Good evening everyone! While I'm hard at work on the next chapter of Silvanus and Empire, I wanted to make sure you folks stay entertained in the meantime. If you've been bingeing Luke Cage on Netflix, and if you like Dieselpunk science-fiction, you're gonna like this.
To that end, here's The Cogtown Rag, another short story set in the same universe as Blowing Off Some Steam, Landfall, and A Stiff Drink, all of which I've shared on Steemit over the past few weeks; like the others, it also appeared in a Twit Publishing anthology, which you can find on my old publisher's website here.
Image from Episode 1 of Marvel's Luke Cage
Jake pelted around the corner, hat in hand, as the steam whistle blew. He cursed, leaped over a low stack of crates, and nearly wrapped himself around the waist-high railing that cordoned off the office. He planted his hands on the railing and hopped it, using his momentum to propel him forward. Jake landed off-balance, rolling through the open office door in a tangled ball of lanky arms and legs, and came to rest underneath the time clock.
In a flash he was on his feet, hunting through the racks for his time card. He spared a glance over at the clock and sighed, his shoulders drooping.
“Looking for this?” Jake spun around. Pops was there, holding his time card pinched between his thumb and forefinger. It might have been a soiled diaper, judging by the look on his face.
Jake put on his best shit-eating grin. “Hiya, Pops. You, uh, wouldn’t mind handing that over, would you?” He looked over at the time clock again. “I’m nearly five minutes late, the foreman’s gonna tan my hide.”
“You’ll be fine.” Pops handed the time card over to Jake, and the younger man looked it over. This morning had been punched in already, right on time.
Jake laughed and slid his time card home in the rack. “I owe you one, Pops.”
“You don’t owe me shit, kid.” Pops cracked a wry grin. “You’re a dummy, but you’re our dummy. Now c’mon, that freight train ain’t gonna unload itself, now is it?”
Jake nodded and followed Pops out the door and into the warehouse. It had already come to life around them, and there were several other stevedores already stomping up and down the double-wide aisles, their gorilla suits chugging along and giving off little puffs of steam with every step. “How long have they been at it?” Jake asked.
“Third shift’s been hard at work all night,” said Pops. “We’re shorthanded. Lots of folks been callin’ out with ‘the flu’ these days.” They turned a corner, coming up on where the warehouse stored the empty gorilla suits.
“Fine with me,” Jake said. “I could use the hours.” He looked over the closest cargo suit, shook his head, and moved down the line to the next one.
“You could pick up some overtime, kid. Wouldn’t kill ya.”
“It might.” Jake peered at the inner webbing of the next suit and then reached in to give it an experimental tug. He shrugged and turned around, easing himself into the exoskeleton. He slid his feet into the stirrups and bent down, cinching them tight. “You know I’m only workin’ this gig to pay off that horn.” He slipped one hand into the sleeve linked to the right arm, settling his fingers into the proper slots, and then reached behind him with his left hand, up and over the suit’s hump, to open the main valve. Steam hissed through the actuators; the bleed valves popped as the pressure equalized. Jake could feel the whole suit begin to vibrate ever so slightly.
Jake slipped his other arm into the left hand sleeve and worked the ankle pedals. The gorilla suit stood up with a jerk. “Pops, can you check my steam pressure? I think it’s a little high.” Jake clomped forwards and then leaned over, resting the suit on its primitive lobster claw manipulator arms.
Pops walked around, out of Jake’s line of sight, and began fiddling with the gorilla suit. “Looks like you’re right,” he said. “Some dumb nugget left it overcharged. Hold still, I gotta vent some of this.” He tugged on the emergency relief valve and there was a blast of frigid air. Pops came back around, dusting off his hands. “There, that should do it. Can’t pay off that horn if you’re in little chunks. I still think that was a bum deal you got, kid.”
Jake straightened up. He took a couple of experimental steps and nodded. “Suit feels fine now, Pops – thanks. And don’t get started on that again. We can’t all bury a box full of chicken bones at the crossroads and wake up the next morning with a golden guitar in bed with us.”
Pops snorted. “Boy, you ain’t never seen a chicken in your life.” He got into his own gorilla suit and belted himself in. “Not that I’ve seen one in more’n twenty years, but that’s ‘sides the point. You should be out playin’ them juice joints and getting’ famous, not riskin’ your neck here for chump change.” The older man scowled. “Hell, I’d be right there next to ya if it weren’t for this damn arthritis.”
