Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) (18 page)

“You can't go
around throwing out my name!”

“Well, I wasn't
about to give my own. I could've been arrested.”

“...ug...even
still...”

I pushed the bass
off of me and let it lean against a wall. A few onlookers began to walk up to
the edge of the stage. They seemed to be expecting a show.

“Miss Hatter,” I
said. “You're...some sort of performer, I take it?”

“I sing.”

“That's nice.
Anything I might know?”

She rattled off a
list of songs, but I didn't hear them, too concerned with the attention I
risked receiving from this meager crowd. One of Hatter's men plucked the bass
from behind me and started producing notes. Another took up a violin and began
playing. I could do nothing but sit there. The woman took center stage, raised
her arms, and addressed the simple audience.

“Okay, so you
can't play,” she whispered to me from the side of her mouth. “What can you do?”

“I don't know,” I
whispered back. “I'm a writer.”

“Fine, fine. Don't
miss my cues.”

“What?”

The man at the
piano joined in, hitting the keys. A song was coming into collision and I was
poised at the meeting point. Hatter locked her hands, sang a high note, and
then stretched it into a word.

“Sometimes...” she
sang. A pause. Her eyes darted at me expectantly. The implication was clear.

She had to be
kidding.

“Sometimes...” she
sang again, a little more hurried. Her eyes grew further impatient with me.

“Uh...okay...” I
whispered, sliding my chair back away from the edge of the stage. “I need to
think.”

“Sometimes, I need
to think...” she sang.

“No,” I whispered.
“That wasn't what I meant.”

“No, that wasn't what
I meant...” she sang.

Damn, she was
really going to go along with this. Who was this lady?
“Sometimes...” I whispered, “I...uh...need to...drink.”

“Sometimes, I need
a drink...”

“Until...uh...the
night is...spent?”

“...until the
night is spent.”

The small crowd of
drunkards clapped rowdily at this. Hatter grinned at me.

“Keep it up,
Dandy.”

I obliged. She
lifted her arms to the crowd again, repeating each of my words.

“And...uh...they
tell me that this world...”

“...world...”

“Is gunna give us
all a shine...”

“...shine...”

“...but I've never
been that much for shining...”

“...shining...”

“So if I don't, I
guess that's fine.”

“...fine.”

The band quickened
their pace, lighting up the small corner in a roar of sound. Hatter repeated
the verse a second time and then began clapping along to a piano solo.

“Nice job, Dandy,”
she whispered.

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Needs some work,
but there's a start there.”

“Uh-huh,” I said,
not really enthusiastic about it.

“We'll have to
track you down sometime, repay you with a tune.”

“Uh-huh...”

“Hey Dandy,” she
said, her voice suddenly deeper.

“Yes?”

“We're going be at
this for some time. A few more songs.”

“All right.”

“So now might be a
good time for someone looking to leave unnoticed to leave unnoticed.”

I slid up in my
seat to make sure I had heard her right. She gave me a serious nod.

“Nice playing with
you, Dandy.”

“Yeah...you too.”

The music ended
and I hopped off of the stage as Hatter announced her second song to the
audience. I quickly got through the crowd and was heading for the stage as the
bartender whispered to me, shaking in the air a glass of melted yellow butter.

“Thanks,” I said,
returning to the bar. “I almost forgot.”

“No problem. And
the lady took care of the bill.”

I exhaled and took
the glass. “Good. Well, I'll be seeing you.”

“Hey, mister. Hold
on a moment. You do know who that is, don't you?”

“Who, the lady?” I
said, staring at the butter. “Of course I do. She's the woman who just bought
me a glassful of answers.”

“No, I mean—”

“I'll be seeing
you.”

I hurried back up
the stairs and into the old bedroom. Kitt and Dolly were keeping tabs on this
Gren Spader, who was now lying on the bed. He looked up as I closed the door
behind me.

“You get
something?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Took you long
enough.”

I laughed. “You
wouldn't believe what I had to go through to nab a little butter.”

“Butter?!? I never
said anything about using
butter,
of all things!”

