The Aether Season

The air inside the Chicago Produce Company building did not have the clean, crisp scent of fresh fruits and vegetables. Instead, it was thick with the stink of cigar smoke and sweat, and visible in the cones of light boring down from shaded lights on the ceiling. Inside a raised boxing ring, a pair of men were pounding each other while a large crowd hooted and shouted encouragement and insults. Even a quick glance made it clear that a fair number of the audience members were precisely the sort of people that the Women's Temperance League had railed against for years. This didn't mean that there were illegal intoxicating beverages being sold there. It wasn't wise to break too many laws at one time and in one place. For one thing, it would have certainly increased the cost of keeping official attention turned away. For another, the location sat in no man's land between the territories of Johnny Torrio's Chicago Outfit to the east, Spike O'Donnell and his gang to the west, and the Saltis-McErlane gang to the north. With all three organizations viewing bootlegging as a proprietary industry, it was best to avoid the appearance of staking a claim.

Leaning against the wall over by the betting counters, Marcello Andolini was pretty pleased with himself. Jimmy Moreno had given him the job of putting together the bill for the night's fights and judging from the size of the crowd and noise they were making, things were going pretty well. When Jimmy came over, Marcello decided to save him the trouble of coming up with compliments and laid them out himself, "Take a look at this mob, Jimmy. What did I tell ya? Did I put it together or what?"
Jimmy looked around and leaned close. "Before you break your arm patting yourself on the back, tell me what you were thinking about the last fight."
"What? I brought the Bulgie in from Jersey. He's terrific. Just what the saps want to see at the end of the night. He's a gorilla, I tell ya."
"Yeah? And what about the guy you got facing him?"
"Aw, he's alright. He's local and I've seen him fight a few times. He's good, but he won't give the Bulgie no trouble."
"Won't give the Bulgie no trouble? Hell, the Bulgie has fifteen pounds on him. He ain't no welterweight."
"Well, yeah. I had to get the referee to slip a toe under the scale, but don't worry, Jimmy. Look at these saps, they're betting on him anyway."
"Don't worry? You idiot! Take a look around. There's half a dozen coppers here and they're all Micks. How do you think they're going to like their boy getting killed by your gorilla? Next month, we'll be lucky if we're paying twice as much to keep them from shutting us down. Stick a toe under the scale. Hell, it would have taken a jack." Jimmy walked off, leaving Marcello decidedly less pleased. He thought that he'd been pretty clever about the whole setup. It had taken more than a toe. There was a block of wood under the scale, stopping it at 147 pounds. When the Bulgarian climbed onto the scale, Marcello could hear the wood creak.
In the audience, Marie Brady watched the fights, while almost every guy around watched her. She knew this, but ignored it. Some women had leverage on men. Marie had a six-foot pry bar that could could start a locomotive rolling down the tracks. This was far out of her Gold Coast neighborhood, but she was here for a couple of reasons. The first was simple: she shouldn't be. Professional boxing was illegal in the state of Illinois. This particular neighborhood wasn't the kind of place where a nice woman turned up, especially without a man to accompany her. Just being here was asking for trouble.
The second reason was the Irish boxer whose health was worrying Jimmy Moreno. Marie was a fast woman, but not in the usual sense of the word. One of the ways she got her kicks was driving her Roamer Roadster at terrifying speeds. It had been a present from her father when she graduated from Northwestern University. While ridiculously fast, its Rochester-Duesenberg engine was temperamental and it took a while before she was able to find a mechanic who could keep it singing in tune. On her last visit to the shop where he worked, she noticed the paper sign stuck to the wall, advertising tonight's fight. When she mentioned it, he had admitted that he was to be one of the boxers and off-handedly said, "If you want to see some footwork, you should come out and watch me."
To his surprise, she had said, "I'll see you there. You'd better win, because I'll have money on you." And there she was, with a twenty-dollar marker riding on his fight.
Beside her was one of the rare men not paying attention to her. He seemed a few years older, unless you looked into his eyes, which had an ancient look about them, as if they belonged to someone who had spend far too long wandering Stygian fields. This was 'Doc' Mercy. The gangs in Chicago hired him for their fights, knowing that his experience as a battlefield surgeon was perfect for patching up torn skin and battered bones. Doc took the work, because it helped to pay for his real interest: researching new treatments for diseases. The horrors that he saw in the wartime hospitals had paled in comparison to those he had seen in the influenza wards. Both the gangs and the bettors had grown to accept that Doc was, at least when medicine was concerned, incorruptible and single-minded. As a result, his word was law when it came to stopping a fight. His decisions weren't always popular, but no one had died since he had been the ringside doctor and that helped to keep the authorities off everyone's back.
Finally, the last two combatants climbed into the ring. The difference between the two could hardly have been more striking. In one corner was a lean lad, cut from hard stone and with steel-grey eyes that glared with intense focus. In the other was a bulky bear of a man, with a dull look that indicated no light burning within the thick skull. He was no taller than his opponent, but seeing him stand there made Marcello think back to the groaning block under the scale.

