Blaze Tuesday and the Case of the Knight Surgeon (Standard Edition) Page 3

  “Thank you, Detective Tuesday,” Ratty said, letting my hand go. “I'm sure my employers will be very pleased to hear of this.”

  Ratty turned on his heel and walked out of my office without another word. I stared at him through the window from where I stood, watching him walk down the street and out of my line of sight.

  “Shit,” I muttered aloud.

  Trixie appeared then, good timing on her part. She sidled up to stand by my side. She hadn't gotten into the alcohol in my desk at all. It was surprising, but somehow kind of welcome.

  “How'd it go?” she asked, leaning against me casually.

  I pulled the envelope from my pocket and flashed it under her face. “I took a contract with Wayside for ten thousand dollars,” I replied slowly.

  Trixie blinked and readjusted the glasses on her nose. “Sorry, what was that?” she asked.

  “Ten grand,” I repeated. “In cash.”

  “No, no, no. I heard that,” Trixie replied with a wave of her hand. “That's awesome, I'm glad you got a chunk of cash. But you did just say Wayside, right? As in Wayside Firms?”

  “That's right.”

  “Wayside? Your sworn enemy?” Trixie asked, incredulously.

  “Yeah, the one and only,” I agreed with a shrug.

  Trixie looked me over critically. “You feelin' okay, boss? You didn't get a fever or a sexually transmitted disease or somethin' did you?”

  I narrowed my eyes and shot her a look. “How do you go from a fever to that?” It wasn't a secret that I hadn't touched a woman in more'n a couple of years, and I wasn't the kind of guy to pay for affections; another winning trait left over from my days on the force.

  Trixie shrugged in return. “Boss, I really don't think you were thinkin' straight is all. I was just thinkin' maybe you're sick.”

  “No, I'm not sick,” I said with a sigh.

  “Are we strugglin' for money then?”

  “Not in the least,” I admitted.

  “So then what the hell were you thinkin' taking on a job for Wayside of all people?”

  I shrugged. “You were the one who kept tellin' me to take a job,” I pointed out. “But that doesn't have anything to do with why I took it. I guess maybe the appeal of havin' a reputation good enough to earn us a contract from the big wigs up in Wayside proved to be the turnin' point in my consideration of their offer.”

  “So it's all about your ego?” Trixie asked. “You really are a self-centred, egomaniac aren't you?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but the front door to the office opened with a clatter. Jackson walked in looking completely dishevelled. He was always perfectly coiffed and put together, and today he looked like he'd forgotten that he was a well-dressed gentleman, if that was possible. I wasn’t terribly concerned with our appearances, lookin' good didn't matter much when you were tied to a chair fightin' to get out of a tight spot that would end with your untimely, and likely messy, death if you failed. Simple, buttoned shirts and trousers were standard fare for me. Despite my simple and sometimes sloppy style choices, and my sage wisdom about what worked best for crime fighting, Jackson preferred three-piece suits, his favourite trench coat and stylish shoes. I insisted on cowboy boots.

  “Hey Jackson,” I said easily. “You'll never guess what happened today.”

  Jackson looked up at me. He was a little shorter than me, a little younger, too. He still had his naturally dark hair with just the few hints of grey sneaking in, and one dark eye. His right eye was replaced with a clockwork eyeball, though. And his right hand was partially replaced by the metal skeleton and gears that were so common on the limbs of former law enforcement officers.

  Jackson had been a cop, too. We hadn't worked together on the force, but I'd heard about his accident. He had been on a routine call, nothing fancy, just a local disturbance and a strange smell coming from a house by the docks, but the wise guy in the house had decided that whatever he had been up to was worth dyin' over, so he blew himself, and the house, up. Jackson had lost his eye and his thumb, index and middle fingers of his right hand in that explosion. We never did find out what the guy had been up to, and Jackson still resented it. But, he was alive, so there was a bright side there. His mismatched eyes were intriguing and frightening at the same time, the fake one moved like it was real and the clockwork allowed him to see out of it, just like normal. The cool thing though, was if you looked closely into his right eye, you could see the gears ticking away behind the brass iris.