Jake and Pops stomped down the aisle towards the waiting railway car. “C’mon, Pops. You’d be bored outta your skull without me around.”
“Yeah, and you’d be up to your baby browns without me pullin’ your fat from the fire, so I guess we’re square, kid.”
The first half of Jake’s shift went quietly. He worked with Pops and the other stevedores unloading and stacking big, heavy crates from the freight train. The early dawn gave way to the usual grey, hazy skies typical of a New Herculaneum autumn as Gliese 370 tried in vain to burn through the cloud cover. At best the star would show up as a bright spot, a vague halo of burnt orange that did little to cut the chill, and when the lunch whistle sounded Jake was ready to clamber out of his gorilla suit and warm up by the furnace.
“Lovely weather we’re having,” he said, slipping into place at the chow line. Pops sidled up behind him, metal tray in hand. “What’s on the menu today, Horace?”
The heavyset man behind the lunch counter smirked. “Bon appetit,” he said, ladling up a healthy serving of wheat porridge into a bowl and clattering it down on the counter.
Jake picked it up with a grimace and sat down at an empty table. “Looks like a big ol’ bowl of snot,” he said.
Pops sat down beside him with his own bowl. “And about as tasty.” He stuck a spoon down into his bowl and let go. The spoon stood straight up.
“At least it’s not so runny today,” said Jake. He sighed, looking down at his own bowl, and began the process of mechanically feeding himself.
Pops just continued to glare at his own bowl. “We would have to crash 36 light years from the nearest fast food joint,” he grumbled. “20 years of suckin’ down this junk and trying to pretend those mycoprotein patties really taste like filet mignon.” He dug in reluctantly.
“I dunno, it’s not so bad, Pops. Sure, it ain’t the cat’s pajamas, but it’ll keep you going.”
“Says you, kid. You ain’t never tasted anything but this slop.”
Jake wrinkled his nose. “Say, why don’t you come down to Clapper’s tonight? I got a gig. Sure, you gotta be off your nuts to think this shit is tasty, but that joint will be jumpin’ tonight. I’ll buy you a bottle of suds.”
“Clapper’s?” Pops cocked his head at Jake. “What’re you doin’ playing there, boy? You should stay away from them Cogtown joints.”
“Pops, I can’t get my foot in the door uptown, you know that. Besides, Clapper has a workin’ piano up in there.” The older man looked unconvinced. “C’mon, you should kick up your feet. When’s the last time you had a night out, Pops? Back before landfall? I’m not gonna take no for an answer, Pops.”
Pops threw his hands up. “All right, all right. But you’re buyin’, kid.”
After their shift ended, Pops and Jake split up. Jake went back to the drafty little rattletrap shoebox where he kept his things, changed into his only suit - a threadbare rayon pinstripe that was slightly too short at the cuffs - and pulled his trumpet case out from underneath the bed. Thunder rumbled overhead, and Jake grabbed his ratty overcoat as well. Jamming his hat down on his head, he gathered his things and went down the street to the next tenement. Pops was there waiting for him, the older man’s porkpie hat pulled down over one eye and a smoke dangling from his lips.
The sky had turned an angry dark purple by the time the two men set out to Clapper’s. Pops looked up and grimaced as peal of thunder rolled across them both. “You really should think about trying to find some respectable gigs, son. Slumming it up down in Cogtown’s gonna end poorly for you if you end up in a place that gets raided by some not-so-happy CAMPers, Jake.”
Jake shook his head. “Pops, it’s just Clapper’s. The place ain’t that rough. It’s not like I’m playing the Rusty Screwdriver or the Torch and Goggles-”
Pops came to an abrupt halt. He tossed his half-smoked cigarette and grabbed Jake’s arm. “Jake, promise me you won’t take a gig at the Torch and Goggles. You gotta gimme your word, boy.” Jake opened his mouth to respond but the look on Pops’ face shut him up. The younger man simply nodded. “Good. Trust me when I say it’s, uh, the wrong venue, all right?” Another peal of thunder echoed across the cobblestone streets, and Pops let go of Jake’s arm. “Now c’mon, let’s get to Clapper’s before it starts raining pitchforks and hammer handles.”
