched him turn and walk off. His loafers and socks could easily be seen as his pants barely came down past his calves. In two or three strides, it seemed, he was already halfway down the block.
I let the weird interaction roll off me as I turned and entered Sammy’s once again looking for Captain Mahoney and Lieutenant Delaney.
They were sitting at one of the booths on the right side of the bar if you’re looking in from the street. They were talking over the details of Stacy Robinson. Captain Mahoney and Delaney looked up at me as I approached. Mahoney was especially delighted to see me.
“Jones! Done so soon? How do you do it?!” He said, pointing to the seat across from him and next to Delaney as an invitation to join them.
I obliged and scooted in next to Delaney.
Delaney’s big belly followed after him half a second later as he moved closer to the window.
The booth could easily fit three people a side with plenty of room on the table for a family-sized amount of food. Due to the economic hardships that were hitting most people up here in the USA, not much food was being served anymore. Probably why Sammy’s was always busy; people would rather drink away their hardships than learn to suffer well. Boy, I was glad to be a southerner.
Captain Mahoney’s perfectly styled salt-and-pepper hair mimicked the posture the short man had opposite of me and Delaney. I sat more relaxed like I was sitting on my porch back home overlooking the cotton fields, while Delaney couldn’t help but sit as far back as he could, given that his belly wouldn’t allow him to sit much closer.
Sammy approached the table as I was sitting and gave me a look that said You need anything? But I waved Sammy away. Mahoney and Delaney did the same.
Mahoney continued interrogating me after my butt finally settled into the warm crater Delaney had left for me prior to scooting over. “So?” He said, spreading his hands.
I gave Delaney a pre-apologetic look, but I did the math. I knew Captain Mahoney was a reasonable guy, and he was a better cop to boot. I also knew he didn’t like it when people went over his head, but in these times, and with Gabridone buying up every cop with all but a price tag stamped to his forehead, we couldn’t be careful enough. I let out a breath and told Captain Mahoney everything from Jessica Callahan to today, about the Rat King, the staging, and the little morbid souvenirs of toy rats left at each crime scene.
“It’s fairly obvious that we have a serial killer on our hands. I also think he’s nowhere close to done yet.” I said.
Delaney looked down at his stomach, looking up at Captain Mahoney only with his eyes. Given how short Mahoney was, his eyes didn’t have to travel too far.
The stout captain gave Delaney a look of disappointment, but understanding came out of his mouth followed by a feeling of near betrayal. “I understand the need for secrecy, Lieutenant. Not everyone can be trusted. Believe me, no one knows that better than me. But, I’m still your captain. More than that, I was your partner before I was captain, Zach! If there’s anyone you can trust, it’s me.”
Delaney brought his head up and met his old partner’s blue eyes with sincere regret in his own brown ones, “I know, Jacks. I’m sorry. You’ve always been someone I can trust. I had Johnson constantly creeping around my office trying to listen in on my conversations. I had to reach out to an outside source to get an objective look at it. Mercury was the only one other than you I knew I could trust.”
The captain nodded in understanding. A soft smile washed the disappointed look off his face and he said, “Well, you couldn’t have picked a better person for the job. He might be a foreigner,” he winked at me as he continued, “but he’s on the side of truth and justice. At times like these, we can use all the allies we can find.
So, this Rat King…what’re we thinking?” Mahoney looked at both of us.
Delaney shrugged and looked at me.
Traitor.
I pulled out my cigarettes and looked at Mahoney and Delaney to make sure they wouldn’t mind. They didn’t.
“You ever read the Nutcracker, Jacks?” I asked.
“Saw the ballet once with my wife when we were in New Rome. Most of what I remember is what the back of my eyelids looked like until people started clapping at the end.”
I gave a short laugh as a puff of inhaled smoke exited my nose and mouth.
“I’ll give you the highlights. It’s about a girl named Clara. Her parents have a huge Christmas party inviting a ton of people. A strange relative comes by who appears to be some kind of magician who can make giant toys come to life.
He gifts Clara with a toy nutcracker. When Clara falls asleep, she has this fantastic dream of queens and kings, fairies, and people from far off lands who come and dance for her. Her toy nutcracker also comes to life, but this time he’s massive. Or maybe she’s shrunk. It’s not super clear. Anyway, the rats in her dream are trying to attack her, but she’s protected by her toy nutcracker. Her toy then has this duel with The Rat King and slays him.”
“Ok.” Captain Mahoney said. “How does any of that relate to the three dead bodies? Do any of them look like royalty or freaking fairies to you, Mr. Jones?”
I didn’t blink. The Virginia coffin nail sitting between my index and middle finger was slowly letting off wisps of smoke between me and Mahoney. The scar around my eye was itching a little bit from the lack of sleep, too much booze, and not enough food over the past 2 days. I also needed a bath.
