A Tale of the Aether Age:
That Sort of World
Created by Grant Gardiner
THE 1920s.
MID-WESTERN COMMONWEALTH, CHICAGO.
“Well if it ain’t that then what was it?”
“It was all those damn fool bankers in New York.”
“Bankers?”
“Yeah, bankers. They’re the ones who caused everything that’s happened. A huge pack of New York bankers got greedy. And the country was the one to cop it in the teeth when it all headed south.”
“Nah. It weren’t that.”
“It was too. And everyone knows it. Bankers got greedy, they sold Louisiana back to the French and that’s why the Grand Dream of the United States of America is now just a footnote in history.”
Mickey thought about this for some time before shaking his head. “Nah, that ain’t it. That don’t explain half the crazy things that have happened.”
Mack growled. “Jus’ listen.” He began checking points off on his fingers. “New York sold Louisiana to the French. Which made everyone else really mad. Which made Chicago form the Mid-West militia. Which meant New York had to stop pretending and actually get serious about The Prohibition act. This made the North West secede to Canadia, which made California blame New York and change their name, which made Texas want nothing to do with no one no more, which made everyone else agree that Texas had the right idea.” He emphatically flicked his glowing cigarette butt into the cold, dark shadows. “From there it was all downhill. No more Union. No more United States of America.” He grinned. “And plenty more space ‘round the edges for young upstanding ‘entrepreneurs’ like ourselves. So we can make a little dosh on the side when we ain’t running booze for the gin joints.”
Mickey clutched himself tighter against the cold. “I’m sure that ain’t it. Me old man explained it diff’rent. A lot diff’rent. It had something to do with the Great War and zeppelins and aether and... stuff.”
“Well your old man don’t know his head from his toes. And that’s when he’s sober.” Mack stamped his feet in the sludge left over from the previous night’s snow. Then he started fishing inside his coat for his cigarette case. “Speaking of which – where the hell’s your hat? You look like a bum, huddled out here with no hood for your head.” He found the case and flipped it open. “You look like someone rolled you and left you wanting.”
Mickey replied with a glare but didn’t do nothing about it. Instead he just turned his sullen gaze from the shadows of the alley to the dimly lit street beyond. “Bessie been complainin’ that I don’t dress to the nines. So I’m tryin’ somethin’ new. I’m goin’ hatless from now on.”
Mack stopped. Slack jawed, he stared at Mickey, cigarette left hanging unlit from his lower lip. There was a stretch of silence between them but Mickey refused to make eye contact.
Eventually Mack finished digging the book of matches from his pocket and stopped shaking his head long enough to light up. A bright flare cast orange light across his face, vanished instantly, and he sucked back his first lungful of smoke. He pocketed the matches and resumed his head shake. “You said some crazy things in the past, Mickey, but that one takes the cake.” He exhaled. “You gotta be all outta crazy ideas now.”
“What? I been speakin’ to a Sicilian guy. Out at the zeppelin docks. Smart Import/Export fella who’s into all that French coo-chorr stuff that Bessie makes me buy for her. He reckons no one will wear hats in future. That was his hot tip for the Wall Street bucket shops – he reckons that hat makers are on the slide and that I should go short on ‘em for the long haul. He said I’ll get at least 10 points.”
Mack shook his head again as he once more stamped his feet to get the blood moving. “I stand corrected. You ain’t fresh out of stupid; you’re now importing it. The good stuff they develop in scientific laboratories or places like Wall Street bucket shops.” He shook his head again as his own gaze returned to the street beyond. “Not wearing hats.” He scoffed. “What sort o’ world would that be?”
Self consciously, Mickey played at the front of his slicked over part. The pomade was wet from the constant drizzle of rain that had only recently stopped. “I ain’t in charge. It’s just the way it’s gonna be. An’ Bessie wants me on the cutting edge of it.”
Mack shook his head once more as he pulled his watch out of his pocket and flipped open the face. “Hot tips about not wearin’ hats...” 9.22pm.
He snapped the watch-face shut and swung the timepiece by its chain for a few seconds, blowing smoke in the direction of the street beyond. “Ah, what’s the use?” He pocketed the watch and readjusted his gloves. “Let’s get goin’, Mickey. If this moll complains about us bein’ a few minutes early, well...” He took one more drag and threw his cigarette away. “Then we can just pull rank on her.”
Mickey nodded and stepped forward to see if the coast was clear. But he waved Mack back. Someone was coming.
It was just a horse drawn wagon. Safe, they both huddled up under their long collars and watched as it clopped past. The barrels lined along the dray said ‘Fresh Milk’ but at this time of night it could only be an emergency gin run. Someone somewhere was having a lot of fun. But on a Saturday night that probably described half the town.
When the driver was safely out of sight the two hoods emerged from the alleyway and quickly crossed the road. Firtfully they looked up and around at the various windows in case someone was taking an interest in their progress. Reaching the sidewalk they took one more glance around then shuffled down a series of steps till they were below street level and out of sight. Above towered the tenement building. In front of them was a wooden door reinforced with bars and bolts.
Mack rapped on the door and a peep hole slid open. Beady little eyes looked out at them. “What’s the password?”
