Monday, March 4, 2013

A City of Wax - Episode 7



~Wax immediately recognized the colors from a far-too-familiar company stamp. The brass and crimson logo of Kaus-Lonhark Industries was stamped onto every tin of Wax’s favorite smogs he’d ever purchased.
   “You’ve been a great help, Jonas. Let me know if you turn anything else up.” He said, heading for the door. Jonas may not have been able to turn up a name, but perhaps a former employer would. Wax fired up his steambike and headed for Central- and the Kaus-Lonhark Industries factory.~

            It was late in the evening when Wax arrived outside the factory grounds. A stiff wet heaviness fell with the sun, and amidst the industrial smog in the sky, the clouds threatened to drizzle. The Kaus-Lonhark logo was emblazoned on the hanging placard outside the main office door. It swung lazily in the wind as Wax approached the door. “Can I help you?” A voice asked as he entered, shutting out the cold behind him.
            “Possibly” Wax replied, setting another smog between his lips and lighting it with his flinstriker. “I’m looking for information on an employee of yours.” The short man behind the desk set his pen down and folded his hands, looking up at Wax through thin wiry spectacles.
            “And what would you need that for?” He asked politely.
            “My name is Wax, I’m a private investigator. A man I believe to be a former employee of this company was killed in an accident recently and I’m investigating the circumstances of his death. I don’t have a name, but I can give you a description if it would help.” Wax lied.
            “I’m sorry, Mister Wax, but that information is private. Kaus-Lonhark Industries maintains a strict confidentiality policy over the personal information of its employees.” The little man explained.
            “I don’t think he’ll mind much, considering he’s lying on an autopsy table in the morgue at the Gardenworks. Once another man has cut you open and taken out all your innards, I can’t imagine you’d give much of a damn over privacy.” Wax mused.
            “That was a rather crude remark to make, Mister Wax. However, until the employee’s family has given us consent to do so, I’m afraid that even under current circumstances I’m not authorized to give you that information.” The man picked his pen back up and went back to his books, gesturing an end to the conversation.
            “Have a pleasant evening, then.” Wax mumbled as he left the building.

            As he closed the door behind him, Wax flipped open his smog tin. Only four of the neatly wrapped smogs remained nestled in their grooves. He strode over to his steambike and fired it up, roaring off down the street. When he was certain the noise had left earshot of the factory, he cut the engine and coasted back around. Picking his way through the streets, choosing the routes with as few gas lamps as possible, he wove his way back toward the factory, walking the bike alongside him to avoid the noise. He slipped into an alleyway two buildings down from his target and parked the bike. Wax ground the stub of his smog into the brick behind him and stood motionless against the corner of the building, watching the door of the Kaus-Lonhark factory. A cold half-hour passed in the damp before the small man emerged from the door, locking it behind him. Wax waited until he was out of sight before slipping down the street like a shadow. The windows of the building were dark when he reached the door. With the nearest gas lamp several buildings away, Wax’s figure was barely a silhouette against the frame. He knelt down, slipping a small leather pouch from inside his greatcoat. Inside were three small wires, one with a flattened surface bent at a 90 degree angle, one with a serpentine tip, and another with a small sharp tooth bent up at the end. He slipped the flat headed pick into the base of the lock and applied a solid pressure to it. Slipping the serpentine tool into the top portion of the lock, he raked the tumblers twice, set it down and reached for the pick.

The lock wasn’t particularly challenging to pick, Wax found. Most of the tumblers gave up and settled into their apportioned spaces without a fuss. Only two stubbornly refused to find their homes for a moment before, with a faint click, settling into place. Wax twisted the pressure wrench, rotated the lock, and the door swung open. The room was still warm, and a light musty scent emanated from the walls. Wax silently closed the door behind him and entered the factory.

Most of the building was dedicated to the warehouse and machinery used for creating the Kaus-Lonhark brand of vices, ranging from smogs to puffers to pipe shag and everything in between, and the offices were isolated to a small portion of the building’s space along an outer wall. Wax slipped through them, keeping low and using the faint light from the gas lamps in the distance to guide his way around the sparse furniture inside. He quickly located a room whose door was embellished with a brass plaque with “Records” etched into it and slipped inside. The light filtering in from the open door behind him wasn’t quite enough to see by, so Wax flicked open his flintstriker. The small flame provided just enough light to read by. The walls of the room were lined with file drawers, inevitably containing sales records, dossiers and other important company documents, but they weren’t what he was searching for. Spread open on a small desk near the corner of the small closet-like space, Wax found exactly what he needed; the book page contained a schedule of workers, noting absences, requested vacations, and hours worked. Knowing he’d killed the mystery man three days ago, Wax scanned the list for any employees to have missed three consecutive days. Only three names matched. He took note of the last names and quickly located a file drawer labeled “Employment Records.”

Searching by the light from the tiny flame of his flintstriker, Wax quickly located three files and spread them on the table next to the schedule record. Drent, Garrus and Esman. Each file contained a spectograph image along with a copy of the employee’s résumé, a record of grievances and conduct within the company, and a number of other files. Wax quickly thumbed through each one, but quickly ran into a roadblock in his plan. None of the images in the matching files were of the man in the Gardenworks morgue. He frowned, closing the files and placing them back into their respective locations in the drawer. He drummed his fingers quietly on the table as he mulled over the list, when suddenly he was struck by an idea. He quickly scanned the list for any employees with no schedules, indicating that they’d quit, or any marked as having put in a notification of quitting. He found only one name: Dresdin Bront. He quickly located Dresdin’s file in the cabinet and spread it on the table. The spectograph image was immediately recognizable. Wax carefully lowered his flintstriker to read the dossier. Suddenly, however, a familiar sound echoed through the building- someone had opened the front door. Wax quickly blew out the flame of his flinstriker, cramming it back into his pocket and shutting the dossier. He drew his revolver from his baldric and flattened himself against the wall, listening intently. He heard the sounds of multiple voices and footsteps coming in his direction.

