Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

ready?"
    "Of course, sir. Of course. You have the payment as agreed?" Longine asked as he leaned down and picked up a beige hatbox from beneath the counter. "A stunning top hat if I do say so meself. I've had my best hat makers use only top-of-the-line materials. Told them it was for the constable, I did, and to be certain it showed not one flaw. I wouldn't short-change you, Constable."
    Sam removed the leather purse from his coat pocket and settled a more than adequate number of gold coins onto the glass showcase. "As we agreed."
    Longine eyed the glittering coinage with an avaricious eye. He picked each one up, weighed it in his dirty palm, then nodded. "As we agreed, Constable. Quite right." He pushed the round box toward Sam. "Would you care to examine it? I want we both be satisfied by the exchange. There be no returns in this establishment, you understand. No quarrel once you leave."
    "Of course," Sam said. He pushed the mauve ribbons aside and lifted the lid. He gazed down at the hat. And then at the packages circling it. He counted seven. He opened each one of the bags to check the contents and then replaced them. Everything was just as they had agreed. He replaced the lid and refastened the ribbons. "Everything is in order," he said without expression.
    "Well done," Longine said as he scooped up the pile of gold coins, which promptly disappeared beneath the counter. He returned to his chair, swallowed down a healthy gulp of gin, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes. "Good day to you then, Constable. Do remember my little shop kindly to your friends."
    Sam donned his respirator. As did Bobby. The hatbox weighed heavy once he'd lifted it from the counter, and then he and Bobby exited the shop, the happy little bell tinkling as he closed the door. Sam was more than pleased to leave Longine's establishment. It always made him feel that much less clean stepping into it.
    "Where now, sir?" Bobby asked.
    Sam turned his head to glance at Bobby. Beautiful Bobby who always followed instructions exactly as they were given. He handed the hatbox to Bobby. "The masker's shop on Rodgers Street." He pulled out his timepiece– a gift from his sister– and peered closely to check the hour. They would have to hurry if they were to catch the next train out to Mission Point. But the Rodgers Street Masker was their last stop. They needed only walk a few blocks before hitting Rodgers Street, where an array of cafes sentineled the unremarkable mask shop. It was a somewhat prettier area of the city, but still the atmosphere was dense from the thick smoke coming from the manufactories.
    The chemically-laced atmosphere lightened fractionally but didn't truly dissipate until one reached much farther up the hill, into the better parts of the metropolis. This subdivision, little policed by government authorities, was the result of generous bribes with the ability to speak much louder than legality. Most in Ragstown could not afford the protective respirators necessary to protect them when working in the manufactories. So many died at such a young age because of that lack of protection. Although legislation was in place, few made the effort to enforce the laws, finding human life all too expendable.
    Two more blocks and Sam arrived at the door of the masker's shop. He stepped inside. This was no longer a shop for masquerade regalia– its merchandise little resembled gaiety and prettiness of an age now past. This was a shop containing an array of gas masks and respirators– a growing and lucrative business in Ragstown. Although one could not dispute that Wickenbe was certainly a craftsman in his chosen profession. He'd learned to adapt as so many others had been forced to do.
    Sam removed his respirator, as did Bobby, and stepped toward a wooden counter at the side. The shop appeared empty.
    "Wickenbe?" Sam called out. He shifted his respirator to his belt. "Wickenbe!"
    A man, his head shrouded in a green mask with gold decorated fixtures, ducked out from the back room. He unfastened the filter covering his mouth. "Constable, is that you?" He flipped back his eye coverings. "Ah, yes, so it is. You've come for the mask, I presume?" Of course, Wickenbe would have a state-of-the-art respirator with all the trimmings.
    "Yes. Is it ready?"
    "Of course. Finely tooled it is, too. A gift you say? I've really put some special markings into this one. Very elegant if I do say so. But very pricey as well," he cautioned.
    "As