Mack was already taking off his gloves. “Blue aether for green gin.”
The eyes frowned. “Mack, that’s tomorrow’s password. You’re supposed to give me today’s password.”
Mack glared up from his gloves. “Beady, jus’ open the damn door. You know it’s me.”
The eyes were offended. Then the peep hole slid shut and the door clicked and clunked. A few more heavy clanks and it edged open to reveal a mousy little man in a deep green waiter’s vest and ruffled bow tie. “There ain’t no purpose in having a password, Mack, if no one’s gonna use it.”
Mickey pushed open the door and the little man scurried out of the way. Mack stepped inside. “And there ain’t no need for a password, Beady, if you knows who’s on the other side of the door.”
Mack reefed off his final glove and began moving across the small cloakroom towards the attendant’s counter. Mickey followed, both of them ignoring Beady as he muttered to himself and returned each of the door’s heavy bolts to their original place. When the two men reached the counter they started hauling off their overcoats, scarves and gloves. They draped them across the bar in front of the pretty little hostess who waited behind the counter in a tiny hat and dress, both in matching black.
Picking up their things, she frowned at Mickey. “You lose your hat Mickey?”
The hatless hoodlum gave a sullen growl.
Mack laughed in triumph. “Y’ see? You’re a damn fool, you are.” He turned back to the girl behind the counter. “Margie, tell Mickey he’s a damn fool. He’s decided, in all his wisdom, to go hatless from now on.”
Margie frowned and took Mack’s hat. “Hatless?” She looked at Mickey. “You mean outside?”
Mickey, now coat and scarf less, looked daggers at Mack before he turned back to Margie. “It’s the fashion. An’ one day you’ll be hatless too.”
The girl blushed. “Mickey! You don’t go saying such things.” She gave him a stern frown as she picked up their overcoats and made to hang them up. “You’re going to get yourself a reputation talking like that.” She leaned in over the heavy garments. “People will talk.”
Mack gave one more cackle as Mickey threw his hands up in defeat and led the way past the counter. Mack winked at Margie as he passed. They pushed their way through a set of heavy curtains and began crossing the small waiting room beyond.
“Aw, c’mon, Mickey. Are ya feelin’ misunderstood?” Mack chuckled. “Does no one understand y’r fancy-pants, lar-dee-dah fashion-ability?”
They approached a door. In gilded letters the door announced it was a ‘Funeral Parlor’. In sullen silence Mickey pushed his way straight through.
The room beyond was dark, empty and lined with display coffins. It gave the room a sombre, still atmosphere. An atmosphere disturbed by their stomping feet and Mack’s incessant giggles at Mickey’s expense. But there was also the waft of cigarette smoke in the still air and the sound of muffled music. A sound that grew stronger the closer they moved to the door at the back of the room. The one with ‘Staff only’ scrawled crudely across its face.
They pulled up in front of the new barrier and Mack groaned. “Aw, jus’ take the laughs, wiseguy. What y’r doin: it’s crazy. And if you can’t take the ribbin’ from me then you might not want to tell anyone else why y’r without a lid.” Mack guffawed again. “Cause they ain’t gonna be half as understanding as I’ve been.”
Mickey snorted his disgust before rapping on the door. Another peep hole slid open and both Mickey and Mack were blasted with rowdy noise. Then the peep hole snapped shut and the door was reefed open.
“Mickey! Mack!” A portly maitre de with a waxed moustache held his arms wide in the riot of noise. “How are you, my friends? You have not forgotten your old friend Gustav after all.”
Both men smiled and nodded their greeting as the beaming, rosy-cheeked maitre de dramatically ushered them into the big noisy room like they were royalty. “Your usual table?” he asked over the quick stomping band and the burbling crowd noise.
Mack slipped him a dollar and leaned in close. “No need, Gus. We’re here to meet someone. We can take care of ourselves.”
Gustav bowed low and then withdrew, leaving them to scan the crowded room.
Unfortunately – for Mack and Mickey – The Green Gin Joint was jumping. Smoke and patrons swirled about the big speakeasy with abandon. Music lovers crowded in on the hard drinking, hard playing band and made sure space on the dance floor was hotly contested. The raised dining section was full and the multiple bars each had a burbling scrum of eager drinkers fighting for the barmen’s attention. Here and there a well dressed thing would stumble, spilling gin and cackling as their cheering friends hauled them upright. Flappers were camped out on the laps of their jacket-less beaus – without a thought for decorum – yelling outrageous things at the band. Or, if they felt the beat, the same girls hauled their men up onto the dance floor where they literally kicked up their heels and weaved back and forth at a frenetic pace.
It was also populated with different types from all over the city. From the Italians to the Irish to the Germans and everyone in between, the crowd was cosmopolitan and colourful. Everyone was dressed up in their best furs, pearls and pinstripe suits. There was even some black couples blitzing the dance planks or seated around the tables, confident enough to flaunt both themselves and their wealth amongst the other folk.
It was a brave new world in a brave new decade. And, as the crowd was demonstrating, a loud and fast moving world at that.
