Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet (12 page)

“Don't test me, David,” Jemma Hayward replied. But she'd winked at her children mischievously.

Oh, Mum
, Kitty thinks as the tears spill down.
I miss you.

• • •

Back in the tavern, Archie raises his glass. “Another toast! To living in Dreamland.”

“Dreamland…” Zeph says thoughtfully. “Oh. Oh no. We've got another problem.”

“I'll pass,” Archie says.

“I agree.” Rosalind nods. “No more problems, thank you.”

“This is serious. Bernard. He was real cozy with Miss Maggie the other night. You think she might have…shared anything with him?”

“
Shared?
” Archie snorts. “If
share
is the going euphemism these days, that little quim would give Saint Nick a run for his money.”

Nazan blushes, and Rosalind smacks Archie's arm. “Rude! Zeph's right, though. He could be ill. We should find him before—”

“Before Reynolds and the Huns do.”

Spencer stands. “Now, that's not fair—”

“You know what they say.” Zeph shrugs. “If the hood fits.”

“Zeph's right,” Rosalind says. “Of course, I've no idea what we'll
do
with him when we find him, but still. I hate the thought of that sweet, old giant tossed in a Black Maria to who knows where.”

“Hang on,” Spencer says. “You're talking about Bernard Coyne? This Maggie person was Coyne's girl? Look, Bernard is an employee of Dreamland. I can help him.”

Archie grunts. “So
him
you'll help. Well, guess what? He sees you, he'll run the other way so fast he'll trip over a midget.”

“Nonsense.”

Zeph says, “No, Archie's got a point. How is Bernard to know—hell, how are any of us to know—that you won't turn him over to those hooded fellas?”

“I would never!” Spencer flushes. “How could you—”

“Send
her
.” Archie points at Nazan. “Bernard has never once said no to a pretty face.”

Zeph considers this. “What do you say, Miss Celik?”

“Of course I want to help, but…how will I know when I see him?”

“Easy,” Archie says. “You see somebody looking
down
at a lamppost, you found him.”

“Where do I look?”

“The two of us,” Rosalind says. “I know Coney as well as anyone. We'll look together.”

A Piece of Paper

Bernard the Giant peers in the mirror and sighs. But not for the usual reason.

Given that he is—in the words of his own banner—
eight feet of strange
, mirrors have given Bernard plenty of reason to sigh over the years. But almost overnight, Bernard got even stranger. His neck sprouts giant lumps, and his face is crawling with black, slug-like sores. He looks like he's been attacked by a demonic tattoo artist.

He'd awoken in his too-small bed at Mrs. Golodryga's boardinghouse, a few blocks off Surf Avenue. He had the proverbial song in his heart, due to an evening of drinking and flirting with beautiful Miss Maggie down at Magruder's, and a thundering in his head, which also had something to do with the drinking and flirting. Or so he thought. He rolled over and went back to sleep.

Hours later, he awoke throbbing with fever. It took him a minute to remember
who
he was, much less where. His throat felt like there was a nest of scorpions trapped inside, stabbing their way out. There were other strange miseries too: egg-like lumps in his armpits hurt so intensely he could barely lower his arms below his head; meanwhile, other lumps where his massive legs met his torso felt like they were on fire. In his distress, he cursed Miss Maggie for giving him some sort of intimate disease—a horrible thought he immediately wished he could take back.

Miss Maggie is an angel. How could I think such a thing?

Then fever overtook him, and he collapsed into sleep.

Bernard awoke the next morning to Mrs. Golodryga banging on the door and hollering in her personal combination of Russian and English. The upshot was that if the
Урод
(freak) wants breakfast, he needs to get his
жопа
(ass) downstairs, or he won't get
xуй
(shit).

Bernard opened his mouth to reply, but only a croaking sound came out. He pulled a pillow over his face and wept.

• • •

It's now early evening, and Bernard stands by the mirror in his custom-made tuxedo. It took almost an hour to get dressed—he had to keep stopping to catch his breath. The slightest brush of fabric against the angry sores sent pain like bolts of lightning across his body. But he'd done it. Done it for her.

The voice of Bernard's sanity insists that he not go out.
I should be in bed, a hospital bed probably. This is madness.
But he'd invited Miss Maggie to go dancing at the fine new ballroom at Dreamland. She'd smiled at him and said yes—
she'd said yes!
—and no sore in the world would keep him from her. Surely her face was all the medicine he needed anyway.

On his dresser, he locates the finishing touch for his outfit: a pair of diamond cuff links won in a craps game. He smiles, thinking how Miss Maggie will admire the diamonds. Then he frowns, discovering how difficult it is to get them on. His hands are even clumsier than normal, as though they belong to someone else.

He holds up his fingertips to examine them. They are dried out and black, like stubby chunks of coal.