The announcer walked to the center of the ring and raised his megaphone. "And the last fight of the night is a welterweight battle...". A chorus of catcalls from the crowd drowned out the rest of the sentence. "In this corner, with a twelve and oh record is the south side's own Lucky Pat Dempsey!" The younger man came out of his corner and did a slow twirl, dancing on his toes. He looked out at the crowd and noticed that Marie Brady had been as good as her word about showing up. She gave him a smile and a wink and he couldn't help but smile back. As he kept turning, he saw the man who he was really looking for. Jack Coulon, the former bantamweight world champion, had retired and come to Chicago to open a boxing gymnasium. Patrick had heard that Coulon was using these fights to look for the talent to stock his stable of boxers. That would be a ticket to the big time. Talent wasn't the problem, Patrick had plenty of that. The problem was finding someone who could teach him to make the most of it and then get him into the right circles for a shot at a title. His plan for the night was to show his moves and skill with a thorough dismantling of his opponent.
The announcer interrupted Patrick's reverie by continuing. "And in the the other corner, all the way from Atlantic City, New Jersey, with a record of twenty-four and two, including thirteen knockouts, is the Bulgarian Bomber, Blagoy Bekirski!" Bekirski raised his massive arms and slowly turned in place, oblivious to the boos and hisses of the crowd. A sick, twisted grin was pasted on his face. Patrick took the opportunity to look his man over closely and with a sinking feeling realized that his plans were going to have to change. He wasn't going to last long if he let Bekirski pound on him with the pair of hams stuffed into those gloves. This was going to have to be quick and surgical.
When the bell rang, the two men moved toward the center of the ring and began to feel each other out. Patrick kept moving, ducking the bigger man's punches, while avoiding the ropes. He threw a few jabs that were easily stopped by Bekirski's guarding forearms. A glimmer of a strategy was starting to come together for Patrick near the end of the round, but while he was thinking it through, Bekirski swung a massive right hook that Patrick was only able to partially block before it landed on his cheek and staggered him. Luckily, the bell rang, ending the round before Bekirski could follow up, but both fighters had realized that a single clean hit like that would end the fight.
At the start of the second round, Bekirski came out of his corner with the twisted grin. "Come to me, leetle boy." Patrick obliged, darting in close. Bekirski again went with a hook, but this time Patrick ducked under it and then fired a left jab directly to the Bulgarian's eye, which started to swell immediately. This enraged him and he stalked Patrick around the ring, throwing punch after punch which kept the Irishman on the defensive. While pursuing his opponent, Bekirski started to let his guard drop a bit on the side where his eye was swollen nearly shut. This gave a momentary opening and Patrick leapt on it, firing a left uppercut that tagged Bekirsky under the jaw. His head snapped back and Patrick followed immediately with a brutal right cross that landed with a thud that could be heard above the shouting crowd. Bekirsky's other eye rolled back and the big man collapsed to the canvas like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
In a moment, Doc Mercy was in the ring and alongside the fallen boxer. After a quick check, he looked up at the referee and shook his head. The official raised Patrick's arm into the air and a loud roar shook the building as the crowd whooped and hollered for their conquering hero. The Bulgarian's trainers dragged him back to his corner, where Doc had to stop them from trying to slap the boxer back awake.
It took Patrick a while to collect his prize money and then to wash up and change. His uncle, who served as his manager and trainer, insisted on replaying the fight several times, with each repetition growing more impressive. Patrick knew that by the time the family gathered for Sunday dinner, the story would be that he had slain Goliath with a single punch while tipping back a beer. Eventually, he was able to get out of the dressing room. Most of the crowd was gone. Over by the ring, Doc was talking to Marie, so Dempsey walked over to them. "Nice work, Pat!" Marie said, with a huge grin. "You're as good at taking bums apart as you are at keeping cars together."
While Patrick was thinking of a reply, Doc stepped in and quickly checked Patrick's pupils and the condition of his cheek, which was beginning to swell and bruise. "Keep some ice on that for a day or so. Nothing's broken, so it'll go down quickly enough."
"Thanks, Doc." He felt the fifty dollars he had earned for winning the fight sitting in his pocket. "Hey, do you two want a beer? I know a place."
"Sure, I'm always up for a party."
Doc shrugged. "Why not? I'm done for the night."
As they started for the door, a small, neatly-dressed man intercepted them and offered his hand to Patrick. "I'm Johnny Coulon. That was some fight, son. I thought that you were cooked when that goon tagged you, but you set him up pretty slick."
"Thank you, sir. It's an honor to meet you."

