George Benaszewski
&
Reginald Keystone
Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck, Reginald's Stateroom)
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A
The security measures of the riverboat handled as clockwork as they had been throughout their adventures that day, Reginald found himself standing in front of his stateroom door. From the look of things, he was the last to arrive at his own party.
"Apologies, gentlemen. Stairs tend to be the adversary of an aging man's knees. Excuse me." He extended a hand, unlocking the door and swung it open. Standing to one side, the Lord Major motioned into the room with his free hand.
"Please, make yourselves at leisure. I shall attend to the drinks." His voice wasn't cheerful, so much as it was relieved that the day was coming to a close.
J.C. didn't seem to mind and chuckled a bit. "Don't be worrying any," he said before he stepped into the room and took a look around. Having a seat he got comfortable and relaxed against the back of the chair. George nodded towards the Lord Major and entered behind J.C., quietly and taking a seat as well. His one eyes looked around a bit as he sat there with his hands on his knees, rubbing them back and forth a bit.
"Mmm, thank you for the mmm invite Sir." "Why, think nothing of it, dear boy." It was a polite intonation. Reginald opened a reinforced leather box upon the small table nearby, containing what appeared to be a gentleman's traveling kit for the booze enthusiast on the go. Thick glass rather than more fragile crystal, but finely made, and a decanter which already contained a fair amount of light brown spirits. He poured for his guests first, and added a hollow swizzle stick into the one he handed to George.
"Not a straw, persay, but it should function just as well in a pinch. He filled and raised his own glass, adding,
"My sincerest gratitude, gentlemen. I am in your debt. Cheers." George look the glass and it was obvious by the expression on the exposed side of his face he was grateful for the accommodation. He could drink without a straw but with the mask on it made it far more difficult. He rose his glass as J.C. did. "Nah, think nothing of it. Wouldn't be the first time I drug a body out of the water but hey, much better out come than last time," he said before taking a sip. George cast a glance towards J.C. and nodded with a bit of a chuckle. It seemed there was a story there.
The Lord Major sipped from his glass, enjoying the smoky nuance of the fine scotch whisky. It was a pleasure that drew men from all walks of life, quite possibly why alcohol was used in this fashion. Still, making light of saving lives was either novel or false modesty. While it didn't matter in the long run which one it was, it seemed to be a conversation starter.
"If you insist sir, I shan't make garrulous mention of the incident past this evening, Mr. C. Suffice it to say, Lady Munn's safety is of great importance to me. The other fellow I am merely acquainted with, but he seems a decent sort. Do tell though, as my more curious nature is piqued, what was the outcome of the last time?" J.C. choked a bit on his drink, nearly snorting it with a chuckle. "Ring me mother." Clearing his throat he caught a smile pulling at the corner of George's mouth. He had heard this tale before but he wasn't opposed to hearing it again. Setting the drink down, J.C. wiped his mouth with the back of sleeve and then rubbed his hands together. "Okay, please, make no mistake, death at any time is a bad thing. And that's how this turned out, the man was dead when I got to him. Thing is, I am pretty sure he was dead when he was still fifty feet in the air as well." That was a hell of a start. "Picture it, New York, 1924, Spring is in the air and so is the booze. Prohibition is strong but where there's a bath tub, well there's gin. Fires and booze don't mix well..."
The intro was enough to raise an eyebrow on Reginald's distinguished visage. As a dutiful host might, he unstopped the decanter and quickly splashed a refill into the glasses of his guests and himself, even though there was but a little sipped from each of them. He sat and crossed his legs, leaning forward.
"You have my attention, sir. Please, continue." George figured attention would be gotten quickly with that one as he sipped his booze from his swizzle stick. It was quite the portrait. Picking up the glass, J.C. took another sip before he set it back down again and continued. "Well I wasn't sure what happened to get it started at first, that part I found out later in the news paper. All I know is I was butting heads with this Drug Store Cowboy about a Moll and suddenly, like Haley's fucking comet there is a blaze boosting through the air like nothing I ever seen," he started. Thing was, there was a lot more to story, even before the rockets red glare.
