Willow Locke - Anarchist Detective

Ergoline

He was happy for them. He liked to think he knew them all individually, that he played some part in their becoming women. He was their protector. How many of them had he saved from a life of prostitution? He deserved some recognition for all he had done for them. Perhaps he would get in touch with the Mayor. He could ask Charles Dana Gibson to put in a good word.

The machines were beautiful. He thrilled to the latency of their power, the incredible potential they represented. As he watched the workers lift the chrome machines from their crates and brush off the sawdust, he could almost feel his revenue stream growing, gathering force. It was as though his wealth was more than an abstract number in his bank account, it was a dynamic current within him. He flexed his stiff hands, feeling the energy spark at his fingertips.

He turned his left hand over to look at his wrist. There was a pale discoloration beneath the white gold band of his Rolex. It felt fibrous and numb to his touch. Mild eczema, nothing to worry about, his doctor had reassured him.

Guided by the engineers, the workers laid out the floor plan. The new tables were connected by continuous drive shafts which ran the length of each row. Each axle was driven by a large gas engine near the windows. The exhaust was to be pumped outside of the building, and the workers had to break the glass window panels to allow for the pipes. The new system looked forceful, streamlined, rigorously designed, like an automobile. The treadle-powered stations looked rickety and antiquated by comparison, a woman's machine, if there was such a thing. He shuddered at the very concept.

He inhaled the petrol stench of the engines. It was fuel and fire, the catalyst for the rising conflagration of avarice within him. He watched Malevich break a window panel with a pipe wrench. The sound of breaking glass was like music. It was the future, the new century rushing upon him, money folding and doubling and folding again, self-replicating like some strange micro-organism. There was a foreign static electrical hiss at the back of his mind, a nascent whisper of power. Who are you? He thought he could perceive some latent, indecipherable answer.

Fulton was there, leaning over one of the workers as he installed one of the engines, holding a blueprint loosely in one hand, shouting about something. The engineer stood up to examine the blueprint, then returned to his task.

His thoughts returned, once again, to the seamstresses. His beautiful women. He had protected them, sheltered them, provided for their families. His factory kept them safe as they hunted for husbands. His factory was only a momentary diversion from their path. He was intoxicated by their femininity, poisoned by it. Why couldn't they see? Why were they so ungrateful? But one of them had seen. One of them had drawn him in, offered herself to him. His beautiful lover. She had stayed late that day to consummate their love. But Malevich had interfered, and now she was gone. His heart was broken.

He walked into his office, locked the door and drew the window shade. He opened his desk drawer and unlocked the secret compartment. He drew out the scrap of soft fabric, and smoothed it on his leather blotter. It was his only connection to her. So soft. Tiny blue flowers. And blood, her blood, in spots. A link to the river of passion within her body. He thought of their brief kisses, the fleeting moments they had shared before she was so cruelly snatched from him. He kissed the red spot, hesitating there, his lips parted. He let his tongue dart out and taste it, the metallic tang of her life force. He thought of her sensuous, insouciant mouth, her pale skin, her dark eyes veiled with exhaustion, the heat of her body showing in her proud, ruddy cheeks. He thought of her long black hair trailing in waves down her back, oily blue sheen like a raven's wing. At least for a moment, they had loved each other. He whispered her name. It was a benediction, a command, a curse. Ayala.