"Look, my wife and I are opening up a gym here on the south side this summer." He pulled out a business card. "When we do, come on over and we'll have a spot for you." He patted Patrick on the shoulder. "You got potential, son. You don't need to be wasting it in dives like this."
"Thank you again, sir. I'll be sure to come by as soon as you open."
Before Patrick could invite him along for that beer, Coulon added, "Now, I better get home before the little woman starts to worry." He turned and walked out the door, leaving Patrick looking down at the card. As he studied it, he felt Doc and Marie each put a hand on his shoulders.
"This is it, man. You're off to the big time."
"I told you that you were the bee's knees, Pat."
A third voice chimed in, "Hey, kid. Nice fight, but you cost me money tonight." All of them turned to see Marcello approaching. He started to follow-up on that thought, when Doc cut in.
"That other guy was no welterweight."
"Yeah," said Marie. "What kind of stunt were you pulling there?"
"What do you mean? Everything was on the up-and-up." He turned to Patrick, looking for support, but noticed that the boxer's face had a decidedly unhelpful look about it. Clearly, a change of strategy was in order. "Oh, you mean Bekirsky. That was a mix-up. They put the wrong Bulgarian on the train from Jersey. Look, let me make it up to you. I know this joint up the street with the good stuff. Let me buy you a drink."
Marie laughed. "Pat, that sounds like a deal. Valentino here is buying the drinks tonight."
"Hey! I didn't say..." But by that time he was talking to their backs as they headed out into the wind and sleet of a March night in Chicago.
A couple of blocks away, Marcello knocked on the door of a undistinguished building and a few moments later, the door opened and they found themselves in the warm and pleasant confines of the Fox Tail Club. Someone was playing a piano in the corner and before long, Marie was sipping on a gin rickey, while Patrick poured down a beer. The other two had wine and Doc had to admit that it was definitely not home brew. The conversation wandered around a bit as they shared various places around the city where a thirsty traveler might find a spot of relief. Another another round of drinks had just been signaled for when the lights dimmed, flickered, and then went out completely. It was a solid minute of near darkness, with only the small table candles providing illumination. Someone yelled, "Is this a raid?" but he was quickly silenced by others telling him to cool it. Gradually, the lights came back on, flickering now and again before reaching their former brightness.

Marcello called out to a man sitting at a table with Jimmy Moreno. "What's the matter, Vinny? You didn't pay the electric company this month?" There were some guffaws around the room and the man started to rise from his chair, but Moreno put his hand on the man's arm and he settled back down.
"Vinny, you know Marcello. He likes to think he's a bright guy." He turned to Marcello. "Well, bright guy. How about you find out what the problem is and do something about this? Maybe your friends are bright, too. Together, the four of you can maybe keep the lights on." He and Vinny laughed. Marcello could feel his face heating up.
Before anything else got said, the waiter showed up with the drinks. Doc asked him, "Has this thing with the lights happened before?"
"Si signore. Maybe two or three times a week."
"The same time every night?"
"Si. But they have been getting più a lungo.." He turned to Marcello.
"Longer."
"Si, si. Longer every night."
Doc flipped another quarter onto the tray. "Grazie."
Marcello looked at each of the others. "So what do you say? Are you in?" When no one jumped at the invitation, he leaned across the table and added in a low voice, "Look, having Jimmy Moreno owing you one ain't such a bad thing."
Doc said, "Okay. I'm in. This sounds like it could be interesting."
Marie slapped her hand down onto the table. "Well, I've got nothing on my calendar."
They looked at Patrick and he shrugged. "What the hell. Things are slow at the garage right now. Nobody's driving around in this weather if they can help it."
Marcello smiled for a moment, but then frowned. "So, how do we get started? I mean, what's the procedure for figuring out why the lights go out?"
Doc took a drink of his wine and said, "In science, you have to understand a problem before you can solve it. I imagine that the same is true for a situation like this. We should probably try to learn more about where this is happening."
Marie said, "I can go through the newspapers for the last couple of weeks. Something about this has got to be in there,"
Patrick nodded. "I've got some friends in the police. I'll ask if they've been up to anything that might be causing this."
"Okay, Doc, how about you meet me here tomorrow at noon? We can take a gander around the neighborhood and see what we can find."
"That all sounds good. There's a hash house on 76^th and Halsted, let's meet there for dinner tomorrow night and compare notes."

Marcello had awoken feeling feeling good again. He had done his magic and now he had three others helping him. At this rate, he'd have the blackouts fixed in no time and Jimmy Moreno would be laughing out the other side of his mouth. He was less happy as he sat down in the diner with his companions. "Me and Doc walked up and down the whole afternoon, looking at power lines and peering into windows. Doc found a couple of places that might possibly have big equipment, but when we asked, they said no one was running them at night."
Doc added, "Nobody we talked to had seen the same kind of power outages, but that was most likely because the businesses were closed and most of the people who live near there were asleep."
Patrick said, "That matches up with what O'Connell told me down at the precinct house. They're not trying to bust the Fox Tail or any of the other clubs and he hadn't heard about any electrical problems."