“-place stinks. Don’t know why I had to come.” One voice whispered. Another shushed him and replied with a harsh tone.
“Because some “investigator” was pokin’ around here earlier asking questions about dead employees. Probably an Arbitor. You can be damn sure he ain’t just gonna leave it be ‘cause some clerk told him to shove off. They might already be here, so keep your damn voice down and expect trouble.”
“Fine. Spread out and I’ll go get the damn thing.” The first voice replied. Wax shot a glance at the dossier that lie on the table beside the roster. The open door sat between him and the file, and he couldn’t risk being seen or closing the door at this point. Footsteps were approaching quickly. Wax cursed himself for leaving the door open and slid his weapon back into the baldric. Shooting the man would attract the attention of the entire lot and he’d be trapped. He pressed himself against the wall beside the doorway and exhaled softly.

A figure about Wax’s height stepped into the doorway, carrying a phlogiston bulb light. Wax slammed a readied fist into the man’s throat, catching him off guard and choking his cry of alarm. He wrenched the man’s arm up, catching the wrist beneath his armpit and locking the elbow with his forearm, and drove his fist against the joint with a sickening pop. The man’s light clattered to the ground. Wax immediately crushed his heel against the figure’s knee, driving it to the ground. Feeling the man’s balance fail, he threw his weight to the side, hurling him to the floor and drove the tip of his boot into the stunned victim’s temple. Unconsciousness took him immediately, and Wax dragged his body out of sight of the doorway. He searched the unconscious body, locating a stuttergun with two spare magazines of ammunition, a handful of coins and half-empty tin of expensive pipe shag. He pocketed the tin, taking the gun and ammunition with him. It wouldn’t be long before the man was missed so Wax had to work fast. Unsheathing his boot knife, Wax hastily cut two long strips of thick fabric from the hem of the man’s coat. He snatched up the light and turned off the beam, carrying his collection of objects out into the office. A row of several cluttered desks filled the long room, spaced evenly apart with a single aisle between them. Wax quickly lashed the stuttergun to a ladderback desk chair and set it against the desk. As quietly as he could, he then slid the desk behind it to hold the chair in place, preventing it from falling over. The stuttergun now faced the only doorway leading into the office room. He cut the strip of fabric with his knife and tied a second around the weapon’s trigger, threading it along with him. He set the phlogiston light on top of the desk just in front of the rigged gun, facing the same direction, and grabbed a thick folder from a desk drawer, propping it in front of the beam. He then turned the bulb on, the light blocked fully by the folder. Finally, Wax hurriedly cut the drawstrings on all the windows, dropping the blinds and flooding the room with darkness.

Wax took up a position behind a nearby desk, ducking behind it just as he heard the voices from the other room pipe up. “Damn it all, what’s taking him so long? It can’t be that hard to find a single piece of paper.” The voice spoke. “Rest of the place is clear. No arbitors. What is he doing back there?”
“Rodick!” another voice yelled, “You takin’ a nap back there or what?!” When the unconscious man didn’t respond, Wax tightened his grip on the fabric thread. He listened as footsteps filled the room. His eyes had adjusted to the dark by then, and he peeked beneath the desk, counting five pairs of feet.
“Why’s it so bloody dark in here? Were these blinds shut before?” A voice asked. Wax yanked the thread. The slip knot fastened around the stuttergun’s trigger constricted like a noose, and the weapon began firing wildly, toppling the folder and sending a blinding beam of light and a hail of bullets into the faces of the men at the end of the hall. The men began returning fire at the phantom gunman with their own weapons, panicking in the chaos. Wax ducked under the desk, vaulting the next one, completely invisible to their blinded peripherals. He pulled his revolver form his baldric and fired.

The stuttergun’s ammunition bled dry as he fired his second shot, which ripped through the chest of a man near the back of the group. Having recovered slightly from the confusion, the man closest to him turned to line up a shot, but Wax was on him. Gripping the barrel of his revolver in his gloved hand, Wax smashed the butt of the iron-cased handle into the man’s jaw, punching through his teeth and sending him sprawling. He flipped the gun quickly, snatching the grip and squeezed the trigger, holding it down and sweeping his palm across the weapon’s hammer firing off three shots in rapid succession. Another man fell as a volley of bullets buried themselves in the wall behind him, sending shreds of paper and bits of splintered wood sailing through the darkness. Wax dove behind a desk and fired another shot, shattering the phlogiston bulb and drowning the room in blinding darkness again. He ducked under the desk and quickly found the corner by the entry room’s doorway, bringing up his revolver. He had three shots left. He dug into his pocket and his fingers closed around his flintstriker. The small device had been a tried and true companion, but it was time to part ways. He hurled it down the dark room and it smashed through a pane of glass. Panicked gunfire from the two remaining assailants responded to the sound, and the muzzle flashes revealed all Wax needed to know. He quickly fired two more shots and silence filled the room. Wax fumbled his way back to the records room, snatching up Dresdin Bront’s dossier and quickly exited the building. Voices and shouts from nearby told him that the firefight hadn’t gone unnoticed, so he hastily slipped back up the street. He ducked into the alleyway where he’d left his steambike, mounted it, and reached for the key.

The familiar sound of a pistol’s hammer locking behind his head made him freeze. Wax slowly lowered his hand from the key and folded his hands behind his head. “Hello, Wax.” Spoke a man’s voice from behind him.