Read Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) Online
Authors: Sean Michael O'Dea
August 27, 1914
Carnegie Hall
Manhattan, New York
The man was a New Yorker, but he dressed in flowing silk robes of vermillion red and lapis lazuli, his white turban decorated with golden, Arabic swirls. His outfit fluttered in a cool evening wind that collected in the main entrance to Carnegie Hall. His facial hair seemed freshly groomed in an oriental fashion. A dark, pointed goatee complemented a thick, abbreviated mustache and small tuft of hair immediately below his lip. “Ticket, please,” he demanded with a Bronx accent.
Wage stroked his now-clean-shaven face and straightened the lapels of his midnight suit with tortoise shell buttons. He pointed to a brilliantly red, metallic pomegranate flower pinned to his left breast pocket. He had nearly cut his finger in half trying to pin it on. “I believe my invitation is right here, friend,” he replied.
The man in the Arabian disguise placed a hand on the blunted scimitar that hung on his hip, reached over, and inspected the flower, ensuring its authenticity. “Thank you, sir, and welcome,” he said with a bow. “Please see your way to the main hall.”
Wage passed through the brass doors that led to the lobby. An usher in a beige and bronze Sherwani coat that fell to his knees also bowed, then requested Wage’s jacket and hat. Wage handed over his derby hat, revealing side-parted black hair with a pomade shine, but he kept his double-breasted suit coat buttoned, concealing the shoulder rig that housed Ol’ Snapper
.
The usher asked if he would prefer any appropriate props for the party, like a turban, silk robe, or Egyptian scepter. Wage declined. He was instructed to simply follow the faint trail of pink and white rose petals, which led along the tile and sectional red carpets to the main hall. A waiter patrolled the perimeter of the petal-strewn carpet, offering those entrants their choice of either mint schnapps, champagne, or lemon water. Wage downed two schnapps before he entered the party. “Let us commence with this evening’s activities,” he whispered to himself, the first time he had ever uttered that phrase without Ol’ Bill around. A magnesium flash lit up the lobby as a photographer and his assistant snapped a picture of Wage before he entered the party. Two more ushers in bright-orange Indian garb opened the double doors into what was possibly the grandest party in the Western hemisphere.
When the doors opened, a blast of sandalwood and frankincense filled Wage’s nostrils, but it hardly covered the smell of both the recognizable and more exotic tobaccos. Steady drum beats, chimes, curiously stringed contraptions, and what sounded like a snake charmer’s flute rhythmically intertwined and entranced Wage’s ears. The music was indeed foreign, but it touched a primitive, familiar part of his soul. The whole scene was an explosive medley of color—vibrant cherry reds, deep burgundies, effervescing lilacs, cool aquamarines, and dandelion yellows.
Carnegie Hall was indeed a spectacle. The space felt even larger because all the seats on the parquet floor had been removed for the occasion. Whatever bolts or brackets were left in the floor after removing the numerous rows of seats were invisible underneath the nearly 100 Persian carpets that spanned the entire floor. Makeshift wooden structures of various sizes that were decorated with colorful silk and cotton filled the edges of the hall. Each one housed a different attraction—a smoking hookah lounge, an eccentric fortune teller caressing a crystal ball, shirtless and spastic flame jugglers, stoic and lithe sword swallowers, an impressive and impossibly twisted contortionist, a cautious and focused snake handler, a flourishing magician sweating in layers of Eastern-style robes, and a troupe of veiled belly dancers whose finger chimes blended in with the ambient music. Most of the younger guests, festively dressed to some degree, lounged about in the numerous circles of oversized and frilled pillows, drinking, smoking, applauding, and laughing. Everyone was sporting some type of metal flower on their ensemble.
Wage approached the stage, navigating through men and women who scurried about in sarongs who delivered sweet and spicy kabobs to eager patrons. The scent of the kabobs was one more element that transformed Carnegie Hall in New York City into an Oriental bazaar. Surely, Wage thought, this must have rivaled Nebuchadnezzar’s Babylon. Another flash of magnesium, and a photographer immortalized Wage’s mouth-gaping awe.