Mack and Mickey started drifting through the crowd towards the dining section. They skirted the dance floor as they went. Mickey shook his head and leaned in closer to be heard over the din. “I ain’t ever goin’ to get used to this.”
“Used to what?”
“Having them here.”
Mack tried to provoke him. “Who?”
“Them.”
Mack looked to see Mickey pointing out a gaggle of flappers over by one of the bars.
Mack looked bemused. “You mean the dames?”
“Yeah.” Mickey gave the buzzing and giggling girls a troubled look as they passed. “I ain’t saying it’s always a bad thing having dames in saloons. But I ain’t ever going to get used to it.”
Mack snorted his disbelief and scanned the crowd again, almost bumping into a well-sauced couple who saluted and staggered off. He craned his head upwards and then tapped Mickey on the shoulder. He pointed towards a table on the wall with a clear view of the band. A table where an unaccompanied female sat with a cream coloured ribbon twisted all the way up and down her left arm.
Mickey nodded and followed in his wake. Soon they had squeezed past the last of the dining tables and their smiling, smoking diners to stand over the final table. To wait.
The demure little flapper just sat at the table, ignoring them. She had the mandatory bobbed hair, cloche hat and tasselled dress. Radiating a faintly amused boredom, she idly played with her fur shawl while splitting her attention between the band and an immaculately groomed and tuxedoed gent wearing a white dinner jacket at one of the bars. He was drinking dirty cocktails and she was clearly thinking dirty thoughts.
Mack waited until it was obvious she was ignoring them. Not amused, he put his hands in his pockets. “Enjoyin’ the band, dollface?”
She didn’t look up. “They’re quite good,” she quipped, “for white folk.”
There was another pause as the band played on.
Mickey scowled. “So at least you’re enjoyin’ yourself.”
With a dry look she slowly turned towards him. “I’ve never been more bored in my life.”
Between the confident slump of her near-bare shoulders to the relaxed bite of her eyes it was clear that staying bored around this girl would be hard work. Easy for her. Hard for them.
But Mack was all business. “You the dame from the newspaper?”
She frowned and looked them up and down. “That depends. Do you have a story for me?” Her eyes stopped at Mickey’s greasy hair. “’Cause I ain’t in the market for sob stories.”
Mack leaned in close. “How about stories that end in a very big ‘boom’?”
One eyebrow crept up towards the brutally sharp cut of her fringe. She reached into her cream, fingerless driving gloves and pulled out a delicately thin time piece. She scowled. “It isn’t nine thirty yet. You weren’t supposed to meet me till nine-thirty.”
Mickey gave her a menacing smile. “You can enjoy the bandstand once we’re gone. But we ain’t gonna be left waiting out in the rain and snow so you can listen to jass music.”
She scowled back as good as she got. “Some of us have a cover to maintain, you guileless fool. I happen to be a newspaper columnist by day. A newspaper. Which is something people read.” She draped a delicate arm over the back of her chair and looked Mickey up and down in disgust. “You wouldn’t be sharp enough to read. The concept may escape you... dar-ling.”
Mack held his hands up between them. “We ain’t here for your day job, sweetheart. We’re here to make some dosh of our own. From your other job. So are we talkin’ to the right person or not?”
She took one more disgusted look at Mickey then gave an unenthusiastic wave for them to sit down. Both did so and Mack quickly waved away the approaching waiter. Instead he leaned forward on the table. “So you have what we need?”
The flapper reached into her purse and produced a set of large brass keys, the sort used for large brass padlocks. She covertly placed them on the table. Mack swept them inside his jacket.
The flapper leaned back again. “Those are from a security guard at the airfield. He’s sweet on one of our agents and tonight she’s keeping him occupied with dinner, a dance and a late night picture. He won’t know they’re missing until morning. So the only way you’ll be caught is if you do something wrong on your end.”
Mickey scoffed which earnt him a sarcastic smile from their informant. She looked back at Mack. “But you have to do the job tonight. You have what you need?”
“Ten sticks of the noisy stuff. But what’s gonna stop them making another one?”
“Oh, they’ll make another one. Destroying the prototype is only meant to slow them down. You destroy the prototype and it will set them back at least a year. Which will be a huge victory in the coming arms race.” The flapper shifted on her chair. “But you don’t need to know any of that. All you need to know is that the target is in hangar A13 of the MidWest Commonwealth skymilitia complex. That’s all you need to know.”
Mack shook his head. “That ain’t true. There’s still one more important question: why us? Doesn’t New York have their own people? Why didn’t they send someone else?”
She considered Mack for a while. Then she nodded. “Fair enough. The new... status quo is still that: new. Most of the agents of the Old States have either disappeared or they’re operating for ‘other teams’. Unfortunately for us, we’re short on agents in this part of the continent.” She tipped her head towards them. “Hence why we need to hire local muscle with the necessary contacts to get the final job done.”
Mickey sneered. “Hence why they have to use dames.”
The flapper gave him another sarcastic smile. “Darling, there have always been women in this business. You just haven’t heard of us up ‘til now.” She leaned in with a cocky bobble to her head. “That’s how good we are: you’ve never heard of us.”
