City Of Fire Trilogy 1 - Dreamland by Kevin Baker Page A

drawing pencils, a t-square out of his desk.
    “Everything—absolutely everything—”
    “A miniature town hall. A precinct house. A tiny fire station with real, tiny hook-and-ladders—”
    “Why not, why not?”
    “A rail station. A post office. A church—no, a midget cathedral—“
    “A real palace,” I snuck in, “for a real king and queen.”
    “There has never been such a thing! A city—a real, livable city—built to your scale. The architecture of the small, and the low. Doorknobs two feet off the ground. Windows and doors that open with a child’s touch; fine and delicate as a Japanese pagoda. A masterpiece in miniature! Why not, why not—when all the world is getting bigger?”
    He was already mapping out the parameters of the town, bushy hair curling up demonically in the oven heat.
    “Yes, a palace,” he murmured.
    “. . . Perhaps the Palacio Nationale. From Mexico City . . . “ I suggested.
    “But who would we find for such a thing? What king and queen?”
    It wasn’t something he really concerned himself with. The buildings were what he loved; everything else was just props, to be filled in later.
    “Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “I have somebody in mind.”
     
    The rest of it was easy.
    All it took was another trip up to the Bowery in my newsboy disguise. I waited for an appropriate moment, until after her first show was over and the Dudes were absorbed in a new production of The Jew of Malta, featuring added scenes in which Mose the Bowery Boy bounds onto the set and unmasks Barabas before he can have Abigail poisoned.
    I made my way around the back, among the lascivious props of the Grand Duke’s: a particularly bulbous, bloodstained set of woman’s breasts. A bloody, papier-mâché head, with tear-away scalp; a horse’s head, bleeding from both eyes. Wading through the stage gore, I found what I was looking for: a wooden pistol, nearly as big as my arm. I picked up an enormous stage saber for good measure; this was my heroic hour. Armed with only these props, I stormed her dressing room. In one quick motion, I picked the lock and slammed the door open, prepared for whatever might come.
    He wasn’t there. She was, though—still regal as a queen, sitting at her makeshift vanity. Even with the door crashing in, she did not hurry her royal, deliberate turn. I could swear, though, that I actually saw a hint of admiration in her eyes—something that sent chills through me.
    “Quickly—there’s not much time!” I told her, dramatic as any romance hero. “Get your things together.”
    “Are we going somewhere?” she asked, still perfectly self-possessed.
    “To your palace—where else? It is being built even as we speak— Your Majesty.”
    The salutation did it. Her mad blue eyes glistened with the thought. A palace! It’s one of the advantages of dealing with the truly insane; they wish for the moon but are completely satisfied with cheese.
    “I must pack,” she insisted—still testing me.
    She hopped down from her chair, wooden shinguards knocking together, and opened up a traveling trunk stuffed with the most exquisite, miniature dresses and gowns—a living doll’s wardrobe.
    “Please hurry— Majesty!” I begged her, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. She ignored me, of course, neatly folding and packing away her ensembles as if she were going on tour.
    I ducked around the corner, and peered out through the wings: I could see him at the bar still, towering above the boys. Even as I watched, he finished the last swig of his whiskey, dashed coins absently out on the bar and began to make his way toward me, through the merry crowd cheering the thrashing of the Jew.
    “Now!” I screamed at her, bolting back into the dressing room.
    She was working carefully through her yards of fine, silken underwear, sorting through mounds of credible paste diamonds and pearls and tiaras—humming “The Blue Danube” to herself as contentedly as if she were