  I still wouldn't get anything modified on my own body. Not even for the sweet skills Jackson was able to pick up from the enhancements.

  His right hand was a lot stronger than before. They'd reinforced the bones in his arm to allow him additional strength. He could also pick locks almost instantaneously, and any optic scanners would malfunction and allow him entry if they scanned his right eye. Jackson refused to get the synthetic skin over the metal and gears of his mangled hand, however, and he did his own maintenance and some “after market” enhancements.

  I kept him around for those reasons, and not just 'cause of his winning personality.

  Jackson stifled a yawn with his left hand and rubbed his good eye. He looked exhausted and I felt a pang of guilt over it. Maybe Trixie was right, and I had been running the poor guy ragged. Still, it was his choice to take all the cases that he could, and I guess I did owe him quite a lot for keeping our coffers full.

  “I dunno?” Jackson replied. “But why don't you close up shop for the night, pour us all some of that brandy you have tucked away and you can tell me all about it?”

  “Would that I could,” I said apologetically. “But I have to make this delivery.”

  Jackson arched his eyebrow over his right eye. The effect was horrifying, it made the clockwork machine in his eye socket look like it was bulging unnaturally. I'd seen it happen so many times, but I still couldn't help but feel the need to suppress a shudder every time he did it. I wondered if he did it just to make me queasy.

  “Delivery to where?” he asked.

  “Dunno,” I admitted. “I haven't read the address yet. But I was hired for ten grand to make a delivery on behalf of Wayside.”

  “And you took it?” Jackson asked.

  I shrugged, not really wanting to rehash the conversation I’d just had with Trixie with Jackson. “Seemed like the thing to do,” I said simply. “I'm apparently supposed to go pick up the package from a safe deposit box and then deliver it somewhere,” I explained. “And they paid me ten grand up front.”

  Jackson shook his head. “I dunno, Blaze. It seems too good to be true.”

  I nodded. “Cop senses tingling?”

  Jackson barked a laugh. “No sir,” he replied. “But anything to do with Wayside tends to be rotten to the core.” He tapped the glass of his clockwork eye with his robotic finger, making a clinking noise that never failed to creep me out. Jackson knew exactly how to push my buttons.

  “Yeah yeah, made your point,” I said. “If you'll excuse me, I've got a job to do, and I'd rather not be in Wayside's pocket for any longer than I absolutely have to be.”

  Jackson waved me away and flopped down on the couch with a groan and Trixie perched herself on the arm, leaning over Jackson and talking quietly. They were so damn cute it was nauseating.

  I wandered back into my office and pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk. I removed the bottle of brandy and my trusty gun and holster. I pulled the familiar leather straps over my shoulders and fastened the buckle across my chest. I slipped the matte, oxidized metal of my Ruger revolver into the holster. I loved my gun. It had never done me wrong and it had always been there for me. The smooth, familiar ebony on her handle, the bumps of the etched filigree on the very end of the butt where my palm rested, the chamber, the hammer, it was as familiar to me as my hand, and was every bit an extension of my body as a pen is to the writer. Jackson teased me that I loved my gun more than I loved anything, teased me that my gun was better to me than a woman. He had a point
, at least my gun never cheated on me. I'd never actually admit to the fact that I named my gun, either. Jackson would never let me live that down.

  I patted Nadia affectionately. No one would ever argue that I wasn't a butt man. Ha.

  I picked up the bottle of brandy and headed towards the door. I grabbed my duster from the hanger on the wall by the door as I left my office, draping it across my arm. I handed the bottle of brandy to Jackson and the envelope with the cash to Trixie.

  “Put the money in the safe, we'll deposit it later,” I said. “I'd rather have all ten grand sittin' in the safe than in my bank, just in case this drop really isn't all it's cracked up to be.”

  Trixie nodded.

  I smiled in return. “Drink up, my friends,” I told the two of them. “And if you two decide that you're going to have a little extra-curricular fun, please don't do it on the desk this time.”