Mack held up his hands between the two. “Alright, children. We’ll be on our way before you two punch on. At least after you...” He held his hand out.
The flapper smiled ruefully as she reached into her purse again. “Almost thought you’d forgotten.”
Mack looked unimpressed. “I ain’t forgotten. Was just waiting to see if you’d offer first.”
She plonked a roll of cash in his hand, giving him a sly look as she did so. “You profiling me, Mack? Cause that would indicate you got some real brains. And as I said, we’re looking for more resources in this part of the world. Brains might make you valuable.”
Mack pushed himself to his feet and pocketed the money. “Well we can discuss that when we come back for the other half when the job is done. Until then—“ he indicated to the tuxedoed gent over at the bar. “We’ll leave you to your recreation.”
She gave him a faintly amused nod then turned away, leaving the two men to push their way back into the crowd.
“Hey Mickey. Do people still play instruments and dance for fun in the future?”
“Ah, shaddup.”
***
The gangsters retrieved their effects from the cloakroom before leaving the speakeasy the way they had arrived, returning across the road to the alleyway.
There Mickey began rummaging around in one of the trash cans. He hauled out a hessian sack and quickly emptied its contents – ten sticks of dynamite and three bottles of gin. The good stuff. Quickly they divided the ten sticks and three bottles between them, hiding the contraband in special smugglers pockets stitched into their overcoats and jackets. Once everything was squared away Mickey threw away the sack and Mack led the way down the far end of the alleyway, checking that the coast was clear. Seeing that it was, they both slunk out onto the empty sidewalk.
The street they moved down was grimy and dark. The only thing that disturbed its peace was their passing and the drizzle of rain that fell from the heavens. They slunk past the foot of dim streetlights where their shadows twisted and contorted on the concrete. Far above the cloud cover was low and heavy while dead-faced buildings loomed up over them on every side. The puddles they splashed through were cold and black like ink. The street quiet and still. The drizzle constant.
At the end of the street they turned left and continued, once more the only movement on yet another grimy, silent street. They continued heading north. North towards the halo cast across the horizon of high tenement buildings. A halo created by the bright lights of the MidWest skymilitia aerodrome.
Deep into the backstreets of Chicago.
***
Mickey suddenly stopped, hand in the air. He was looking back down the street.
“What is it?” hissed Mack.
Mickey pointed back the way they had came and held up a hand to wait. The street appeared to be still and quiet but Mack held his breath. Waiting.
Then he saw it. A headlight beam from a distant automobile swept the street before the vehicle turned away. In its passing, the light outlined two fedora-clad figures paused at the last corner Mack and Mickey had turned down. Figures that were looking at them. Figures that then disappeared with the return to darkness.
Mack paused. Then quickly turned. “Go. Go go go.”
They both hurried along the sidewalk, gradually picking up their pace. They swept under another streetlight and continued onwards. Mack waited till they moved some way further along. He looked back. Two figures flitted through the now distant streetlight in their direction. Clearly hustling to catch up.
Mack reefed his overcoat tight. “Get the lead out and go go go!”
Now at a fair canter, they both reached the end of the street. It opened out onto a main road humming with late night traffic. Turning west, they lurched along the wide sidewalk. Travelling in the opposite direction, they were passed by horse-drawn carts and little Ford Ts with their buzzing horns. A tram bell could be heard approaching from the distance. The sidewalk had pedestrians and both men crashed past them with barely a thought for the startled people trying to stay out of their way.
A short way further down the sidewalk they reached a row of boarded up shop fronts and empty market carts. Without stopping, Mack looked back. The men following them were hurrying along behind, bailing up pedestrians in the dim streetlights to examine who they were. Then an angry pedestrian who had lost their basket of shopping into a puddle pointed in the direction of Mack and Mickey. The pursuers took off, their overcoats billowing out in the stark, rain drop filled beams of the automobile headlights as they continued on the trail.
Mack and Mickey splashed through another puddle and skidded to a halt. They looked about. Mickey pointed down a nearby laneway and they both ran towards it. Mack had just enough time to look back again. He saw the trailing men now flat out, running along the sidewalk and kicking up water as they crashed through the puddles. Not letting up for a second.
Reaching the laneway, Mack and Mickey plunged in. Their shoes scraped and skidded on the dirty wet pavement, sending echoes along the narrow, high-walled space. Darkness wrapped around them as the noise of the main road faded behind. Up ahead a fire burnt bright in a forty-four gallon half-drum. As they scurried towards it their shadows began to creep up the wall, lurching side to side and growing to gigantic proportions in stark silhouette. Mack’s shadow stopped and looked back. From the far end of the laneway a gruff voice called for them to stop. Mack’s shadow turned again and lurched away from the fire to blend into the rest of the lane’s murky darkness.
New footsteps approached the fire. Two more shadows appeared and skidded to a halt. High on the wall the fedora-crowned silhouettes looked back and forth. Then one of the shadows pointed further down the laneway and both lurched away.
The sound of their footsteps quickly receded until silence reigned once more in the alleyway. Mickey emerged from behind several trash cans. Mack cracked open the door he had hidden behind. Mickey caught his eye and gave his partner the all clear.
