Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet (22 page)

The Good Thing

Nazan and Zeph gaze wide-eyed at the lavish grounds of the Manhattan Beach Hotel sprawling before them.

“Would ya look at that?” Zeph says. “Two hundred suites in there. Archie told me about when it opened, 'bout thirty years ago? Ulysses S. Grant stood right there on those steps and made a speech. The man was
right there
! And now…” Weeds and patches of brown infect the once-perfect green lawn. Traveling along a path that leads to the hotel's main entrance, they can see the telltale divots and ridges poking through the grass: the moles have arrived to reclaim their kingdom.

Then Zeph does something he never thought he'd do if he lived a thousand years. He strolls across the veranda of one of the most exclusive hotels in New York City with a pretty lady at his side. On his own two hands.

• • •

The doors are locked.

“
Shit
,” Zeph says. He looks up at Nazan. “Sorry for the language. It's just…” He sucks his teeth. “So close.”

“There must be another way in. Maybe if we go around to the—”

Just then, one of the front doors pops open. A frantic-looking young man emerges, still in his waiter's uniform, knapsack slung across one shoulder.

“Miss Nazan!” Zeph says. “Quick, get the door.”

Nazan leaps for the door just before it slams.

Zeph addresses the waiter. “Hey! Hey, mister. Got a question for ya.”

The waiter starts down the steps without looking back. “Sorry, busy.”

“Where's the Englishwoman?”

He stops short and turns. “What did you say?”

Zeph nods. “Uh-huh. Where they keeping her?”

The waiter opens his mouth, then thinks better of it. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Sure you do. The bellhops been keeping some British lady hidden in the hotel.”

“That's absurd. Anyway, I'm a waiter. I don't associate with
bellhops
.”

“Come on, you telling me the staff don't know there's some Limey squirreled away someplace?
Gotta
be gossip item number one.”

The waiter looks pointedly at his pocket watch. “I'm late. I'm the last one out of the building, and if I have any chance of catching a ferry, I have to—”

“Don't worry,” Zeph says reassuringly. “We ain't cops.”

The waiter arches an eyebrow, gazing from Zeph to Nazan and back again. “Really. The olive girl and the brown midget aren't cops. What a relief.”

Nazan frowns. “Hey, he's not a—”

But Zeph raises his hand—he's heard far worse. “Easy mistake. Listen, please. We're with the lady's family. We're not here to make any trouble. We just want her back, okay? In whatever…condition…she might be.”

“Please, sir,” Nazan says from the door, suddenly sporting the single worst British accent Zeph has ever heard. “Please, it's me mummy. I just wanna find 'er, take 'er 'ome. Can't ye 'elp me, please?” She bats her eyelashes and pushes out her bottom lip slightly.

The waiter sighs. “Fine. They
were
keeping her down in the laundry. I don't know if she's still there. I stay well clear of all that.”

Nazan smiles. “Thanks ever so much, guv'nor! Now if you could tell me 'ow to find the laundry, I'd be proper grateful, I would.”

“I'll direct you to the laundry,” he says, “if you promise to stop speaking like that.”

• • •

Nazan and Zeph make their way carefully through the empty lobby while their eyes get used to the darkness. Completely shut down, the hotel is lit only by a few emergency lights.

But despite the gloom, Zeph is giggling. “Oy, guv'nor! Spare a shilling, eh, guv'nor?”

Nazan rolls her eyes. “All right, all right.”

“Best stay outta show business.”

“I convinced him to help us, didn't I?”

“Tortured him into it.”

They creep slowly along the wall, feeling their way to a side door the waiter said would lead to the basement. “I didn't notice you having any better—ah, here we go. These must be the stairs.” She opens the door to complete darkness. Gripping the door frame, she takes a deep breath. “It's like stepping into my own grave.”

“Nah,” Zeph says. From his back pocket, he pulls a fistful of Enzo's handmade sparklers. He hands one to her and lights it. “We're okay, Miss Nazan. We're okay.”

• • •

The Manhattan Beach Hotel basement is a maze of corridors, and both Zeph and Nazan pray silently that their directions were accurate. One wrong turn, and they may not find the laundry before Zeph's sparkler supply runs out.

But just as the waiter promised, around the next corner, they find the double-doored entrance to the hotel kitchens; he said the laundry should be just past there. Nazan holds up a sparkler so she can read the sign posted on the kitchen doors: CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE COMMITTEE FOR PUBLIC SAFETY. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

“Hand me the light, would ya please?” Zeph says. “I want to see what they're hiding in here.”

