Chapter Twenty-Three

“I’d like to see Officer Kelly.”

The desk sergeant, the same man who’d booked James mere days ago, gave him a narrow look.

“You, back here again? Most our guests can’t keep far enough away once they’re sprung.”

James grimaced. “All the same, I’d like to talk to him. He works out of this station, doesn’t he?”

The desk sergeant raised sandy eyebrows. “You do know he’s an automaton?”

“Yes.”

“Not much for conversation, them.”

“Look, is he on duty or not?”

“Not.”

James’ heart sank.

“What do you want with him?”

“It’s personal.”

“Want to ask him for a date, do you? I have it on the best authority he likes women.”

Now James’ eyebrows flew up.

“Anyway, you’re no pretty boy, are you?”

“It’s nothing like that.”

“Well he’s off duty, but he doesn’t sleep much.” The sergeant snickered. “I happen to know when he’s not working he hangs out at a bar called Nellie’s, down on Perry Street.”

“I’ve heard of it.” Nellie’s used to be one of the toughest joints on the waterfront. Why would an automaton go there? But he said, “Thanks,” and left the station, the sergeant’s gaze drilling a hole between his shoulder blades.

Nellie’s was probably a stiff five minutes’ walk from the station and would be quiet at this hour of the afternoon. James set off briskly, the hot sun beating on his head.

Buffalo’s waterfront, a veritable warren of docks, warehouses, and bars, teemed with life. Squads of men unloaded cargo; others trundled it about on handcarts. An airship had just come in, and James paused to look at it, remembering the first time he’d seen Catherine. His heart clenched.

Nellie’s, no more than a shack, perched among a number of sister buildings a stone’s throw from the harbor. It didn’t look busy at this hour, but as James approached the door, which stood open, he heard music coming from inside. He stepped in and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior.

Tables dotted the warped planks of the wooden floor, and a bar built of packing crates stretched on the left. Perhaps six or seven patrons occupied the tables, and an old man sat next to a small stage on the right, playing a concertina.

On the stage…

A woman danced, clad in nothing except long stockings. Her dancing was poor, her body better, and because he couldn’t help himself James watched her for a minute before he withdrew his gaze and scanned the room.

All men, as might be expected. Or were some of them automatons? He looked more closely, hoping to recognize Kelly, who, he remembered, had sprouted a crop of reddish-brown hair beneath his police cap.

He spotted the fellow at last, sitting dead center at a table with another patron, having a whiskey and watching the dancer. Amazement touched James. What was Kelly playing at? Automatons didn’t drink.

He walked over to the table and eyed both occupants. He couldn’t tell at first glance if the second man was also an automaton.

“Officer Kelly, do you remember me?”

Kelly gave him a salubrious look and tipped the glass of whiskey he held in a jaunty salute, a gesture James had seen Tate make a hundred times, and pure Irish.

“I was part of the coal-horse confrontation on Prospect Street,” James clarified needlessly; automatons didn’t forget much.

“I am off duty.” Only the slight mechanical whine in the voice detracted from the illusion of pure humanity. As the desk sergeant had implied, Kelly had no need to sleep or, presumably, rest. Yet here he sat apparently immersed in recreation.

“I know; I’m sorry to interrupt. I was hoping for a word.”

“Hope, Kevin. He hopes. Must be a human.”

It seemed to be some kind of joke, for both Kelly and his companion emitted grinding sounds that, after a moment, James identified as laughter. The second automaton, who must be Kevin, got to its feet.

“I will leave you lads alone, then.”

“Sit,” Kelly invited magnanimously once the other hybrid moved off to the bar. “Watch the dancer. Do you like?”

James took Kevin’s chair and shot another judicious—and unpreventable—look at the stage where the woman had begun to remove one stocking. She had nice legs and passable breasts, but she was no Catherine.

He said carefully, “I didn’t come here to look at a woman.”

“You wish to talk to me.” Disconcertingly, Kelly’s countenance displayed little expression when he spoke, and the nuances in his voice were few. Difficult to gauge what he thought.

Did he think, as such?

“Would you like a whiskey?”

“No, thank you.”

“I can summon the bartender.”

Again, Kelly raised his glass. He wore a soft white shirt open at the neck to display his brawny chest and the cuff fell back, revealing a large scar at the wrist, white and rigid.

“I’m fine,” James assured him.

“If you wish to speak to me about the incident on Prospect Street, I am not at liberty to discuss it. If you want my opinion, you will probably get jail time. But it is my further opinion the cab driver was a piece of shite who deserved what you gave him.” Kelly paused thoughtfully. “I have no respect for men who beat their horses. As I told you that day, the way animals are treated in this city is abominable.”

“There is the anti-cruelty league.”

“Yes. I am thinking of joining.” Kelly emitted the grinding sound again. “Do you think they would make me welcome?”

“No doubt.” James huffed in surprise. The automaton had a sense of humor. Who would have thought?