Mack stepped out, looked down the laneway, then indicated back the way they had ran. “Let’s get goin’. This job is gettin’ way too interesting.”
Mickey nodded, shielding his eyes from the glare of the fire as he followed in Mack’s wake. They quickly made their way back to where they had entered the laneway to scan the sidewalk in both directions. Happy the coast was clear, they crossed the sidewalk and began the tricky process of crossing the street. The wide thoroughfare was a mess of traffic under the weak street lights. Horses, trucks and automobiles fought for right of way across multiple unmarked lanes. A tram halted and began disgorging passengers as Mack and Mickey picked their way across one ‘lane’ at a time, trying to avoid the traffic, the manure and the puddles. It took a while but they eventually alighted on the sidewalk to mix with the tram crowd.
Both stopped in the moving herd to peer past the slow, halting traffic and scan the distant roadside. The tram crowd slowly dispersed around them but there was still no sign of their pursuers emerging from the alleyway to continue the chase.
Mickey, not taking his eyes from the alleyway, leaned in close. “You think we got away?”
Mack slowly nodded. “Looks like it.”
“You think they got a good look at us?”
“No chance. It’s the only reason we’re goin’ to continue with the job.”
Mickey looked at Mack. “You sure? We don’t know who they were. They could’a been militia.”
Mack shook his head. “They could’a been anyone. It’s just as likely they were Lucca soldiers. Or flatfoots after us for the Eisenberg job.” He finally took his eyes away from the alleyway. “Hell, one of my three molls could have got wise and hired help to get revenge. Either way, it’s just as likely it wasn’t militia as it was.” He rammed a pointed finger into Mickey’s chest. “If you want t’ go to the top of town, Mickey, you gotta go big. And in the circles we move in, this job is big.” He leaned in closer. “Think about it Mickey: we pull this job off and we’ll have New York backing us up. New York! We play our cards right and we’ll be the Chicago arm of The Family.”
Mickey looked sceptical. “I dunno. They haven’t promised us anything like that...”
Mack rolled his eyes and then reefed Mickey around until he was facing the road. “Then what about that?”
As if on cue, the small herd of Model T Fords crowding the road parted. Into the break growled the long, shiny bonnet of a big Cadillac. The flaring tail of a fearsome peacock hood ornament pointed the nose of the huge seven-passenger V-63 sedan. The rain made the deep burgundy paint job gleam in the traffic headlights. The big white-wall tires crashed through puddles, splashing the small boxy Fords as it passed them by. The rest of the custom coachwork glided into view with its chrome work winking and morphing the light, the dark tinted windows of the rear cab no doubt hiding someone rich and powerful. Someone with respect.
Both men stared from the sidewalk as the uniformed driver in the peaked hat and driving gloves casually hauled the huge machine into the outside lane, the big automobile whining up to speed as it left the rest of the halting traffic to fight amongst themselves. With one more deep growl of acceleration the mesmerising machine swung deep towards the gutter, kicking up water as it roared past Mack and Mickey.
They were left staring at the spare wheel on the back of the Cadillac as it receded into the distance. Even the spare wheel was classy.
Mack leaned into Mickey’s ear. “You ever want to be driven around in one of those? With Bessie in the back seat? Your driver in the front? Soldiers at your beck and call?”
Mickey continued to stare as the automobile disappeared from sight. “You know I do.”
“Then we gotta go big, Mickey. And this job is big. Brand new shiny Cadillac big. Leading our own organisation big. Getting respect big.”
Mickey chewed his lip for some time. Then he finally nodded. “Yeah, alright. Let’s go.”
Mack nodded with a smile and led the way down the nearby alleyway, both fading back into the darkness of the dirty city...
***
Twisting through back alleys and mingling with any crowd they could, Mack and Mickey made their way north. Every now and then they would stop to see if they were being trailed but so far it had been for nothing. Their pursuers seemed to be well and truly off their trail.
It wasn’t till they were within five miles of the aerodrome that Mickey once more halted Mack with an upraised hand.
Going still, Mack looked around. The skyline was lit up in bright haze by the aerodrome lights but the shadows were still deep in amongst the crowded wall of tenement buildings that clawed at the skies above them. Nothing moved in the darkness save for the persistent drizzle of rain. From one end of the street a domestic quarrel could be heard. From the other end two Tomcats were making a racket, brawling in an alleyway. But there was nothing else to suggest they needed to stop...
Then he heard it. A distant ‘whirring’ noise. From above.
Mack swore and both men dived for a nearby covered stoop. Just as they reached the dry concrete of the top landing a bright light flooded the street. They flattened themselves against the wall of their cover and held their breath.
Along the street drifted a bright circle of light which slowly grew more intense and focussed. The noise from above also grew until a soft sputtering noise could be heard. Then the beam of light began to methodically range up and down the street, illuminating its various nooks and shadowy alcoves.
From the covered safety of their hide Mack swore again. “What the hell are they doing here? This isn’t their usual beat.”
Mickey shrugged before leaning out. A new light snapped on and he lunged back into the shadows. The new light danced up and down the tenement buildings then across the rooves as the first light finished its sweep of the street. A quick inspection was made of the building at the end then both lights swept away to the east to inspect something else.