“Zeph, it says
authorized personnel only
…”

“Miss Nazan, this whole visit is unauthorized. Come on, let's take a peek.” He leans his shoulder against the kitchen door and nudges it open. The smell thumps him immediately—rotting and sweet, like those two dead Committee boys in Magruder's backyard, multiplied by a hundred. In the sparkler's light, he can see a cabinet door left partway open. A gray, lifeless hand sticks out.

“Okay.” Zeph lets the kitchen door swing closed again. “Seen enough.”

• • •

At last, the laundry. They pause in front of the swinging doors. “This, um…” Zeph trails off. “This might not be…”

Nazan nods. “I'll be all right.”

“You hold the light, and I'm going to push open the door. You ready?”

“Yes. No, wait.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Zeph? Next time I announce I want to be bold…”

“I'll tell you to hush up.”

“Thank you. Okay, go ahead.”

The laundry is a high-ceilinged room lined with pipes to usher clean water in and dirty water out. A huge copper boiler sits in one corner, flanked by washing and rinsing tubs almost big enough to swim in. Like the kitchen, the smell is overwhelming. The stench of death, but other things too: urine mixing with starch, rotten food with bleach. The only sound is the industrious hum of hundreds of flies. Just before Nazan's sparkler hisses out, she sees shadows cast by bodies lying in the tubs.

Hands shaking, she lights another sparkler.

Boys. Young boys, fourteen, maybe fifteen years old. They'd converted one of the tubs into a giant bed, and at least a dozen bodies are curled up among the sheets, wrapped around one another like kittens in a basket. And in the center, surrounded by fallen children still in their bellhop uniforms, lies an older woman, her eyes closed, her hair long escaped from what was once a proper British bun. In her arms, she cradles a boy with bright-red hair, his freckles unmistakable beneath the bruise-like spots covering his face. His mouth hangs open, and flies march in and out.

“Hello,” Zeph says gently. “Hello, is anyone…is anyone still here?”

In the buzzy silence that follows, Nazan starts to cry. Zeph reaches up and takes her hand. “We did a good thing,” he whispers. “It doesn't feel so good now, but it is. This way, Miss Kitty will know. She won't be left wondering forever.”

Nazan nods and tries to speak, but a sob chokes out instead. “I know. It's just…” They stand together for a few minutes as the sparkler burns down and goes out. This time, she doesn't light another. She squeezes Zeph's hand as hard as she can. “They
stayed
. They stayed with her.”

“I know, and ain't that a kindness, Miss Nazan? That she wasn't alone?”

“Zeph, I want to go.”

“Okay, let's go. It's okay. I'll see you out of here safe, don't you worry.” He guides her toward the double doors.

In the darkness, a woman's voice, weak and lost. “Kitty, is that you?”

Trust Me

“That pea-brained, mollycoddled son of a whore!” Inside Magruder's, Archie has been ranting at Rosalind for twenty minutes and shows no sign of tiring. “That imbecilic stinkard!”

After issuing refunds to Archie's customers, Spencer comes back inside with an apple box full of bottles. “You repugnant little shit,” Archie says. “Give me my product back.”

Spencer grins. “Nah, I think I'll keep these. Can't have you selling those people false hope.”

“False hope is the only kind there is, you
boob
.” Archie scratches at his scarred palm. “Who are you to interfere?”

Spencer twists open the cap and sniffs the bottle's contents. “Hmm, quite a bouquet. Who am I? I'm the new owner of Magruder's is who I am, and if you want to sell people a bunch of claptrap, you can use your own damn name. Although I wouldn't advise it, because I'm going to be keeping my eye on you.”

Archie stalks up to Spencer. “Oh, you do that. You keep an eye on me. That way, you'll be sure to see me laughing while your whole world burns down.” Archie turns and stalks out of the museum.

Rosalind grins. “That's our Archibald. Question is, what do we do with this elixir now?”

Spencer takes a swig. “Hmm, not bad. Zeph can serve it at the bar.”

“Like a martini,” Rosalind suggests. “A plague-tini.”

Suddenly, a familiar voice drifts in from the street. “Hey! Hey, y'all home in there?”

“Zeph!” Rosalind rushes to the door with Spencer following close behind. Out on the street, they find not only Zeph, but also Nazan, who is pushing a large, wheeled laundry cart. The side of the cart is emblazoned with the logo of the Manhattan Beach Hotel.