  Trixie's face turned nearly as red as her hair and Jackson swatted at my arm affectionately.

  “See you in a bit, kids,” I called with a laugh, pulling on my jacket as I made my way out the door and into the early evening New York air.

  Chapter Three

  I stopped on the corner to read the instructions that Ratty had given me. I realized that I never did catch his name. I chided myself for that and made a mental note to be sharper next time. I scanned the typeface nonchalantly, reading over the instructions carefully.

  There had been a small key inside the second envelope, it was a key to a safe deposit box at the bank up the street from my office. I was familiar with the bank, as I had my accounts there. They'd obviously done their homework before sending Ratty all the way across town from the Wayside headquarters. According to the letter, the bank manager was expecting me to arrive and ask for the box. Inside I would find another envelope addressed to the person I was supposed to be delivering it to and fifty dollars for cab fare.

  The whole thing seemed a little hokey to me, but ten grand was more than enough to set us all up nicely for a while, and I knew that Jackson and Trixie could use a couple of days off. Maybe even a few days off together. Three grand each would allow for the firm to close down for a weekend without anyone starving. I briefly considered sending my partner and my secretary away for a weekend, but then remembered that I couldn't live without coffee and the machine that creates it is as much of a mystery to me as why Stonehenge was built.

  I shoved my idle thoughts away as I approached the bank. The building was a disgusting sandstone mausoleum that looked out of place on the dingy streets of New York. The huge dark wood doors were open and lines of people milled around in and out, going about their business as usual. I felt a tug of paranoia and agoraphobia as I forced myself up the steps. This was my bank. I'd been here every week for the past five years. There was no reason to be feeling paranoid about it, I insisted. The fact that the safe deposit box had been set up here, of all places, by Wayside felt like an unwelcome breach of privacy. I felt sullied somehow. Like my sanctuary of monetary deposits had been taken away from me suddenly.

  It made me wonder exactly how much else Wayside Firms knew about me and my habits. I decided I was gonna take up smoking, just to throw them for a loop.

  I walked into the bank and tried to ignore the throngs of people looking at me as I passed. I nodded tersely at a lady wearing the biggest petticoat I'd ever seen under a corset that made her waist almost disappear. She'd have been pretty if she wasn't so terrifyingly disproportionate.

  I glanced up at the huge clock that stood its vigil over the tellers. It was four o'clock. I had half an hour to get what I needed and the lines for the tellers were longer than I cared to wait for.

  “Mister Tuesday!”

  The voice was male and far too chipper to be talking about me. I turned around hesitantly, hyper aware of Nadia's comforting weight against my side beneath my canvas duster.

  “Yes?” I drawled slowly.

  A spry, wiry man with an abnormally healthy glow about his face and tiny round spectacles perched on his narrow beak of a nose approached me, his hands were clasped in front of him, his long fingers entwined together. He was wearing a dark vest with the chain of a silver pocket watch draped over his flat stomach, a white, pinstriped shirt with what looked like a garter on his bicep. He looked like a strangely happy bookie. He was taller than me, which is uncommon in this day and age, and his slender height made him look like he'd been stretched out. He was all willowy and moved with a fluid grace that hid a deeper awkwardness. Like a baby giraffe.

  “It is very good to see you today!” The bookie looking guy said, his accent making his lack of use of contractions somehow charming. “I assume everything is well with you? I must say, I am glad that you made it in before we closed today. They said to expect you quickly.”

  My lip quirked, I couldn't help it. “I'm sorry, who are you?”

  “Wilson Arthur at your service,” the bookie replied. “I am the manager of the bank.”

  Well I felt like an idiot. Of course the manager would be expecting me today. Ratty knew I wouldn't wait. Wayside was probably banking on my impatience to get out of their pocket as fast as I could, so they'd told this Wilson guy to expect me today.

  Dammit, when did I get so disgustingly predictable?

  I shook hands with the manager. “Yeah? Good, sorry it took me so long to get here.”

  Wilson shook his head and waved his hand. “It is quite all right, I assure you, Detective,” he said amiably. I had to admit that I liked this guy a lot more than I liked Ratty.

