IV

February 19, 1882

The ruckus and uproar of bare-knuckle boxing continued into the night, whereafter the commotion transitioned upstairs as fighters sold their beds and company to whichever man offered enough coin—but I slept through it all.

Well, nearly all of it.

Addison had returned to the main clubroom for another round of boxing—he had a living to make, after all—and I’d turned in. I’d only acknowledged the grunts and groans of fucking mingled with drunken laughter emanating through the too-thin walls when the mattress had dipped at my back sometime during the night. I’d jerked to attention as the quilt was raised and a rush of cold air snaked around my naked body, but then Addison murmured it was only him as he settled in behind me.

I’d met Addison here at Pilly’s, when I first dared a visit because I was so desperate to be seen, to be acknowledged, by a man of my own inclinations. He’d been a newly hired fighter—a mouthy rascal who demanded the spotlight, whether he won or lost a match—and Addison had caught me staring. Being the flirtatious bastard he was, Addison had joined me at the bar, drew up real close, asked if I’d buy him a beer, and I’d panicked. I still remember how hard my heart had pounded, how my underarms sweated, how I couldn’t formulate a single word in the English language. I had been saved when I caught the manner in which Addison had side-eyed a known Whyo gangster—not with joy, but disgust—and that was when I’d taken him on as a street informant.

For years, Addison relentlessly tugged at that loose thread, determined to pull my stitching free and prove I’d lied to him that night—that on the inside, I was just like him, and only used my badge as an excuse to deny my tendencies. And now, here we were, crowded into a too-small-for-two bed that he’d had sex in with more men than I could probably imagine. A mere month ago I would have panicked at being this close to Addison, despite him doing nothing more than trying to catch forty winks. I squeezed my eyes shut, and in my mind, I was in the hallway of the FBMS field office again, pulling Gunner close, his body melting into the contours of mine, and I was kissing him in front of a dozen scholar special agents.

There was something to be said about the relief in finally admitting aloud who I was.

Accepting that this was who I was.

I only had to keep working at loving who I was….

 

 

The next time I awoke, wintry sunshine was pouring in through the paltry curtain at the window, illuminating the bedroom in a clean, bright glow. The brisk air had a touch of body odor and a general closed-up mustiness to it, but compared to the malaise of Blackwell’s, it might as well have been pristine, untouched oxygen. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and realized Addison was leaning over me, a hand on my shoulder.

“You awake?” he asked.

“I am now.”

“We might have a problem.”

I pushed up onto my elbows.

“There’s a man downstairs—says you told him to inquire after me,” Addison explained as he straightened his own posture.

“Did he give you his name?”

“Nah. He ain’t of the neighborhood, though, that’s for sure. He’s one wrong block away from being robbed. And that’s if he’s lucky.”

I sat up the rest of the way. “Older than myself? Auburn hair and freckles?”

“That’s right.” Addison was staring inquisitively.

“He’s alone?”

“Aye.”

“Bring him up.”

“Who is he?” Addison asked.

“It’s not important.”

Addison put his hands on his hips. He was dressed in simple black trousers with braces and a white shirt, sans collar, with sleeve garters, indicative of its mass-produced size and that someone such as Addison was unable to afford custom tailoring. “Tell me who he is, or he ain’t getting past Oliver.”

“The dandy who hawks the exploits of your bloody knuckles for five cents a head?”

“He’s stronger than he looks.”

“Eugene Barrie. A doctor—”

“Doctor?” Addison echoed with renewed interest.

“Yes, from—from Blackwell’s.”

Addison’s hands slowly slid from his hips and a sickening sort of realization crossed his features. “You were—”

“Just bring him up,” I said over him. “Please.”

“Okay,” he agreed, his tone notedly subdued as he stepped out of the room.

The light of a new day brought with it the realization that I was in no proper state to be called upon. I wouldn’t be coerced to put that filthy prison garment back on my person, but even as I looked about for it, like the way one must keep an eye on a mad dog, lest it attack you unawares, I realized it was gone. Good. I hoped Addison had burned it. But that meant I was utterly naked, without even a touch of Macassar oil for my hair. I pulled my hand free from the cocoon of the quilt, snapped, and orange-and-yellow flames licked my scarred fingertips.

At least that was something.

The creak of floorboards under two distinct treads in the hallway drew my attention. I moved across the mattress to the edge nearest the door, planted my feet on the floor, and attempted to look as dignified as one could after just waking nude. The doorknob turned and Eugene Barrie was ushered inside by Addison, who was right—the doctor was dressed too nicely and lacking any sense of street smarts in his bright eyes to realize he was a walking target in a poor neighborhood.

