The pedestrian traffic choking Fifth Avenue seemed even more hectic and bustling than usual to the tall young man who navigated his way through the hoard of people who seemed hyper aware of their surroundings and oblivious of them at the same time. But that was New Yorkers for you. It was a strange set of survival skills the denizens of that great metropolis developed. One that the young man appreciated and found both fascinating and amusing. It had only been two years since he had been making his way in a world both alien and familiar to him. He found it frightening and exhilarating.
His height
and build were both exceptional.
Standing at an easy six feet four, his impressive musculature drew more
than an average share of admiring looks from women and a few men as well. It didn’t hurt that he was also easy on the
eye, with his high cheekbones and sparkling copper eyes under severe
eyebrows. His dark skin seemed almost to
glow with vitality and energy.
He dressed
simply in well-worn jeans, battered sneakers and a plain extra large beige
T-shirt. It was a little nippy that
particular early spring morning but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He’d suffered far worse during his training
to the point where he could sleep naked in the snow overnight with no
discomfort.
He stopped
in front of a building he’d come to know well over the past week. A wonderful example of Eighteenth century
European domestic architecture, it was set back from the avenue proper by an
elevated garden. It occupied the entire
block, surrounded by a concrete wall twelve feet high on three sides with an
ornate steel fence facing Fifth
Avenue designed and constructed by the famous
Israeli sculptor Abayev.
As he had
done for the past week the young black man walked up to the front door. There was no name or plaque on the door
identifying the building but such was not needed and hadn’t been since the
establishment of this edifice back in the 1930’s. This was the New York chapter of the world famous and
eminently prestigious Baltimore Gun Club.
And the young black man had come here every day for a week to see one of
its more famous members.
He rang the
bell and no more than two seconds later it was opened by a footman who admitted
him into the reception hall. As always,
the footman allowed him to sit while Chamberlain Frick was summoned.
Chamberlain
Frick arrived not more than a minute later.
He supervised the activities of the staff and reigned over the building
as if he were a feudal lord. As such, it
was his purview to formally verify the business of visitors and personally
escort them within.
Chamberlain
Frick shook hands with the young man. “I
must say that you are a most persistent young man. As well as punctual. You’ve been right on time at nine a.m. on the nose every morning.”
“I don’t
mean to be a bother, sir.”
“You’re not
bothering me, young man. But as I’ve
told you every day for a week now, there is simply no way to anticipate when
your party will be here. For as long as
I’ve known him he’s rarely come through that door like the other members. No one sees him come. He’s simply here. No one sees him go. He’s simply gone.”
The young
man’s copper eyes gleamed with excitement.
“Would you check to see if he’s here?”
“I’ll ask
the kitchen to send you round coffee or tea if you’d like.”
“Tea,
please.”
It had
become their ritual. The young man would
sit in the reception hall all day long.
He only left at noon
time for lunch and returned. Frick would
provide him with tea or water and newspapers to read. At five
o’clock , the young man would leave, only to return the next
day. Frick personally checked three or
four times a day to see if the member the young man wanted to see had arrived
and the staff had their orders that if they were to see that member they were
to inform Frick immediately.
Chamberlain
Frick moved through the large rooms of the first floor. It was his custom to make sweeps of the
entire building at random moments just to keep the staff on their toes as well
as to give whatever members were present that personal touch that was such a
part of Frick’s efficiency. But it
wasn’t just that. The Baltimore Gun Club
had such an important and distinguished place in American history and indeed,
many events that had changed the course of history had their beginnings with
the famous and infamous members of The Baltimore Gun Club that Frick felt an
almost fanatical devotion to preserve the dignity and prestige of the club.
The
interior of the club was one of calm and serenity. Art and sculpture and period furniture lent
an air of pure elegance. The long
gallery leading to the library was lined on both sides with huge portraits of
Baltimore Gun Club members both past and present. Many were men and women whose names had long
ago become legend in all corners of the world.
Frick
walked into the library. One of the
finest collections in the country, all four walls was nothing but books from
floor to ceiling. Huge pictures windows
allowed the strengthening morning sun to illuminate the huge room. Frick noted that the library appeared to be
empty with no surprise. This early in
the morning it usually was. It was after
lunch that the room would be occupied and after dinner it would be positively
packed with members having quiet discussion accompanied with fine cigars and
even finer brandy.
Frick
turned to leave and heard a slight motion from a huge high backed leather armchair
placed near enough to a huge picture window that the occupant could look out
onto Fifth Avenue . Frick quickly walked over, thinking that this
was one of the ten club members who resided in the club itself. Once he rounded the chair and looked at the
man who sat in the chair, his leathery, wrinkled face brightened into a genuine
smile of welcome. “I should have known
it was you, sir.” As indeed he should
have. The only reason the man in the
chair had made a sound was because he wished to be heard.
“A pleasure
as always to see you, Frick. How have
you been?”
“The back
acts up from time to time, sir. But
nothing more than a nuisance. And
yourself?”
