Dieselpunk ePulp Showcase 2 (Anthology)

The Rocket Molly Syndicate

THE ROCKET MOLLY SYNDICATE

By John Taylor

Chicago May 19th 1931

High heels clicking on fine marble announced the entrance of five gorgeous dames marching in lockstep. Each dame had an oversized handbag on her right elbow and a violin case in her left hand, and sported a poker face that cut the air like a switchblade. The dames brushed past the coatroom like an ex-lover, and the sultry air in the grand ballroom turned icy, getting colder with each step. Revelers suddenly became self-conscious of the constellation of jewelry that glistened from their wrists and necks, outshining the night sky. The band ground to a halt, and Christian Axeworth’s eyes narrowed on the showstoppers. He knew trouble when he saw it, but this was his hotel, and all the trouble in Chicago was supposed to be on his payroll, especially tonight for the exhibit's unveiling. Yet there they were, dressed to the nines, all in black like a funeral procession. Christian bit down on his cigarette holder furiously and continued to eye them with contempt.

Sharp heels and dark nylons greeted his stare, with custom tailored black skirts to the knee and business jackets. Each wore chrome-tinted aviator’s goggles under the mesh veils of their broad, dark hats, and lipstick so blood red it made Christian’s pulse race. But his attention was fixed on the devices they wore on their backs. Thick leather straps and belts supported what looked like a cross between an engine and an artillery shell. Multiple exhaust vents and rudders lined the sides, and the devices seemed to be wired to wristwatches the dames wore over their leather gloves. The party-goers noticed them, too, and shuddered under their furs and tuxedos. The dames moved with a purpose toward the bar, silent as death, and Christian flicked an alarm switch under his table. These gatecrashers may have been dressed for a funeral, but it damn well wasn’t going to be his.

The five dames eyed the bartender, and he began to sweat like a bootlegger on death row. Without a word, all five released the catch on their violin cases, flipped out Tommy guns and opened fire. A deafening volley of shots echoed in the vaulted stained glass ceiling of the ballroom, followed by the screams of the crowd as the bartender went down in a spray of cheap blood and expensive crystal. The lead dame, a white haired woman with a pale complexion, fired to her left and shattered the ice sculpture that had been the centerpiece of the room and sent the band ducking for cover. The dames turned to the rest of the ballroom, but kept their silence. They didn’t need words. A Tommy gun can say ‘your money or your life’ in any language. They began to work the room and garlands of diamonds and pearls fell at their feet like roses for a triumphant matador. Christian ground his teeth and furrowed his brow, fighting to keep silent. Jewel by jewel, their handbags swelled with a fortune in the world’s choicest gems until only the grand prize, the reason for the evening’s festivities, remained.

The Rosenkruentz Diamond, set with gold and sapphires, gleamed like the sun in its display case in front of Christian, its new owner. The leader of the gang shattered the glass with the butt of her gun and lifted the massive gem off its velvet cushion. Christian snarled at her when she casually dropped the world’s most precious gem in her handbag and triggered an alarm that left most of the guests screaming. Still the dame’s sphinx-like silence held, their faces showing no trace of emotion. That maddened Christian even more. They’d stolen his wealth, his thunder, his pride, yet showed no satisfaction, like his priceless gem was just another trinket to pawn. He was just another job to them. Christian Axeworth could deal with being hated or rejected, but he refused to be ordinary. He bit into his cigarette holder until it snapped, waiting for the alarm to be answered. The gang kept their cool despite the racket. Their silent revel seemed unbreakable until another clatter of footsteps filled the ballroom with fleeting hope. Ten police officers burst in the door with guns drawn and badges gleaming. The five dames ignored their cries of “freeze” and “drop it” like bad advice. A Cheshire Cat grin spread across their faces, the first trace of emotion from any of them, and they pointed their guns up at the stained glass skylight.