Confident the search had moved on, Mack stepped out into the drizzling rain to see police zeppelin D-58-8 slowly descend from the low cloud cover and arc gracefully away to the east, its two dancing searchlights stabbing down from the heavens to continue the inspection of Chicago’s alleyways.
As darkness reclaimed the street Mack and Mickey were left staring up into the gently falling rain. The noise of the zeppelin engines faded away to be replaced by the loud curses of tenement residents unhappy with the way the Chicago police force chose to do business. It was a confusing chorus of different languages that also soon faded away to nothing. Then the street returned to silent stillness.
Mickey looked sceptically at Mack.
Mack shrugged. “We make it to the aerodrome and the guards will vouch for us. Just several more miles and we’ll be home free.” He slapped Mickey on the shoulder. “Then we’ll be on top of the world.”
Mickey sighed then followed as Mack led them in the direction of the skyline’s intense halo of light.
***
Mickey stared down the length of the security fence. It was an intimidating wall of barb wire-threaded steel mesh stretching towards their destination, the distant gatehouse. The gatehouse that jutted out onto the street that ran all the way down the fence. More coiled barb wire crowned the huge barrier and a well worn path just inside the fence suggested a regular sentry route. Inside the complex, through the vicious fence, the large expanse of the aerodrome’s outer training paddock revealed empty parachute jumping frames and the trainee fitness obstacle course. Much further in, the high-security section with its huge hangars and gas tanks was lit up like a theatre stage or some sort of horrifically modern surgeon’s laboratory where experimental aeroplanes must have replaced Frankenstein’s beautiful monster. But between that destination and the dark alleyway they now hid in, there was that long vicious fence, the guardhouse with its risky check-in, and the huge, well-lit outer paddock with its machine gun armed watchtowers and killer guard dogs barking sharply in the distance.
Mickey peered down the long fence. “There’s too much light,” he hissed. “If we’re still bein’ followed they’ll see us out there on the street. They’ll see us for sure.” His eyes rose to the heavens. “Especially if that zepp reappears...”
Mack scoffed. “Forget about the cops. They aren’t allowed in milita airspace. That’s the best bit: the militia will protect us from cops. Same goes for anyone followin’ us. If someone does follow we just yell for the guards. They all know us and will vouch for us. If we’re lucky they may even shoot ‘em.”
Mickey’s eyes darted back to the shadows of the alleyway and further dark streets beyond. “I still dunno...”
Mack straightened. “That’s the best bit. You never do. I do the thinkin’ and you do the followin’.” He pointed a stern finger in Mickey’s face. “And this is where you start followin’.” With that he plunged into the bright light of the street, crossing the road to start the long exposed walk all the way down to the gatehouse.
Mickey took one more furtive look around in the shadows. Then hurried out into the light to catch up...
***
They moved quickly but still had a fair distance to travel in the harsh light. Every few steps Mickey would peer about, this time looking at a suspicious apartment building, next time eyeing a shadowy stoop. It didn’t help that many of the windows were boarded up to block out the round-the-clock noise and light. Some of the buildings even appeared to be abandoned, no doubt unable to attract enough tenants with all the planes and zeppelins flying in at all times of the night. It made them the perfect place for someone to set an ambush.
Then Mack hit Mickey on the arm and pointed ahead. Approaching them on the other side of the fence was a sentry in militia gray. He was whistling a tune while he stared off into space, monotonously doing his rounds. As they drew closer, they could recognise his familiar ruddy features.
Mack held his hand up. “That you Nico? It’d have t’ be. You’ve always been a lousy whistler.”
The sentry scoffed as he drew closer and came to a lazy halt opposite them. “Thanks a lot, Mack. What with all this free time on me hands I practise plenty for ya. Then all you can do is criticise!” He shook his head in exaggerated disappointment. “I think you should apologise.” He nodded. “With booze.”
Mack grinned. “Maybe tomorrow. Right now we gotta be on our way. The base commander is after his usual ration and we can’t keep his majesty waiting.”
Nico snorted through his nose. “Yeah. Tell me about it. I won’t keep you then.”
Mack held up a hand. “Jus’ one more thing, Nico. You seen people about tonight? We keep getting this bad feeling that we’re bein’ followed. You wouldn’t know of anyone out and about?”
Nico shook his head as he thought about it. “Nah. Not that I know of. But I can stay here and see if anyone is tailing ya, if ya like.” He grinned. “It’ll cost ya though.”
Mack scoffed. “No doubt. How’s about a flask? On the house when we do our next delivery.”
Nico gave a lazy salute. “Yessir. Private Nico, on the lookout.” He stopped and gave them a strange look. “Wouldn’t be able to pay me up front, would ya?”
Mack scoffed. “Free is free. It means we can decide when to get it to ya. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Nico nodded, sighed with disappointment, then shrugged. “Alright. But I had to try.”
Mack took a second look at Nico before he and Mickey continued on their way. He was left shaking his head at the audacity of the young private while Mickey continued looking around at the buildings across the street. “We gonna be able to make it tomorrow to pay him? If we blow this thing up I don’t really want t’ be back here any time soon.”