“Jessica Callahan wrote a book called The Life of a Politician’s Wife. In it, she details the process she and her husband went through immigrating here from Ireland, getting involved in politics, and then how her life changed from a social standpoint after being seen as the wife of the politician who wanted to put such huge sanctions on imports from The Confederate States.
Stacy Robinson was seen as a very sweet and innocent girl among her peers and Mrs. Allgood at The Temperance Society. So good, in fact, she was being groomed to become the next head madam of their Society.”
Captain Mahoney was tracking with me, but then he cut in. “That’s all well and good, but it still doesn’t line-up with this nutcracker mumbo jumbo. Perhaps I’ve cut you off too soon, but it makes more sense to me from a practical standpoint that some nut job is going after beautiful women and leaving behind some nonsensical calling card. How could it possibly explain the poor unfortunate rich so-and-so out back on the pile of trash?”
I took a long drag of my cigarette before answering. Man, I really need to quit these things.
I breathed, then answered, “Jessica Callahan is Irish, so it stands to reason that she is the foreign dignitary from The Nutcracker. She was posed in a pirouette in the most No-Man’s-Land place in all of Chicago Prime: The Delaware Crater.
Stacy Robinson was sweet as can be, or as we like to say down south, sweet as sugar. She clearly represents the Sugar Plum Fairy. When I found her, the water from the sinks had overflowed at one point, creating fairy wings for her when the sunshine coming in from the window hit the water. Christopher Cavalier represents exactly as his name suggests: the Cavalier to the Sugar Plum Fairy. Both crime scenes have had calling cards.” I pulled out both toy rats from my jacket pocket and laid them on the table in front of all three of us.
Delaney’s eyes got huge at the second toy rat. Mahoney just let out a sigh of resignation.
Jacks Mahoney said, “Well…that’s certainly a compelling motive, Mr. Jones. But, we still don’t have a means, and we still don’t fully understand opportunity, but most importantly, we don’t even have a suspect!”
He was shouting in silence, so his pontification was felt and heard by me and Delaney alone.
“Poison.” I replied.
Mahoney and Delaney looked at me with shock, I answered so confidently.
Delaney spoke up, “How do you know that?”
“Jasmine and ginger. I guarantee you Stacy Robinson also had it on her breath as well. I smelled it on both Jessica Callahan and Christopher Cavalier.
“I’m not saying jasmine and ginger are themselves poisonous, but considering the fact it’s present on at least two of them, tells me there was some kind of ingestion that led to their ultimate demise. When I smelled it on Jessica Callahan last night I thought maybe it was some kind of new perfume or other, so I didn’t pay much attention to it. But it being on Christopher Cavalier’s breath, a finance man who lives in The Silver Slipper, tells me this our most likely means. His breath should’ve been reeking with the smell of alcohol, not a sweet herbal smell.
“The most I can infer about our killer though is that he or she is someone who enjoys the arts.”
Mahoney eyed me with severe skepticism. “You sure you’re remembering things right? I think you’re sleep deprived, Mr. Jones. No offense, but it seems a bit farfetched.”
“Captain, I wish I could forget things.” The bags under my eyes told that story well enough to a keen observer. I continued, "olfactory sense is the strongest memory trigger. Either of y’all Bible readers?”
Both of them shook their heads.
“A lady named Mary Magdalene poured her very expensive perfume on the feet of Jesus when he came to her house. I won’t get into the theology of why she did that, but most scholars believe it was in preparation of his death and burial, which is probably true. However, I also believe it’s because whenever she smelled that perfume again in the future, it’d always remind her of being at Jesus’s feet in the most powerful way.
So, no captain, I’m not misremembering.”
Yazoo, Mississippi, 1915-v2
Mercury Plantation, 3:32pm
- En Guard
The sun was blazing hot that June. Our workers could mostly only pick the cotton in the morning time before it got too hot to work. Not much use in a dead negro. Not much use in a dead anyone.
I was sitting, rocking on a rocking chair on our porch—which wrapped around our whole house—sipping a glass of some of Amelia’s best lemonade. We’d get the lemons sent to us from Jackson when they came in fresh from Florida. She’d add a couple cups of sugar to water, bring it to a boil, stir it till it was nice and syrupy, and then add the juice from the lemons. She’d always bring me and my paw a glass on especially hot days to make sure we had energy and stayed hydrated.
Paw had pioneered a new system he added to our water lines using charcoal and other minerals to purify the water. After the war, The Confederate States became flushed with so much money that we immediately began building a bigger and better infrastructure than ever before seen. The CSA was going to become the new Rome. Although paw never fought in the war, being that he was just a baby, my grandfather did. He was a Brigadier General for the Confederate Army, leading thousands into battle and none into defeat.