Marie pulled a pair of small newspaper clippings out of her purse. "This one was from last week." She pushed forward a brief note about strong winds near the shore. "But then I had to go back a lot farther than the last few weeks to find anything weird. Well, weirder than usual." She put another brief weather report on the table. "This was from last December."
Patrick said, "Pretty thin soup."
"Yeah, but it's all we've got to go on." Doc replied. "I don't know if the wind means anything, but we can probably check out the thunder. The University of Chicago is in Hyde Park. They might know something about it."
"I've got a girlfriend from college who lives in Hyde Park. I can drop in on her tomorrow and see if she knows anything." Marie poked dubiously at the club sandwich the waitress had deposited in front of her. "But I'm going to pick the place where we eat tomorrow."
The next morning, Doc and Marello found themselves in the university physics department. Doc scanned the wall with photos of the faculty. "I wonder where we should start."
"Start at the top. It saves time." Marcello pointed to the picture of the department head. "Besides, this guy Albert Michelson sounds familiar for some reason."
"Maybe because he won the Nobel Prize?"
Marcello shrugged. "Maybe."
Doc had expected getting past Michelson's secretary to be difficult, but before he could say a word he was stunned by the transformation that had come over Marcello. In a moment, the fixer from south Chicago was gone, replaced by someone young, but bearing the traits of official authority. His accent, his vocabulary, and his body language all transformed. Even the way that he wore his suit and hat looked subtly different. With only a few polite words, they were being escorted into the office.
"Good morning, gentlemen. How may I help you?"
At this point, Doc decided to bluff it out. "Professor Michelson, we're investigating the blasts that were heard in this area last December."
He sighed and shook his head. "That matter has been taken care of. Once we found out what was happening, we took the necessary steps to bring it to an end."
"So, your department was responsible for them?"
"Not precisely. It was one of our graduate students. He had some ... unorthodox ... views and he was conducting unauthorized experiments along those lines."
"I see. And may we speak with this student?"
"I'm afraid that Kokot is no longer with the university. At the end of the last semester, we mutually agreed that perhaps it was best that he move on."
"Kokot?"
"Janez Kokot. He was Slovakian, but studied in Italy. He came very well recommended."

Doc was good at reading people. He was as sure as he could be that Michelson wasn't lying to him, but something wasn't adding up. "You mentioned unorthodox ideas. Could you explain what you mean by that?"
Michelson frowned and rubbed his temples. "Kokot was a very bright young man. He had a great future ahead of him. The problem was a fixation that he possessed. He was driven to be the next Marconi."
"That seems like a worthy goal."
"Yes, but the man was deluded. He refused to accept that there is no such thing as the luminiferous aether."
"Which you had demonstrated years ago."
"Indeed. And in his delusions, he built apparatus and conducted experiments that resulted in the thunder that you were asking about. As soon as we found out about, we shut them down."
"Can we see the equipment Kokot used?"
"Over the Christmas holidays someone, most likely Kokot, broke into the laboratory and took it all."
"Did you report that to the police?"
"No. To be honest, the whole affair has been something of an embarrassment for the department. We decided to leave well enough alone." Michelson looked up at the two men and then glanced over their shoulders. "Good lord! Is that the time? Gentlemen, I'm afraid that I really must be leaving immediately." He stood and quickly shook their hands before grabbing his coat and herding them through the door. His urgency offered no room for argument.
In the outer office, Marcello quickly asked, "Can you tell us where we might find him?"
Michelson didn't even turn. "Mrs. Parker, please assist these men." And then he was off down the hallway.
After a few minutes, Marcello had Kokot's last known address. The two men walked over and found themselves standing in front of a clapboard house. A small sign in the window read, "Rooms for Let".
"Do we knock?"
Marcello shook his head. "If he's here, we don't need the landlord. If he isn't, we're better off without the landlord." He set off around the back of the house. There was a door that opened on a stairwell that went up to the second floor and on to the attic. As if choreographed, the two men looked up the stairs and then nodded to each other. They didn't even pause at the first landing, but went straight to the attic. Another door led to a hallway. On either side were obvious storage rooms, but there was a door at the end. Marello mouthed the words "The front room has a window." Doc nodded.
Marcello rapped gently on the door. There was no response from the other side. He tried again with the same result. Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, he removed a small leather case and extracted a metal tool. A few moments of jiggling and the lock emitted a satisfying click.
Inside, the room was neatly, but sparsely, furnished. The ceiling peaked in the center and fell off rapidly to each side. In the light streaming through the window, it was easy to instantly see that it had not recently been occupied. Doc traced a line through a thin layer of dust on the small desk. "Should we check out the rooms downstairs?"
"No. This was his room. I'm sure of it."