On the great stage, a company of Japanese acrobats flew around with the poise and grace of jungle animals. A few held a long chalked pole steady and upright. Two other men stood nearby, their backs bent and their hands cupped. An acrobat, covered head to toe in white powdered makeup, came sprinting from stage right, jumped into their cupped hands, and was launched nearly halfway up the 20-foot pole. The pole oscillated as the small acrobat twisted and turned about it, his moves almost convincing spectators that humans were meant to live among the trees. The acrobat ascended to the top and balanced there on one foot, hovering seamlessly like some kind of phantom.
Looking up at the ghostly looking acrobat, something else caught Wage’s eyes. Hanging from the high ceiling was an ocean of flickering and swaying paper lanterns. They were all different colors and sizes, showering the guest in subtle hues. The lanterns surrounded one enormous and fixed silver chandelier that hung from the highest point in the ceiling.
Four curved balconies loomed above the stage. On the second level, older patrons, dressed in formal attire, sat comfortably at tables and dined on what looked like less eclectic food. The third and fourth-level balconies were vacant, but a few shadows stood near the railing of the fifth-level balcony, separated from Wage by 137 steps. The shadows were difficult to see clearly, but they loomed over the hundreds of guests as though they were apparitions trying to once again inhabit the realm of the living. Wage ignored them and continued to a pistachio-colored tent adorned with bright-yellow streamers that sat to the left of the stage.
Inside the silk-strewn tent sat two gilded thrones with hieroglyphs etched along both edges, encircled by numerous padded stools. Also inside the tent was a large black cage where a Bengal tiger laid half asleep but still keenly aware of all the prey swirling just outside the iron bars. Two women were inside the tent.
Mink stood in a sheer, indigo Indian sari and hijab. Small strands of her red hair grazed her forehead like scarlet snakes looking for refuge in the emerald pools that were her eyes. Her eyes, more dangerous than the tiger’s, focused on her sister, who sat in the smaller of the thrones, dressed like Cleopatra. Her black Egyptian wig and golden headdress perfectly covered her blonde hair. Her blue eyes were framed by jet-black eyeliner applied in pharaoh-like fashion. Wage approached unnoticed.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said. “And may I express my utmost jubilation at your forthcoming nuptials, Andromeda.” Wage took the pharaoh queen’s hand and kissed it politely.
“Well, isn’t this a happy reunion,” Andromeda exclaimed. “How long has it been since all of us were together?”
Wage turned to Mink, took her hand and kissed it sensually, savoring the taste, the smell, the moment. “Entirely too long,” he said.
“It’s nice to see you again, Wage,” Mink said. “Are you holding up all right?”
“Fine. Just fine,” Wage replied. “Thank you for your inquiry.” His tone pepped up and he slapped his hands together. “Now, Andromeda, do tell me where this strapping future husband of yours is? I am just dying to meet him.”
Andromeda squinted out into the party and pointed to the second level balcony. “There,” she said.
Wage looked up and saw the pharaoh king. He wore a white linen sarong and wide sash, a fake Egyptian beard, and a massive headdress. He was entertaining some of the older patrons.
“Ah, and where might his friend be? The Baron?” Wage asked. He leaned in closer and whispered, “He’ll just die when he sees me.”
Andromeda laughed. “Oh Wage,” Her cold eyes met his. “I suppose nothing will deter you, will it? If you must know, I haven’t seen him yet this evening. I am not entirely convinced he will even show.”
Wage scanned the bazaar again. “Oh, he’ll show. He’ll show.” The tiger grunted and lifted himself up to stretch.
Mink put a hand on his shoulder. “Wage. Whatever it is you think you’re doing, I urge you to reconsider. Please, Wage,” she pleaded. She knew this mood. She knew the kinds of things that produced it, she knew the kinds of actions it precipitated. She knew the results would be him leaving again or him dying. She squeezed his shoulder and leaned in closer to him. “Wage Winchester Pascal, I know you. I know you are up to no good, but whatever your plan is, it ain’t gonna bring your friend back. Please Wage, listen to me. Don’t make me beg.”
Wage reached over and took her hand. It felt right. “If you tell me—” Wage started.
“Honeybee!” Quincey Gartrell shouted as he entered the tent. Mink released Wage’s hand instantly. “Darling!” she replied as they kissed each other’s cheek simultaneously. “How are you?”
