Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

haberdasher down the street and pick up the merchandise he'd ordered. He picked up the leather portfolio and settled it beneath his arm. He picked up the leather-bound journal, his intimate companion for all these months, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.
    "I'm looking forward to meeting Dr. Ophelian, sir." The team, and Oberon, had left the naming up to Sam. Bobby Robbins– an unremarkable name for a very remarkable automaton. To Sam it had seemed fitting.
    Sam picked up Bobby's respirator from the table. His combination of appliance and human enhanced lungs afforded him some protection from the poisonous gas outside. Yet the chemically-drenched air could still affect the smooth running of his workings. Bobby took the simple gear and strapped it in place. The glass goggles brought into an almost uneasy prominence Bobby's strikingly colorful eyes. Then Sam picked up the other respirator, made of unadorned tan leather and put it on. He'd replaced the filters in both just that morning.
    "And he's going to be very pleased to meet you as well, Bobby." His voice, magnified and altered through the amplification system embedded into the respirator, seemed tinny and unreal. Rarely did one see anyone in Ragstown without the respirators these days. Sam opened the door of the rooms he fashioned into livable–previously the offices for the old burned-out hat manufactory. They made their way through the vacant and dusty hallways, down the stairs, across the main workroom with blackened walls and ruined tables, past the broken windows, and out onto the street. The old elevator that had once traveled between floors was no longer serviceable, its cables and mechanisms ruined in the aftermath of the great fire.
    "To Longine's first," Sam said as they joined the thoroughfare of early morning pedestrians.
    "Yes, sir." Bobby always had the habit of walking one step behind Sam and matching his gait to Sam's perfectly. After trying to get him to do otherwise for months, Sam had finally given up.
    They stepped out into a graying, rain-spattered, smog-filled city. The hat factory was not located in the best part of the metropolis, but down near the waterfront amongst the other rundown manufactories looming like monsters above the city. Streetwalkers peddled their wares; young thieves crowded together along the back alleys measuring their night's pilfering as Sam, along with Bobby trailing one step behind, made their way along the street toward Longine's Haberdashery. In Ragstown subdivision, Longine's business was not limited to small sewing notions, threads, and such. Not by far. As a constable sworn to uphold the law, Sam should have been arresting him, not dealing with him. But, that was another life. Today's activities would forever end that career. Even knowing that, Sam couldn't change–wouldn't alter his course. He just wished there was another way to accomplish the deed without sacrificing Bobby.
    CHAPTER 2
    Longine's Haberdashery was a dwarf of a building crushed between two looming giants. A colorful window display of ribbons and notions filled the windows. A dilapidated and paint-peeled sign swung above the door. Longine was not a man who much cared about outward appearances. Money was his prime concern and he dipped his finger into many a profitable venture– both legal and illegal. To the average customer, he was a tradesman of some flamboyance. To the regular customer, such as Sam, it was what lay beneath the table, and what was in the back room, that accounted for his fine house and well-tailored clothes.
    The bell jingled as Sam entered the establishment, announcing a new customer— or warning of an intruder, depending on your perspective. There was a smell of disrepair, of cloth, of gin, of kerosene, to the place. It was not so pleasantly perfumed as the uptown establishments. Longine, stocky, bearded, a glass of gin in his hand, sat behind the counter. The glass was precariously balanced on his rotund frame. He eyed Sam and Bobby with puffy, bloodshot eyes as they drew closer to the counter. Languidly he got to his feet. He set down the half-empty glass of gin, straightened his stained gold-threaded waistcoat, and turned to greet his customers.
    "Morning to you, Constable. Here for your goods, are you?"
    Sam removed his respirator; Bobby mirrored his action. Sam hung the respirator from a loop on his leather belt designed for that purpose. As did Bobby.
    "As we agreed, Mr. Longine. You have the… hat