The two just managed to get to Clapper’s just as the deluge of fat, wet, actinic drops began, rattling down on the corrugated steel roof of the ramshackle bar. The place was filling up with the usual crowd of miners, welders, and warehouse workers, all dressed up in their stepping-out clothes with their dolled-up ladies in tow. Jake left Pops up on a barstool, told the squat fireplug of a tender to put the older man’s drinks on his tab, and took off down towards what passed for “backstage” at Clapper’s – little more than a storeroom with a sign on the wall that read PERFORMERS HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR LOST/MISSING ITEMS. Mook, Lance, and Lazy were already there, unpacking their instruments, and Jake gave them a wave as he came in.
“About time you came in outta the rain!” Lance gave Jake a toothy grin as he hefted his tenor sax. “Though I reckon you so skinny, you gotta run around in the shower to get wet, don’tcha?”
“Stuff it, Snagglepuss,” Jake said, setting his own case down on a nearby crate and grinning back at Lance. He snapped the latches on the case and opened it up to reveal a matte grey trumpet nestled inside.
Mook stuck his head over Jake’s shoulder and let out a low whistle. “Damn, boy, you knock over a bank? That’s a pressure-alloy horn you got there.” Mook reached in to touch the trumpet.
Jake smacked his hand away. “Didn’t your momma ever teach you not to reach, Mookie?” He picked up the trumpet and held it high over Mook’s head. The shorter man took a few hops, swiping at it. “You want me to get you a soapbox?”
Lazy, the bass player, said, “Hey Mook, stand on one of your drums!” The rest of the band laughed, and Mook gave up, a look of mock exasperation on his face, just as Clapper stuck his head in the door.
“You’re on in five,” he said, worrying the business end of an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth. “No funny stuff, boys – I ain’t payin’ you for nothin’ but gettin’ asses in seats.”
“Hey, no problem, Clapper!” Lance snapped off a jaunty salute to the man, and the bar owner left, pulling the door closed with a sneer. “Last time I saw a mouth like that it had a hook in it,” Lance said. He looked around. “Where’s Petey?”
“Out at the piano already,” Mook answered. He motioned at Jake. “Now that His Highness is here, we’re all set.”
“Well what’re we waitin’ for?” Jake rolled his fingers across the piston valves of his trumpet. “Let’s blow, daddy-o.”
The first set of the gig went by in a flash to Jake. The band took a little while to feel out the crowd, but soon they had the whole place kicking up their feet. Jake’s new horn blew loud and sweet, and he could see Pops from the older man’s seat at the bar the whole time. At first it seemed like he spent most of his time looking over his shoulder, but even Pops couldn’t hold out for long; soon, he was clapping and howling along with everyone else, or almost everyone else – while Jake ignored Clapper, who stood scowling next to the bar working that unlit stogie in his mouth like a colicky baby, he did notice a woman at a table by herself near the back. He couldn’t make out much more than a silhouette through the haze of cigarette smoke, but he could see she was sitting still as a stone.
The set ended to a raucous round of applause and Jake hopped down off the stage, making a beeline to the bar. He got stopped and glad-handed a few times along the way but finally made it over to Pops, sitting down next to the older man with a huge grin. “So whaddaya think?”
Pops smirked back at him. “Not bad, kid. Looks like you remembered almost half of what I taught you.” He took a belt from the beer bottle in front of him and set it down on the bar. “That horn’s got a great sound. Worth every penny, even if you’re gonna be workin’ the warehouse for years to pay it back.”
Jake motioned the bartender over and ordered a drink of his own. “Maybe not,” he said. “If I can get one of them uptown gigs I could make a real name for myself. Then you won’t have to go worrying I’m playing the slums.” Jake looked past Pops’ shoulder to the table in the back corner to see if he could get a glimpse of that mysterious woman, but the chair was empty. The only evidence left behind was a plume of blue cigarette smoke curling up from a stubbed-out butt on the table’s metal ashtray.
Jake turned back to Pops as the bartender set down his own bottle. “Hey Pops,” he said, “did you see the light-skinned sister that was sittin’ over there during the first set? ” He nodded towards the vacant table.
Pops rolled his eyes and then looked over his shoulder. “Yeah, I saw that one, kid.” He shook his head. “High society sister, slummin’ down here with us workin' niggas. Probably makin’ sure we don’t unionize or somethin’.” Pops scoffed. “I’d stay away from that one, boy. She looked like nothin’ but trouble to me.”