“If you have a
better idea, feel free to wander downstairs yourself.”

Gren had made a
very specific request to us before I went out there. A very simple, specific
request. Get the knife out. All attempts at pulling the damn thing out equated
us to a pack of medieval peasants gripping the unmovable Excalibur from its
famous perch. We figured greasing the thing up might slide it out of the piece
of plating that Gren wore.

Kitt had made a
very thoughtful comment at the time.

“Why don't you
just take off all of that boiler plating? It would make it easier to—”

“Can't,” Gren had
said.

“Why not?” the
Doll had asked.

And then the man
just sighed and without warning began unbuttoning his shirt and unbuckling his
straps. Once his chest was bare, the mysterious condition of Gren Spader had
come to light.

“Jesus...” I had
muttered.

You see, Gren
Spader did not wear thick metal plating only for protection. He also wore it
out of necessity, for the riveted plates were not strapped or laced onto his
body, but grafted.

The metal was
quite literally sewn into his skin.

And the leather
straps, the ones that wrapped his torso, they weren't simply clinging to his
body. They were helping to hold it together.

“Yeah,” he had
said dryly. “Get all of your staring in. Go on.”

We studied in
fascination the way that the plates, punched and marked from apparent gunfire,
were surgically connected to his form. It was a rusty patchwork that covered,
one guesses, his entire body. We couldn't help but be a little impressed.

“How—” Kitt began.

“No, no.” Gren
interrupted. “I'm not going to answer the same obvious questions for the four
hundredth time. Not at least until I get this knife out of me.”

“That's fair,”
Kitt agreed. “I need that back anyway.”

Gren grunted at
that and then demanded that someone head downstairs and find some lubricant. As
usual, I was volunteered, but didn't run off so quickly.

“Why should we do
you any favors?” I had said. “You still haven't told us—”

“You want a way
out of here, Pocket?”

“Yes.”

“And you want to
know what business I have with you three?”

“Yes.”

“Then go
downstairs and find me something slippery.”

Idiot. I hated
taking directions from him, but I didn't have much leeway.

“Fine.” I had
said. “Don't even think about trying anything stupid while I'm away.”

“We won't let
him,” Kitt had said.

“He'll be nice,”
Dolly had said.

“Now get going!”
Gren had said.

Idiot. I rubbed my
teeth against each other and drudged down the stairs. And, well, you know the
whole bit that followed, so let us return to...where was I? Ah, yes. My grand
return.

“All right.” Gren
said. “Butter will do. Bring it here.”

“Nothing doing. I
want some answers first.”

“Fine,” he said.
“What do you want to know?”

“A lot. Are you
the one who tipped off the potboy that we were coming?”

“That's right. I
figured you'd put that together when I came into the room.”

“But you came in
through the window.”

“Yes...to make
sure that it was possible—”

“Possible to do
what?”

“To
exit
through
the window! What do you think?!?”

”You were planning
to sneak us out?”

“A little better
than marching through the front door, isn't it?”

“Hold on,” Kitt
interjected. “So how do you know who we are?”

“Trust me, a lot
of people know. A lot of angry people. Haven't you seen the posters?”

“They have posters
now?” the Doll asked.

“They do,” Gren
said. “Pretty lousy drawings of you boys, but recognizable enough.”

“So they know our
appearances,” I said, dropping onto the bed.

“Afraid so,” Gren
continued. “Someone described you to the police. Said he saw a pair of men
shouting 'Pocket' and 'Kitt' and shuffling an odd, pale girl around the air
docks. Didn't take long for the police to get the word to the militia. Those
damn Magnates are sweeping the streets now. Count yourself lucky that I got
here first.”

“And you, what?
Recognized us? Followed us here?”

“That's right.
Pretty easy too. You couldn't tell you were being followed? I wasn't exactly
discreet about it. In fact, I was trying to get your attention most of the way.
Then when bottle boy over here started shouting about the Gilded Goose, I took
a shortcut and arranged this little meeting before you walked into someone
else's hands. You really are rather lousy criminals, I have to say. I'm
surprised the King's so interested.”

