The Apple Orchard {Arc Three; Part One
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been…”
A long pause stretched, awkward and uncomfortable, and the priest on the other side of the confessional screen coughed lightly as if prompting his confessor.
“Jeez, I don’t even remember - I think I was ten? Eleven? Cut me some slack here, Father, I’m really out of practice.” Zebediah sighed, rubbing at his face tiredly before clasping his hands together in some form of prayer, leaning forward on his knees. “Okay. We’ll just say it’s been a real long time since I’ve sat in one of these boxes and told someone my secrets.”
“Alright, son. What is it that you wish to confess?”
“…” The gangster closed his eyes, pressing his lips to his clasped hands and holding back a laugh. “More than you can listen to, Father. And more than I’m willin’ to share. So I’ll just tell you the bare bones of it and be on my way, hm?” Waiting for the hum of approval from the old man hiding behind the screen, Zebediah sat back up and thumped his head against the wall behind him.
He’d never liked confessionals. They always made him feel claustrophobic and caged, as if he were trapped and he’d never get out; forever to be judged by the harsh stare of whoever was on the other side. As a kid it had been the Irish priest who drank the wine before Mass even started. Today it was an old man with withered hands and a gentle stare.
At least he didn’t feel completely damned around this priest.
“I…helped a friend. In a way that ain’t holy.”
“…Son?”
Silence greeted the priest before the sound of a door shutting quietly was heard, footsteps disappearing down the walkway and out of the church.
He hadn’t even waited for his Hail Marys.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
“You s-seem to have a case of the f-flu, Mrs T-Turner,” Doctor Allen Townsend said gently, putting down his stethoscope and writing down a few quick notes on his clipboard in shorthand. The woman, a young thing with perfectly cared for blond curls and make-up, and a sharp skirt-and-jacket combo that told him she had a bit of money, bit a crimson bottom lip and worried it with an anxious expression on her face. “N-nothing too serious. W-we’ll get you some m-m-medicine to help. My o-only advice would be to t-take a few days of r-r-rest. Do you have a job?”
“Oh no, Doctor Townsend - I’m a housewife, I cook my husband dinner and make sure the house is in proper order for him when he gets home. He’s a construction worker, you see, and so he’s out all day. When he gets home he is so tired, I always have to make sure he has a good, hot meal and a cup of coffee to help him feel alive again.”
Allen smiled patiently, reaching out and patting the woman’s hand to get her attention back to him. “W-well, I think he’ll have to do without u-until you start feeling b-b-better yourself, Mrs Turner.”
“Oh, he’s not going to like that…” The woman sighed, tugging on her jacket and shaking her head emphatically. “Not at all, no siree.”
“I’ll give you a d-doctor’s note, so that he can’t be t-t-too angry,” Allen reassured, moving away from the examining table to do so. “If a-anything happens, Mrs Turner…”
“Nothing’s going to happen, Doctor Townsend, I promise you nothing will. He’s a good man, honest to goodness he is.”
“I’m sure,” Allen interrupted, turning to her and looking at her seriously, “but just in c-case, I’ll g-give you my card as w-w-well. It has my a-address should you have nnneeded of it, as well as a t-telephone number.” Not everyone had a telephone, but he always had the printer’s put his number on his cards just in case one of his patients ever did. Allen didn’t give his card to very many of his patients, since he didn’t feel like they would need it. If they needed the doctor, they would make an appointment with him, like always.
But sometimes, especially with women, Allen would hand over his card if he felt it was necessary. Underneath all of that pretty make-up and perfectly manicured appearance he had seen what appeared to be the last remains of a bruise; faint and yellow and just noticeable against her pale complexion.
Allen did not appreciate men being cruel to their wives. There was no rhyme or reason to it.
“…Thank you, Doctor Townsend,” Mrs Turner said softly, taking both note and card and tucking them into her purse. She slid off of the examining table while Allen wrote out a prescription for some medicine that she could take to help with her flu. Taking that as well, the woman pulled out her wallet and began thumbing through her bills.
“P-pay the secretary, Mrs Turner,” Allen said, reaching out and stalling her searching fingers. “I h-hope you start feeling better, soon.”
The woman nodded, squeezing his hand with a thankful little smile before she walked out of the examining room quickly. Sighing, Allen picked up his clipboard and made his way out of the room as well, turning towards the bathroom to wash his hands - hygiene was very important to his job.