“If you say so, Pops.” Jake took a slug from his bottle and reached into his coat. He pulled out a smoke and screwed it into the corner of his mouth, then started patting down his pockets. “Damn, I swore I had it-”
There was a soft click by Jake’s ear, and he turned to see the flame from a pocket lighter dancing in his face. He looked up to see the woman from the table holding it, her oval-shaped face curtained by a long mane of dark hair. “Need a light, handsome?”
Jake arched an eyebrow and leaned in silently to light his smoke. He took a long drag and then leaned back, propping his elbows on the bar. “Thank you kindly, miss.”
The lighter flicked off, and the woman tucked it deftly away in a little handbag. “Folsom,” she said, extending a hand to Jake. “Clarissa Folsom. Some mighty fine work out there on stage.”
Jake reached out and took her hand. “Jake Washington,” he said. He held it for a beat before letting go. “Thank you for the compliment, Miss Folsom.” He turned to introduce the older man to his right. “This is Pops- huh.” The stool next to him was empty, and Jake turned back to the woman. “Looks like my friend took a powder. Can I buy the pretty lady a drink? Least I can do for the kind words.”
Clarissa smiled, her dark brown eyes sparkling. She eased onto the vacant bar stool, crossing her long legs. “You can do better than that, Jake.” She reached back into her bag and pulled out a long, black cigarette holder. “You can tell me where you learned to play like that.” She fished a smoke of her own out of her purse next, deftly inserting it into the cigarette holder and bringing it to her mouth, setting it between her lips with a flirtatious smile. “And please, Jake, call me Clarissa.”
“Well, I’d love to introduce you, Miss Clarissa, but it looks like Pops just stepped out for some air.” Jake took another drag and then snaked an ashtray from further down the bar, sliding it in between himself and Clarissa. “He taught me everything I know. He don’t play much no more though, not since the touch of arthritis he got a few years ago. Damn shame, too – he’s the best horn player I ever heard.”
Clarissa lit her own cigarette and inhaled, blowing a slow stream of smoke from between her lips. “Well, maybe he’ll come back. I’d absolutely love it if you introduced me to him, Jake.” Clarissa leaned over nonchalantly, flicking the end of her cigarette into the ashtray. Jake kept his eyes from straying too far south. “You say your last name was Washington? Where have I heard the name ‘Jake Washington’ before?” She gave him a playful smile.
Jake laughed and shook his head. “I was a minor celebrity almost twenty years ago, Miss Clarissa. Fifth kid born on the colony - first Black kid, too. There’s a list in a newspaper somewhere with me and a whole bunch of other names and dates on it.” He grinned. “By the time the first three or four kids were born, the novelty done worn off.”
“My goodness, that’s right,” Clarissa said. She placed a hand on Jake’s arm and let it linger there. “Why, you’re practically colonial royalty, Jake. However in the world did you end up playing the trumpet down in Cogtown?”
“Well, that’s a long story, miss.” He set his smoke down on the ashtray and took a long sip from his beer. “I don’t want to bore you.”
“Well, regardless, you should come up and see me sometime.” She took her hand off Jake’s arm and popped open her handbag, pulling out a business card and handing it to Jake. “I’m a talent scout for a nightclub uptown, and you’re just the kind of musician we would just love to host one evening.”
Jake took the business card, feeling the texture between his fingers. He looked up at the woman. “Miss Clarissa, is this…?”
She nodded, a sly smile creeping across her face. “Yes, Jake, that’s real paper. Recycled of course, but my client demands only the best. Which is why I think you’d be an excellent fit for our little nightclub.”
Jake looked back down at the card. He tucked it into his pocket carefully. “I don’t rightly know what to say, miss. I’m flattered, but what about the rest of the band-”
“Well, Jake, they’re good. Real good. But I have to be honest with you.” Clarissa leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Her perfume filled Jake’s nose. “You’re the one I want.” She leaned back, taking another long, slow drag from her cigarette. “Besides, think about how thrilled your family would be.”
“Well, Miss Clarissa, I’m afraid it’s just me an’ Pops. My folks didn’t make it through the Year Four Famine.” Jake took another slug from his beer bottle.
Clarissa’s expression softened. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jake. I must have brought up all kinds of sad memories.”
