Free Dieselpunk: An Anthology by Craig Gabrysch

turned to the last guest, who stood quiet an patient, hands on his cane an looking at her with blue, blue eyes.
    Missy Gin mistrusted that man immediately. She weren’t stupid, not by a long shot, an she could see trouble in every bone of that man’s body. It was how he stood so still, so like a crane looking at a frog, like a waterspout serene in the distance, till suddenly he weren’t so distant anymore.
    Missy Gin wanted to keep her distance from those blue, blue eyes. But that weren’t her choice — this was work, he was a guest, an if there was trouble she could handle it. So she locked the moneybox, slid it under the counter, an pocketed the key — him watching her all the while. An so she went round the bar, back to her stool, an sat up on it — him watching her all the while. An so she pulled her hat down to shadow her eyes, leant back on the bar, an stuck her thumbs in her vest pockets. “You ain’t no guest,” she hazarded.
    “ Indeed I am not,” said Mr. Smith.
    Missy Gin looked him up an down. “Well, best you tell me who you are, then.”
    Mr. Smith nodded. He leant his cane up agin his leg, raised his hands up before him, an took off his gloves, first one, then the other.
    There were seven fingers on each hand.
    “I am Mr. Smith,” he said.
    An Missy Gin looked at them fingers an knew: this was Mr. Smith. This was the Smith of Smith an Royal, that infamous pair of criminals you’ve read of in the papers, gentle reader, or heard of in the talkies, haven’t you? That Arrington-Yates case, you remember, the Feist Heist, the theft of Briganloo’s gems. Them ones as made an sold five hundred Deeds Of Insingcamy in a night, converted them all to doubloons, an made off with the lot before the sun ever come up. Mr. Smith, the strangler, Ms. Royal, the poisoner. They’s rumored to be dealing in ultra-ivory, building men of steel an bone in great, hidden factories, an stealing from Yesterdays when they weren’t known or Yesterdays where they won’t be known. Any here-an-ago you can think of, they’ve been to, an now, here, standin in front of Missy Gin, was one of that pair.
    “ Where’s Royal?” Missy Gin asked.
    “ Business,” Mr. Smith said.
    Missy Gin nodded. “Well,” she said, “I’s Missy Gin, an as long as you don’t do trouble on this club there won’t be trouble to you. Aught I can do to help a fellow?”
    “Yes,” Mr. Smith said.
    “ Well then,” Missy Gin said.
    An she waited, an Mr. Smith said, “Come with me to my schooner. It’s in automation behind your dirigible. I’ll need your help getting to a Yesterday.”
    “Is that so?” Missy Gin said.
    “ It is,” Mr. Smith said.
    “ For a theft?” Missy Gin said.
    “ Personal satisfaction,” Mr. Smith said.
    “ If’n I don’t?” Missy Gin said.
    Mr. Smith hooked his cane on his arm. He stepped forward. He put one seven-fingered hand on the bar on each side of Missy Gin. He leaned in.
    “You’d be too slow to stop me, girly,” he said.
    From the corner of her eye, Missy Gin saw Mr. Bourbon dial his glass eye in her direction. She looked back up into Mr. Smith’s face. “Maybe you’s new to Sky Clubs,” she said. Nerves curled an twanged in her stomach an she could feel his breath, but she said it anyway: “Maybe you’s new, so I’ll forgive you don’t know it. But we don’t do nothing we don’t want to, here, an there ain’t nothing you can threaten me that don’t bring storm an death down on you so fast your guts will fly from your chest. You hear?”
    She twitched her suit-coat aside so Mr. Smith could see her shoulder-holster. An at the same second, Mr. Bourbon was there.
    Brown-black an bald an near as tall as Mr. Smith, but better dressed, in a suit the color of his name an a tie the color of teak. He stood two foot from Mr. Smith’s shoulder, glass eye trained on Mr. Smith’s face — its mechanica clicking soft — other eye flicking between the two of them. “Care to explain what’s