“Doctor Townsend,” Allie Phillips called out, popping gum and leaning over her desk. The dark haired man turned towards the young secretary, looking at her expectantly. “You’ve got a visitor - he says he knows your brother.”
“D-direct him to my office, M-Miss Phillips, I’ll be there in just o-o-one moment.” The woman nodded and turned back to her work, Allen stepping into the bathroom and closing the door quietly behind him.
Walking up to the sink, the doctor turn on the tap to warm water to wash his hands, soaping his hands and rubbing them thoroughly under the running water. Twisting the knob off with the heel his hand, he grabbed the towel that was beside the sink and patted his hands dry, hanging the towel back up on its ring once he was done.
Looking up at himself in the mirror, Allen frowned at his reflection. He looked paler than usual, more tired and thinner. He supposed that was reasonable - he hadn’t been eating as well as he had before, and he was up every night for one reason or another. Some nights he enjoyed the warm company of the flappers and their beaus; other nights he spent patching up gangsters after they encountered people who didn’t like them too much.
Whenever he wasn’t with the flappers or the gangsters, he was with Richard, watching him as he recovered and wondering if the other doctor would ever be able to live normally again.
Shaking himself from his thoughts, he turned on the tap again - this time to cold - and cupped his hands under the running water. Splashing the water onto his face, he shook off hanging droplets and grabbed the towel once more, patting his face dry. He didn’t even bother to hang the towel back up after he was done, simply tossing it onto the sink and leaving the bathroom to see who was waiting in his office.
When he entered the office, he didn’t recognize the man standing by his doctoral certificate, reading the information with a neutral gaze.
He was short - shorter than himself, at any rate - with light blond hair that was bordering on grey. A youthful face, though wrinkled from what seemed to be stress, with a prominent nose and dark blue eyes that stood out to him when the man finally look over at him. He wore a dull grey suit with a black tie and a silver tie-pin - some money, then, the pin looked much nicer than his suit. A simple bowler hat was clutched in his hands, along with a plain cane of fine wood capped with a silver top that looked like it could use a shining.
“Doctor Townsend, are ye?”
That was a Londoner’s accent. Not from one of the schools, though, not like his and Richard’s - it was street dialect. So, obviously he was not of high class. Perhaps the pin had been a gift?
“D-doctor Allen Townsend, yes,” he smiled thinly, moving to his desk and sitting down behind it. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, offering his guest a seat. “And y-you are?”
“Dustin Gable,” the man limped over to the seat, looking at it critically before easing himself down onto it. Resting his cane on his leg, his hat on his lap, the man folded his hands over his stomach and looked at Allen with an examiner’s eye. He felt, for a moment, like a schoolboy being looked over by one of his strict schoolteachers. “Retired soldier, fought for England in the Great War; I was shot in the leg, which is why I’ve got this cane.”
Allen blinked at him, head tilting to the side in confusion to his introduction. Dustin gave him a quick smile, before moving forward.
“I thought it best to introduce what kind of man your brother will be looked after by.”
“…I’m s-sorry?”
“Doctor Richard Townsend started looking for men who could look after him once he gets out of the hospital - I don’t blame him, he getting shot for no good reason by some daft blighter. I just moved to Westfield this last month, so I thought it was a good opportunity. He seemed to approve of my qualifications.” He paused here, adjusting his tie and clearing his throat. “…’Twas my idea to come and see ye, though. Richard doesn’t know I came here.”
Allen quirked a brow at the way Dustin Gable called his brother by his given name, wondering at his casual behaviour towards Richard before pushing the thought out of his mind. That really wasn’t any of his business.
“I d-doubt he’d appreciate that v-v-very much,” he said after a moment, adjusting some papers on his desk. His shaking hands paused in the midst of collecting Mrs Turner’s papers, his gaze far away. “…How is my brother?”
He looked up to see Dustin looking at him with understanding. Richard hadn’t actually allowed Allen to see him for the past few weeks; he only came by when the younger Townsend was sleeping. It ached to be pushed away from his brother like this, but he supposed it was also understandable; Richard suspected he was attacked because of something to do with Allen.
Oh, how right he was…
“He’s fine,” Dustin’s voice interrupted his thoughts, making Allen look at the ex-soldier curiously. “Being a bit whingy, but I s’pose that’s to be expected. He doesn’t play ‘patient’ very well, does he?”
Allen smiled, remembering when Richard was a child. Every time he would catch cold or become unwell in some other manner, he would throw a small fit and be the most difficult of patients. His mother dealt with him in her quiet, detached way; Father hadn’t bothered to deal with him at all, only acknowledging his sons when they were behaving and then constantly when they were older and had respectable careers as doctors.