Doc had to agree. They quickly checked all the drawers and cabinets, but found nothing. While Marcello felt under the mattress, Doc walked over to see if anything was hidden behind the window curtains. As he moved, one of the floorboards rocked, making a distinct knocking sound. In an instant, Doc was on his knees, peering at the boards. One of them was scratched at one end and Doc was able to ease a pocketknife blade into the crack and raise the board to expose the space between the floor joists.
Just as he reached inside the opening, steps could be heard coming down the hall. He glanced up at Marcello, who moved to the door. Doc had only a moment to feel around, finding only a loose scrap of paper that he jammed into his pocket before slipping the board back in place. He quickly rose, just as the door opened. A tiny older woman stormed into the room and began pointing at Doc and Marcello.
"What are you guys doin' here, huh? Up to no good! That's what you're doin' here! I'm gonna call the police! They take care of your kind."
Marcello smiled at her. "No need for that. We're friends of Janez. We got worried when we didn't hear from him for a while."
"Friends! You're friends with that no goodnik? Then you can take care of what he owes me."
Again, Doc saw Marcello's body language change, this time back to how he looked and moved at the boxing match. "Look, missus..."
"Horowitz. Yana Horowitz."
"Mrs. Horowitz, 'friends' was just a polite way of saying business associates. Mr. Kokot owes us a lot of money as well. We came here to encourage him to make good on his debts. Do you know where we might find him?"
"Ha! I should have known that he was connected to crooks. No, I don't know where he is. I come up to collect the February rent last month and he's gone. Him and all his stuff, just 'poof'!" She waved her hands like a magician. "But if you find him, you tell him that he better get over here and pay up on the twenty dollars he owes me! Or so help me..."
Doc and Marcello had been edging toward the door and took this as their opportunity to slip through. Marcello, as he backed out, said, "We'll be sure to do that Mrs. Horowitz."
"And the four dollars for the last week's food, too! You tell him that!"
After they had escaped down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk, Doc and Marcello stopped, turned toward each other, and burst into laughter. "Oh, Jesus! For a moment, I felt like it was my grandmother chewing me out about my friends again."
"No wonder he slipped away in the night. He was probably terrified to face her."
"Come on, let's grab a streetcar and get to that restaurant."

Patrick's morning had been spent at the garage, replacing the clutch on a delivery truck. He watched it depart with satisfaction and settled down to eat his lunch. His father, who ran the garage, was on the other side of the table, reading the Chicago Globe. When he turned the page and folded the newspaper back on itself, something caught Patrick's eye.
"Hey, dad? Have we got anything going on this afternoon?"
His father lowered the paper and peered over it at Patrick. "Not so much, why do you ask?"
"Oh, I just thought that I might go see someone."
"Ah, and is your cuttie Irish?"
"Dad!"
"You know that your dear mother has her heart set on having some red-haired weans running about the house. Don't you dare break her heart, now." His father laughed. "Anyway, things are quare slow around here right now. I'll probably throw a few pails of water out on the streets to bring in some bang and bend business."

"Icing the road sounds more like Uncle Sean's kind of work, dad." Patrick chuckled. He waited until his father had put the newspaper down and left the little office, then he found the article and read it carefully. Tearing it out, he grabbed his coat and hat and set out for South Chicago. A hour later found him in front of a firehouse. He walked in and found a fireman polishing a bit of trim on one of the trucks.
"Is Captain O'Shay in?"
The man jerked his thumb over his shoulder without looking up. "Up the stairs and on the right."
In the office, a middle-aged man was intently writing on one of a dozen forms that were scattered about his desk. Patrick stood in the doorway and said in a clear, stern voice, "Captain, that big yoke has busted again and I'm certain that if we let Davis have at it, he'll make a right hames of it. You might want to take a look."
"Ara, give me a moment here." O'Shay finished writing and moved the form to a box to one side. "Now what was it you were saying about..." He looked up and then took off his glasses and looked again. "Patrick? Patrick Dempsey? As I live and breathe, it's good to see you, now. Hah! You had me going with that line about the busted pump." He rose from his desk and extended his hand. Patrick walked over and shook it. O'Shay's grip was solid. "Sit down, lad. Tell me about yourself and your folks."
Patrick made himself comfortable and talked with O'Shay for a bit about family and friends, taking a moment to mention the fight and the offer from Jack Coulon. "Well, laddie. That's no small accomplishment. You're certainly doing well for yourself. And here I thought that you had come in to sign up for the department. We could use someone with your knowledge about motors. Did you hear that we've retired the last horses? Aye, just last month. The fire marshal has said that we're the first city in all of America with all engine units."
"That's amazing. I suppose that it was bound to happen one day."
"So, then. If you're not here to sign up, what brings you?"
"Well, I was reading the newspaper today and you were in it. It reminded me how long it's been since I've seen you."
"Oh, that article about the blue fire. You know the Globe, they're convinced that everything that happens in this city is some kind of an official plot."
"So, it's nothing but a fairy story, then?"
"Now, I didn't say that. Something is going on. We've had enough calls to know that it's not a bad batch of bathtub booze causing visions. The problem is that it happens in the middle of the night. By the time that I get out of bed and over there, it's gone. I'll tell you, lad. That's the worst of it. When you get to a certain age, you start to appreciate the sleep that you do get and having to get out into the night, well that's just not right."
"Do your men not see anything when they get to the area?"
"These new engines that we have are right fine, but they're slow to get started on a cold night. Not like a good team of horses. My boys have seen the clouds glowing, but we haven't been able to find that blue fire."
"Where is all this happening?"
"That's the damnedest thing. It's barely a mile or so up around 88^th Street. And we've been all over the neighborhood looking for signs of smoke or soot. Nothing! But you don't want to hear all of this. It's just an old man complaining." He looked at his desk and sighed. "Patrick, my lad, I'm afraid I need to chase you away. I've got to get this paperwork done." He brightened a bit and went on, "But how about you come by the house on Sunday for dinner? Grace would love to have you over. Just don't be too surprised if Caitlin is there, too. Grace is convinced that if she doesn't find that girl a husband soon, she'll end up a nun." He winked at Patrick.
"Forewarned is forearmed. I'll be there for dinner on Sunday, but I doubt that your Caitlin is going to be much interested in a mechanic."
The two men rose and and O'Shay came around the desk to give Patrick a hug. "You're a fine, fine lad. I know that you make your mother proud."