“Damn it…” I said,
breathing hard. “Damn it!”

“What do we do?”
the Doll asked, sitting down on the bed next to me.

“I don't know.”

“Pocket,” Kitt
said. “You said you knew someone here. Someone who could hide us.”

“No luck. He's out
of town, vacationing.”

“Shouldn't you
have known that?”

“We'll have to try
something else.”

“Something else?”
the Doll pouted. “What exactly is
something else?
”

“If you'd let me
finish,” Gren grumbled. “I will tell you.”

“Sorry,” I said.
“Continue.”

“If you think you
can stay in New London and avoid capture, you're already dead. Trust me,
I've...dealt...with a few blokes with a price on their heads. Those who got
cocky thought they could hide under Alexander's nose and ended up in a noose.
Nice guy, our King, by the way.”

“We don't have
time for politics,” I said. “Get to the point.”

“If you want to
stay alive, you've got to get out of town, and the further the better. The
outskirts of the city are probably safe for now, but word will spread soon.
Plus, they'll start guarding city exits.”

“Right,” Kitt
said. “We thought of that. So where do you come in?”

“I can get you
out,” Gren said. “Or at least I'm pretty sure I can.”

“Pretty sure?” the
Doll asked.

“Nothing's a sure
thing. The cards and these plates taught me that.”

“The cards?”

“It's a chance,” I
said. “And it's better than waiting around to be shot. What do you two think?”

Kitt and Dolly
thought it over and nodded in agreement.

“Okay, we're in,”
I told Gren. “But one last question before the butter.”

“Make it a good
one,” he said.

“Why should we
trust you, you who’s been so greatly motivated to risk another bullet in your
plates to help three marked strangers in their time of need?”

“Can't a good
Samaritan exist in this age?”

“You'd be the
first, Spader.”

He laughed. “I
think we're going to get along well, Pocket.” He propped himself up and
gestured for the glass of butter. I sighed and handed it over.

“You see,” he
said, pouring the mess down the blade of the knife. “It's like this. There's
a—Ah! Damn it, that’s hot!”

“Of course it is,”
I said bluntly. “You need heat to melt butter.”

“Stings like
hell,” Gren grumbled. “Anyhow, it’s like this. There’s a bounty on your heads.”

“We've heard,”
Kitt said.

“Have you heard
the price?”

“Heard it's big.”

“It is. Really
big. And as it is, I'm in a position to enjoy such a big number. So I started
turning that possibility over. But then I think, wait now. If I turn you in,
I'm helping the King.”

“Problem being?” I
asked.

“Problem being the
monarchy in its current state is a pile.”

“Well said!” Kitt
chimed in.

Ah. Another among
the country's discontented. Alexander's image doesn't stand up the way it did
when I was a child.

“So you place
pride before money?” I asked.

Gren smacked the
bottom of the glass. One final drop of butter slid out. “Anyone who doesn't can
decorate the bottoms of my shoes with their testicles.”

“I'll remind you
that there is a lady present.” But the Doll was already giggling. She seemed
not at all put off by the colorful analogy and I somehow wasn't surprised to
learn this.

“That being said,”
Gren continued. “I'm not stupid enough to ignore money altogether. So, I
figured since I'm not keen on taking payment from the Crown, then perhaps I can
help you help me....ugh...come on...there!”

With a pop he
pulled the knife out and clutched it in his hand.

“Finally,” he
spat. “Here. Take it.” He tossed the weapon to Kitt, who meekly apologized
again and concealed the blade within the wrench.

“So...” Gren said,
standing up and buttoning his shirt. “We have a deal?”

“Deal?” I said. I
didn't like the sound of the word. “What deal?”

“The price on your
heads. The King can pay it. Or you can.”

“That's
blackmail.”

“I'm an
opportunist, Pocket.”

“Bastard!”

“I need the money.
It's nothing personal. And it's not like you'd just be buying me off. That'd be
extortion. You'd be buying my services. You know, help getcha out of the city
safely.”

“And if we refuse,
you'll go to the authorities?”

“That would be a
last resort.”