Jake shook his head. “Not at all, miss. They been gone a long time - I barely remember ‘em. Old Pops has looked after me ever since. Even got me a job down at the warehouse with him.” The young man looked around. “Say, where is that old goat? I’d love for you to meet him. Why, just today he said how I should be playing uptown-”
Mook came up to the bar, his face creased with concern. “P’don me miss,” he said to Clarissa before turning to Jake. “We gotta problem. Petey took ill, Jake. One too many beers – he’s been upchuckin’ all over the alley and Clapper ain’t none too happy about it. I had to send him home with Lance, and we’re down a piano player and a sax player.”
“Son of a-” Jake looked over at Clarissa. “You’ll excuse me, miss?” She smiled and gestured gracefully. Jake nodded and slipped off the bar stool, walking backstage with Mook. Lazy was already back there waiting for them, a worried look on his face.
“What we gonna do, Mookie?” Lazy wrung his hands. “I need this gig. If we don’t play two sets, Clapper ain’t gonna pay us shit.”
“I know. Just lemme think.” Mook started pacing. “Jake, did I hear you say you came in with Pops tonight?”
Jake shook his head. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, Mookie, but his arthritis has been bad. He can’t play no more, not really.”
“Damn. Well we can’t go on without at least a piano player, Jake. You gonna have to fill in.” Mookie shrugged. “I’m sorry, we ain’t got no choice.”
Jake sighed. “All right. At least Clapper’s got that piano, right? Hey Lazy, hand me my horn case, would ya?” The bass player reached over and passed the case over to Jake, and he put his trumpet away.
The three musicians went back out to the stage – little more than a small, slightly raised platform at the far end of the bar – and were greeted with a few enthusiastic catcalls. Mook grinned and waved, stepping up downstage and addressing the crowd. “How y’all doin’ tonight?”
Jake shook his head and settled down on the piano bench as Mook worked the audience. He ran his hands over the imitation ivory keys and worked the pedals experimentally. Looking up, Jake caught Mook’s gaze and nodded. The drummer nodded back, shot a glance over to Lazy, and then sat down behind his drum kit to start the second set.
The band swung through a few slower songs, giving Jake a chance to warm up. As his confidence increased, the tempo did as well, and soon Jake found himself rolling along, pounding the ivories and working the pedals like a madman. Looking out over the crowd, he spotted Clarissa back at the bar, another cigarette in her long black holder and an accompanying inscrutable smile across her face, but there was no sign of Pops. Jake furrowed his brow at the older man’s absence.
The set ended, and the three musicians stood up and bowed, hurrying off stage as the crowd hooted and hollered for an encore. Mook whooped and clapped Jake on the back as the younger man walked into the storeroom. “We knocked ‘em dead, boy!”
Jake grinned, listening to the crowd stomp their feet in rhythm, calling for more. “Hey, can I do one of Pops’ songs for an encore, Mookie?”
“I don’t see why not. We lucky he taught you to play, after all.” Mook motioned back out on stage. “Go give ‘em what they want, Jake. I gotta go find Lazy before he drinks our share of the gig money.” He strode from the storeroom, bellowing for the bass player.
Jake took a deep breath and walked back out onstage, smiling at the crowd. “I know y’all are havin’ fun,” he began. He was answered with a round of applause that washed over him. “We got one more for you tonight, a piece by Pops Joplin,” Jake said, sitting back down at the piano. He took another look across the crowd. “Pops taught me everything I know, so you know it’s gonna be good.” The crowd laughed. He scanned the bar for Clarissa but all he could see was another empty barstool next to a smoking ashtray. “This one’s called The Cogtown Rag.”
Jake launched into the song, closing his eyes and easing into the ragged, syncopated rhythm he knew so well. Years of sitting by Pops’ side in smoky, run-down bars as a kid came back to him; he remembered clapping his hands and stomping his feet as Pops played and played far into the night, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and his porkpie hat askew on his head.
Jake shook his head, grinning, his fingers cascading up and down the ivories, running up the tempo towards the bridge, where the key of the piece changed. He tore through it, then slowed down. “Never play ragtime fast, son,” he could hear Pops in his head as he sat at the piano bench. “Take it slow. Give it life. Give it character.” He nodded, just as he had all those years before, and dropped the tempo back down in time for the coda, keeping the cadence right on through to the tag and finishing with a final chord that was drowned out by the crowd.
Jake stood up, sweat pouring off him but smiling ear to ear. “That one was for Pops!” he shouted over the audience, which gave another cheer. He motioned Mook and Lazy up on stage, and all three took another bow before stepping backstage once more, laughing and whooping like mad.