“Mr. Fitzgerald,” he said in greeting, a smile on his face. “Goodness. You’re looking much better.”

“I think it’s best we use Hamilton,” I corrected as Addison shut the door and shot me an inquisitive stare. “And I’m afraid I’m not sure if I should say good morning or afternoon,” I continued.

“Afternoon,” Barrie politely answered.

“Good afternoon.”

Barrie was still smiling, and the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but awkward. It reminded me of conversations I’d attempted in the past with women I’d worked with, never knowing what to say that wouldn’t give something about myself away. But before I could attempt to rescue him with some trivial nicety, Barrie seemed to acknowledge the carpet bag he held by the handles and quickly thrust it in my direction. “You’ll need this.”

I reached for it, but the quilt slipped to reveal my bare chest and shoulder. I hastily righted it, saying, “Apologies for my current state.”

“Not necessary.” Barrie instead drew close enough to set the bag beside me on the mattress. If it wasn’t for the cold weather and drafty old clubhouse that brought color to everyone’s cheeks, I’d have said he was blushing. “May I take a look at those contusions?”

“No.” I stared at him until Barrie reluctantly nodded and took a step back. I directed my gaze at the bag—rich red and maroon roses stitched in an almost geometric style, with leather handles and a skeleton key still tied around them. I picked up the cold metal, stuck it in the lock, and peered at the contents. “This is mine,” I said, almost like I didn’t believe my own eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

I looked at Barrie. “How?”

“It was confiscated upon your arrival at—” He hesitated, glanced at Addison, and said instead, “The island. I took it from storage on my way to catch the steam shuttle. I know it’s only a few changes of clothes….”

I found Gunner’s brass and purple-tinted goggles sitting atop the neatly folded articles. I took them out, worried that dent over one of the lenses, and smiled as I said, “It’s nice to have something familiar. Thank you.”

Barrie’s hesitancy, a sort of stiffness he held in his shoulders, loosened. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit coat and removed an airship ticket. “I’ve booked passage on the Ora Continental for San Francisco. It leaves this evening on a rapid route—only one stop in Dodge City. We can make the trip in two days instead of three.”

I’d begun to reach for the ticket, but froze and repeated, “We?”

Barrie glanced up from the printed details before saying, “I think it would be best if I was to accompany you. After all, they’d be looking for a man on his own, right?” He thrust the ticket into my hand and said, “See, I’ve booked you under Malcom Ackerman.”

“Who’s Malcom Ackerman?”

“He’s an eager student I’ve met while visiting Bellevue,” Barrie explained, seemingly quite proud of his skullduggery. “And I’ve agreed to taking him under my tutelage as I continue my lecture tour on the uses of aether in medicine.”

“Hang on, hang on,” Addison said, putting his hands up as he butted into the conversation. “All this shit—it’s happenin’ because Hamilton’s a magic user, ain’t it? And the best backstory you got underscores his ability?”

I reassured Addison by saying, “It’s best not to deny magic abilities. You never know who you might cross paths with that can call out the lie. An agreed-upon explanation of those skills is the best option here.”

Barrie removed his pocket watch and consulted the face. “I still need to collect my belongings at my hotel.”

“I’ll dress and join you,” I answered. “We can go to Grand Central Depot together.”

“A sound plan,” Barrie concluded. He opened the door, stepped into the hall, and waited.

Addison lingered, but I gave him a firm nod and he reluctantly left the room as well.

I blew out a quiet breath before climbing to my feet. A wash, hot meal, and sound sleep had done wonders for a body that’d been barely clinging to life, but I still had to move with caution. A month of unprovoked assaults from the mad, as well as gleeful beatings of the staff, had left me with bruises on bruises, and I felt stiff and sore everywhere. I folded the quilt, set it on the bed, and began pulling clean, if slightly stale-smelling, clothes and a toiletry satchel from the carpet bag.

I dabbed Crown perfume onto a few pulse points, and the rich scent of lavender and sandalwood and cedarwood went a long way toward making me feel like a gentleman again. I added a touch of Macassar oil to my hair, then drew on undergarments and dark-gray trousers, tucked in my shirt, and buttoned cuffs and collar. After seeing to a blue tie and light-gray waistcoat, I dug to the bottom of the bag, but was unable to find my pocket watch. The criminals on Blackwell’s must have stolen it, but at least they’d had the courtesy to leave my Richmond Bros. shoes. I pulled on a suit coat, Gunner’s traveling goggles, and my scally cap, then locked the bag. I had no winter coat, but considering the state I’d been in only yesterday, it was an inconvenience in comparison.

