you’ve had quite the day.”
Carver mumbled noncommittally.
Hawking tossed the cloth into the center of the table. “Shall we play at Holmes and have me guess?”
“I thought you didn’t like Holmes,” Carver said.
He propped his good arm on one knee. “No, but if I’m to talk to you, I have to speak whatever simplistic tongue you best understand. Could be worse, could be nursery rhymes.”
Pupils black as coal scrutinized Carver. He felt as if his mind were being prodded by a physical thing. “Shoulders slumped, face wan, expression twitchy. You’re far too sad to have failed completely. I’m guessing you had some success, but it didn’t mean what you thought it would.”
Being easily read only added to Carver’s discomfort. “Yes.”
Hawking scrunched his face, as if extending his gaze deeper into an unseen crystal ball. “You heard my message, made it to Ellis Island. The Counter helped you. You found a name.”
“Wow. How do you know all that?” Carver asked, surprised.
Hawking cackled. “You’re so easy to fool. There’s a phone inthe office here. I spoke with Tudd half an hour ago. What did you find in the athenaeum that depressed you?”
“Fifty-seven Jay Cusacks,” Carver explained. “And I’ve looked through only four directories.”
Hawking rubbed his chin. “I’d have hoped the Counter would have taught you something about numbers. Maybe you weren’t listening. Do you know how many people currently reside in this city?”
“Not exactly. A lot.”
“A million and a half, give or take. In one day,
one day,
you narrowed the field from a million and a half to less than a hundred, and you’re complaining? Have you always been the sort who sees the light at the end of the tunnel and thinks it an oncoming train? Cheer up, the worst is yet to come!”
Hawking set another brass piece in the vise. “Your dime novels show only the tiniest fraction of detective work, the brilliant crime, the tantalizing clues, the dramatic chase, the final battle atop a lofty peak with ocean waves crashing down below, and then… justice served! If they wrote about the real world, four-fifths of the story would consist of the hero sitting in a library for months and following false leads. But no one would pay a nickel for that, let alone a dime.”
He paused to look at the new piece, giving it the same scrutiny he’d just given Carver. “Thinking, reading, walking, riding, waiting. That’s most of it. There
are
chases, undercover work and… gun battles, but they are completely unromantic and few and far between. Still want to be a detective?”
“Yes,” Carver answered.
Hawking grinned. “But not as much as you did a week ago?”
Carver shrugged. “I don’t mind the work. I was just… surprised.”
“Wait until a month passes and your list grows longer rather than shorter.” He stopped to look at Carver again. “There’s something else, isn’t there? A girl?”
That was too much. How could he possibly know about Delia? “So there
was
someone following me?”
“Eh?” Hawking said. He shrugged. “Not that Tudd mentioned, though I wouldn’t put it past him. That much I actually did read on your face. Women are a difficult subject. I won’t be much help to you there, except perhaps to say if they’re guilty of something or not. And
everyone’s
guilty of something, so the answer’s always yes.”
But Carver had to talk to someone about Delia. He wasn’t sure about the New Pinkertons anymore, and that left Hawking. “It’s not that sort of thing. I ran into a friend from the orphanage. I wanted to tell her what was going on but couldn’t.”
Hawking nodded. “You were
embarrassed
to be living in a nuthouse, so you probably mumbled some sad, ill-conceived lie. A waste of good creativity. Say whatever you like about me, boy. It’s not as though I care what the damnable mass of humanity thinks.”
“It’s not just that. It’s the Pinkertons. I’m not allowed to tell
Carver mumbled noncommittally.
Hawking tossed the cloth into the center of the table. “Shall we play at Holmes and have me guess?”
“I thought you didn’t like Holmes,” Carver said.
He propped his good arm on one knee. “No, but if I’m to talk to you, I have to speak whatever simplistic tongue you best understand. Could be worse, could be nursery rhymes.”
Pupils black as coal scrutinized Carver. He felt as if his mind were being prodded by a physical thing. “Shoulders slumped, face wan, expression twitchy. You’re far too sad to have failed completely. I’m guessing you had some success, but it didn’t mean what you thought it would.”
Being easily read only added to Carver’s discomfort. “Yes.”
Hawking scrunched his face, as if extending his gaze deeper into an unseen crystal ball. “You heard my message, made it to Ellis Island. The Counter helped you. You found a name.”
“Wow. How do you know all that?” Carver asked, surprised.
Hawking cackled. “You’re so easy to fool. There’s a phone inthe office here. I spoke with Tudd half an hour ago. What did you find in the athenaeum that depressed you?”
“Fifty-seven Jay Cusacks,” Carver explained. “And I’ve looked through only four directories.”
Hawking rubbed his chin. “I’d have hoped the Counter would have taught you something about numbers. Maybe you weren’t listening. Do you know how many people currently reside in this city?”
“Not exactly. A lot.”
“A million and a half, give or take. In one day,
one day,
you narrowed the field from a million and a half to less than a hundred, and you’re complaining? Have you always been the sort who sees the light at the end of the tunnel and thinks it an oncoming train? Cheer up, the worst is yet to come!”
Hawking set another brass piece in the vise. “Your dime novels show only the tiniest fraction of detective work, the brilliant crime, the tantalizing clues, the dramatic chase, the final battle atop a lofty peak with ocean waves crashing down below, and then… justice served! If they wrote about the real world, four-fifths of the story would consist of the hero sitting in a library for months and following false leads. But no one would pay a nickel for that, let alone a dime.”
He paused to look at the new piece, giving it the same scrutiny he’d just given Carver. “Thinking, reading, walking, riding, waiting. That’s most of it. There
are
chases, undercover work and… gun battles, but they are completely unromantic and few and far between. Still want to be a detective?”
“Yes,” Carver answered.
Hawking grinned. “But not as much as you did a week ago?”
Carver shrugged. “I don’t mind the work. I was just… surprised.”
“Wait until a month passes and your list grows longer rather than shorter.” He stopped to look at Carver again. “There’s something else, isn’t there? A girl?”
That was too much. How could he possibly know about Delia? “So there
was
someone following me?”
“Eh?” Hawking said. He shrugged. “Not that Tudd mentioned, though I wouldn’t put it past him. That much I actually did read on your face. Women are a difficult subject. I won’t be much help to you there, except perhaps to say if they’re guilty of something or not. And
everyone’s
guilty of something, so the answer’s always yes.”
But Carver had to talk to someone about Delia. He wasn’t sure about the New Pinkertons anymore, and that left Hawking. “It’s not that sort of thing. I ran into a friend from the orphanage. I wanted to tell her what was going on but couldn’t.”
Hawking nodded. “You were
embarrassed
to be living in a nuthouse, so you probably mumbled some sad, ill-conceived lie. A waste of good creativity. Say whatever you like about me, boy. It’s not as though I care what the damnable mass of humanity thinks.”
“It’s not just that. It’s the Pinkertons. I’m not allowed to tell
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