  “So I guess you know what I'm after then?” I asked, shoving my hands in my pockets.

  “The Wayside safe deposit box they had set up for you,” Wilson said with a nod. “Yes, if you would follow me, we can go and you can have a look right away.”

  I nodded and fell into step behind the gangly Wilson. I'd never been into the back room where the safe deposit boxes were held. I didn't have one, I had never felt the need to. I didn't really own anything worth stealing, except maybe Nadia, and Nadia lived as close to me as she could. I think that the need for putting something in a safe deposit box meant that you weren't trustworthy and that you were hiding secrets. The banks charged a pretty penny for discretion and secrecy, I'd worked more than one case where something had been stolen that should have been in a safe deposit box. It was never pretty. I didn't trust them.

  Now that I thought about it, it kind of made sense that Wayside would have used a safe deposit box, it was handy for them to store secrets in a public place for me to pick up and deliver, but it was right there – secrets. I didn't like the idea of me transporting something so sensitive that Wayside needed to hire me specifically to deliver it, and it made me wonder if this was actually something that I should give up on before I got screwed too hard.

  But ten grand was a lot of money. And it was kind of hard to refuse.

  The back room where they let you interact with the safe deposit boxes was well away from the main room of the bank. It was past all the offices where you could talk with financial advisers or whatever people with a lot of money did with bankers, and not quite as far back in the building as the vaults. It was a comfortable room, anyway. It was all built for comfort, with a table and padded, high backed chairs and complimentary ice water if you wanted it. The floors were the same dark slate that ran throughout the bank, and the walls were smooth plaster, painted a creamy white that seemed to reflect the orange light of the lamps. I definitely preferred my godawful paisley.

  “Have a seat, I will go and get the deposit box for you.”

  I nodded as Wilson left the room, but chose to stand.

  I didn't feel at ease here. I just wanted to get what I had come for and get out.

  Wilson certainly took his sweet time getting back to me. He returned in what felt like a half hour with two armed guards in tow. He was carrying the safe deposit box in gloved hands and he set it down on the table in front of me wordlessly. I eyed Wilson critically, arching my eyebrow in his dir
ection. It wasn't like I was gonna start anything. I was, after all, an upstanding citizen of New York, wasn't I?

  “Your safe deposit box, Detective,” Wilson said, presenting it to be as though it were a prize of some sort.

  “Thanks.”

  I pulled the key from my pocket and slid it easily into the lock. The guards stood quietly at the door, breathing heavily. I opened the lid without ceremony. I just wanted my package, nothing fancy, nothing suspicious.

  “Huh,” I muttered, pulling the manila envelope out of the box. It had a name and address written in a flowing handwriting on the front. I noticed that Wilson was looking over my shoulder and I shot him a warning look. “Something wrong?”

  “No, not at all. I was simply making sure that I had actually gotten you the correct box?” Wilson said.

  “The key worked,” I pointed out dryly. I peered back into the box's velvet lined interior and spied a second, smaller envelope. Obviously this was my cab fare. I grabbed that up as well and slipped it into my pocket. I would open it when I wasn't being watched.

  “Is there anything else that I can do for you, Detective?” Wilson inquired.

  “Nope,” I replied, turning the manila envelope over in my hands. It was sealed, so I'd have to be careful to keep it intact until I got to my destination. The last thing I needed was someone claiming that I'd broken the contract. I flashed Wilson a grin and offered him the safe deposit key.

  “Oh, I must insist that you hold onto that for the time being,” Wilson said. “It was part of my instructions. If you cannot complete your delivery, you are to bring the package back here until you can finish the delivery.”

  I frowned. “Well, that makes sense, I guess.”

  No it didn't. I didn't trust it. I slipped the key back in my pocket and tucked the manila envelope under my arm. Something wasn't quite right about this whole thing. I smiled, hoping that it would hide my uneasiness.

  “Well, thank you, Wilson. I will see you soon enough. If, at the least, to return your key and maybe make a deposit later.”