“Damn, son!” Lazy socked Jake on the shoulder. “You been holding out on us somethin’ crazy, ain’tcha?” He grinned and turned to pack up his double bass.
“Nah, he just a chip off the ol’ block.” Mook grinned.
Jake shook his head. “I just wish Pops had heard it,” he said. “I lost track of him right before the second set.” He stuck his hand in his pocket, feeling the business card there. “Listen, if it’s all the same to you, I’m gonna pack up and go lookin’ for him. I’m a little worried.”
“All right, all right,” Mook said. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a wad of money, printed on acetate. “Here’s your share, Jake. Clapper already wants us back next week. You shoulda seen the look on his face, man.”
Lazy hefted his bass, now safely wrapped up for travel. “Shit, he almost smiled, Mookie. What’s this world comin’ to?” He nodded at Jake on the way out. “See you soon, man. You blew the wheels off out there.”
Jake thanked his bandmates and grabbed his trumpet case. Hearing another peal of thunder overhead, he thought twice, wrapped it in his ratty overcoat, and then slipped out the back door into the pouring rain.
He wound his way through Cogtown’s alleys and out into the tenement district, dodging puddles, steam-cars, and the occasional CAMP patrol. Some of the MPs were out in their gorilla suits, which struck Jake as odd; he backed up against a wall as a pair of military suits clomped down the street, the MPs driving them looking grim and determined.
Jake finally went up the steps to Pops’ tenement. Someone had propped the door open with half a cinder block, and Jake nearly slipped on the slick floor. He cursed and kicked the block out from place, letting the door swing shut and blocking out the worst of the storm.
Taking off his sodden hat, Jake wrung it out in the entrance and plunked it back down on his head. He set off down the hallway and up the stairs, rounding the third floor landing. Walking along the hallway in the gaslight, Jake could see the door to Pops’ apartment was ajar, and there was a shadow of movement cutting across the light spilling out into the hallway.
“Hey Pops?” Jake knocked on the doorframe before stepping through. “You left early, everything all- oh God.” Jake dropped his trumpet case. It clattered against the bare floor.
Pops’ place had been tossed. There were clothes and furniture askew, and Pops was slumped against the far wall, under the window that led to the fire escape. His left eye was swollen shut, a rivulet of blood was dripping from the right side of his mouth, and his breath was coming in great heaving sighs.
Pops looked up as Jake’s case hit the floor. The older man tried to rouse himself but was wracked with coughs. Jake rushed over, kneeling down next to him. “Easy, Pops. C’mon, let’s get you up. What the hell happened?”
Pops hissed in pain when Jake tried to lift him. “My ribs is broke,” he said. He coughed and spat bloody mucus. “They found me, Jake. I dunno how but they found me.”
Jake shook his head. “Who found you? Pops, I don’t understand. You owe somebody money?” He grabbed one of Pops’ shirts off the floor and tried to wipe the blood from the older man’s face. “What happened?”
Pops pushed him away. “I’m sorry, Jake,” he wheezed. “It’s my own damn fault. It’s all right – I didn’t tell ‘em nothin’.” He coughed again, then winced. “Listen, you gotta get outta here,” he panted. “They comin’ back. To tie up loose ends.”
“Who’s comin’ back? And I ain’t leavin’ you, Pops. You gonna be fine, we just have to get you to a doc-”
The door to Pops’ bedroom creaked. Jake froze as a familiar voice cut through the tiny apartment. “I’m sorry, Jake. You weren’t supposed to have seen all this.”
Jake turned his head. Clarissa was there, a snub-nose Saturday Night Special in her hand. Her expression was grim, her mouth a sharp, cruel line across her face. She stepped over the threshold and thumbed back the hammer; the chamber revolved with an ominous click.
“Wh- Miss Clarissa?” Jake shook his head. “What… I don’t…” he looked back to Pops’ ruined features, then back at the woman. “You did this? Why?”
“I had to, Jake. It’s my job.” She reached into her coat pocket and flashed a badge. “Inspector Clarissa Folsom, New Herculaneum Mining Company.” She slipped it back into her coat, never taking her eyes off the younger man. “I have to hand it to your friend there; he’s been giving us the runaround for years now. Who’d have thought he would have been right under our noses the whole time?”
Pops coughed and bared his teeth in a weak snarl. “I knew you was bad news from when I first saw you down at Clapper’s,” he said.