I was mindful of my footfalls as I exited the room and made for the stairwell. Most of the fighters and staff kept a nocturnal schedule, and while it sounded as if only a few were awake behind closed doors, I didn’t need to draw any attention that could further compromise Addison’s position. As I turned the corner to make down the final flight of stairs, I saw said redhead at the landing, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Barrie stood a few feet away, looking very out of place and trying to mask that discomfort.

Addison glanced up and smirked as he pushed forward. “Handsome bastard,” he stated.

My cheeks grew warm and I said, “A touch in the right direction.”

“I should say so.” Addison nodded for us to follow, and we went through the Fighters Only door and exited Pilly’s through the alley. Addison knocked a bottle into the doorjamb before turning to me. He reached into his trouser pocket and removed a cloth bundle. “Bought this for you. Pretty lass over on Grand sells ’em.”

I held my hands out and accepted the piping-hot parcel. “Chestnuts?” I guessed.

“Aye.”

“Thank you.”

“I won’t say a word about this,” Addison continued, with a wave of his hand between us, “but you need to tell the FBMS I ain’t workin’ for no one but you.”

“I appreciate the sentiment.”

Addison said nonchalantly, “It ain’t no sentiment. I like the way you bully me.”

I rolled my eyes.

“The Whyos have been in a tizzy since Tick Tock and those mechanical men made a scene last month.” He leaned in close to whisper, “They’re afraid it might happen again. I ain’t trustin’ anyone at the FBMS with my gossip but you.”

“You think the Whyos are fortifying their defenses.”

Addison nodded. “Do you think it’ll happen again?”

I looked over my shoulder at Barrie before saying, “That’s what I intend to put a stop to.”

“Be careful, Hamilton. Send word when you’re back in the city, yeah?”

“I will. And in my absence, I want you to trust Director Moore.”

Addison made a face.

“Should you require anything.”

“I’ll think about it.”

The February air whipped up, and both of us shivered and hunched our shoulders in response. I reached a hand out. “Thank you.”

Addison shook with a firm grip. “Us wretches stick together.”

 

 

In my haste to get underway and provide my restless mind with more immediate challenges to untangle, so as to avoid any further opportunity to dwell on the very dark thoughts that, only a few days ago, had led me to the serious consideration of suicide, I hadn’t asked Barrie what address he was a guest of until we’d arrived at the Third Avenue El station on Houston Street.

“Fifth Avenue Hotel,” he’d answered.

And thank God I’d finished eating all of the hot chestnuts on the walk; otherwise I might have choked. The Fifth Avenue Hotel was five stories of opulence, counting the ground floor. Much like Grand Central Depot, it hosted a number of conveniences for travelers, including a telegraph room, reading room, barber shop, even a reception area exclusive to women. I had never been inside myself, as it was the sort of establishment that had hosted the likes of Prince Edward, General Ulysses S. Grant, and even that Tammany Hall monster, Boss Tweed, but I’d read plenty of articles in the Daily Cog about its imported marble, austere carpets, rosewood-and-walnut furniture, and its nearly half a dozen dining rooms, tea rooms, and bars.

But perhaps what was more alarming than Doctor Eugene Barrie being able to afford a stay in such a place was that the Fifth Avenue Hotel was on Twenty-Third Street and Fifth Avenue—the same intersection as the New York field office of the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam. In fact, before I’d been arrested, my private office boasted a north-facing window, with a view of Madison Square Park on the right and the grand hotel on the left.

“You know the neighborhood is rife with special agents, don’t you?” I’d asked.

Barrie had looked comically perplexed, then downright aghast after I explained the hotel’s proximity to the FBMS. He’d apologized profusely, as if the presented danger was a fault of his own, and suggested I go ahead to Grand Central without him and he would catch up. I immediately shot the idea down, because now that the federal government was aware I’d never been a casualty during the war so many years ago, they’d certainly be dispatching agents and coppers alike to the Depot and piers to look for a stowaway, while the staff on Blackwell’s continued to search the island and surrounding waters. No, splitting up was a surefire way for me to stand out to the wrong people.

Besides, I thrived where I wasn’t welcomed.