Martin Gallagher
Location: Lower East Side, Manhattan - New York, NY - April 19th, 1924
Skills: N/A
Martin Gallagher died earlier this year.
It came on suddenly, as he told us it would. Hindsight reminds us that we saw it coming, too. I know it doesn't make a lot of sense now, but it did when it happened and it will again in time. It's a question of perspective. Look, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start with that morning.
The man awoke from disturbed sleep, vividly aware of the alcohol he had consumed the night before. It wasnât a huge, massive amount, but he wasn't a heavy drinking twenty-something anymore. His tolerance for âThe Creatureâ was formidable; that was not up for debate. His age did lend a certain sharpness to the morning following, however, that just wasnât present in his earlier years. He drank too much, anyway. More than he should. The Prohibition Act was in force, but facing the facts of 1920s New York, anyone could get hammered if they even halfway tried.
Martin had a lot of vices. He hadn't fully pushed himself out of bed yet, but he had already put a match to his first Lucky Strike of the day. He then turned to the lady who shared the bed with him and said,
"I gotta get back to the firehouse." She understood. Martin had to be there early in case his wife came by, thinking he was still on his rotation. Yeah, he had vices.
His morning was peppered with coffee and cigarettes, plus a quick slam of the pup what bit him the night before. He rushed to get a few blocks up the road on foot, though he did stop to swap a dime for a bite on the way. It was Lower Manhattan and he was in a hurry. Some things were just convenient. Hot dogs being one, and having a mistress within walking distance of work being another.
The truth was, Martin hated himself. He didn't know why he kept doing the things he did. He had an honorable, rewarding job that he loved, great family who he also loved, and most people considered him something of a flawed hero. Maybe he was wired that way. He was every bit his father's son. People had said that to him for a long time, moreso than his brothers and sisters. He looked like the man, sounded like him, and was respected around the neighborhood like him. No one ever knew that the old man hit his wife. His kids too, if they disrespected him or "got out of line". He drank, had affairs, and he could really make their lives a living hell, coming home at night reeking of nickel whisky. Martin carried a couple of marks into adulthood that originated from his father's attention on those nights. Burn marks, mostly. They were quickly explained away after he joined up with the Fire Department as job-related, but he knew. He never let himself forget.
Another truth, aside from Martin hating himself - He really
was like his father. But he took some traits from his mother, too. Enough presence of mind and basic human decency to know that, despite being the spitting image of Asshole Primus, he didn't need to continue the cycle with his kids. Martin was still an asshole. Still had his vices. Smoking, drinking, gambled on occasion. He could be mean. Acrimonious. Cheated on his wife. Wasn't around enough.
Never hit. Not his wife, ever, and not his kids excepting disciplinary action acceptable for the time and place.
I'm getting away from topic again. Marty was an asshole and he knew it enough to feel bad about it. He was close to hitting a low point in his life. Maybe even low enough to do one of those introspective, life-affirming turnarounds that you see so many of in the books and motion pictures and such. The problem was, we'd never know.
As soon as he set foot in the building, his Chief informed him that they were a couple men short on the Ladder Company 16 crew, and wanted to know if he could clock in officially. Martin was a responsible guy. He did what firemen did; grabbed some coffee, did his safety checks, and settled into a routine. It was your average day in the Lower East Side.
Sometime in the late morning the bell sounded. It was always a thing which got the place animated. The men of Engine Company 39 and Ladder Company 16 were tried and true units; swift and organized, precise, experienced, and dedicated. They had answered this call many times. Martin donned his helmet, grabbed his axe, and joined the men on the ladder truck. The line of smoke was spotted toward the East River, where new tenements had been built. It wouldn't have been the first time someone torched their own, very new property for the insurance payoff, certainly wouldn't be the last. Regardless, it took little time for the crews to arrive on scene. Riverside residential structure. Apartments. Privately owned.