Clarissa tsked, shaking her head. “Why, Mister Joplin, that’s no way to speak to a lady.”
Pops smirked. “You ain’t no lady,” he spat.
“Maybe not. But we still found you, didn’t we? And we wouldn’t have been able to do it without the help of your little protégé here.” The gun barrel dipped in her hand as she motioned towards Jake.
Jake’s head was swimming. “But why?” he said, his voice cracking. “What’d Pops ever do to the Mining Company?”
“What, he never told you?” Clarissa pouted. “Your mentor here is one of the most dangerous terrorists on the planet. Go on, Mister Joplin – why don’t you tell little Jake what you were up to all those nights you were out ‘on gigs,’ hmm?”
“What? That’s crazy!” Jake scowled at Clarissa, standing up and balling his hands into fists. “Lady, you got the wrong guy, no way Pops is mixed up in all that-” He stopped short as Clarissa leveled her piece right at his heart.
“Sorry, Jake. No funny stuff.” He waved him off, and he stepped backwards until he was pressed up against the window. Clarissa went back to covering Sinclair once again. “I was hoping I wouldn’t see you next until you showed up at the nightclub, but now it looks like I’ll have two collars for the price of one.”
“Leave him alone, lady.” Pops struggled up from where he had been slumped against the wall. He leaned forward, kneeling on the floor and cradling his broken ribs with one hand. “He don’t know nothin’. Never did. Was never no part of it.” Pops coughed again, wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand. “And it don’t matter how hard you beat me, neither – I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’. Might as well just shoot me.”
“Oh, I know, Mister Joplin. But shooting you won’t get me the information I need.” She swung the gun over at Jake and pulled the trigger. Jake’s shoulder exploded in pain as the bullet ripped through it. He cried out, staggering against the window frame, a spiderweb of hairline cracks spreading out from where Jake’s back slammed into it. He clutched at his bleeding shoulder, dumb from shock.
The gun swung back to Pops. His face was a mask of pain and anguish. “Lady, please. Leave the boy alone. I’ll tell you anything you want.”
“Yes,” Clarissa said, thumbing back the hammer again, “you will.” The gun roared once more. Searing pain blossomed again as the revolver round tore through his hand and into his shoulder again, and Jake went crashing through the window. He sprawled across the fire escape, his legs dangling down the stairs to the second floor as he writhed, howling in inarticulate pain. The rain pelted his tortured body.
Somewhere through the haze that had settled around his head, Jake could hear Pops answering Clarissa’s questions, his voice tense and pleading. Groaning, the younger man tried to curl himself into a ball, but his heel was caught on the steps. Panting from exertion, he pushed himself into a sitting position, scooting forward on his rear in between gasps of pain, and found himself sliding down the steps one at a time.
The light from Pops’ third floor window was blotted out as Clarissa stuck her head through. She scowled and took aim at Jake as he tried to escape, squeezing off a shot that caromed off the fire escape and spanged into the cinder block wall of the tenement house. Startled, Jake lurched forward, slipping down the last few steps and landing face-down on the second floor landing with a bone-jarring thump. Another round whizzed by his ear and sparked as it ricocheted off a cobblestone, sending Jake belly-crawling to the ladder leading from the first floor’s fire escape to the street.
Fueled by the last remnants of his strength, right hand and left shoulder burning, Jake bumbled down the first few steps of the ladder before his remaining good hand lost its grip, sending him plummeting several feet to the ground below. He gasped, collapsing in a puddle, but willed himself to his feet, stumbling down the alley and out of range of Clarissa’s revolver.
Jake wandered aimlessly in the rain, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Finally, he collapsed across an alleyway, cold and numb, the rain hammering at his face. “Pops,” he wheezed, “I’m sorry.” His eyes slid closed as Jake slipped into unconsciousness.
A few minutes later, a pair of women came hurrying around the corner, drenched to the bone. They stopped for a moment once they saw Jake, but the younger one jumped forward.
The other one, an older woman in her mid 40s, hissed at the girl. “Ginny! What do you think you’re doing? We have to get out of here. Sayeed is going to be halfway to the nearest MP garrison by now!”
Ginny kneeled down next to Jake, looking him over. “He’s been shot.” She felt at Jake’s neck. “He’s still alive, Mom. We can’t just leave him here.”
Ginny’s mother looked up and down the alleyway, then sighed. “All right. Come on, I’ll help you carry him.”