“No,” he said after a moment of remembering, shaking his head and tucking away the rest of his papers into a pile, placing them to the side so that he could put them in his briefcase later on that day, “he does not. I-is that all, Mister Gable?”
“That it would, Doctor Townsend.” Dustin pushed himself back onto his feet, stumbling before grabbing onto his cane. He scowled down at his leg, looking up at Allen and shrugging helplessly. “I can’t stand like I used te, but I can still take down anyone who so much as looks funny at your brother, I can promise you that.”
“I have n-no doubt of your c-c-capabilities, Mister Gable,” Allen said softly, rising to his own feet and making his way to the door of his office. He opened it for the shorter man, taking Dustin’s hand when the other Englishman offered his to him. Shaking it once, he dropped the firm grip of the other and smiled thinly. “…Thank you, for s-speaking with me. Please take good c-care of my brother.”
“Will do.” Dustin put his bowler cap back on, tipping the brim low over his eyes and nodding cordially to Allen. Stepping out, he made his way out of the hospital without further delay, Allen watching from his door.
Once Dustin was out of sight, he turned back to his desk, closing the door behind him. He rubbed his forehead as he fell back into his seat, glancing at the organization of his desk and briefly hating it. The office, the patients, the work - all of it. He just wanted to walk out and not bother coming back for the rest of the day. Just one day off, one day to himself where he could sleep and rest and relax and not worry about anything.
He didn’t want to worry about his brother. He didn’t want to worry about seeing Ezekiel Walker burst into his office with a bleeding face and a panicked look in his eyes. He didn’t want to worry about going to the Orchard and almost getting arrested by Chief Gregory Hale and his bulls.
He didn’t want to worry about Zebediah Walker.
All he could think about during the days was that night almost a week ago, when Zebediah had stumbled into his home and fallen asleep shaking. He didn’t see him cry, and when Allen pulled back, he could find no trace of tears on his face. He knew there had been tears, though - his neck had been damp with them.
But he could honestly say that he had never seen Zebediah Walker cry. Just held him as the strong man appeared to break down into a little boy lost in the city and unsure of what to do.
He had never asked why Zebediah had come to him that night. He had never asked, despite reading in the news almost three days later that the police had found a charred, unidentified body in a back alley, and that it was thought that the dead gentleman had been connected to gangster movement in the city.
He had never asked, despite Zebediah leaving him the next day, saying only “it’s been dealt with” before disappearing into the shadows of early morning.
He hadn’t asked, and he didn’t want to know if he was going to be honest. He could be honest, at least to himself, couldn’t he? He knew what had happened, and he just liked to pretend that he didn’t. It was easier to sleep at night if he didn’t think about a man dead in an alleyway because he had hurt a Townsend.
It was easier to pretend ignorance.
Pinching the bridge of his nose as he fought a headache, the doctor leaned back in his chair and questioned every decision he had made since that night in September when Cooper West had convinced him to go to the Apple Orchard.
Unsurprisingly, this did not help his headache.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
“Knock, knock, I’m comin’ in whether you’re decent or not!”
Zebediah looked over to the hotel door as it opened, revealing Rachel sliding into the room with the grace of a swan. She almost looked like a swan today, wearing creamy white with black accents around her hips and along the collar and hem of her dress. A close-fitted cap covered her crimped brown hair, the golden chain holding her cross hanging heavy around her neck. She smiled over at him as she closed the door, marching back to him.
“Standin’ by the window a safe idea?”
“It’s fine,” Zebediah turned back to the window, lifting an arm and giving Rachel a quick squeeze when she approached him. The moll pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, leaning against his side and joining him in his window gazing. “Tegan’s been able to call off Clearwater’s guys for a while now. Makes me curious, though, how he’s doin’ that.”
“I might be able to enlighten you,” Rachel said lightly, bumping her hip against his and grinning at their dim reflections in the glass. “Wallace Clearwater kicked it about five days ago.”
“What?”
“Mmhmm. Poison did him. Woman’s weapon, I bet you can guess who did it.”
“Evelyn Good,” Zebediah breathed, hazel-green eyes widening in shock. “Lord almighty, I didn’t even know she was hangin’ off the old man’s arm!”