The sane voice in Bernard's head pitches a fit, demanding to know why his fingers are rotting. But the only voice Bernard hears is the one in his heart. And it has a more pressing concern.

Will she still hold hands with me?

• • •

Nazan and Rosalind spend the next few hours politely nudging their way through the crowds, searching for their giant. Rosalind has changed into his male garb to make it easier for them to pass among the crowds unremarked upon.

He sticks out his elbow, offering it to Nazan with a laugh. “Just a regular John and his regular Jane,” he chuckles in a lower-than-usual register. “Ain't nothin' interestin' here at all, no, sirree.”

Together, they stroll around Dreamland, Luna Park, Steeplechase Park, up to the racetracks, and back down Surf Avenue. Everywhere they go, they stop anyone Rosalind knows—which, to Nazan, looks to be about 80 percent of everyone.
Have you seen Bernard? Have you seen our giant?
No one has.

“So, Miss Nazan,” Rosalind says as they go. “I expect this was not the afternoon you envisioned? Wandering the streets in search of a giant?”

Nazan smiles. “No, not exactly. I was hoping to see the Automatic Boy again. Do you know of it?”

“Chio? Of course I know Chio. I've never had a finer portrait than the one Chio did of me.”

“Yes, exactly! That's why I'm so curious. But is it just a trick?”

Rosalind shakes his head, confused. “A trick? What do you mean?”

“Spencer says it's all done with punch cards or some such.”

“That boy can take the fun out of just about anything, can't he?” Rosalind laughs and takes Nazan's arm. “I'm afraid your Spencer doesn't know half as much as he thinks he does. Oh, I know! Let's try Feltman's. Maybe someone on the waitstaff has seen Bernard. I could use a knish anyway—I'm famished.”

“What's a knish?”

“My dear! So very much to learn.”

• • •

Kitty sits at the window in Rosalind's bedroom, looking out at the city. The street in front of Magruder's is dark and quiet, but just down the way, the party remains in full swing. Coney Island at dusk is pandemonium, even on a weeknight. Stark electric lights assault the eyes, while sideshow talkers and souvenir vendors compete for the ears, shouting over calliope music that's as inescapable in Coney as oxygen. But all the hurly-burly outside just makes Kitty feel more alone.

Her visit to Coney was supposed to be so different. Nate had it all planned: “I'll take you on the Ferris wheel… I'll take you to the racetrack… I'll swim circles around you at the shore.”

Mum, of course, had her own ideas: “I understand that the Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor does wonderful work with destitute children. Perhaps we can assist.”

At which Nate would groan theatrically. “Mum, can't we have a bit of fun for once?”

“Nathan, ‘Unto whom much was given—'”

“
Please
, not this again…”

“‘—of him (or
her
) shall much be required.'”

Meanwhile, Kitty stared at the ceiling, begging for a lightning strike to silence them both.

Now, she's all alone, gazing out the window at a skyline flecked with tiny electric stars. What a fool she'd been.

A soft knock at the door.

“Rosalind, is that you?”

The door opens, but it isn't Rosalind: it's Spencer, carrying a tray. “Sorry to disturb you, Miss Hayward. Zeph thought you might be hungry.”

“That's lovely. Thank you.”

Spencer puts the tray down on Rosalind's dressing table. “Rosalind is out with Miss Nazan, looking for Bernard Coyne, the giant. Do you know him?”

“I do, actually. ” She looks at him curiously. “You didn't go with them to look?”

“I was specifically
not
invited to join the giant hunt.”

“She blames you.”

“So it seems.”

Kitty looks Spencer up and down. “She'll forgive you.”

“Hmm.” He shakes his head. “I hope so.”

“So you're just waiting here, then?”

“I'll go back just as soon as I've seen Nazan home safely.”

“Such a gentleman.” Kitty fingers her mother's necklace. “Mr. Reynolds, I do understand you are in a difficult situation.”

He smiles. “Really? You're the only one, then.”

“Miss Celik will come around. But if there
is
anything else you know that might help…”

“I… It's… Well, we're calling it the Calcutta Cough.”

“I'm sorry? I don't—”

“Instead of the plague. Can't say
plague
; it's too frightening. Calcutta Cough makes it sound more…”

“Foreign. Naturally.”

“None of this was my idea, you know. I'm just the
son
, Miss Hayward. It's not as powerful a position as everyone seems to believe. But I do want to help you, and I will try. I promise.” He looks down at the tray. “You should eat before it gets cold. Circuit hash.”

Kitty makes a face. “Excuse me?”

“
Good ol' home cookin'
, Zeph says. It's, ah, let's see: tomatoes, corn, pork? Some type of bean. I had some—it's good.” Putting the tray down on the table, he gives Kitty a wink. “Nothing as sophisticated as
British
cuisine, of course.”

“Oh ho ho,” she says, smiling. “The dauphin
does
have a sense of humor after all.”

