Dieselpunk or Noir

Chapter One: A New Client

“Rick, you’re very silent today.” I looked up as Martha made her way along the bar towards where I sat reading the newspaper. She smiled seeing me look at her and went on, “Bad day? It’s early for you to be drinking. No case to be working on?”

“Yeah, it’s a bit dry on the work front at the moment,” I told her before changing the subject by picking up the paper I was reading. “Did you see the Times is full of that new Zeppelin the Nazis sent over here. There’s a big picture of it on the front page.” I read out aloud to her the leading article headline. “Super Airship Gross Deutschland breaks cross-Atlantic speed record.” I folded up the paper. “I saw it when it was docked to the Rockefeller Building. Ugly brute.”

“You still hold it against them, don’t you?” Martha observed as she pulled a bottle of bourbon from the rack behind her and held it up in a silent motion that asked if I wanted another drop. I nodded and she gave me a generous draft. It smelled strongly of old wood and alcohol. “It’s been twenty years since the Armistice,” she added, “Can’t you drop it?”

I laughed bitterly. “Is business so slow you have to make conversation?” I looked around the dimly lit bar. The Aviator was not big. There were six booths and a number of tables but the booths were all empty. At one of the tables, a couple of shift workers sat smoking and drinking beer. Otherwise the place was empty. I sniffed in their direction. Yeah, I thought, he is smoking a Camel. I also recognised the beer, the cheap stuff that Martha kept on tap. “Yep,” I went on, “It’s lonely in here, Martha.”

“It’s probably because you drive everyone away,” she mockingly retorted.

I looked up at the clock positioned below a large wooden propeller that hung on the wall above the drinks cabinets. It said four twenty two. I answered her. “Or you’ve opened too early today.”

She laughed at that. Then picking up a cloth and a whiskey tumbler she started polishing the glass. “Business is just not very good at the moment—not for you and not for me,” she opined sagely as she worked. She put the glass on a shelf behind her before selecting another for the same treatment. I liked it when she ignored my barbs. As usual she smelled of the cheap perfume she used and stale beer.

“We’re alike, you and I,” I said playfully having overcome my initial irritation at her distracting me from my paper.

“Yes,” Martha snapped back breezily, “we’re both broke.” She then laughed but I was unsure whether she was joking or was being totally serious. I had few greenbacks to my name; she seemed to manage. I tilted my head quizzically. She only smiled and continued to work on the glass she held in her hand. Eventually she beamed at me and added in a sombre tone, “I’m kidding, Rick, just kidding.”

“I can never understand you,” I admitted, baffled by her behaviour. I reflected that being broke—and at this point in time, I was certainly that—was nothing to laugh about. I took a sip of the bourbon, which burned as it trickled down the back of my throat. It left a warm glow. I unfolded the paper again and looked at the picture of the Nazi airship once more. I tried to imagine why they had sent it to America. The article said it was also visiting South America. I wondered whether the Nazis were trying to send us a message about their air power.

Any further thoughts were interrupted by a face at the door. This was quickly followed by the rest of the youth, whom I immediately recognised as the eldest son of the janitor of the building where I had my office. The kid looked worried as he crept into the bar. I could smell his anxiety. Seeing him, Martha immediately called him over. The boy looked at both of us in turn before stammering, “Me Dad sent me to say there’s a lady waiting in your office, Mr Horton.” His eyes quickly scanned the joint before he went on. “Said I’d find you here.”

“And so you did,” I answered kindly. “You did well coming to tell me.” I found a nickel in my waistcoat pocket and held it out in my hand. He snatched it and looked at it as if he had never seen its like before. “Go back to you dad and tell him I’m on my way.” The boy scarpered.

I stood up and went over to the stand to retrieve my fedora and jacket. I had not seen fit to wear a coat since the weather had been mild for the time of year. Anyway, it was just a two block short walk to the office. I nodded to Martha and made to leave but as I got to the door, the glass cabinet on the wall caught my eye. Inside were several medals but my gaze was drawn to the dark, sombre Croix de Guerre. Next to it was the citation. Someone had hand written a translation of the French text. “Who did this?” I asked her.

“That was Andre,” she replied. “He told me what it said. You never told me how you earned it, Rick. Why?”

“It’s of little importance,” I assured her.

She left the bar and came over and peered at the handwriting. “It says, you shot down three enemy fighters on your own after the other members of your flight had been hit.” She looked at me as if I was a stranger. “That was brave.”

“I was young and foolish,” I told her bitterly regretting my decision to allow her to display my medals in her bar. I almost asked her for them back but bit my tongue before I could speak my displeasure. Removing them would simply be petty and, besides, I had nowhere to store them.

She patted my shoulder. “You were not the only one.” I looked at her but said nothing. I had known she had been part of the American Expeditionary Force but she had never spoken of her role. I wanted to ask her but feared being delayed.

I placed my hand over hers and said, “Tell me about it next time.”

I slipped out the door into the gathering darkness of a November night. Above me the last of the blue sky was just visible between dark grey clouds, edged in deep orange by the light of the setting sun. Across the street, lights were already on in the two ot the three shops that fronted the building and in the windows of the floors above. A car sped past, its headlights briefly blinding me. Turning away, I hastened down the pavement towards my office. All around me, the aromas of the city assailed me. What I picked up most was the stink of exhaust fumes, rotting detritus and body sweat. But behind these were subtler odours.