Mack shook his head. “After an explosion on base they won’t let anyone on base who doesn’t have a pressed uniform. We couldn’t get in even if we wanted to.”
They continued forward as the gatehouse began to loom large. The structure filling the gap in the huge fence was a fairly good example of Mid-West pragmatism – all boxy construction and to-the-point functionality with a street going in, a street going out, boom gates to regulate the traffic and a pedestrian gate that led through the middle. The boxy wood-paling structures were nowhere near as intimidating as the concrete maximum security checkpoint located further into the base but the sand-bagged machine gun posts on either side still made it a formidable entranceway to approach.
Fortunately for Mack and Mickey most of the guards were customers or well aware that the base commander was. They were used to seeing the pair enter and exit the base at all times of the night on gin runs and knew to skip over the usual security pat down.
Most of them knew to skip over the usual security pat down.
As they finally drew near to the gatehouse Mickey gave one more look up at the sky, then one more look back down street. He didn’t see anyone. No one except Nico. Nico hadn’t moved. He was still leaning on the fence. Watching them.
Mickey took one more scan of the shadowy buildings but kept glancing back at the lone sentry. “Looks like we made it,” he murmured. “No one’s followin’ us. Although Nico’s actin’ a little weird. Why do ya think he’s still—“
“That’s why.”
Mickey looked forward. Mack was slowing to a halt and staring at a group of men disembarking from two black, non-descript sedans parked on the opposite side of the street from the gatehouse. The half-dozen men were all wearing dark overcoats and black fedora hats and as they made their way towards Mack and Mickey it was clear that some of them were packing heat.
Mickey watched as the men continued towards them. Then he looked at Mack.
Mack swallowed. “Run.”
Mickey was taken by surprise but took off as fast as he could. Only several steps behind Mack, they sprinted towards the gatehouse which was now only forty feet away.
“Oi!” yelled Mack at the high machine gun nest guards. “We need help! It’s Mack and Mickey!” He glanced at the quickly closing thugs. “We need help!”
Their futile escape halted some twenty feet from the gatehouse. Two huge gangsters crashed into them, skittling both across the hard slick road. They struggled to get up but the heavies knew what they were doing, slapping away fends until they had a good grip on their heavy jackets, holding them down and dragging them back across the wet tarmac. Their huge comrades also arrived to help. Quickly, Mack and Mickey were pinned on their knees by two crag-faced ogres each while every attempt to struggle free was rewarded by a third who gave them a heavy punch to the guts.
“Help us!” gasped Mickey. “Guards! Major! Help us!”
One more brutal punch to the mid section and Mickey curled up, wheezing out his last breath in ragged sobs. Mack dialled back his resistance to ‘feeble’ so he didn’t warrant another silencing attack. In the relative stillness that followed his feral eyes darted over their attackers, trying to draw a bead on who they were and what they wanted. But the heavies said nothing. In mute obedience, they just waited.
There was the firm ‘clunk’ of an automobile door closing. Then, in the smothered silence, the sound of shoes began scraping their way across the wet road.
Mack and Mickey struggled to turn and see who it was. They clearly saw the automobile parked on the other side of the road. It was a familiar, deep burgundy Cadillac with a vulgar peacock hood ornament. The driver continued to the back of the automobile and opened the rear door. With little ceremony the owner stepped out.
Making his way slowly but surely from the Cadillac was a mobster. It was the only thing he could have been – a proper Chicago mobster. With a jaded air he strolled towards them in his navy blue pinstripe suit. In his hand he held a fat, lit cigar. On his fingers were diamond encrusted rings. His shoes were made of bleached crocodile leather and he wore a classy fedora with a small ostrich feather in the hat band. And he was in no hurry to reach them.
Suddenly Mack and Mickey were both lurched over onto their stomachs. Huge hands held back their arms and began reefing at their overcoats, tearing them off by force before both were unceremoniously hauled up to their knees and then twisted around. Twisted around to stare up at the cigar smoking gangster who now stood before them, an unimpressed look on his face.
There was a silent pause as the heavies carefully flattened and held up the two overcoats.
“Hey guards!” Mickey yelled over his shoulder. “Go get the major! Guards! He can vouch for us! Help us!”
The gangster scowled as he received one of their overcoats from a henchman and started turning it over. “Quit y’r earbashing. It ain’t gonna do you no good. I’m militia, same as them.”
Mack’s eyes were wide and darting back and forth but his voice was still calm. “You? You ain’t militia.” He looked closer. “I’ve seen you before. And it weren’t workin’ for the militia.”
“Nice to see you remember me, Mack. At least I get that. And you’re right, I don’t usually work for the militia but, unfortunately for you two today, I am...” His voice trailed off as he began to carefully dig through one of the coat’s inside pockets.
Mack snarled. “Now I remember you. You’re Cornish Pete. You’re a heavy for the Luccas.”