His biggest accomplishment was defeating General Sherman in Atlanta. With the help of Joseph Johnston, they ran that Yankee all the way out of the south with his tail tucked between his legs and two black eyes. The sword my grandfather used in that war hands just above our fireplace to this day.
I got up from the porch and walked into the house to see where Paw was. He was standing in the living room, glass of lemonade in his hand, just staring into the unlit fireplace.
“Hey Paw, whatcha looking at?” I asked, always eager to learn something new from my dad.
“Junior! Hey, son. Just thinking about your grandfather is all. Can’t say a day goes by that I don’t miss him.” He took a sip of his lemonade and looked up at his sword.
“Ya know this sword was passed down to us from him to me. Some day when I’m gone, it’ll be yours.” He patted me on the head giving my hair a bit of a toss. “But, your pops ain’t going anywhere anytime soon.”
I became thoughtful looking at the sword. I asked my paw, “Why’d they use swords in the war? I thought they had guns and cannons and stuff?”
He smiled softly and laughed, “Ha, well, they did have all those things! But before the ammo magazine was invented, people were stuck with the slow process of muzzle loading all their rounds. They were great for one or two shots, depending on distance, but close quarters were mostly fought with hands and blades.”
“Paw, is it hard to learn how to use a sword?” I asked.
He brushed his chin with his non-drink hand thoughtfully. He hadn’t shaved in a couple days, so the stubble was nice and thick by this time. I remember he was wearing his regular work clothes, which had the sleeves rolled all the way up. His boots were a little muddy sitting beside the door, and his pant legs were rolled at the bottom to keep the hems clean.
“Well, not too hard that I couldn’t teach you a thing or two,” and he reached up and lifted the sword down for me to hold it.
It was a long saber-styled sword with quite the intricate pommel and guard. The guard looked like gold vines weaving around the tang of the steel with a couple of roses interlaced. It covered the hand perfectly, protecting it from strikes lower on the blade. The handle was made from cherry wood and wrapped in cow leather for better grip. The pommel was capped with a beautiful sapphire stone, representative of our family’s coat of arms. On the base of the blade were engraved the words For Justice and Truth the Courageous Stand.
“Wow!” My fifteen year old eyes couldn’t appreciate the artistry that went into forging this blade. I held it, not realizing at the time how many lives this sword had claimed. ‘I’ll get to learn with this?” I imagined myself, sword aloft, pointing towards enemy fire, commanding my troops to attack whatever evil force demands our blood.
Paw laughed, and gently grabbed the sword from my hands. “Nah, Junior. This is much too dangerous to practice with. I’ll teach you with something a little more manageable for someone of your skill level. Don’t want you losing any fingers,” he smiled bigger this time and pulled me under his arm, keeping the sword safely away from both of us. He replaced it back over the mantle where it would rest for a few more years.
Paw and I dedicated two days a week over the next three years teaching me basic sword forms with wooden swords he made out of some scrap pieces. I’d run around the plantation practicing with trees, fence posts, scarecrows, and eventually recruited some of our negroes to spar with me. They weren’t as good as me, but they were bigger and stronger, so it posed a different challenge. Eventually, they were no match for the Great Mercury!
Chicago Prime 1931-v2
Somewhere between Old Illinois and Atlantis
3:30pm
- City Walk
I was walking down the street towards Atlantis after leaving Sammy’s. I’d have taken my car, but it was such a nice day out, I always took advantage of it when I could. Besides, all the cigarettes I’d smoked and whiskey I’d had, I needed some exercise. After speaking with Captain Mahoney and Lieutenant Delaney, I decided a visit to Senator Callahan was leaning towards overdue.
The sun was shining gold and bright, the sky was bluer than I’d seen since I left Mississippi, and the wind—thankfully—was on break from trying to tear my hat off. I looked at the different faces that passed me by, unreluctantly adding them to my already overflowing reservoir of vivid memories.
One guy had exactly three moles on his face, one small mole with irregular edges that sat betwixt his eyes, one hairy the size of a quarter on his left cheek, and one large one on his temple on the right side of his head. He wore a hat—like most people—but it was pulled down to try to hide the temple mole. His white hair looked uncut, and his clothes were raggedy.
Another lady passed me by. I saw her coming from a mile away. She was in a black dress with an overcoat on. Even with the overcoat, you could see the ample bosom she was attempting to conceal. She had full, red lips and a head full of blonde hair that looked like it was designed by Roman architects. Her legs poked out from under the knee-length coat after each stride, showcasing what might have been the best legs I’d seen living here.
She was stunning. As she approached, she shot me a look, followed by a coy smile. She continued eyeing me up and down until we were even with each other, then she broke her gaze with flawless motion and continued down the street. I didn’t react. I simply gave her an acknowledging smile and head nod without breaking eye contact.
