The battered automobile limped sluggishly to a stop in front of a gated warehouse on Brooklyn’s north east side. The driver reached through the missing window and squeezed the horn, which gave a strangled haaWWnnK, before breaking off in his hand. He stared at in puzzlement, then shrugged and tossed it away. After a moment, the gate opened up, pushed aside by a pair of large, grim faced men. They watched silently as he kicked the car into gear, quite forcefully, and it began to struggle forwards, rolling unevenly on the one wooden wheel cobbled together by the Maierson workers.
Many more such men stood around in the warehouse yard, stacking crates and supplies, inspecting firearms, or just leaning against the walls idly, but each and every one stopped what they were doing to watch as the outlandish car came to a sputtering stop, smoke and liquid leaking from under the hood. The driver hopped out and began to march briskly from the car, whipping off his goggles and cap as he went, only to stop and glance back curiously as the engine continued to turn over, until finally with a shuddering bang, it shut down. Black fumes began to pour out from under the hood as the driver turned away, marching into the main building and up the stairs. Behind him, the men began to gather around the car, muttering quietly as it continued to smoke.
Inside, more men were busy, bent over maps and tables full of reports and letters as a telegraph machine clicked loudly in the background. As he passed, each and every man looked up quickly towards him, watching him silently, before returning to their work. He pulled his jacket open, jerking the buttons free, and opened the door into the main office, shutting it behind him. The noise cut off behind him almost immediately.
Inside, a young man in a gray suit was sitting at a small table, reading a newspaper idly, while a slim woman stood behind him, holding a metal tray. A half-full coffee cup was in front of the man, but another full one was waiting nearby, pleasantly steaming.
“Oh thank God,” the driver said, almost leaping for the cup. He downed half the mug in almost one gulp and sighed, letting out a groan of pleasure. “I needed that.”
The young man flipped the newspaper down and gave him a sardonic smile. “The Maierson’s not lay out a good enough spread? I thought you would’ve had more than enough at the party.”
The driver snorted, taking another sip. “I was working, remember? Besides, the help doesn’t get invited to those kinds of things. Would’ve been too suspicious for me to mingle with the guests.” His voice was rough, but not uneducated, and his face was ruggedly handsome. He pulled off the rest of his battered, mud-stained jacket, revealing his fit and muscular frame, and started to hang it over the back of a chair when the woman sprang forwards eagerly.
“I’ll take that–, I mean, I can get that cleaned, Mr Stoker, sir,” she said, stammering a little. A faint blush crept onto her cheeks and she looked down quickly.
He shrugged and handed the jacket to her. “Thanks, Hettie. Can you get me another pot, oh, and something to eat as well?”
She nodded quickly, taking the jacket and hugging the filthy thing tightly close to her as she tittered at him. “Whatever you need, sir, just let me know.”
The young man raised his hand lazily. “Give us a minute or two first, please Hettie? We’ve got a bit of business to discuss.”
She nodded again, more seriously. “Yes, sir, Mr. Brian.” Then she smiled quietly again at Stoker and hurried out of the room, still clutching the jacket to her chest.
Brian watched her go and when the door clicked close, he leaned forwards, his face suddenly mischievous.
“First thing’s first: how was the car? I’ve always wondered what one was like, but I’ve never had a chance to drive one.”
Stoker pushed a hand back through his short, brown hair, still filthy and road-stained from the road. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not,” he admitted.
“Of course I’m being serious,” Brian said in a mocking tone. “Everyday I’m surrounded by rich pricks and practically the only thing they can talk about is their latest new toys.” He rolled his eyes and shuddered. “Houses, horses, boats… Do you know how boring listening to all that gets? Cars are the only thing they talk about that’s even remotely interesting. But of course, the odds of a simple lawyer like me earning enough to afford a car are slim to none…” he sighed.
“Even at your rates?” Stoker asked, smiling wryly and Brian waved his hand.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“C’mon. What was it like?” he asked again, impatiently.
