Should have been Tilden, Jesse thought. Congress had given the contested election to Rutherford Hayes in exchange for letting the so-called Redeemers have their way down South—one of the things the letter-writing runner had complained about. Big victory for the White League and the Red Shirts, big setback for freed slaves, and apparently one reason the City failed to attract many dark-skinned tourists from the future. Grant himself was currently in England, an ocean away from domestic politics.
Jesse got off at the penthouse and passed by three armed guards, each of whom examined his credentials, on his way to August Kemp’s suite. It was a pleasant suite, equipped with futuristic amenities including a machine for making coffee and a video screen the size of a door. A window overlooked Broadway, but the curtains were drawn. Kemp stood in front of a mirror, adjusting his tie. He was formally dressed, twenty-first-century style.
“Jesse Cullum,” he said to Jesse’s reflection. “Good to see you again. Thank you for coming up. You talked to Elizabeth already? She told you I want you for some special duty?”
“She mentioned it in general terms.”
“General terms might have to do for now. I don’t want to be late for dinner. We’re bringing Edison in from New Jersey.”
“Edison?”
“Yeah, Edison, Thomas Edison, you’ve heard of him?”
“The inventor? I read something about him in Leslie’s.”
“Electric light, recorded sound, the movies—we more or less stole his thunder, the poor fuck. Half the stuff we have, he invented, but it’s going to be hard for him to get patents for any of it. So I want to make sure he knows how much we owe him, that the world knows it. It’s only fair. Also, I’m hoping he’ll agree to come to the City for an appearance. I’m picturing an interview with, I don’t know, Neil deGrasse Tyson, Bill Nye, one of those guys. Wouldn’t that be great?”
“I’m sure it would.”
“You don’t have the faintest idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
This was Kemp in a more brittle mood than Jesse had seen before. “As far as I can tell, you’re talking about using Mr. Edison to make some money.”
Kemp’s we’re-all-friends-here manner had gone the way of the morning dew, but after a chilly pause he smiled. “Okay, yes. On a no-bullshit basis, you’re correct. In part. But I also feel an ethical obligation to Edison. Right?”
“Right,” Jesse said.
“For the record.”
“I understand.”
“So here’s the thing. I’ve put together a group of people doing high-level security, mostly traveling with me, but not just protecting me personally—I need people who can go out into the community when I want them to, people who are loyal to the City but know how to conduct themselves in the world as we find it. I think you might be one of those people. Am I right about that?”
“I guess I know my way around. I’ve tracked down a few runners, if that’s the business you have in mind.”
“You’ll be briefed about your duties when the time comes. Are you comfortable carrying a gun?”
“I’ve done it before.”
“At Futurity Station you carried a weapon, but you didn’t fire it.”
“I didn’t have an opportunity to fire it. I’m not what you’d call a gunslinger, Mr. Kemp, but I do know how to use a pistol.” His father had taught him the basics, and he had learned marksmanship from a Six Companies hatchetman named Sonny Lau.
“We’ll make sure you get a little extra training. Also, we’re heading west. You hail from San Francisco, right?”
“It’s where I grew up.”
“Which could be an advantage. You know the city pretty well?”
“I did, at one time.”
“You feel comfortable there?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“Any problems with the law?”
“Are you asking whether I’m a criminal?”
“I’m asking whether I’ll have to bail you out of jail if a cop recognizes you. Anything like that in your past?”
Much in his past, but no outstanding warrants. As far as he knew. “Nothing like that.”
“Okay. Good.” Kemp’s necktie had apparently achieved a satisfactory state. He turned away from the mirror and put his hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “Welcome to the team. Elizabeth can get you set up with a handset and whatever else you need. We’ll be leaving Manhattan this week, maybe as soon as Thursday or Friday if I can get Edison to commit to an appearance.”
“The runner we’ll be looking for,” Jesse said. “Is he the author of those letters in the press?”
“When you need to know,” Kemp said, “I’ll tell you.”
Elizabeth returned unscathed from her afternoon protecting twenty-first-century tourists from the indignation of angry locals. There had been no real problem, she told Jesse. A few disapproving stares, but no one was throwing bricks. “Seems like most people don’t really care how morally compromised we are.”
“Well, this is New York,” Jesse said. “They tolerated Boss Tweed for years. People here are hard to shock.”
They took supper in the hotel dining room, as opposed to the staff room in the basement. Twenty-first-century cuisine. The waiter handed Jesse a menu as long as his forearm, which contained a great many words not recognizably English. “Does any of this translate into mutton?”
“Live a little,” Elizabeth said. “Let me order for you.”
“Is that customary?”
“Your manhood won’t wilt.”
She told the waiter to bring them two California chipotle burgers and various ancillary dishes. And beer of a particular brand, which came chilled, in a bottle with a lime wedge stuck in its neck. “Cheers,” she said.
“How were things back home?” he asked for the second time in as many days, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“You really want to know?” She shrugged. “It was good to spend time with Gabby. She’s a big girl now. Smart. And independent, which is a good thing. My mom does a great job looking after her, and I’m grateful to her…”
“But?”
“But mom got religion after my dad died. Not in a good way. Joined a fundie church, and she won’t keep quiet about it around Gabby.”
“You’re not a churchgoer?”
“No. I mean, I don’t have strong opinions about how the universe was created or any of that stuff. I’m not a raging atheist. But I don’t think Noah’s ark was a real thing, and I don’t think God hates gays and heathens. If Gabby ever decides to join a church, that’s up to her, but I don’t want my mom teaching her stuff she’ll have to unlearn in biology class. So the arguments start as soon as Gabby’s down for the night—my mom’s all you need to get her baptized, and I’m like, she’s only four, what’s religion to her? Plus Gabby never fails to ask about her father. She knows he did some bad things, that he’s in prison for it. But it’s like an abscessed tooth, she won’t let it alone. ‘What did he do that was wrong? Does he want to hurt us? Why can’t I see him?’”
“What do you tell her?”
“As much of the truth as I think a four-year-old can understand. But the worst of it? My last day at home, we were taking a walk around the neighborhood, the three of us, me and my mom and Gabby, and Gabby tripped over the curb and skinned her knee. The usual kid crisis, but the thing is, she ran crying to my mom. Not to her mother—to her grandmother.”