Spencer goes to her. “Miss Nazan, are you quite all right?”

She smiles. “Hello, Spencer. Yes, I'm fine. A bit tired—this cart is very heavy!”

Rosalind shakes his head in dismay. “Is looting a hotel truly a good use of your—”

Zeph rolls his eyes. “Show them, Miss Nazan.”

She pulls back one of the sheets to reveal an older woman, unconscious, her skin nearly as gray as her hair.

Rosalind and Spencer exchange glances. “Asleep or dead?” Rosalind asks.

“Somewhere in between,” Zeph says. “It's Mrs. Hayward! Come on, you two. Help us get her inside. Poor Nazan's been doing all the work—she got herself stuck with a partner who can't walk and push at the same time.”

She smiles at him reassuringly. “You did well, Zeph.”

Spencer frowns. “
Partners
now, is it?”

“Spencer,” Nazan says, “please don't…”

Zeph says, “Come on. Y'all can argue about this inside.”

Rosalind stops him. “Wait, wait, wait. This woman has the plague, Zeph. The
plague
. You can call it ‘the Cough' all you want, but we all know this is—”

“This is Kitty's mama, Ros.”

“This is an infected person! You're risking us all by bringing her here.”

“Rosalind does have a point,” Spencer says carefully.

“And what do y'all suggest? Leave her on the street? We gotta look after her.”

“How?” Rosalind says. “We can barely look after ourselves these days.”

“We talked about this, actually,” Nazan explains. “A man told us that there is a doctor, over on Twelfth Street, who is selling medicine. Spencer, perhaps you could go?”

“She's too far gone for any medicine, Nazan. Just look at her.”

She rounds on him. “And how would
you
know? Are you a doctor suddenly?”

“Nazan, please…”

“Look,” Zeph says. “Y'all don't have to cuddle her—we just gotta keep her safe till Miss Kitty gets back.”

“Yes,” Rosalind says, his anger rising. “And what
about
that? Have you all forgotten about Enzo and P-Ray? Suddenly, all you care about is this half-dead—”

Zeph's jaw drops at the insult. “Damn it, Ros, nobody's forgotten nobody! My heart hurts
every second
thinking about our boys. You know it does! But we gotta be able to care about a couple of things at the same—forget it, I'm through arguing. Let's get her inside.”

“I want
no
part of this.” Rosalind turns on his heel and stalks back into the Cabinet and up to his room.

Spencer is inclined to agree with Rosalind, but after a stern look from Nazan, he sighs and takes hold of the cart, maneuvering it into the Cabinet while Nazan holds the door. But just past the doorway, he loses his grip on the cart, and it rolls away, smacking into the wall inside. The jostling awakens Mrs. Hayward, and she sits up, panicked. “Kitty! Kitty, where are you?”

Nazan goes to her. “It's all right, ma'am. Kitty isn't here just now, but we are her friends. We're going to look after you until she—”

“You ungrateful girl!” Mrs. Hayward shrieks, wide-eyed and hysterical. “You wretched, ungrateful little girl! How dare you abandon me like this? Your brother would never treat me so! I never wanted a daughter like you!” She weeps, great heaving sobs. “You wretched girl…” Exhausted, she closes her eyes and falls back into unconsciousness.

“What is this shouting?” An angry thumping comes down the stairs. Timur appears, even grumpier than usual. “How can man think with this caterwauling?”

“Sorry, Doc,” Zeph says. “We just… We found this woman. She's real sick, and we just need to get down to Twelfth Street and buy her some medicine is all. Sorry for the noise.”

“Medicine! What for?”

Even Zeph, accustomed to Timur's strange ways, is caught off guard by this question. “What for? We got ourselves this little epidemic in town? You remember, them boys come to burn down the building on account of—”

“So? You have sickness, you make real medicine, not some rubbish from Twelfth Street.”

“Well, but—”

“I'm sorry,” Nazan says. “Doctor Timur, pardon me. Do you know about medicine too?”

Timur swats at the air with his hand, as though Nazan's question were a mosquito he'd sorely love to kill. “You electrify silver in a solution, you get medicine. Is nothing.” He turns back to Zeph. “I need message delivered to telegraph office. Is important. You go now.”

Spencer says, “Hold on, hold on. Silver? That would never work, would it?”

“And exactly what do you know, idiot? It worked for Romans, and they ruled world for a thousand years. Which is more than inbreds like you can say.”

