Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) (2 page)

An off-duty
Magnate.

He stumbled over
his boots and breathed over me. A
drunken
, off-duty Magnate. My luck was
immeasurable.

“Well, for
starters…” he grunted, cracking his knuckles. “I thought yer interpretation
rang a little anti-Alexandery.”

“Did it?”

“Personally I felt
yer wordplay smelt of rebellion.”

Now, dear readers,
it has never been my practice to question the criticisms of those larger or
drunker than I, but given the situation at hand, my first response as author
was to defend my artistic point of view.

“Rebellion?!?
Where in God's name did you find
rebellion?!?
”

“You 'ere talking
'bout our crowns 'n buttons, and you called them, I believe, blood red.”

“Did I?”

“You did.”

“You have a
problem with adjectives?”

He grabbed my
shirt's collar and lifted me off the bar. At the moment, I had wished he would
make up his mind on where exactly he would prefer me to lie in intimidation.

“As I see it,
blood
is a fairly suggestive word.”

I was hanging in
the grip of a literary scholar, it would seem. My feet dangled over the ground.

“Well, yes, of
course it is,” I replied. “I was merely trying to create an image of color in
the minds of the audience.”

“Blood suggests
violence, death, and whatnot.”

“Well, that's one
reading, sure. But—”

“Are you implying
that the monarchy operates under a thinly...hiccup...thinly-veiled pretense as
a bunch of murdering crooks?”

“Not at all. I
didn't realize you military men were such sensitive scholars.”

“That a crack on
our intelligence?”

“No, I—“

“Because I don't
like insinuation! I once knocked a man cold for insinuation!”

“I'm sure you did,
but I can assure you—”

“Do you swear
yerself loyal to our King and our great lady England?”

“Look, if you
could put me down—”

“Or do you stand
as an enemy to the Crown?”

“No, of course
not! I believe your interpretation may be slightly askew, is all.”

You know those points
in stories where a dangling protagonist is saved from a perilous situation by
the innocence of a child?

“You gunna throw
him real far, Daddy?” little Annabelle, sweetheart of the city, asked my
assailant. Lovely.

I was soon
introduced with “real far,” as Annabelle's daddy threw me headlong out of the
Brass Rail.
I remember thinking in midflight that this would make for a
lousy beginning to a story.

Moments later, I
collided with a man-shaped fox and the night took a turn for the strange.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“You stopped
talking, Pocket. Where's the rest of the story?”

“That was the
story, Alan. I'm done.”

“You told me a
story of how you got thrown out of a bar! I could tell you a dozen of those!”

“I'm…I’m tired, okay?”

“Come on. The
drinks tonight weren't
that
bad. You owe me better than that. You build
me up with turnkey girls and man foxes, then tell me something I was there to
see?!?”

“Eh...”

“
Eh?!?
Don't
give me,
eh.
What happened to flash?”

“Look, the truth is,
I'm having second thoughts.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.
Maybe the booze’s wearing off. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t
under…Hey, Pocket. I already told you, I don’t care how long it is, just—“

“It’s not a matter
of length, Alan. It’s just…well… it’s not a story that's particularly easy for
me to tell…actually harder than I thought. So just forget it. You wouldn't
believe half of it, anyhow.”

“I don't care if I
believe it! I'm bored.”

“Alan—“

“I can be this
stubborn all night.”

“…ug...fine. Hope
you're comfortable. Where was I?”

“Man-shaped fox.”

“Right. Tell me,
Alan. You know a guy named Kitt Sunner?”

“Yeah, actually.
Not in a long while, but he used to come around this place, asking for leftover
peanuts. What about him?”

“He's a headache.”

The first things
to come to me were sounds. Wind, coughing, swearing. A faint, drunken laughter
in the distance, eventually muted by the slamming of a door. Next came more
physical sensations. A spinning dizziness. Someone's fingers pushing against my
shoulder. The cold, wet, griminess beneath my fingernails that only genuine,
British back-alley slush can provide. A tightness in my lungs.

A headache.

“Damn, that hurt,”
said a voice. I was surprised to realize that it wasn't mine. “You okay?”

I rolled over onto
my back, shook the snow from my nostrils, and began thumbing the frost out of
my eyes.

“I think so. Are
you?”

“Think so. You hit
me.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“That's okay. I've
been thrown around before. Somebody in there not like you?”

“I really am not
sure.”

I blinked. Shadows
and shapes formed, particularly the shape of the young man I had slammed into
on my way outside. A dark silhouette of two fox-shaped ears sprouting from a
round head appeared. I began to fear that the impact had caused me to
hallucinate, so I spoke very softly and slowly.

“So…” I carefully
pronounced, “…you appear…to be a fox.”

The fox laughed.

“You could say
that. Sure.”

“All right,” I
said, blinking out more ice. “Are you a…uh…good fox?”

