Free Spirits in the Park by Scott Mebus

conditioner, which had sputtered along in the background all summer long, cut out, covering the room in an eerie blanket of silence. Rory ran to the window and saw that the streetlamps, which should have been turning on with the onset of evening, were all dark. It could only mean one thing . . . a blackout.
    Fritz sighed.
    â€œ. . . and bring a flashlight.”

5
    DADDY ISSUES
    E verything about William “Boss” Tweed was big. At more than six feet tall, he towered over most of the men of his day. His belly was round, his nose was bulbous, his beard grew long and thick. And then there were his deeds: Boss Tweed lived as big as he looked. At one point, he ran all of nineteenth-century Manhattan as the head of one of the most corrupt political machines in history: Tammany Hall. And no one in Tammany Hall was more corrupt than Boss Tweed. He stole money right from under the noses of the citizens of New York, throwing it around on mansions and extravagant vacations as if daring anyone to catch him. But catch him they did, sending him to prison, where he died, penniless.
    So it is understandable that Tweed did not enjoy making his way down the dark corridors of another prison: the infamous Tombs. He cursed as he stumbled along the tiny black hallway, scrunching his big body up to keep from bumping his head on the ceiling or touching the dirty walls as he headed toward the area where the Council of Twelve housed the most dangerous criminals. He wished to be at home in his beautiful mansion, where every comfort awaited him. He was a god, Tweed thought peevishly. The God of Rabble Politics. He sat on the Council of Twelve! He was no errand boy for Kieft to order around. But the First Adviser was hard to refuse; he made it very clear whose side you wanted to be on. Tweed knew the benefits of backing the right horse; he’d made a career of being the right horse. So when one of Kieft’s possessed spirits showed up at his office in Five Points, eyes rolling around in terror as the rest of its body did what Kieft told it to, Tweed listened. The spirit, a waiter of some kind by his outfit, had sent him here, to the most notorious prison in the history of New York, and now Tweed hurried past the dank cells holding their forgotten prisoners, hoping to fulfill his task quickly and be home for supper.
    Finally, he stopped in front of a cell door, a large slab of iron with a single slit cut out at the height of a man’s eyes. Peering in, Tweed spied a dark shape in the corner. He’d have to be careful; he knew this spirit from before, knew what the murdering madman was capable of, and the moment he let his guard down he would regret it. I could be smoking a cigar right now, Tweed thought ruefully, resting in my comfortable den, instead of standing ankle-deep in dirty water about to let a madman loose on the city. The things he did for his “friends” . . .
    â€œWho’s out there?” a voice rasped from the corner of the cell. “Declare yourself or I’ll rip out yer eyeballs, so help me.”
    â€œAs charming as ever, Bill,” Tweed answered drily.
    â€œTweed? That you?” The dark form stirred, unfolding into a tall figure. “Come to gloat, you fat bastard?”
    â€œCome now, be civil, Bill. I am your friend, and as your friend, I resent that you would believe that of me. I’m here to help.”
    â€œHelp me?” The figure’s voice was incredulous. “Where was you a hundred years ago, when they buried me down here? Where was you then?”
    â€œNow, Bill, you were caught red-handed cutting the throats of a pair of harmless house spirits.” Tweed shuddered to remember it. Not a pretty sight, what Bill did to those poor things.
    â€œSo what?” Bill answered belligerently from the shadows. “They was a pair a’ dirty immigrants, not fit to breathe the American air. I was takin’ back the city for the true natives!”
    You mean the