At the restaurant, Patrick felt out of place, but Marie put him at ease. "Relax, this place isn't as ritzy as it looks. Now, tell me what you guys found out."
Doc and Marcello described their encounters. The redoubtable Mrs. Horowitz inspired gales of laughter, particularly as Doc hammed up her side of the conversation, while Marcello re-enacted his in grand style. When they finished, Marie asked, "So, what was on the paper?"

Doc looked surprised for a second. "You know, with all the excitement, I completely forgot to look." He fished in his coat pocket and found a piece of paper that had been torn from a notebook. On it was a pencil sketch of a strange spiral.
"Is that a spring?" Marcello asked
Patrick pointed. "It looks like a shock absorber for a car, but I don't see where it mounts."
Doc stared at it quietly for almost a full minute. "I know where I've seen it. It was in an article in Scientific American magazine. It's some kind of a new radio antenna."
"How big is it?"
"It was taller than the guy standing next to it."
Marcello whistled. "Okay, so it shouldn't be hard to spot."
Patrick said, "Speaking of paper, I saw this in the morning Globe." He pulled the newspaper clipping out of his pocket, and showed them the article. "I went over to the fire station this afternoon. Captain O'Shay is my mother's cousin and he filled me in about it." He quickly recounted the conversation and added, "I think that we know where to be looking, now."
The steaks arrived and everyone admitted that they were a great improvement over the last dinner. Marie said, "You guys found out a whole bunch more than I did. I went to Highland Park and talked to my friend Tillie, but she didn't really have anything to add that you haven't already found out. About the only thing was that the booms were so loud that they scared her brother. He was shell-shocked when he came back from France and when the booms happened, he went nutso and started screaming about getting to cover. They had to send him up to a place in Wisconsin for a while."
Marcello asked, "What now?"
Doc said, "Well, we know where the blue fire is and we know what time the lights go out. I guess that we go over to that neighborhood and find a place to hang out until something happens."
Patrick swallowed the last chunk of his steak. "As I was walking over to catch the streetcar to come here, I saw a place on South Chicago and 89^th. The Jeffery Tavern. We'd be right in the middle of things there."
Patrick and Marie drove her car down to South Chicago, while Doc and Marcello took a taxi. Marie's Roamer had a heater, but with the cold air that leaked in around the soft top, it wasn't any warmer than the unheated taxi. Sleet was falling and just driving to the tavern proved to be an adventure.
As they sat down at the table, Marcello beat the sleet off his coat. "Jeez, couldn't this nut job have waited until June?"
Before anyone could answer, the waiter brought them each a steaming hot toddy. In a thick brogue, he said "Compliments of the house, to get you warmed up. Let me know when you're ready for something else."
Doc took a sip from his mug. "Not particularly concerned about appearances here, are they?"
Patrick looked around. "I see at least three guys here that I know are cops, all drinking."
"Don't you know about this place? It's owned by Owen Ahern. His father was a police captain here in South Chicago. At least he was until he got hit by that streetcar. He's got a half dozen places around town, some nicer than this." Marcello sipped his drink and continued, "It's remarkable how well an industrious man can do on a police captain's salary." He took another sip and then grinned.