I guess not all memories were tortuous.
In an attempt to impede the overflow of images and memories into my mind, I started to pay attention to the buildings. Old Illinois is a nice place. It isn’t the beautiful luster soaked metropolis that Atlantis is, but it holds its own in a classic way. The buildings were all mostly original to the city: brick buildings with gothic architectural design adorning the corners and trim of each building. It was set up in its original grid pattern with numbered avenues running north and south, and named streets running east and west perpendicularly. Right now, I was walking west on Cambridge St. crossing over 31st Avenue heading towards 30th.
After the industrial revolution swept across the United States after The War Between The States, Chicago Prime was met with its own internal struggles for power and influence. The mayor of Chicago Prime at the time wanted a unified city, but when the mafias came in, they changed everything. Atlantis was built to serve as a shining example of the difference between them and the rest of Chicago Prime, that being Old Illinois and The Delaware Crater (Formally The Delaware District).
The people of Old Illinois refused to play ball with the changes being made in their city. The powers that be in Atlantis have attempted over the years to influence the people of Old Illinois to abandon their city and give it over to them, but they haven’t had the teeth they wish they had. Most cops come from Old Illinois, and much like people back home, they refuse to fight against their own.
So, Atlantis and Old Illinois stand in an eternal stalemate.
- Return to Sender
I made it to the border of Old Illinois and Atlantis before I realized something was amiss. In my attempt to prevent information overload, I failed to realize that I was being followed. By the time I realized it, it was too late.
Two men in black pinstriped suits and hats were almost on top of me. It wasn’t Bulldog and Weasel this time, but two men who looked like bull elephants dressed like mafia boys.
Looks like Caroselli got my message.
The both of them looked identical. Probably six foot ten and three hundred and fifty pounds of hard muscle that was apparent even through their suits. Both shirts looked like a small sneeze would send each button flying off at lethal speeds.
They weren’t just big, but quick. They didn’t look like Bulldog, whose every step looked like it might be his last. Cadillacs don’t move as smoothly as these two gentlemen. I was in real trouble.
I immediately began running, not sure if my size would serve as an advantage to my mobility, but it became apparent that they had no issue moving at threatening speeds. I started dodging in and out of people on the sidewalk, looking frantically for a small place to duck into to try to lose them. They were gaining. While I had to dodge pedestrians, people simply moved out of their way. I was losing energy moving side to side, while they maintained a single line of pursuit.
The shortest distance between two objects is a straight line, and they were demonstrating that perfectly.
I moved up against the buildings, hugging each corner I went around. I was at 28th Avenue now, still moving down Cambridge. I found a set of stairs that led down into an underground apartment. The door was ajar. The Bull Elephant Twins were still about twenty yards behind me, so it was now or never.
I hopped down the stairs and bolted into the apartment. As quietly as I could, I closed the door and pinned myself against it, out of the view of the window, and slinked down to the floor out of breath.
I’ve got to quit smoking. I thought to myself
I could feel my heart in my throat, and my breathing sounded as loud as a hurricane.
I turned and realized I wasn’t alone.
A couple of young ladies, both around twenty years old, were sitting on the couch, staring at me with saucer-sized eyes.
Slowly as necessary, I moved my finger to my mouth, a silent plea for discretion.
There was a loud knock on the door. Like someone had used a tree trunk instead of a human-sized hand.
The girls eyes both shot to the door, their breathing growing erratic.
I began pantomiming to them and the door that there were two men out there looking for me. I could only pray in my mind that they understood.
The girl on the right, a red head, stood and flattened out her dress, checked to make sure she wasn’t too immodest to answer the door, and took a deep breath.
There was another thunderous knock.
She walked over to the door. I quietly slid up the wall on the backside of the door, making myself as flat as possible.
The door opened and a voice as deep as a whale call spoke.
“Good afternoon, young lady. We’re insurance adjusters looking for a client of ours. Without boring you with any details, he owes us quite a bit of money. We believe he passed this way. Have you seen a man wearing a white coat and white hat? Has a scar down his eye. Any of that ringing any bells?”
The young redhead could’ve been on stage. With a look of exasperation and a snort of disgust in her voice, she complained, “Who do you two think you are, bothering two young girls relaxing quietly in their home? What business is it of ours if you two can’t keep up with your own clients?! Do you just go around bothering innocent people with all your problems? Now leave before we call the police.”
The Bull Elephant was more afraid of the mouse than she was of him.
He made his plea for forgiveness and bid her adieu.
She closed the door with a slam and stood staring forward.
I heard their giant footsteps getting farther away before she turned and gave me an equally concerning look.
Goodbye frying pan, hello fire.