The fires appeared contained to one side of the building upon arrival. This worked in their favor. The Engine 39 set up nearby, trailing a manual hose into the river for a continuous stream of water. The people on ground assured the Fire Brigade that the place had been evacuated, to the best of their knowledge. But these men wanted to be careful. The supervising Lieutenant grabbed Martin by his shoulder and shouted over the noise of flames and men alike,
"Gallagher! Take your team and give us a sweep on the river side! Put eyes on it now!" Without hesitation, he barked back,
"I've heard ya, L.T.!" and called Ladder 16 together. They moved the truck around the block and went through standard procedure, checking windows for any sign of people trapped above, making sure fire exits were clear, and reporting among themselves back to the Ladder Engineer. Just when they were about to return to their colleagues and join them fighting the blaze, Martin caught sight of something up high.
"Wait! Wait, damn ya! Fourth floor, left!" He could have sworn he saw something move in the window. Maybe it was nothing, and maybe it was something. There was no way he could ignore it. In his personal life, he wasn't a very nice man. At work, he was a medaled
hero.
"Hey, Guy! You get me a ladder up to that fourth floor corner window, right goddamned now, or you'll be a'wearing my galosh in your ass! Get me? Hey! Talking to you!" He didn't waste time for an answer. Even as it was being raised, Martin was already on the ladder, climbing as it was ratcheted up, up, up to its intended window.
When he got there, he placed a hand on the windowglass. It was warm, which could be a bad sign, but not blistering hot. It could just as easily been the morning sun radiating upon it. At the very least, it was still cool enough that he could likely break through without feeding a hidden blaze with fresh air. Martin tapped the glass with his fire axe. It gave way and he stepped in.
"It was this window..." he mumbled, though he could not see a thing in that place past large, blocky shapes. His eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, and yet again he could have sworn he saw movement.
"...please, don't be a kid hiding on me..." he whispered, followed by,
"Fire Department, City of New York! We've gotta get everyone out of the building! ...damnit... Hey kid, you wanna sit in a real Fire Truck? C'mon!" Nothing. But his eyes were beginning to pick up more detail. Barrels. Coils. Sealed pots and oil radiators. He smelled sour fermentation in the air, and instinctively he took a step backward. It was not a good place to be. Not at all. The entire apartment was converted into a series of pot distilleries and holding tubs, each in the middle of different stages of alcohol production. There was no telling how many apartments were set up like this. If he lit a cigarette in this place, he'd take a chance with his life.
And the building was on fire. The door burst open, weakened from thermal pressure, allowing a sudden wave of heat and sparks to enter. The fire must have caught something inside that carried it to his corner of the building, by chance or by arson. It didn't matter. Martin knew what was coming. He wasn't getting out of this alive. He still tried to make it back to the window.
The apartment went up like a stack of dynamite.
Martin F. Gallagher's final moments were surreal. He registered a bright flash of orange-white light, and he could feel his body swept up in the concussion. There was the objective knowledge that he was on fire and outside of the building, high up in the air. Mostly though, he felt a profound sense of self-loathing. He really, truly was an asshole. As much as he struggled to be nothing like his father, he sure did one bang-up job filling his shoes. He had kids he rarely saw. A wife who he wasn't faithful to. A nagging problem with illegal whisky which, fittingly, was literally killing him that second. He had plenty of chances to make it up to them all, and pissed each and every one of them away. Marty was going to die, right then and there, flying through the air
on fire, very probably in more than one good-sized piece. He could never apologize. Never kiss his wife again, nor ruffle his childrens' hair. There would never be a chance to see his grandchildren. Martin was a dead man, and nothing could change that.
Before his life was snuffed away mid-air and his body folded on the surface of the East River, he whispered three words that no living, human soul would ever hear, but needed to be said.
"I'm so sorry."
"Oh Christ, I swear, the the look on the mans face was like this," J.C. said between chuckles before contorting his own facial expression to
this. "Arms flailed out like he was being strung up on the rack and I can't be sure but I would bet me life on it that he still had a cigarette in his hand when he hit the water." George was chuckling a bit in his gravel tone. It was a hell of a tale to be spun and J.C. was a consummate story teller.
A dry chuckle escaped Reginald. Not at the story itself, which sounded truly tragic, but from the explanation prior to and the expression afterward. It quickly manifested as a chortle, as the man was attempting to restrain himself yet was failing, and so soon gave way to a small bout of mirthful laughter. Perhaps he would blame the whisky.