“I’m great! And how is our Raja doing?” Quincey approached the tiger, put his hand through the bars and ruffled the beast’s snout. The tiger growled and shook its head.
“I am not one to understand the temperament of such a beast, but he seems very calm, all things considered,” Mink answered. “Quincey, I want you to meet a dear friend of mine; we grew up together in Baton Rouge. His name is—”
“Baton Rouge! How about that!” Quincey interrupted, walking over and extending his hand to Wage.
Wage grabbed the man’s enormous hand that was slick with tiger spittle. “Captain Wage Pascal,” he said.
“Captain, huh? I use to think I was bound for service myself. But,” Quincey said, gesturing to the tiger, “you don’t get to stalk and capture dangerous creatures like that in the Army. Took me three days to catch Raja here. He fought like hell, too. Here, have a look at this!” Quincey unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it open, revealing a massive barrel chest with three diagonal scars halfway across his right side.
“Fascinating,” Wage replied.
“You a hunter, Cap’n?” Quincey asked.
“I guess you could say I am something of a man hunter at the moment,” Wage replied.
“Well remember, men aren’t hard to track; they’re hard to kill,” Quincey said, buttoning his shirt back up.
“Really? And let’s say I was hunting someone right now. How would you suggest I go about it?” Wage asked.
“Wage!” Mink cried.
“Don’t look for tracks. Find their food source. Find the resource they can’t live without, and camp out there. The best ammunition a hunter has is time and patience.” Quincey slapped Wage hard on the arm, nearly knocking him over.
“And any tips for the killing?” Wage inquired.
“Wage Pascal!” Mink cried again.
“Aim for the heart.” Quincey smiled and picked Mink up as though she were a child. “That’s what this one did to me with Cupid’s bow, that’s for sure!” He laughed and nuzzled his head into the side of her neck. “Has she told you the story of how we met?”
“Not exactly,” Wage said flatly. “If you will excuse me.” He turned to Andromeda, whose countenance looked like a sinister Mona Lisa. “I wish you all the best at your wedding, Andi. Hopefully your feet don’t get as cold as your soul.”
“I will wish you the best at your funeral, Wage Pascal,” Andromeda replied.
August 27, 1914
Carnegie Hall
Manhattan, New York
“Wage! Wait!” Mink yelled as her childhood fiancé disappeared from the tent and into the bazaar. The party swelled with more people now. A huge roar of applause erupted as the Japanese acrobats took their bows on the stage above them. “Let me down, you big oaf,” Mink yelled at Quincey.
He lowered her down. “Ah, what’s the matter, honeybee?”
“Yes, dear sister, what is the matter?” Andromeda asked.
“It’s nothing. I’m just worried about Wage, that’s all.”
“I am sure Wage can take of himself,” Andromeda said.
“Seems like a capable man to me,” Quincey added. “Hey! What do you say we keep Raja for a couple more days, take him out to my father’s estate? I’m sure the Bronx Zoo won’t mind.” Quincey said.
“If you will both excuse me, I require a bit of fresh air,” Mink said. “I shall return shortly.”
She strolled through the bazaar, her indigo sari swirling around her as she did. Her first inclination was to head for the main entrance out into the streets of New York, but she decided that it was not fresh air she needed, but isolation. She needed time to collect her thoughts. She took the stairs, all 137 of them, to the top balcony.
She was alone as she looked down over the entire bazaar. She saw the Chinese stagehands erecting wooden pylons and affixing them with paper lanterns and other oddities. She looked at the line of guests waiting to see her younger sister and fiancé, now both seated on their thrones. Some, no doubt, meant to wish them a healthy marriage, others probably expressed gratitude for the invitation to such a grand party, some surely wanted to introduce themselves for the first time in hopes of making an impression on a very well-connected family.
She saw Quincey having a drink with a group of gentlemen in nice suits adorned with random oriental props. He pointed twice at the caged tiger, then unbuttoned his shirt again. Mink then looked at herself, at her distorted reflection in the polished brass railing she stood behind. Her face was sadly long and somber, but with a slight tilt of the head it became compact and happy. The idea of instant contentment made her want to laugh deep down inside. She braced the railing with her hands and took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scents from below. Calm was overtaking her now as she stared back at Quincey. A certain clarity of thought that she had gone without for so long blossomed like a wildflower after a spring rain.