“It’s only been for about a month or so; her last beau, poor dear, dropped dead in the Boiler Room after drinking some very bad coffin varnish.” Crossing her arms above her stomach, Rachel leaned forward to look down at the street a few stories below. Zebediah never liked to stay on the ground floor - you could always be caught unawares, then. If he was higher up, the people after him would have to go up the elevator or the stairs to get to him, and that gave him enough time to get the hell out of there.
This was also why Zebediah always tried for the room closest to the fire exit. He could clamber down much faster that way.
“So where is she, now? Always gotta watch for Evelyn Good, spider that she is.”
“Miss black widow is actually dead, too,” Rachel continued with a small smile, always giddy to know something Zebediah didn’t. Zebediah turned the woman to face him, looking at her with a clearly disbelieving expression on his face. “Why Mister Walker, you look like you don’t believe a word comin’ out of my mouth. You going to start doubtin’ my information now?”
“How’d she die?”
“His name is Timothy Dawson, and he’s a little bit scarier than Wallace Clearwater. He used to be one of Wallace’s guards, but the moment his boss kicked it, he broke off. He’s been building his own group since.”
“I ain’t ever heard of him.”
“‘Course you haven’t, he’s kept down low like a proper snake,” Rachel sniffed, plucking at her cross and turning back to the window. “Only reason I know his name and am still breathin’ is ‘cause I have people I can ask questions to without rousing any suspicion.”
“Like who?”
“That sweetheart Justin Rockwell who plays violin on the street just ‘round the corner of Hooker Lane. Also your favourite Irish blotto.”
“Russell Marx has information that I don’t,” Zebediah said incredulously, crossing his arms and leaning his shoulder on the window. “Slap me twice and hand me to my momma, I don’t believe that within an inch of my life.”
“I don’t think I will slap you, your head is practically made out of cast-iron,” Rachel mused with a wrinkle of her nose, before shaking her head. “Russell has got a lot more information than you give the poor boy credit for. He’s got cousins in New York, y’know.”
“What’s his cousins got to do with anything?”
“Oh, you think when Russell first immigrated to the good old U.S. of A he came straight to Westfield? Come on, honey, you’re smarter than that. He’s got family in New York City. What kind of family do you think he’s got?”
Zebediah narrowed his eyes, trying to see what point Rachel was making, before cursing softly under his breath. Rachel grinned, patting his arm without bothering to look at him. “Good boy.”
“Okay, so he’s got family in the Irish mob, what of it?”
“Zebediah Walker, you think they just let him stick around the place doing nothin’ but boozin’ off of ‘em and lazing about during the day? Think man, you’re making me question your intelligence more than usual.”
“Don’t you play cheeky with me, Rachel Price, don’t you dare.”
“Oh, you can’t hurt me. I’m the only reason why the big boys in the city don’t know about gentle Allen Townsend.” She winced when Zebediah walked away from her, turning to watch him disappear into the closet. He came back out with an unlabelled bottle - but she knew it for what it was. The familiar amber of Zebediah’s favourite particular poison was as recognizable as the sun to her since she had known him. “Zebediah…”
“What does Russell Marx’s family have to do with anything?” he said through gritted teeth, uncapping the alcohol and taking a long swipe from it. Rachel sighed, gripping onto her cross before walking over to him. Placing a hand on his, she forced him to lower the bottle - well, perhaps ‘forced’ was too strong a word. More like Zebediah allowed her to.
“I shouldn’t have brought up Allen,” she said softly, her tone apologetic. Zebediah grunted but said nothing more, making the moll roll her pale eyes. “Russell worked for his cousins in New York City - it was how he was able to buy a train over to Westfield. He knows the ropes of this side of the law, probably better than you. He knows where to look and where not to look - helps when he doesn’t affiliate with only one speakeasy, but all of them around town. The big ones and the little ones.”
“The pros of being a drunk,” Zebediah snorted, putting down the bottle with Rachel’s help.
“Says the drunk,” Rachel quipped lightly, squeezing his hand before slipping away. “And before you ask, Justin sees everyone. So does his little friend Stuart Rodgers. I’d keep my eye on those two and the ringleader of the homeless circus if I were you.”
“Dominic and his monkeys can be invisible if they wanna be.”
“Only if you come unprepared,” Rachel grinned, heading towards the door and opening it without further ado. “I’ll see you tonight, Zeb - relax a little, would ya? Wound tighter than a carnival toy, you are.”
She slipped out as easily as she had slipped in, the door shutting with a muted click behind her. Staring at the closed door, Zebediah shook his head and picked up the bottle of whiskey.
“That woman gives me the worst headache, swear ta God she does…”