Free The Franklin Incident (Philly-Punk) by Raymond M. Rose Page B

those new luxury liners the White Star folks were always going on about.  Five stories high, the building was as eccentric as its namesake (whose Bacchus-like 'homage' of a statue was shooting water from its pursed lips in front of me): each level a jumble of gothic and baroque architectures.  Gargoyles guarded the east and west.  Sphinxes riddled the north and south.  And winged seraphs looked to the heavens on the top floor.  Just plain mad. 
    Ben Franklin would have been proud.
    Gathered around Franklin's statue was a crowd of men that bordered on unruly.  Although impeccably dressed, the angry clew of dark suited-men was a sight to behold and, it seemed, a force to be reckoned with.  True, this part of Philadelphia was usually swarming with professional men buzzing to and fro in pursuit of wealth, health, or justice.  They rarely, though, did so in such a large scourge... or so vehemently.  As I approached them, they glanced my way, their walrus mustaches twitching and muttonchops bristling as they growled.
    "Do you know the meaning of this?"
    “This is preposterous!  I'm losing money!"
    I did not know what this brood of men was clucking for I found my attention diverted as I crossed some unmarked line of demarcation from sunlight into blackness.  I looked up to see her.  This part of Philadelphia lay firmly in the shadow of a giant airship tethered to the proud William Penn statue atop the gothic building the shared her name.  The airship, long and sleek an all her black beauty, had appeared one morning six months ago.  Although airships filled our skies the night before, none of them resembled in neither size nor mystery the black ship that was suddenly berthed above the city that Christmas morning.  Though rumors spread like flames across dry tinder, no one seemed to know who resided in her for she never responded to any hails.  Parliament, City Hall, and, even, the Constabulary seemed unconcerned about her so she remained a grand puzzle for Philadelphia citizens. 
    And a fine bit of shade.
    A silver handled walking stick suddenly appeared out of nowhere and pressed itself to my chest.  I stopped walking and glanced at its owner: a dastardly tall man wearing rose-tinted glasses.  The handle was shaped like an eagle, wings spread and claws out.  Ridiculous.
    I fixed the man the most blasé of glances and asked, "Can I help you, sir?"
    "I demand to know the meaning of this!"
    "You need be a little more specific than 'this'."
    He motioned to The Franklin Building and, clearly, the wooden barricade erected outside.  A lone constable stood behind it.  "The Constabulary has kept us out of our place of business for two hours.  Two hours!  I ask you why, Mr..."
    "Jonathan Adams," I replied promptly.  Then, much to his chagrin, I shrugged.  "But I do not know what is going on."
    "Are you not with the constables?"
    A delicate question, indeed.  And never one that I can answer easily enough for my relationship with the Constabulary was complicated at best.  "I do work for them... occasionally.  In a consulting capacity—"
    The man rolled his eyes at me.  “Good Lord, not another self-fashioned Sherlock Holmes."
    "Pardon me, sir, but I know not that name," I responded abruptly.  "I am merely a collector.  Sometimes the Constabulary calls on my expertise."
    The man squinted his eyes.  “Aren't you a little young to be an expert... on anything?”
    I loved repartee as much as the next man but I, as a rule, did not engage it with men who jabbed me with their walking sticks nor assumed my breath of knowledge based on my age.  “Good day, sir.  I have more important things to do than trade barbs with you."
    I made to leave but he held his cane tight to my chest.  I felt the tip of the wing bore slightly into my chest.  I thought he might find the handle a little hard to swallow should I elect to make him eat it.  Taking a deep breath to calm my anger, I turned to him.  "Yes?"
    He fixed me a