Red Winter in New York - Prelude

A screeching wind blows into the Bowery from Hudson Bay, like the wrath of some ancient zephyr. Newspapers fly by the glass windows like ghostly, monstrous birds. The cobblestone streets are covered by a sickly mixture of mud, manure and filth.

Welcome to the New World.

The various pubs that surround the docks offer a bewildering variety of spirits to a bewildering variety of people. Sitting between an Arab trader in a white turban and a Russian immigrant nearly seven feet tall, José Reyes hardly drew a second glance. Except from the bartender, an Irish immigrant with a red face and a red moustache.

"Eh, José, another week off?"

"Sí, O'Malley. Seems like these forced vacaciones are going to last until spring."

"Cheer up, lad. The Lord works in mysterious ways, his drinks to behold."

With that, O'Malley slided another mug of black Guiness to the young Mexican lad. Seemed like an eternity when José left his native Yucatán for the promise of the Land of Opportunity. Instead of heading North, towards California, he decided to go East. That's where the real money was.

Glancing at his possessions, José gave a wry smile. "Like 6 dollars and 45 cents were 'real money'..."

A heavy hand turns José around on his stool.

"G'd Evening, laddy!". Robert MacLellan gave a broad smile to his small friend.

"Hola, Bobby Mac. How's it been?"

"Pretty much the usual. I just dropped Professor Brooks over at Dr. Johnson's house, and must meet him there at 10 PM."

José made a signal for Barman O'Brien.

"Send another Guiness this way, O'Brien. Bobby Mac and I still have four hours of drinking ahead of us."

The Johnson "house" is more of a manor, poised on the East Side of the Central Park. Even though there's still a few years before the new century, new buildings are getting closer to the houses of the wealthy. No longer one must walk twenty minutes before reaching another's property. From the bay windows in his white three-story house, Doctor Allistair Johnson can already see the flickering gaslights of the Erwins' house, his neighboor. Ignoring the red carpet of leaves of the Park, he turns his attention to the chess board in front of him. His adversary is a man he has come to like, in spite of the man's affections for his sister.

"Come on, Preston. Make your move. Ramses didn't take this much to siege Kadesh."

Professor Preston Brooks smiled embarassed. Even though he is a prestiged professor in the New York University Departament of History, he still looked up to this man, the only man he's come to see as a father. Doctor Johnson's keen mind was impressive enough. But the doctor's zeal to protect his sister, the beautiful Alexandra, only helped enhance his paternal impression on Preston.

"Actually, Allistair, it was a stalemate at Kadesh..."

The doctor's face remained still. Preston considered that the world's best poker face.

Allistair gave a tiny smile.

"True. Now move."

Preston couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief.

"Knight to Bishop's Pawn. Check, Allistair."

Again the poker face.

"Bishop to King's Rook. Checkmate."

Dammit!, Preston thought, Always the Rook!

Allistair poured himself a glass of whiskey and went up to the window.

"What's wrong, Allistair?", Preston asked.

"What time is it, Preston?"

Preston pulled out a chain watch. "Seven-thirty."

"Alexandra should be home by now. I didn't know the Archery Club for Ladies stayed open to this hour."

"Er... Allistair...", Preston hesitated, "The Archery Club... It closes at five..."

Allistair bowed his head slightly.

"Oh, she's gonna get what's coming to her when she gets home...", he murmured."I bet she's with that crazy priest..."

Preston's face paled visibly. "Oh, Lord. Where can that girl be?". He already knew the answer. The Bowery.

"I don't think this is advisable, child."

"Aw, c'mon, Father Davies. Give your guardian angel something to do!"

Father Jefferson Davies loved this girl like a daughter. Of course, his job required that he felt this way about everyone. But Alexandra Johnson was special. Her soul shined like a candle in the darkness of the darker parts of the city. His fear was that any candle can be blown out if the wind's strong enough. And amid opium houses, sweatshops, clandestine boxing rings and other unspeakable sights, the wind was strong indeed.

But Alexandra didn't care about that. Visiting the homeless' shelters was almost an obsession to her. How could she stay in her comfortable house in the East Side, when some many people starved and froze to death on the Lower Manhattan?

"Just one more, Father. I still have some bread and cheese in the basket."

"Oh, alright. But I still think it was not advisable to dismiss our cab."

"Like it would be safer to parade around here in a rented buggy. This way we'll draw less attention to ourselves."

"Somehow I doubt that."

Father Davies was distracted when Alexandra screamed to the top of her lungs.

"What --", he stopped in mid-sentence, when he discovered the sight that provoked such reaction on the girl.

The alley they now fave was covered in a crimson liquid that could very well be wine. But the mangled form on the ground, mere feet away from them, proved otherwise.

"Police! Police!", the priest called.

The girl couldn't move her eyes from the claw marks on the man's back, and the growing puddle beneath him.