In that very instant, she saw her future—an uncomplicated life. A life where she accepted Wage’s actions and permanent absence, a life when no one remembered her as the once-heiress to a railroad family’s fortune. A life filled with people who could not recollect her well-intentioned train heists, the incident on the
Artemis
, her time in Gary, Indiana. A life somewhere far away, Africa, perhaps, with Quincey. A life littered with the laughter of her own children, the boasting of her overly masculine but kind-hearted husband, the melodic sounds of Church hymnals, crickets chirping the whole house to sleep, pots and pans clanging as something wonderful was cooked in the kitchen, the uncorking of wine bottles, the shouts of her dinner party guests, when once again, her husband displayed the scars on his chest.
She saw it all in an instant. And a moment later, it was gone.
A man hurriedly raced toward her from the left side of the balcony. She turned to run the other way, her cloth slippers getting adequate traction on the carpet. As she sprung away, she ran into another man, her head bouncing off his chest.
“Hello, Mother,” he whispered hoarsely.
In a panic, Mink walked backward into the chest of the initial pursuer. That man smelled of cheap alcohol and body odor so appalling that even the frankincense and sandalwood couldn’t cover it up. He reached out and grabbed her by the arms.
“You seem so surprised to see me,” Reginald Thomason continued. His eyes burned with the intensity of hell itself. “Do you remember the last time we met? I do.” He removed the black gloves he was wearing and placed them in his suit pocket. Delicately, he placed his fingers over the white, silk scarf that covered his neck and removed it. A grotesque, thick red scar nearly circumnavigated his neck, almost as though his head had been removed and then poorly sewn back on. He hung the scarf over the balcony and let it go. It fluttered to the balcony a floor below as a Chinese dragon danced to roaring drums and cymbals on the stage. If she screamed, Mink thought, there was little chance anyone down below would hear it.
“You’ll have to excuse me; the bullet you fired severed most of my vocal chords. A devastating injury, but it proved not to be fatal.” He shot a hand up to her throat and squeezed. “Now, I have traveled a very long way and worked very hard so that you and I can have this time together. Will you agree to play nice, Mother?” Mink nodded, her eyes wide in terror.
Reginald Thomason smiled, let go of Mink’s neck, and stroked the side of her cheek instead. “Did you really think I wouldn’t look for you at your only sister’s engagement party? Christ himself wouldn’t miss this party. I mean, look at it!” He took a cigarette from his inner pocket and lit it with a monogramed Wonderlite. He inhaled deeply, his whisper voice now more hoarse. “You must be wondering how I knew? I’ve read every letter you kept in your vanity. It was nice to have met your sister; she is quite lovely. Although, I suspect she wouldn’t shoot someone and leave them to die as you did.” He held up a finger. “By the way, I have a gift for you, Mother.” He replaced his lighter and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to her. “Go ahead, have a look.”
The henchman released his grip. Mink unfolded the paper and saw her own death certificate. Irony set in, almost comically, as she had just foreseen her future life. Her eyes watered, but she refused to let tears overflow, not in front of him.
“I have friends in the coroner’s office now. It was necessary to take complete control of my late father’s estate. I own everything now that you are officially dead. Sure, I had to pay off a few fishermen, but it was a small price to pay. I now have everything I ever wanted, save for one thing.” He looked at her the way a rat might look at unattended cheese. “I knew you survived that night, Mother. I knew it!”
Mink slapped him hard enough across the face that his cigarette fell to the floor. The henchman grabbed her once more. Reginald smothered the lit roll-up with his shoe. His hand shot to her neck again, and he squeezed harder this time. The henchman maintained his restraint. “I could have initiated a nationwide manhunt for you. I could have had you charged with the murder of my father and the attempted murder of me, you insolent bitch!” He raised his voice as loud as he could. “But I had something better in mind!” He lightened his grip. “Now, you are going to come with us. You are going to get in the cab outside. We are going down to the docks where I have a boat waiting. We are going to cast off into the East River, and when I am sure no one can hear us, I am going to have you. Then, I am going to have you again.” Reginald laughed manically. “And then, I will take you aft and cut your throat. And after I weigh down your body, I will throw you overboard. No one will ever find you. Of course, even if they did, by some miracle, find and identify you, I wouldn’t be charged.” He smiled perversely. “Legally, you can’t kill someone who is already dead. You see, I’ve thought this through.”
