Django Durango

“You’re Mary Ann, right?” Gemma said as she ordered a cup of chicory from the “coffee” machine. The newest addition to the “O” Courant bullpen, Mary Ann Evans, was already in the breakroom, sitting at the table and planning out her schedule that day on a small notepad. “You came from So Mod, didn’t you?”

“Yes! And you’re Gemma Olsen. Looove your work, darling. It’s like what I do, but for the stuffier people in town.”

Gemma wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a compliment. She rather thought exposing corruption and authoritative lying was not especially similar to reporting on what minor changes Davy Hackney decided everyone should apply to their wardrobe or who Nick Lightbearer was marrying or divorcing this week, but she bit her tongue before she said something overtly snotty in reply.

“I hope you won’t take this wrong way,” Gemma said, electing for a more subtle jab instead as she waited for her chicory to finish pouring, “but isn’t the Ladies’ Page a step down from So Mod?”

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Hobbling into the alleyway on his crutches, William Godwin turned the corner, eased himself down to sit on an empty beer crate at the top of the staircase tucked in the alcove, and waited.

When he had finally felt up to journeying to his out-of-use call box to collect his order of Blackberry Joy today, there had been a folded note sitting on top of the package. It had asked him to meet in this alley and to sit at the top of the stairs. The writing didn’t match Sally Boyle’s round, bubbly script so William worried that he might be being set up. There were plenty of people who would love to silence him once and for all. The alley was small enough and close enough to the street that he didn’t feel too vulnerable to take the chance on the meeting though. If anyone asked, he would say he was just having rest. Moving around on crutches was hard on the armpits.

Eventually, he heard footsteps approach. Whoever had wanted to meet with him stopped at the corner and didn’t come around.

“You there?” whoever it was – a man – asked.

“Yes?” William answered. “Who are you?”

“If I wanted you to know who I was, I’da come ’round the corner, wouldn’ I?” the mystery man said.

“All right, fair enough,” William said. “What do you want then?”

“Nick Lightbearer is dead.”

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September 3rd, 1964

Gemma was still sobbing into her pillow when breakfast was served. The nurse slipped in, set the tray on the dresser since the tea table was tipped on its side in front of the observation window, and slipped back out without a word. Gemma guessed she must be trained not to interact with the test subjects when they were especially emotional. Reading Harry Haworth’s patient notes last night, Gemma concluded that if she were a nurse here, she certainly wouldn’t want to get within arm’s reach of him on one of his curiously regular bad days. She sniffled and rolled back out of bed.

Now that the Coconut had settled into a purple tinged sinus headache and she’d collected herself, Gemma was apprehensive of what would happen next. And hungry, actually. She hadn’t eaten last night and she’d worked up an appetite throwing her furniture around. More than anything, though, she was embarrassed.

It was a rookie mistake. Not even twenty-four hours into this subterfuge and she’d already blown her cover.

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September 3rd, 1964

Harry Haworth found first exposure to Coconut Joy fascinating. It did feel cruel to watch new test subjects be given their first dose since no one ever had a good reaction to Coconut, but there was so little else to do in here and he was a scientist after all. Or had been. On good days, he had hopes – which he recognized as delusions on bad days – that he might one day be a practicing scientist again. He wasn’t watching his new cellmates’ reaction to Coconut to be entertained, he could reason with himself, but in the pursuit of knowledge.

He didn’t have access to the data to compare, but Haworth had a theory that the flavor of Joy one was taking before being admitted interacted with Coconut to create different responses. He liked to think, based on absolutely nothing, that his original Vanilla and Chocolate formulas produced mild reactions like giddiness, uncontrollable laughter, and dizziness while Verloc’s Strawberry caused nastier side effects like vomiting and paranoia.

Haworth was miffed at how close he had come to getting to watch this on a clear head. He was due for a dose of Crash after breakfast this morning and if Gemma had arrived today instead of yesterday, he’d have woken up tomorrow clear of all drugs and ready to make some observations. He hadn’t been dosed with Coconut yet today, but a residual sluggishness from yesterday’s dose persisted. On top of that, he was hungry. Out of experience and anxiety, he only ever picked at his food the night before and the morning of a Crash dose. As it was, he’d have to consciously ignore these distractions. Pulling his chair over a few inches from its usual spot, Haworth sat just far enough over so that he could see into Gemma’s window without looking like he was gawking.

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“Well, Constable,” Inspector Royston Luckinbill said, “what do you make of this?” They had the details from the latest murder attributed to Foggy Jack laid out on the table, ready to be integrated into their investigation boards.

“It don’t fit the M.O. at all,” Constable Burne-Jones told him, shaking his head at the photos and objects arrayed before him. “Foggy Jack’s murders are messy hack-and-slash affairs. This is much too clean to be him. There’s not even any blood. Not to mention the lack of toxic fog. Foggy Jack always leaves his victims in a patch of pea soup, don’t he?”

“Could perhaps the mustard gas be an improvised toxic cloud?” Luckinbill asked, purposely attempting to mislead him.

Burne-Jones shook his head again. “It’s a remote possibility, but not likely. Foggy Jack doesn’t actually use the fog to kill his victims. It’s more of a calling card than anything. The murders themselves are done with the cleaver. And that’s another thing. He never kills in the Garden District. There ain’t no attention in it.”

“Spot on,” Luckinbill praised. “We’ll make a detective of you yet. What else is wrong with this picture?”

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