• • •

It's dark by the time Rosalind and Nazan return to Steeplechase Park. Bernard doesn't work there and would have no reason to go, but Rosalind has run out of better ideas, so they resolve to give it one more look. Neither wants to face Magruder's empty-handed.

Along the way, they pass the High Striker, a test-your-strength game in which customers hoist a sledgehammer and attempt to ring a bell sitting atop a tall pole.

“Hang on,” Rosalind says. “I know this blackguard.” He waves to the fellow running the game. The man is outlandishly tall and nearly as thin as the pole itself, and he's decked out in a red-and-white-striped suit and straw hat. “Mr. Fitz!”

Fitz ambles over to them, grinning. “Hello there! Rosalind, you are a vision as always. Although I prefer you in a gown, if I may be so bold.”

“You are not alone, my friend. Fitz, I'd like to introduce my friend Nazan Celik.”

He tips his hat. “Evening, miss.” Fitz gestures at his game. “Care to have a go?”

Nazan smiles. “That sledgehammer looks a bit heavy for me.”

Fitz and Rosalind laugh. “Anyone can win this game,” Rosalind explains, “
if
Fitz likes you enough to push the button that makes the bell ring. But I'm afraid Miss Celik and I are on a rather urgent mission. You're friends with Bernard Coyne, aren't you, Fitz? You wouldn't know where he is?”

“Hmm…I reckon today is Coyne's day off.”

“Any thoughts as to where he might be? It's urgent.”

“Ah, well. You know, he's quite taken with some girl…”

Rosalind nods vaguely, trying not to betray too much. “Miss Maggie, yes.”

“Right, Maggie. He bragged to me he was going to take her dancing with all the swells at the Dreamland ballroom.”

“The ballroom.” Rosalind nods. “Oh boy.”

• • •

Dreamland's ballroom is lit by hundreds of individual lightbulbs overhead, with a luminous oak dance floor under foot. One long wall is exposed to the sea, and a cool breeze wafts through the windows, balancing the sizzling heat drifting down from the lights. An orchestra plays a waltz, and a large crowd of well-dressed couples glide to the music.

Bernard stumbles around the ballroom like a vaudeville character who's blundered into the wrong play. Gentlemen give him a wide, worried berth, and their companions turn up their noses in disgust. But Bernard has been eight feet of strange for a long time—he isn't going to be put off by that kind of reaction now. He doesn't even see it anymore.

Where is she?

His balance is off somehow, as though the ballroom is a storm-tossed ship, but he's the only one who notices. He stumbles, colliding with an older man in a monocle three feet shorter than himself. The man shoves Bernard away as his wife squeaks.

“Sorry,” Bernard mutters. “Very sorry.”

He steadies himself and scans the room. It's so bright, and the music is so loud, so much movement, so many colors sweeping around on the dance floor and people sitting at tables drinking wine, chatting, chatting, chatting, so much babble, pretty girls laughing, but none of them are Maggie, and his eyes start to water.

“Maggie…”

• • •

Spencer leaves Kitty to her meal and wanders downstairs to the tavern. Zeph and Archie are at the bar, and there's an orchestra playing…somewhere? It's a waltz, Spencer is sure, but where is it coming from? He stares at the icebox in confusion. “Orchestra?”

“Mr. Reynolds,” Archie says, “have a seat. Actually, take mine. I think I'll prowl around a bit, see if I can pick up any Surf Avenue scuttlebutt about this trendy Black Death all the kids are wild for. Zeph, we'll speak soon.” With a quick doff of his hat, he heads up the stairs.

Before approaching the bar, Spencer eyes Zeph to see if Archie's invitation is acceptable.

Zeph nods, and he fixes Spencer a drink. “Go on, white boy. Have a seat. And the orchestra ain't in the icebox. It's across town in your ballroom at Dreamland. The sound is picked up by a transmitter that an electrician buddy of mine hid in the ceiling lights. The icebox is the receiver.”

“No kidding,” Spencer says. “I've read about Marconi's wireless, but this is another level of… This is Doctor Timur's doing, is it?”

“Nah, Doc's all about the
making
of things,” Zeph explains, “but he don't ever know what to do with the things he makes.
Doing with
is my department.”

“So why listen in on our ballroom?”

“Ain't just yours, son! I got a bunch of transmitters out and about. I like music, and that orchestra you got is damn good. That's Tchaikovsky they're playing now—a waltz from…ah…dammit, I forget now. Some opera—Enzo told me. He says the opera's no good, but of course, he only likes the Italians. I don't know. I think he's all right, that Tchaikovsky. Nice waltz. I ain't much of a
dancer
, of course. Beautiful to hear, though.”

“Why not just go listen, if you feel that way? Wouldn't it be better in person?”

“Well,
gosh
, that ain't never occurred to me. Too bad I have more chance of flapping my arms and flying to the moon than I do goin' to hear music live down the Dreamland ballroom.”