“The horse in question has been taken into care,” Kelly said. “And I have made sure the coal company is investigated for other abuses. It may just have been the one driver at fault. I am informed one human cannot be held responsible for the sins of others.” He paused. “Is it about this you wished to talk to me?”

“No, though I’m glad to hear the horse is in care. Do you know a Dr. Roesch?”

Kelly cocked his head a bit like an intelligent setter. James realized he consulted his artificial intelligence. “Yes.”

“I believe he studied you and your…fellows.”

“My fellows, yes.” Grind, grind. “We are an elite company. Oh, look—she has removed the second stocking and is completely nude.” He banged his whiskey glass on the table in apparent approval. All around the room, the sound echoed. Kelly gestured to the woman, who hopped down from the makeshift stage and crossed to their table.

“Nice dance,” Kelly told her emotionlessly. “This is my friend. Forgive me, friend—I did not record your name.”

“James Kilter,” James told the woman. She looked into his face, and he prepared for her reaction.

She didn’t disappoint. “Jesus, what the hell are you? One of them experiments,” she jerked a thumb at Kelly, “that went wrong?”

James shook his head. Close up, she appeared far less attractive, and reeked of sweat.

“You mean, you’re human?” She did another quick assessment and offered grudgingly, “If you want to go in back, I suppose I can keep my eyes shut. You all there under your clothes?”

Robbed of the ability to speak, James nodded.

“It costs a dollar, and no funny stuff. I do the usual, including doggie style. You get five minutes. Well?”

“I will pay.” Kelly pulled a dollar from his pocket and laid it on the filthy, scarred table. “My treat as a reward for your heroism the other day.” Grind, grind.

“No, thank you, though I appreciate the offer.”

“Fussy, are you? With a face like that?” Obviously offended, the dancer stalked off, her butt cheeks bouncing.

“Is that face of yours a disadvantage when trying to obtain women?” Kelly asked. He left the dollar lying on the table. “I would not think you would have an unlimited choice.”

And what’s it to you? James burned to know but dared not voice the question. Kelly seemed friendly enough, but how did one man ask another—even an automaton—if he were able to enjoy a woman?

“This is true. But I am interested in one particular woman, no one else.”

“Ah, love.” Kelly leaned back in his chair and gave a smile so purely Irish it astounded James all over again. “Another great human tradition.”

And was that what took place here? Did Kelly and these others scattered about the room play at the traditions of being human? Kelly had not yet drunk from the whiskey glass, though he waved it about like some Celtic king.

Sadness touched James. As he knew very well, being an outsider didn’t feel good.

“About Dr. Roesch,” he began again. “How well do you know him?”

Another woman had come out onto the stage, this one fully clothed. The man with the concertina began to play another wheezing tune, and Kelly took a long look at the woman before he replied.

“Not well, though he has looked into my most intimate places.” Grind, grind.

This time James laughed with him. Then he laid his hand atop the dollar and deliberately slid it toward Kelly.

“Officer Kelly, I don’t need this, but if you’d like to reward me, as you say, for trying to spare that horse a beating, you might do me a favor.”

“Favor?” Kelly tipped his head again. “Ah, yes. Friends do favors for one another. What do you require?”

James lowered his voice. “I’m trying to convince Dr. Roesch to operate on my face.” He gestured roughly. “To make me look—well, more human. But the surgery’s not perfected, and he’s reluctant. Thinks I wouldn’t be able to handle the pain.”

“How are you at handling pain, my friend?”

“As good as the next man, maybe better. Probably not so good as you.”

“Why do you want the surgery so badly?” Kelly appeared to examine him. “Those are just scars.”

“It’s difficult to explain.” To someone without a heart. “As I say, there’s a woman.”

“The one with whom you are in love.”

“Well, yes.” Might as well admit it.

“You have chosen one woman above all others.”

“Yes. And I wish to look…well, the best I can for her.”

“If she cares for you in return, she will not mind how you look. At least, that is the premise with which I have been presented.”

“It’s a fine premise, in an ideal world. But look at me. What woman wouldn’t mind?”

“So how can I assist you in your effort?”

“Speak to Dr. Roesch for me. He knows you. Assure him I can withstand any pain or risk.”

“Give me your hand.”

“What?”

“I cannot give Dr. Roesch any assurance which has not been proven to me.” Kelly snatched James’ wrist in one of his mechanical, skin-covered hands and, from his pocket, brought a box of matches, one of which he struck against the table. He forced James’ hand, palm down, over the match head and held it there while the small flame seared the flesh.

The automaton’s strength was such that James couldn’t have pulled away if he wanted. He didn’t want; he knew this for a test and endured without a sound until the match burned back to Kelly’s fingers and snuffed out.

“Very good. I will speak to Dr. Roesch about you. Come back here and talk with me again, sometime. I have enjoyed this.”

James swore under his breath and shook his hand surreptitiously, against the sting.

“Thank you, Officer Kelly. I appreciate it.”

“Anything to further the cause of love. But call me Patrick. You are my friend. And put some ice on that. I hear it cools the burn.”