It was nearly midnight when the door flew open and a man burst in, shouting, "The whole sky is on fire! Blue fire!" Even before the bartender finished telling the man to shut the door and his trap, the four had their coats on and were running outside to look.
Staring up at the clouds, which had mercifully stopped sleeting, they looked around. "Damn! it's everywhere!"
Doc said, "I think that it's a bit brighter to the north, let's head up that way."
A long two-story building sat on the west side of South Chicago Avenue, between it and the railroad tracks. Faint white lettering showed through the soot: "Durham Warehouse". There were a series of low loading docks on the street side, where trucks could back up. Each dock had a pair of thick wooden doors centered between a pair of heavily barred windows. Upstairs, there was a row of windows, also barred. The doors were painted with the names of various companies, some old and faded and others newly lettered. Only one set of windows had light shining out.
"There, look at that." Patrick pointed. One of the downstairs windows had a warm yellow glow, but the upstairs windows shone brightly blue. "If that isn't the place, I don't know what would be."
The wind was beginning to whip along the street, making the night even colder. Marcello signaled for the others to halt, then he crept up the steps and peered through the lit window. In a moment, he was back. "Here's the setup: it's an office—desk, chair, stove. There is a guy in the chair with his feet on the desk. He isn't Kokot and he doesn't look like the brains of the operation."
Marie smiled. "I've got this." She walked up the steps and tapped on the window. The man inside jumped out the chair and turned to the window. Marie pantomimed shivering and then turned on a smile that warmed the office by ten degrees. Without hesitation, the man nodded and headed toward the office door. Marie turned to Patrick and flicked her head, then walked over to the loading dock doors. Patrick got the message and followed her.
The door opened a few inches and a deep voice said, "Whatcha doin' out on a night like this, lady?"
"My car broke down. It's just up the street." She pointed to her left. "When I saw your light, I was so happy. Can you please take a look at it?" She gave another one of her smiles.
"Where is it?"
"Just right there." She pointed again and stepped back. The man reflexively leaned out through the door to look. As soon as he did, Patrick grabbed him and pulled him out. At the same time, Patrick's left fist flew up and clocked the man under the jaw, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. The others scrambled up and Doc pulled the unconscious man away from the door. Marie shrugged. "Some girls got it."
She stepped through the door, into a large open space. There were a variety of large shipping crates scattered around. At the other end of the room, bright blue light shone down through the large hole in the ceiling which served as access for moving items from one level to the other. Clearly visible in the light was another man standing behind some boxes. He was looking at Marie and he called out, "Hey! Who are you and what are you doing here?"
"My car broke down. I asked for some help getting it started again."
"Where's Benny?"
"He's out looking at the car. He said to come get you, 'cause you know cars better."
The man pulled a gun from his pocket. "Yeah, I don't think so. Get your hands up and come closer."
Before Marie could reply, she found herself tackled by Patrick, who leapt through the door and shoved her behind one of the large crates. A moment later, a gunshot rang out and dust flew from the wall over their heads.
"Hey! I almost had him convinced."
"Yeah. And I was almost the first Irish pope."
When he heard the shot, Marcello pulled his pistol and leaned around the door, firing one round in the general direction of the back of the building. The other man ducked behind his own boxes, so Marcello took the opportunity to sprint toward a crate standing near the center of the room. Outside, Doc quickly searched Benny and was pleased to discover a holstered pistol. Deciding that his own need for the weapon outweighed the unconscious man's, Doc took it and made his way to the door.
Inside, he could see Marie pulling a pistol from her pocket as well. Doc called to her, "Can you cover me?"
She laughed. "I can do better than that." She peeked over the top of the crate. When Benny's partner appeared again, looking for Marcello, she took aim and fired at his gun. There was a scream of pain and the satisfying sound of the gun landing somewhere deep in the bowels of the building. She looked at Patrick who stared at her with surprise. "Daddy always says that a girl should be able to take care of herself."