Nazan looks at Zeph. “Do you think?”

He shrugs. “I seen this man do stranger things.”

Spencer frowns skeptically. “If you want medicine, Miss Nazan, you see a doctor—not some attic-bound lunatic. I will go to Twelfth Street for you.”

“Telegram!” Timur barks.

“Yes, and I shall take care of your telegram.”

“You don't mind?” Zeph asks.

“It's no trouble. Miss Nazan?” Spencer offers his elbow. “Care for a stroll?”

She shakes her head. “I should stay here and look after her.”

Spencer glances from Nazan to Zeph and back. “Yes, of course.” He approaches Timur, his hand extended to take the telegram.

Zeph eyes his boss carefully. “Okay with you, Doc, if Spencer takes it?”

Timur's lip curls a bit, but he swats the air again and thrusts a coffee-stained piece of paper at Spencer. “Here is message. Make sure you tell that the delivery boy must wait at address for reply.” He turns to head upstairs.

“Ah, sir?” Spencer asks. “You probably meant to give me the money to pay for this?”

Timur doesn't even turn around. “Your father is burning the goddamned city.
You
pay for telegram.” The old doctor stomps back up to the attic.

Spencer smiles. “He's really warming up to me. All right, I'll be off. But, Nazan, do you mind?” He gestures toward the door. “Could we speak outside for just one moment before I go?”

“I should probably stay and help—” Nazan looks at Zeph.

“Go on,” Zeph says. “We'll get her upstairs when you're done.”

Nazan nods, and she and Spencer step out into the hazy afternoon sun. “What is it, Spencer?”

He takes a deep breath. “I want to say… I'm not even sure how to put this… All right, here goes: if there had been a vote—there
wasn't
—but if there had been a vote about whether the Committee should take Mrs. Hayward, I would have voted no. If there had been a vote about hiding information about the Cough, or about the quarantine, or…all of it. I would have voted no.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Do you truly? Because you act as though I'm—”

“Zeph told me how you stuck up for him. And how you tried to help Rosalind.”

Relieved, Spencer takes her hand in his. “So you understand.”

“I wouldn't go that far. You're a very confusing person.” But she smiles. “I need to go help Zeph with Mrs. Hayward. But I'll see you when you get back. We'll talk then?”

He kisses her hand. “Until then.”

• • •

A young woman with a handkerchief tied around her face exits an office building on Surf Avenue. In her arms is a large box packed with file folders, and she struggles a bit to get herself and the box out of the door before it closes behind her. To her rescue comes an older gentleman with a cravat and a shark's smile.

“Here, let me help you,” he says, and he holds the door open for her.

“Thank you, sir,” she says, her voice muted by the handkerchief.

“Pray, is this building home to the Dreamland Consortium?”

“Yes,” she says, “but there's no one in.”

“Oh no?”

“They just sent me over here to get some files.”

“Is that so?”

She nods. “I didn't want to come out here, with the Cough and all. But I'm low on the totem pole, so…”

“Tsk tsk,” says the old man sympathetically. “What a terrible thing to do to you.”

“Yes! Yes, I agree.” She giggles. “Don't tell my boss I said so.”

He grins. “I wouldn't dream of it. Although I do, as it happens, have business with your boss. Senator Reynolds? Any thoughts on how I might reach him?”

“Humph. He's packed up and left for Newport. Decided to spend the summer there, away from the Cough. Nice life, huh?”

“Indeed. Left you with the cleanup, has he?”

“I don't even get to go! I have to take these files over to Dreamland.”

“My dear, how fortuitous. Allow me to hail us a taxi, and I'll see you there.”

“Ah, I don't know… I'm supposed to just—”

“I won't hear of it. You shouldn't be alone; it's too dangerous. Besides, I have information I know will be of great interest to the senator. I've no doubt he'll be very pleased with you for having brought me to him.”

The young lady laughs. “You'll have to excuse me, sir, but there's very little that pleases the senator these days. I can't imagine how—”

“My information relates to the whereabouts of his son.”

Her eyes go wide. “Spencer?”

“The very same.”

“Well, but—”

“Did the young man not go missing the night of the quarantine?”

“Yes, but—”

“Would his father not be pleased to have information as to his whereabouts?”

“Well, I—”

“Come along now. Let's get that taxi.” Archie pulls the carnation from his lapel and presents it to her. “You can trust me.”