"Oh dear, that... Tragic story, yes. Tragic." He did try to recover composure. It had marginal success.
"Mmm, yes, tragic," George said with a straight face before he gave his own impersonation of the striking facial expression that looked like someone had taken a bad shot of whiskey. It was made even more extreme due to the man mask - so while one side of his face remained set in steel, the other was overly expressive. This time, J.C. lost it an had to cover his mouth to keep the brown liquid from spraying everywhere.
The stately expression and manner of the Lord Major was chiefly forgotten in the moment, try as he might to maintain his traditional Stiff Upper Lippage common to upright citizens of the British Empire. His face reddened and his mouth twisted slightly as he fought valiantly to maintain the presence of his fine liquor on the
inside of his body. Finally, after concentrated effort, Reginald swallowed, coughed once, and allowed himself a laugh.
"Ah, gentlemen... the loss of a dram of this nectar would likewise be tragic. However! However sirs, this has been the most entertaining conversation that I've been involved with in quite some time. Should you prefer, I would not be opposed to a repeat next evening." J.C. was still chuckling as he wiped the tears from the corner of his eye. "Oh wow, I haven't laughed that much since I was a little girl," J.C. joked. George grinned a bit and set his glass down. J.C. knew what that meant. It was getting late. "Well, as much fun as this has been, we should turn in and I need dry clothes," J.C. added as he stood up and shook the Lord Majors hand. "Been swell and thanks for the spirits, right fine stuff," he said before making his way to the door.
George rose and buttoned his coat before extending his hand to Reginald.
"Mmm, thank you Sir. I mmm will check the halls and then turn in," he said shaking the mans hand before joining J.C. at the door. The two finished their goodbyes and goodnights and left the Lord Major to himself to get a nights rest. It had been a hell of a day, tomorrow was yet to come.
Reginald held the door open for the two Americans, wishing them a pleasant evening.
"Yes, yes. I have thoroughly enjoyed your company, of course. Stay safe, gentlemen, and goodnight." The Lord Major closed the door and locked it behind his egressing company. It had been one hell of a day, and tomorrow promised to be equally as interesting. And they had two more days upon the riverboat. He should probably get some rest. Window secure, door locked. Pistol next to his bed, officer's sword leaning against the nightstand. Just like back in his quarters in the Barracks. The Lord Major slipped from his more formal attire and into significantly more casual, nighttime attire, and into his comfortable grey burnoose besides. He tarried only long enough to put away his travel set of fine whisky, turn down his bed for the issues commonly found in Egypt (snakes, camel spiders, scorpions and the like), and settled in for as much rest as his busy thoughts would allow.
Haring Reddish
Location: The Ferry (Elite Deck, Josephine's Stateroom -> Second Deck, Reddish's Cabin)
Skills: N/A
Reddish understood. He had a lovely time with Josephine, but that time had drawn to a close. The intrusion to her room and the theft of a personal talisman probably had its role to play as well, and as much as Reddish wished to remain behind and see to her safety, the words were spoken. He was not going to insist upon remaining in a lady's room after she expressed an interest in his absence, even politely as this was.
"Absolutely, madame." he said softly. Giving her hand a little squeeze, he rose from her bed and gave a warm smile.
"Thank you ever so much for your company this evening, Miss Clarke. I understand that you didn't have to, and I further understand that I have propensity to be an obnoxious, grating individual." His face looked a touch uncertain, but he nodded in affirmation of his own statement.
"So I suppose that's a Thank You, madame, for your patience with someone as comparatively workaday as myself. As compared to you, of course, Miss." All the same, it was likely that, were he witnessed exiting Josephine's quarters it may shine an unfavorable light upon her. Discretion was the point of order and nothing about this evening had been discreet. Even the nature of their differing lifestyles might cast rumor upon the woman. He would avoid that, if he possibly could.
"Miss Clarke, if I may?" He sized up his parting conversation and tried to phrase himself in such a way as to avoid insult, if possible.