With both of the obvious goons out of commission, Doc took a quick look around and then sprinted for the staircase leading up to the second floor of the warehouse. Since no one was casting a shadow on the upstairs wall in the glaring blue light, he cautiously made his way up. At the top, he poked his head over the landing. Large metal cabinets blocked much of the view and huge electrical cables hung from the wall to the center of the room. A loud monotonic hum filled the air.
Patrick followed Doc to the base of the stairs and waited. When Doc climbed the rest of the way up and stood on the upstairs floor, Patrick followed. The two men looked at the layout, with the light coming from behind a nearly solid wall of cabinets. Doc pointed to the shadow of a man on the front wall of the building and gestured that he would go around the cabinets in that direction, while Patrick would go around the other way. Patrick nodded his agreement and they started to move.
Downstairs, Marcello said to Marie, "I've got this. You go see if they need any help. I'll cover the hatch to make sure no one comes down that way." She gave a thumbs-up and ran over to the stairs, just in time to see Patrick and Doc move into the room above her.
Patrick's route was shorter, but it required him to squeeze between a heavy table and a cabinet. When he had, he found himself uncomfortably close to a metal framework from which the blue light poured out so intensely that he couldn't look directly at it. As he got closer, his skin itched, as if a million ants were crawling on him. His eyes began to adjust to the glare and he saw that it illuminated a man standing a few feet away.
Doc's perspective from the other end of the row of cabinets was the inverse. He saw the silhouette of the man against what looked like a wall of light. It was only by squinting that he could make out the structure that surrounded the light. On either side, a helix antenna rose about seven feet from the floor. There was an elaborate wire grid at the top, suspended above the antennae by large dark globes. He crept closer.
Kokot had been adjusting various controls on one of the cabinets. He stepped back and turned to look at the glowing apparatus and saw Patrick. Oddly, he showed neither surprise nor fear at seeing the boxer standing there. "Good! Good! You can be a witness! You can tell them what you see!" He waved one arm toward the glowing apparatus. In the other, he held a box with knobs and switches. It was connected to the cabinet by a thick cable.
Patrick asked, "What is it that I'm seeing?" It was necessary to shout to be heard over the hum of the equipment.
"This!" He waved at the glow again. "This is proof that the aether exists. Those who claim otherwise lack the vision to see what's right before their eyes. What's more, through the aether, I will be able to transmit solid matter from one location to another. I shall be the next Marconi!" The light in Kokot's eyes did not entirely come from the blue glow. "Watch!"
Kokot twisted a pair of the knobs on his box and a purple glow flickered into existence in the center of the blue. As he made adjustments, it stabilized and began to form into a rectangular shape that appeared to push back the blue around it. The ants that had seemed to be crawling on Patrick's skin suddenly starting biting him. Without a word, he rushed to tackle Kokot, but the instant that he touched the man, every muscle in Patrick's body spasmed at once and he slammed backwards against the cabinets with a crash that knocked the wind out of him. Kokot took no notice of the assault as he stared into the purple rectangle.
"There! There! Can you see? Can you see?"
Marie had peered around the cabinets in time to watch Patrick bounce off the crazed man. From where she stood, she couldn't see into the purple, but in front of her Doc had come to a stop and was staring, transfixed. He watched as the purple rectangle grew in size and through it he could see someplace that clearly wasn't the other side of the room. It was a landscape, of which only the nearest few feet could be seen through the glare, but it most definitely was outdoors and not snow-covered. The wind that had been howling through the room from the beginning intensified until it whipped at everyone's coats.
Doc glanced down at the pistol in his hand. He had been captain of the shooting team while he was in school and he knew that at this range he could destroy Kokot's control box with a single shot. The way Kokot was holding the box meant that the heavy .45 slug would do a fair amount of damage to his hand, but nothing life-threatening. He raised the gun and sighted along it. Then he threw it past Kokot's head and through the purple portal. It landed on the other side and slid along the ground. The purple and blue glows spasmed as if they had been struck and Kokot frantically twisted dials to stabilize them.
Patrick stared at Doc in undisguised wonder and he heard Marie yell, "Why?"
Doc shrugged and yelled back, "I had to know!"
Kokot spun to face Doc. "You saw it! You saw it! It traveled through space. It's there now! They said that I was mad, but you SAW IT!" His face was triumphant.
Patrick's muscles had finally relaxed. He reached over to the table he had earlier passed and grabbed a large wrench that was lying there. With a sudden movement, he leapt at Kokot and swung the wrench at the control box. Out of the corner of his eye, Kokot caught the motion and pulled his hand out of the way at the last second. This arc swept his hand and the box into the edge of the blue glow. In an instant, his whole body was engulfed in the mysterious light. A tremendous rush of wind shattered the windows and roared through the purple portal. Kokot staggered for a moment and almost regained his balance, then a calm look came over his face and he relaxed, letting the wind carry him along.
As he passed through it, the purple region pulsed again, but this time it reached the edges of the frame, licking along the antennae as well as the grids on the top and bottom. While the others grabbed whatever they could to avoid being blown through the portal as well, it arced and sputtered with sickening crackles. Then the equipment burst with showers of sparks. The purple and blue glows instantly disappeared, leaving the room in darkness, save for the small flickering flames in the cabinets. The wind stopped and returned to the normal chill breeze of a March night in Chicago.
Patrick, Doc, and Marie looked around and then at each other. Patrick said, "Let's get out of here before anyone shows up." With that, they sprinted down the stairs, where they found Marcello standing near the door with his hands in the air. As a rush of cops and firemen poured past him, the others raised their hands as well.

It was after five o'clock the next night before they found themselves standing in the entrance of police headquarters. There had been a lot of questions and it was clear that their answers hadn't been particularly satisfying, but now they had been released and were being addressed by an older gentleman wearing an expensive suit.
"My name is Roger Abley. Miss Brady's father retained me to represent her in this matter and she was most insistent that I do the same for you. Your story regarding the events of the preceding days and especially that of last night did little to convince the authorities not to throw the full weight of the judicial system at you, but there was considerable confusion about what crime or crimes had actually been committed.
"Given that you three," at this he nodded at Marie, Doc, and Patrick, "have outstanding personal references and that you," looking at Marcello, "do not appear to be currently under indictment, there were those who were inclined to believe you. Your position was greatly strengthened by Mister George Bond's express refusal to press charges regarding the injury to his hand. In fact, after receiving treatment at the hospital, he seems to have departed out a back door without any further conversation with the police."
Abley's mouth twitched into the slightest semblance of a smile. "I've been reliably informed that he may have other reasons for not wanting to extend his dealings with the police. The final mitigating factor was Professor Michelson's intervention on the part of the University of Chicago. It seems that much of the equipment in the building belonged to them and they were grateful to get it back, even if somewhat worse for wear. In any case, no charges will be filed and the matter is closed."
He put his hat on and adjusted his coat. "I would suggest, however, that you avoid any similar activities in the near future. I have no idea of what happened last night, but I can tell you that important people were not amused." With this, he took his leave and left them standing there.
Marcello broke the silence. "Okay, you guys. I want to hear what happened upstairs. All that I could see was weird purple and blue light everywhere and then my skin was crawling like crazy." Before anyone could say anything, he added, "But save it until we get something decent to eat. My uncle has a restaurant up north and he uses his mama's recipes. Come on, we'll get some real food tonight."