So, lost in a sea of passengers, we’d ridden the uptown El to Twenty-Third Street and walked west, cutting through the park so as to avoid boldly strutting along the sidewalk directly outside my former place of employment. Madison was bustling with men and women dressed in the latest winter fashions, enjoying the golden sunshine of late afternoon, even if it wasn’t warm enough to melt the thick snow weighing down the bare branches of English elms towering alongside the walkways. And even I, without a proper coat, didn’t mind the cold, because the air was sweet and crisp, the light sanitizing, and walking about my old neighborhood allowed me a sense of freedom I hadn’t felt since the New Year, even if I were, in all reality, skulking.

“How’d you do it?” Barrie eventually asked, his smooth and tender voice breaking the long silence between us.

“Do what?”

“Pilly’s is so far downtown,” Barrie explained. “And the strongest wind spell on record levitated a grown man for precisely twenty-seven seconds.”

“Yes. I believe a level-five caster in Chicago holds that particular record,” I answered in a tone suggesting I wasn’t actually all too interested.

We reached one of the westside exits of the park, and Barrie stopped walking to study me. “You’ve always had that record broken, haven’t you?”

“There are some things which are better left unspoken, Dr. Barrie.”

He said nothing more on the subject.

We crossed the street crowded with steam-powered motorwagons and touring automobiles, their chrome exhaust pipes spitting hot steam into the air and their pressure gauges whistling in time with the copper directing traffic on the busy thoroughfare. I followed Barrie through the front door of Fifth Avenue Hotel and, I must say, the splendor of the establishment hits differently when experiencing it with one’s own eyes.

The white marble was buffed and polished within an inch of its life, and the mellow yellow light from the steam lamps strategically placed among the columns bounced off its surface, supplying the lobby with a sort of ethereal quality. Porters rushed this way and that, schlepping the considerable number of travel trunks that the ultra-rich never left home without. The corridor was full of mingling guests as well, most still dressed for the day, but I could already pick out a few men in top hats, ready for an evening of oysters, roasted grouse, and grapes before whiling away the hours with cigars and cognac, rubbing elbows with the elite of the city.

Barrie approached the reception desk to request his bags be brought down from his room, and I made myself entirely forgettable to passersby—leaning against the far wall, carpet bag at my feet and a complimentary copy of the Daily Cog opened wide. It appeared that the city of Brooklyn wished to open another water well, at the cost of one million dollars to its citizens. An unknown man committed suicide on Mercer Street and had been sent to the city morgue in hopes of identification. Miner’s Theatre on the Bowery experienced some smoke excitement the night before, but thankfully it was only coming from a stove in the adjoining poolroom. And it looked as if the Widow Vanderbilt and General Grant were to both attend the Martha Washington Reception tomorrow at the Academy of Music.

All in all, I hadn’t seemed to have missed much in my absence.

“Mr. Ackerman.”

I lowered the paper enough to look over the top. Barrie was walking toward me with a porter carrying a carpet bag similar to my own. “Is that all you have?” I asked, closing the paper and folding it into something more accommodating for travel.

“I’ve asked they ship my trunk home. I only need the essentials for our trip.”

The porter, a young lad in uniform, approached and held his free hand out. “May I take your bag, sir?”

“I thought we could take an auto directly to Grand Central,” Barrie explained.

We wanted to avoid any undue presence in the public eye, and even the short walk back to Third Avenue to once again catch the El was a risk, given the FBMS being just a stone’s throw away, but requesting a ride in one of the private commuter autos had never crossed my mind. It hadn’t even been a luxury I’d indulged in when gainfully employed, because not only were they costly, but I had a certain aversion to automobiles. I found them as hazardous as they were ostentatious. And while they were certainly better for the city than the horse-drawn carriages of my youth, I was much more a proponent of public transportation. I supposed if I knew how to properly drive one, I might not be so hesitant, but the opportunity had never arisen.

“No matter what you handle, you look good doing it.”

“Now I know you’re flirting with me.”

“Sir?” the porter tried a second time.

I shook myself of the memory of Gunner behind the wheel of the automobile he’d procured during our chase of Gatling Man through the Lower East Side. How handsome and utterly rakish I had found him to be as he handled the massive piece of steam-powered machinery with elegance and ease. To the boy, I said, “Yes, thank you.”

The porter accepted my bag, directed us out the front doors, and hailed one of the many autos that lurked alongside the avenue where money was no object.