A shrug of
shoulders that still were fairly brawny despite the advanced age of the man in
the chair. “Mostly consulting work. It takes up a fair amount of my time.”
“It’s been
far too long since you’ve visited us, sir.”
“I’ve been
meaning to come here for some time now.
My decision was accelerated by the word I’ve been hearing of this young
man who’s been asking for me.”
Frick
nodded. “He’s been here for seven days
in a row, sir. He sits in the reception
hall all day long, hoping that you will show.”
“Hostile?” The man asked with a smile. He was teasing. Frick wouldn’t have been the Chamberlain of
the New York
branch of The Baltimore Gun Club if he wasn’t able to spot an enemy five
seconds after clapping eyes upon him.
“Hardly,
sir. But he is a most serious and if I
dare say…troubled young man. Life weighs
heavily on him. There is no smile in his
eyes. And there is something else as
well. But I think that will be obvious
when you see him.”
The man
gestured. “Bring him to me, then. He obviously needs to see me very badly. Let’s find out why. And would you see that some tea is sent round
to me?”
“But of
course, sir.”
Frick left
the library, briefly stopping to give instructions to the footman whose post
was just outside the library doors. Then
Frick quickly walked back to where he left the young black man who got to his
feet anxiously as Frick approached.
“You are
indeed a child of fortune, young sir.
The member you seek is here. He
has consented to see you.”
The young
man gestured at his attire. “I hope I’m
okay dressed like this…I don’t have a lot of clothes.”
Frick
smiled slightly. “I think we can
overlook the dress code this once. And
I’ll show you the reason why. Come with
me.”
Frick and
the young man walked down the long gallery until stopping at one of the
portraits. It depicted a woman in her
twenties. Such was the skill of the
artist that the youth, the strength, the vitality of the woman reached out from
the paint and canvas and struck the eye with much the same effect as this woman
had once had in life. A classical beauty
with high cheekbones not unlike those of the young man who gazed upon the
portrait with reverence. Straight hair black as oil fell to her graceful shoulders. An eye
patch covered her right eye.
“Your
mother, I believe,” Frick said quietly.
“Right from the first day you came here I saw the resemblance.”
The young
man turned to the Chamberlain. “Why is
her picture here?”
“Your
mother was an honored member of The Baltimore Gun Club, young sir. Why else do you think I allowed you to sit
inside the club everyday? It is a
courtesy I extended to you in honor of your mother’s membership.”
“Does that
mean I’m a member as well?”
“Membership
in The Baltimore Gun Club is not hereditary, young sir. It must be earned. If you are truly interested in becoming a
member, please let me know and I myself would be most pleased to sponsor you.”
“You knew
my mother?”
“I did
indeed, young sir. She was both a lady
and a warrior in every sense of both those words.”
The young
man reached out a trembling hand to stroke the portrait’s cheek. “She’s dead.”
“My
condolences and sincere regrets. I have
long thought she was. Otherwise she
would have returned to the club at some time.
I will make arraignments for the Gunnery Sacrament. It is a special ritual performed by surviving
members when a member of The Baltimore Gun Club dies. I will naturally accord you privileged
dispensation to attend the ritual.”
The young
man smiled. It was an odd smile. Frick got the impression that the young man
spent long hours in front of the mirror practicing how to smile. It was as if he were unsure of how big to
make the smile, how many teeth to show or if he should show any teeth at all.
“Young
sir? Please come with me.”
The young
man followed Frick into the library. The
footman had not only brought the man in the armchair his tea but another chair,
a twin to the one the man sat in. Frick
motioned for him to sit down and the young man did so, letting his amazed
copper eyes freely examine the man sitting across from him.
He could
have been anywhere between seventy and eighty with pure silver hair that looked
cotton soft cut so close that the young man could see his scalp. His skin was dark. Not as dark as the young man’s. No, this man’s skin was like the texture of
aged wood, as if he were drying out like leather left in the strong
southwestern sun. The scars on his
hands, chest, face all bespoke of a life of wild adventure and battles too
numerous to count.
On any
other man the three day stubble covering his cheeks and chin would have seemed
like an affected fashion accessory but not on him. He dressed simply in a plain white cotton
crew neck shirt with baggy linen trousers.
Instead of shoes he wore black slippers greatly resembling Japanese uwabaki. His only condescension to popular fashion was
the crisp looking, unfussy graphite Daniel Meade designer sport coat.
The
silver-haired man sized up the younger man, not saying anything.
Finally,
the young man spoke in a hesitant voice.
“You’re Jim Anthony. They called
you the Super Detective back in the 30’s and 40’s.”
“It was the
newspapers who hung that label on me.
Even the ones I owned.” He grinned wryly.
The young
man continued. “You hunted
criminals. Technological terrorists-“
“-we called
them mad scientists back then-“
“-monsters,
killers, gangsters, spies, lunatics-“
Jim Anthony
held up a dark, scarred hand, palm outwards.
“I know who I am, boy. And I know
what I did. The question is who are you
and what do you want?”
“My name,
sir, is Dillon. I want you to teach me
how to hunt men and how to stay alive while doing so.”