“Just open your
eyes, Pocket.”

I did as
commanded. As my vision came into focus, I found not a fox but a young man
sitting on his left knee. What I had mistaken for ears were actually flaps of
leather sewn into rather fox-like points on the top of an old aviator’s cap.
Unfastened chin straps hung down on either side of the young man's youthful
face over curly, black hair. He smiled cheerfully.

“Oh,” I dumbly
said. “You're not a…”

“No. But don't
feel embarrassed.”

“Should I be
embarrassed about being thrown into you?”

“Probably a
little.”

“Good. I'm
reacting properly then.”

“It's really no
big deal, Pocket.”

“Right. About
that. How exactly do you know my—”

“This was stuck to
your boot heel,” the boy said, holding up a stained, white card. “It smells
like whiskey and anger.”

“It should. The
man who—”

“Did you know you
misspelled 'absent?'”

Sigh.

“Yeah, well, I
didn't actually print the card myself, so—”

“You’re really a
bard? What's that like?”

“A paradise of
fulfillment. I'm sorry. I didn't get your name.”

“Oh. I'm Kitt
Sunner.” He was decked in leather and had a pair of thick flying goggles
strapped to his unusual fox-eared cap. He reminded me a bit in appearance of a
child with piloting aspirations playing dress-up and make believe. We helped
each other up. I took back my card and Kitt frowned. He started slowly stretching
his leg and I raised an eyebrow.

“I'm okay,” he
said. “Just a little stiff. Nothing broken.”

Broken. A thought
occurred and I immediately began padding down my overcoat and vest pockets.

“Something wrong?”
Kitt asked.

“I just remembered
that I was carrying a...oh...”

I felt a jingling
in my left coat pocket. I fished from it a handful of emerald green slivers of
glass. The fox-headed boy traced them over with his eyes.

“What's that
you've got there?”

I frowned. “Scrap
glass, now.” I removed the prized set of round, golden-framed, green-tinted
spectacles I had found at a carnival but a week before. They were now snapped
in two and the right lens had smashed into sharp confetti when I hit both the
ground and the wide-eyed stranger.

“They would've
been nice,” Kitt added. I'm fairly sure this was an attempt to cheer me up, but
the comment achieved instantly the opposite effect.

Determined to play
the optimist, I took the un-mangled half of the spectacles and hooked the frame
under my left ear. The snapped bridge rested slightly lopsided on my nose and
the rounded left frame sat poised before my eye as a sort of makeshift monocle.

“What do you
think?” I asked, hoping to hang onto at least the slightest bit of class on
this increasingly deteriorated evening.

“Unusual,” Kitt
admitted, studying the fashion of it. “But I think I like it.”

“You're a man of
taste.”

A wind hit us and
Kitt began rubbing his hands. “It's late. I should...”

“Right. Sure. Nice
running into you.”

“That's a horrible
joke.”

“Yeah. Well, good evening
to you...Kitt, right?”

“Yeah,” he
replied, brushing some snow off of my coat, “Good evening, Mister Pocket.”

Kitt pivoted on
his heels and strolled away from me, throwing a cheerful wave over his back in
my direction. I nodded and, stuffing my hands in my coat pockets for warmth,
started off in the opposite way. Something seemed immediately different about
the feel of my inner pockets, but what was missing didn't dawn on me until Kitt
shouted “Hey!”

“Hey!” came again
his angry shout, fired from the distance. I looked over my shoulder to find
Kitt standing in the slush, gripping something small and brown in his fist, and
shaking it so that I could see.

“Hey!” he repeated
a final time, now that I was watching. “Is this some kind of joke, Pocket?”

“Eh?”

Wearing a look of
grave disappointment, he marched back up to me and tossed the little brown
thing into my open palms. It was a small, leather bag. Empty.

Empty...

Of course. Kitt
had just handed me my own wallet.

“This...” I began,
at a loss for words. “This is...”

“Empty,” he added,
a bit sour.

“You...stole from
me?” I said, more confused than upset.

“I
tried.
You
know, it's kind of a waste of my time to pick pockets shallower than mine.”

“Excuse me?”

“Forget it. If you
ever get any rich friends, send them my way.”

He shrugged,
mumbled something to himself, and tried to walk away. Fortunately for me, the
collar of his jacket was instantly caught in the angry fist of a bard who had
just in that moment realized the reality of the situation.

“Do you mind?” Kitt
asked.

“You snatched my
wallet!”

“Yeah. I know.
Nothing personal, Pocket. Heh, Pocket. I picked Pocket's pocket. Pretty good,
right?”

“You. Snatched.
My.
Wallet!
”

“It's right here.”

“What difference
does that make?!?”

“I don't know. I
thought you'd appreciate the gesture. I mean, if you want to make a case out of
it, remember that I gave it back—“

“Because there was
nothing in it!”

“I'm not thrilled
about that either.”