Mink now let her tears overflow. She stopped struggling within his grip. Fireworks popped and whizzed from the stage below.
“Wait. . . I . . .” she stammered. Patrons below began a thunderous round of applause.
“It’s over, Mother! I will have my revenge!” He composed himself and looked toward the stage. “And who knows—maybe I will have your sister, too.”
“No,” she whispered back. “No. No.” Her legs gave way in resignation.
Reginald released his grip entirely. “Dennis, please ready the car. My mother and I have a boat to catch.” The henchman started toward the balcony exit, leaving the two of them alone. Reginald lifted Mink’s hijab slightly. “You cut your hair? That must have been difficult for you.” He stroked her cheek again.
An unmistakable Cajun voice came from the shadows. “Now, I am no romantic by any stretch of the imagination, but that is certainly no way to charm a lady.”
Reginald turned to the approaching man. “Get out!”
“Honestly, Mink. Are there any other men in your life you want to tell me about?” Wage asked.
She answered him with her eyes.
“I don’t know who you are,” Reginald said, putting a hand in his pocket. “But I want you to GET OUT.”
“Now, what in the hell is wrong with you? Why you sound like that? Cat got your tongue? Jesus! Looks like a Mink got your throat. Ain’t that about right . . . Reggie,” Wage smiled.
Mink affirmed this with her eyes.
Reginald revealed the blade from his pocket once again and took a step toward Wage. “I will not ask you again!”
“Funny thing, Reggie,” Wage said. “I found these binoculars laying in a seat down below. Thought I’d come up here for a better look. See, I’m looking for a man with one eye. He’s a Baron. You seen him?” Wage waved the pair of ornately decorated opera glasses at Reginald with his left hand, while his right hand drew Ol’ Snapper and pointed it at his forehead. “Put down the knife, Reggie.”
Reggie mulled it over, his muscles so tense they quivered.
“Reggie, this is a .45 caliber handgun, and at this distance it will bore a hole clean through you with such force that it will also snap your neck. Trust me. Now against my fine and better judgment, I am willing to let you go unscathed. Or . . .” Wage trailed off, pulling the hammer back.
Reginald dropped the knife, and lifted his hands in the air. An indigo slipper shot up fast to his crotch from behind him. The sound of hollow wood against bone rang out. Reginald did not flinch; instead he covered a small laugh with his hand. Mink recoiled, holding her foot in pain. “You already popped one testicle that night on the
Artemis
, Mother,” he said, still laughing. He rapped his knuckles on what was most likely a protective, wooden cod piece. “I planned for that one.”
Wage swung his gun hard at Reginald’s temple. This time, the sound of metal on bone rang out. Reginald’s body went limp and hit the carpet with a thud. “Plan B, then,” Wage said.
Mink limped quickly over Reginald’s body into Wage’s arms and held him. “Wage,” she said, “Wage, I . . .”
He held her tightly, feeling a flood of something he couldn’t readily identify, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. “It’s all right,
mon chéri
, it’s all right. Everything is goin’ to be all right.” They held each other silently for a full minute. Adrenaline graciously made it feel like an hour. “Listen up now, take yourself downstairs, have Quincey get you outta here posthaste, you hear?”
“Wage . . .”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it. Get out before someone spots you up here. Go.”
Mink backed away, still favoring her injured foot. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done, I’d . . . I’d been . . .” She froze. Her eyes streamed with tears again. Wage knew what they meant. He only had one question for her, a question that he had no business asking at the present juncture.
He asked it anyway. “What did you think about when his hand was around your throat? When you thought it might be over?” For the first time in his life, Wage saw Mink’s lip quiver.
“Wage, I . . .I . . .”
He shook his head. “Get outta here, Mink Callahan. Go!”
Mink turned and with long, painful strides, made for the doors to the stairwell.