Page 30 of By Any Means

“Perhaps we might have once been.” Chary twitched the gun. “In Berryfield. This is New York.”

“Look,” Laurie said, “even if you kill me, it won’t do a thing. I’ve already sent everything I’ve learned to my editor.”

“You’re lying,” Chary hissed. “If you want the truth, then tell it.”

All right. Honesty. The man liked it. Demanded it at gunpoint. Laurie tried for a smile. “Well—can you blame a man?”

Chary’s eyes went wider. His finger was pencil-straight over the trigger guard. He looked conflicted.

“You’ll ruin me and not think twice about it. You’re accusing me of murder. I should shoot you.”

“No, you shouldn’t, because that would be murder. There’s been enough of that. And no, I wouldn’t ruin you. I haven’t, in fact.”

“You haven’t?”

“I should’ve. This would’ve been a hell of a story on its own. Not even the murders. You know the last thing my source gave me? A bearded gaffer, in a union meeting last month. The Local Sixty-Eight, out of Brooklyn. That’s your competition, by the way. But a glassworks baron playing labor spy? Outright espionage? That would’ve made my editor cry. Set back capital twenty years against labor.” He tried to whistle, but his mouth was too dry. He rubbed his lips on his shoulder and realized he still had his hands in the air.

Chary didn’t notice. “Espionage? I haven’t been going to union meetings!” he cried. “I’m not standing in the way of unionizing, for the love of Pete! Your story would be completely off base.”

“Oh, really, now?”

“Really! There are other barriers to unionizing. If it were as easy as salting the journeymen, it’d have already been done. Say we do unionize: then no non-unioners will be allowed. That would mean we exclude everyone the Local Sixty-Eight doesn’t allow; do you know who, precisely, that would be? How many men and women will have to find work elsewhere? Off the island? Before we can unionize, they need to allow persons of color and allow foreign-language and immigrant Locals to be formed. They need to represent boys. Women. Brooklyn Glass isn’t integrated at all⁠—”

Laurie could honestly say he’d never been lectured at gunpoint before. Not his own arguments.

“All right,” he said, “All right. Yes, I do know what you mean. I just want to know why you’re in the meetings. Do you want to tell me? I really want to know. I want the truth. And I wanted to see you again.” Laurie managed a real smile. Despite everything, it was true. “That requires not killing me, though. Please don’t.”

Chary was wavering. He might not shoot after all.

“Help me, Chary. Four blowers dead, men you knew personally. You said there’s nothing worth killing for at the glassworks, but clearly, somebody thinks there is. Maybe they even want to point fingers at you. Help me find who did this. You’re the only one who can.”

“Help you?” Chary deflated. He lowered the gun and sighed. “Really, I only want you to leave. I’m tired, and I’d like to be left alone. Would you please leave?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Laurie would’ve agreed to just about anything at that point. “Can I ask you something first, though? One last thing?”

Chary stared. “What a death wish you have,” he muttered.

“Reporter,” Laurie said, and shrugged.

“Quite. Well, I suppose. Go ahead.”

Laurie swallowed. If Chary Wright was truly willing to kill to save his secrets, he’d find out very soon. “Did you know your brother was in love with the heir to Brooklyn Glass—and planning a merger with him? Did you kill him for it?”

Chary dropped the gun.

“Jesus!” Laurie flinched back, threw up his arms up, little though they would do—he maybe deserved it if he got shot, revealing something like that to a man holding a gun on him, but that didn’t mean he wanted it⁠—

The pistol skittered across the floor, un-discharged, landing just before Laurie’s feet. He breathed for a moment, then stepped on it, pushed it behind him with the toe of his oxford.

“Fucking hell, man. You’ve got to be more careful!”

They were both breathing hard.

“You are Scots,” Chary whispered. “That was the truth?”

“When? I’m American. Damn me for it.” He shook his fingers; they tingled.

“The wagon. The barrens…”