Cornish Pete nodded as he continued to examine something in greater detail. “It’s true. And what’s also true is that you boys are in a lot of trouble.” He drew out of the inside pocket two sticks of dynamite and looked at Mack and Mickey. “Carryin’ explosives.” He shook his head. “Not good. This close to a militia base it’s a capital offense and you boys know it.” He raised an eyebrow at them like a disappointed school principle. “You boys have signed your fate, you have.”
Mack, still defiant, glared at the cocky gangster. “You were the ones followin’ us. We lost your men in the alleyway. How’d you find us again? You get lucky? Or did that dame sell us out?”
Mickey’s face was pale as he watched Cornish Pete examine the dynamite that had ‘sealed their fate’. “Yeah. We usually make a delivery run at this time o’ night. What made you pull us up this time? It musta been the dame.”
Cornish Pete snorted his amusement as he handed off the jacket and explosives to his waiting man. “Oh, we didn’t know what you were up to until well after you left the speakeasy. Turns out there were some people following a certain dame from New York and, although they knew she was up to no good, they weren’t sure what it was. Then we tell ‘em she was talking to two men and... well, let’s just say they insisted we chat to you boys.” He stopped to look at them. “But by that time my boys had lost your trail. Imagine how nervous that made us feel. We were getting mighty worried, we were.” He paced towards them. “So we knew there were two men out there who may or may not be about to do something the Commonwealth didn’t like but they had completely slipped their tail and melted into the streets. Which means you would have gotten away with it, were it not for one small but significant detail.”
Mack started to look wary. “What detail?”
Cornish Pete leaned forward, barely able to keep the amusement from his voice. “Well we only had one description to go on. Only one little detail to tell us who would be tryin’ an attack on the aerodrome.” He looked sideways at Mickey and gave an incredulous smile. “All we knew is that one of you fools wasn’t wearing a hat.”
Cornish Pete started laughing.
Mickey looked shocked.
Mack was a building storm of fury. All of it directed at his hatless partner.
The gangster continued laughing for quite a while. Eventually he cackled his way to a halt and turned back to his two unfortunate captives. “Boys, you’ve made my day interestin’. I’ll give you that. But now I have to finish the job. You know the business so you’ll understand.”
“But wait!” whined a desperate Mack. “Why would the Lucca’s go to all this trouble over us? What do they care about the militia?”
Cornish Pete shook his head. “Oh, this ain’t from the Lucca’s. Not today, anyways. This was an order given to The Lucca’s by... another organisation. An organisation that makes sure the militia is everyone’s business.”
Mickey was clearly distressed. “What organisation? Who are ya workin’ for?”
Cornish Pete smirked. “Today? Today the Lucca family – and I as their representative – we’re workin’ for the biggest organisation in town: The Commonwealth of the Mid-West. Or at least workin’ for the people who have a vested interest in maintaining the new establishment.” He shook his head. “You see, you ain’t far enough up the greasy pole to see it, but the Commonwealth – or at least the people who prop up the Commonwealth – they’re the people who are really in charge. The people who tell Town Hall what to do and say. And it’s that ‘inter-connected vested interest’ that makes the Commonwealth the biggest organisation in town. The organisation with all the contacts. The organisation that gives mid-tier shmos like myself their marching orders. The organisation... who keeps the other organisations in line.” He leaned in close. “An’ you two are way outta line.”
Mickey whimpered and looked to the asphalt. Mack just stared, dumbfounded.
Cornish Pete nodded sadly. “Yeah, you two reached too high on this one. Too high too fast. And now you’re gonna accept the consequences.” The gangster straightened up and pulled a .32 out of his jacket. He thumbed back the heater’s safety... but then stopped.
He studied Mickey for a few seconds. His head tilted to the side and a worried look creased his face. “Jus’ one more thing before we finish up: you mind if I ask you a question, Mickey?”
Mickey didn’t bother to look up. “Why not,” he said with a sullen whine. “It ain’t like I got anything else to do.”
The gangster stared for a few seconds in silence. Then he frowned. “What did happen to y’r hat?”
Mack glared daggers. “Yeah, Mickey. What did happen to y’r hat? Go on. Tell him.”
Mickey closed his eyes. “Nothin’ happened. I chose not to wear it.”
The gangster looked confused. “What you mean you ‘chose not to wear it’?”
There was another pause then Mickey shook his head. “I been talking to a fella who knows what’s happening in the future. That in the future the world won’t be wearin’ hats. So I was gettin’ ahead of the curve.” He paused, as if digesting the idea. “Was gonna get ahead.”
The gangster looked genuinely disgusted. He shook his head, raised the gun to Mickey’s hatless head, and leaned in close. “Well, in this world – the one we’re livin’ in here – you ain’t gonna make it anywhere without a hat.”
BLAM!BLAM!
THE END
***
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to spend more time exploring the world of The Aether Age? Do you think that high adventure above the Caribbean seas with zeppelins, biplanes and skypirates sounds like your sort of story? If ‘Yes!’ then stay tuned in 2013 for the release of Tommy Thunder Scourge of the Skypirates. A pulp series in the grand old tradition of the 1930s pulp magazines, the serialised adventures of Tommy Thunder, as well as more Tales of the Aether Age, will be released soon. For more information, or to contact the author, go to
www.tommythunder.blogspot.com