Precisely what Hayes did for McNaughton was a mystery to most everyone. His chief overseer was James Evans, deputy director of securities at McNaughton, who often said Hayes’s job was to be “a backroom boy, someone to make sure everyone follows procedure and that sensitive matters do not become unfavorable for the company’s interests.” Brightly, who was above even Evans as chief director of securities, chose to say that Hayes was “a fixer” or “our man in the field, but here at home.” That was if he said anything at all, which he usually didn’t.
Hayes thought of his job in very simple terms: it was his job to find out the things no one wanted him to find out and know the things no one else knew, all in the name of McNaughton Western Foundry Corporation. It often put him in many interesting situations. For example, this was not the first time he had been involved in a murder investigation, and while this one in particular didn’t promise much interest for McNaughton as a whole, Hayes was always willing to help Garvey whenever he could. Garvey’s high position in the Department and similar line of work made him an invaluable resource for Hayes, and after their working together for so long he’d also become the closest thing to a friend Hayes had.
“So I’m fucked,” said Garvey to his near-empty plate.
“Maybe not,” Hayes said cheerfully. “You could turn something up. You often do.”
“Maybe. You say maybe. Maybe isn’t probably.”
“No. But if you keep at it long enough, it’ll drop.”
“Hm. Well. Give me a second while I pay,” said Garvey, standing up.
“I’ll be outside,” said Hayes, and he gathered his coat about him and worked back through the throng.
It seemed to be even colder now that Hayes had felt a second of warmth. He huddled by Garvey’s car, breathing deep and trying to stuff his hands ever farther into his pockets. There was a sour film on the back of his throat. His thoughts returned to the soft, white face rising up out of the river. Something mutinous began happening down in his belly, some minor organ pitching and yawing with a foul tide. He resisted it at first. Then began swallowing. A rumbling belch came up, followed by something that should have stayed down, and he instinctively flipped his hair and scarf out of his face before falling to his knees and retching. The hot clear fluids sent up thick clouds of steam as they spattered onto the icy stone. For the next few minutes he was wracked with the dry heaves, rattling burps that bubbled up from his deep inner recesses to come burbling out with festoons of spit and mucus.
Garvey emerged from the diner and stopped short at the sight. “Jesus Christ. I thought you said you’d quit drinking.”
“I did quit drinking,” Hayes said, wheezing and hiccupping.
“That’s the classic drunkard’s morning pose to me. Careful not to get any on the car.”
“I did quit drinking,” Hayes insisted.
Garvey took in Hayes’s pale skin and the small puddle of thin, clear vomit. Then he sighed and scratched his head and said, “God. I know what this is. You gave up drink so you’ve been hitting the pipe double time. Is that it?”
“Fuck you,” Hayes said, gasping for breath.
“The shakes in your hands agree with me.”
“It’s cold out.”
“But not that cold.” Garvey took out a handkerchief and handed it to him. “Here. Clean yourself up.”
Once Hayes had wiped his mouth Garvey helped him to his feet and leaned him up against the car hood. They watched as a horse-drawn cabbie clopped around the corner, its lantern shuddering on its rooftop. A dark shadow passed over it, draping the cart in darkness, and Hayes and Garvey craned their heads up to see an airship crossing the clouds and blocking a rare shred of sunlight. It must have been very far up, Hayes thought, as he could not hear or feel the engines. That or he had become accustomed to the low buzzing in the ears and teeth you felt whenever a ship came near.
“How often do you do it?” asked Garvey quietly.
“Do what?” said Hayes. He wiped tears from his eyes.
“Go to the tearoom.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Every once in a while, I suppose.”
“Why? Is it the voices?”
“I don’t hear voices. And no. It’s not. I suppose it’s just something to do.”
“Something to do,” echoed Garvey.
“Yes.”
Garvey had come to get him at four in the morning that day. Hayes hadn’t been in his apartment, not the crummy little corner of the warehouse allotted to him by the good Mr. Brightly. But Garvey had known where Hayes would be. Tucked into a booth at the Eastern Evening Tearoom, far in the gloomy back passage lit only by blood-red Oriental lamps and the candles carried by the sickly girls in robes from table to table. But it wasn’t tea they brought to their customers. Herbal maybe, but not tea.
The place was well known to the police. They’d tried to shut it down ten years ago, before Evesden had lost interest in a war on the opium trade. By the time Garvey had found him that morning Hayes had just been coming back from his little inner jaunt, his mind swimming with the peaty smoke of the tar, faintly cognizant there was a world going on around him.
Garvey said, “You know, rumor has it this prioritization stuff, that was an order. From Brightly to the commissioner.”
“Brightly?” said Hayes. “My Brightly?”
“Yeah. And to the deputy commissioner and God knows who else. Said to junk whatever else we were working at and take any union murders we get and run with them. Sort of brazen, guy from the board of directors of your company telling the Department what to do. I was surprised when I heard. I thought you’d let me know it was coming.”
“I didn’t know myself,” said Hayes. “They haven’t contacted me in some time, actually.”
“Really? Why?”
“Oh, I fouled something up. I think the gods are still mad at me. I’m on the shelf, I suppose.”
“What’d you do?”
Hayes pulled a face. “It was an error of judgment.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Well,” said Hayes tentatively, “they told me to look into this one trader, a Mr. Ferguson, to see if he was doing anything shady. And their fears were well-founded. Let’s just say he was dealing from the bottom of the deck. So I decided to… to put the screws to him and ask him about it, and, well, when I did he behaved somewhat erratically.”
“What’s somewhat erratically?”
Hayes sighed. “It means he panicked. Thought it was the scaffold for him, or prison, or something idiotic. And he weighed his chances and he… well, he leaped out the closest window when I had my back turned.”
Garvey stared at him. He opened his mouth to say something but stopped as he did some quick math. “Wait, Ferguson? As in James Ferguson?”
“That would be the one.”
“Jesus, you were involved in that? I read about that in the papers.”
“Yes,” said Hayes softly. “I’d expect you would have. They told me to go careful. I understand he was much esteemed. But I suppose I forgot.”
“Would this have something to do with why you’re drying out?”
Hayes smiled weakly at him.
“So you’re on the outs,” said Garvey. “Just when I need it least.”
“I’m not on the outs,” he said. He fumbled in his coat and produced a small slip of paper. “They sent me this the other day. Said to come in and speak to Evans. Later this morning, as a matter of fact.”
“They sent you a telegram? Rather than talk to you?”