Stoker sighed and leaned back, cracking his neck absently. After a moment’s thought, he said, “You know, I always thought they were too much trouble, too complicated to bother with, but they’re actually not bad, once you get the hang of it. You get it up to speed, the wind in your face…,” he trailed off, smiling almost unconsciously. “And there’s no worry if it wrecks ‘cause it’s just a machine, not something important like a horse.”
“I knew it,” Brian said, snapping his fingers. “Any chance I can borrow it?” Stoker laughed, taking another sip of coffee and Brian waved the question away. “Later, later, I know…” Then he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, still smiling, but his eyes growing more sharp and intent.
“Tell me about Junior,” he said suddenly.
Stoker didn’t need time to think for this one. “He’s a hand grenade,” he said shortly. “Use him and lose him.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse. He’s stupid, pig-headed, doesn’t have an ounce of cunning or loyalty, and he couldn’t even remember my name,” he complained. “I mean, how hard is it to remember your driver’s name?”
“Shocking,” Brian said dryly. “I think, however, the Old Man’s going to be more concerned about whether Junior and his father can pull off this little assignment than whether they can remember the help.”
“They might,” Stoker admitted reluctantly, “with a lot of luck and help. And I do mean a lot: have you seen the first batch of surveillance reports on their company?” Brian nodded, but he went on, venting his frustration. “A Gray Man, placed right under their very noses! And I’m going to have to take care of him now! I’ve got an entire squad of my best men headed up there, who knows how many are going to come back this time?
“Maybe you’ll get lucky?”
“We haven’t yet,” he said glumly.
Brian reached over and patted his arm. “Well buck up. It turns out the Old Man agrees with you.”
Stoker looked up at him quickly. “He does?”
“He does. We let them carry out this assignment, and if everything works out, they won’t be a problem anymore.”
“Here’s hoping.”
“Yep, we let them absorb the expenses, and any potential blowback,” Brian stressed. “Then, we move in to sweep up the pieces, and the rewards.”
“How bad does he think it could get?”
Brian tilted his head to the side. “It could be pretty bad, may even make the national papers. Obviously, the Old Man and his friends will do their best to keep it under control, but you never know with stories like this one. All the more reason he wants to keep our name out of it, for the time being at least.”
Stoker leaned back in his chair, finishing his coffee gratefully. “Well, here’s to seeing the last of Junior.”
Brian cleared his throat then. “However, he does feel that someone is needed to work closely with the Trimbles from here on out.” Stoker looked up quickly, his eyes narrowing. “Someone to keep them in line, you know? Train up their men, give direction, even provide a firm hand when they need it.”
“Oh no!” Stoker said, rising from his chair. “I’ve got too much on my plate already, I don’t have time to–”
“It’s an order,” Brian cut him off. “Right from the Old Man himself.” He took out a sealed envelope from his coat pocket and slid it across the table. Stoker didn’t pick it up immediately, just stared sullenly at the paper.
“Look, it’s only temporary,” Brian said, trying to console him. “Take a few men, head over to their new factory in Staten Island, and see what you can do to help them. Stress to them that you’re not there to take over, just to provide guidance. You can stand a few days with them, can’t you? Trust me, you’ll be out of there well before anything gets serious.”
“I’d better be,” Stoker grunted. Slowly, he reached out and picked up the envelope, though he didn’t open it right away. Brian watched carefully, noting how he was gritting his teeth.
“Look, just as a warning,” he added, “be careful around Trimble Senior.”
“Oh?”
“You haven’t had the pleasure yet, but trust me, whatever the son is, he’s only a pale imitation.”
“Great…”
“It’s only for a few days,” he stressed again. “Then the Trimbles will be finished, the Goblins dead, and the biggest prize in all the world will be ours for the taking.”
Stoker gave a long sigh, then removed the letter and started to read. Brian gave him a pat on the back. “Good man! Oh, and uh, maybe I could borrow the keys?” he asked hopefully.
Still reading, Stoker tossed them to him. Brian caught them as he left the office, humming a satisfied tune. Behind him, the stark white banner on the office wall stirred, the crossed black hammers on it rippling in the sudden breeze, as Stoker continued to read his orders.