"Please forgive my impertinence, and my continued presence. These are two things I will fix very shortly. I have concerns to your reputation, having a strange man exit your quarters at night. Befitting my ticket, I am here serving at the pleasure of the Lord Major. Allow me the more visibly acceptable excuse, ma'am, of running your laundry to Services? I shall return it upon morning, of course, and then we shall just be two people engaged in the goings-on of the expected social contract between the lofty," he motioned to Josephine,
"and the plebeian." And a motion to himself.
"With your honor wholly unbesmirched, of course. You need not have to suffer the rumors of judgemental strangers, Miss Clarke. I'd not have it if I could help." He didn't know what to expect from the exchange, but was suddenly very pleased when Josephine gave an approving nod. He gathered up what he could, from what she had been attired in earlier in the day, folded it loosely, and made and himself scarce.
"You have given me a grand gift tonight, Miss Clarke. Thank you again. If you should need anything, please knock upon my stateroom door. At any time, ma'am. I insist. Oh! Please lock the door behind me." He shut the door as he left, cradling the small bundle of Josephine's afternoon wear, with a polite,
"Miss Clarke." and breathed out a wistful sigh. A quiet smile followed. Even if that was the last time he spoke with the woman, he had made an impressive memory with her. Two things prevented it from being the
last meeting, however; Reddish still had to deliver her copies of the photograph taken earlier, and he also had to handle her laundry. Excellent! Life wasn't so bad after all. With a skip in his step, he practically danced across the deck and down the stairs, flashed his ticket and information, and bounded toward his own quarters.
He suddenly stopped short for a moment in stark realization of something ...amiss... This ship didn't exactly, persay, ah, or whatsoever
have any laundry services. But he explicitly told Josephine that he would deliver her garments to her upon the morning. He simply couldn't do that while they were still lightly used from the day before, that would be highly unseemly! Highly!
And Unseemly! No, that would not do at all. The Corporal rushed the rest of the way to his stateroom and hurriedly unlocked the door. As fate would have it, his quarters were as of yet untouched by whatever or whomever was making themselves at home in some of the others' rooms.
Just to be on the safe side, reddish checked his field weapons, additional bayonets, webbing, tack, gear, and lastly his beloved Aeroplane Cards. Wrapped individually was an artistic likeness of the original Skyknight himself, Lord Major Reginald I. Keystone in his finery, standing in front of his preferred craft from back in the Great War. He had yet to work up the presumption to ask the old man to sign it for him, though if he did, it would be worth a great, great deal to a collector. Not that he would readily part with it for anything less than a full emergency. Well, everything was safe and accounted for. Now to his other dilemma. Josephine's clothes weren't going to wash themselves, and neither was the staff aboard this boat. With a heavy sigh, Reddish stepped into his allotted washroom and began to fill the basin. Part of the duties of a batman were to see to his Officer's delicates. He could handle this, he just wasn't getting to sleep for another half hour, was all.
The water slowly rose, and while it did The Corporal began to look over the apparel for anything resembling a stain or patch that might require extra attention. The starlet was a very well put together and proper woman, it seemed, and a simple rinse and freshen was all that her clothes would require. Good. Very good. And it even looked like, were he the sort to go in for thing of the sort (perish the thought), that with a couple of buttons undone (considering that he was a slender chap) that he might actually be able to fit into a couple of these articles.
Noooo. No, he mustn't. That just wouldn't be proper.
He continued thinking that it wouldn't be proper as he made sure his door was securely closed and latched. Not proper at all. He felt the same way as he turned off the water to the handwashing sink. Quite the scandalous idea, really. Then again, it wasn't like he wasn't going to make sure everything was clean and dry after the fact, right? I mean, knowing firsthand the cut and color of Josephi- sorry, Miss Clarke's garments would only give a greater understanding of the lady, yes?
Hmm?
A little later than most, Corporal Haring D. Reddish had hung freshly laundered clothing up to dry upon the door to his washroom, off the back of a chair, and on the interior of the cabin door. In a handful of hours, everything should be in proper order. He nestled himself in bed, for a while feeling truly content to be alive.