“So you're...what?
Some kind of street thief?”

“No! Well, I mean,
yeah. I am. Not like I have much of a choice.”

“No?”

“No. This
is...look, I don't have to explain myself to a complete stranger!”

“You do when
you've
stolen
from that complete stranger, you cutpurse!”

“Would you keep it
down? You'll attract attention.”

“Oh, good point! I
wouldn't want to bring any notice to the thief who's robbing me!”

“Robbing implies
that you had something to steal!”

“Funny!”

“Look, will you
calm down? You'll wake up half of the city.”

“Fine! Let's wake
them up! See what I care!”

“Have you…been
drinking tonight, Pocket?”

“I don't see what
that—yeah, a little bit.”

An understatement,
but it was a good point for Kitt to make. I took a moment to wisely shut up.
Unfortunately, the damage was already done.

The door of the
Brass Rail
swung open and the same curly-locked Magnate who had sent
me into flight leaned through the frame, snorting like a bull.

“What's all this
shouting about, then—Oh, ho! Storyteller! You still squawking about here?”

That'll sober a
man up fast.

“Uh...hey there!”
I bumbled. “Good seeing you! My friend and I were just having a bit of a lively
discussion.”

“Political
discussion?”

“No! Nothing
political! Just catching up on old times, right Kitt?”

“Is that the man
who threw you into me, Pocket?”

“Just get out of
here before I bury you both!” the brute shouted. “And storyteller! Take yer
junk with you!”

Without another
word of warning, the Magnate flung something transparent, the size of a small
cannonball, whizzing at our heads. Kitt and I hit the dirt, just centimeters
away from getting our skulls cracked. As a new round of slush coated my eyes, I
heard the Magnate chuckle. He shouted something idiotic to a few friends inside
and closed the door. I rolled over and opened my eyes. My view was filled with
the blue-purplish smear that was the English sky, dusted with the flicker of
starlight.

My only favorable
view of the night thus far.

I could hear Kitt
rustling beside me, shuffling to his feet and scraping his boot heels in the
ice. I didn't feel like making the first sentence, so I let him have it.

“That was close,”
he said. Not a bad first sentence. I would've gone with something slightly more
expressive, but it broke the silence.

“Yeah,” I said,
not being expressive at all. For some odd reason, I didn't take my eyes off of
the stars, feeling that if I waited long enough, some grand answer would be
spelled out for me amongst the vanilla dots.

“We should leave,”
I heard Kitt say. “I don't want that man to have some more drinks and decide to
throw some more of pieces of junk our way.”

The drunk's projectile
had landed, miraculously unbroken, in a small patch of grass behind us. It was
an oval-shaped bottle, wide-lipped, corked, tagged, but most importantly,
half-filled with a bubbling, green liquid that seemed to be glowing on its own.
The bottle was, as the brute so eloquently claimed, an oddity of my own
possession.

Kitt wrapped his
gloves around it. “What's in there?”

“Faerie juice.”

“I see,” said
Kitt, who clearly didn't. He took hold of the bottle and shook its contents.
“Where'd you find faeries to juice?”

“Electric
Bohemia.”

Kitt played some
more with the bottle, his attention not entirely on the answers I was giving
him. “Uh-huh...look, it gets all shiny when you hold it up to the moon.”

“I know.”

“That's a pretty
neat trick. Where'd you say you got this, Pocket?”

I sighed. It would
not be the last time.

“Electric
Bohemia.”

“Hold on.”

“What is it now,
Alan?”

“I like
imaginative stories, Pocket. I do. But you start talking about spotting faeries
and they'll lock you up in Bedlam with the other 'imaginative' gentlemen.”

“Yes, yes, I'm
getting to it.”

“Well, get to it
faster.”

As I, for some
reason, then explained to the inquisitive fox boy, the bottle in question had
found its way to me one peculiar time in the spring of the previous year. A time
in April, specifically, and being such, the sky was pouring rain. It was also
the dead of night and between the blackness and the wetness I was having
considerable trouble navigating the southbound streets of the city. I was soon
lost.

“Huge surprise.”

“Alan, please.”

I wandered for
awhile until walking over something large in the street that turned out to be
an elderly Frenchman. I asked if he was all right, and he informed me that he
had taken to the streets in search of “an enlightenment of the senses.” I
pointed out to the old man that it was raining quite hard for such experiments
and he told me that rain was a vital part of life and therefore the sensation
of water on skin was critical to his research.

“Sounds like he
spent considerable time 'researching' an opium den.”

“I know, but
listen…”

I hated to bother
someone so entranced with the weather, so I apologized for running my boots
over his stomach and fell into a mud puddle. The old man wheezed and cackled. I
swore and tried idiotically to ring myself out under the pouring shower.

“Bravo!” the
Frenchman bellowed, sitting up and clapping hard. “Merci bien!”