The Ballad of James McKenna

Day Eight: Money

Day Eight
         Money
Word Count: 1053

"The boys have wired our monthly salary from Chicago." Nate collapsed into the wingback next to where Jimmy sat reading (not a newspaper this time, but rather Shakespeare), the sounds of a phonograph clipping and scratching in the background. He'd been on the aethophone all morning, mouth shoved into a transmitter and head into receiver, with the home office, giving an update on the case and giving the regrettable news that they wouldn't be returning for some time. "Seems they take pity on our plight."

Jimmy shrugged. "Most of it goes to Ohio anyway. I worked out a deal with Jenkins. He sends three-quarters of my salary to Cincinnati and a quarter of it to me every month, I don't tell Pinkerton who it was broke the Babbage engine last year. It works out well for me."

Nate raised an eyebrow, his blues sparkling with amusement. "You? Jimmy McKenna, using blackmail to get what he wants?"

"When it deals with money, yes. I have a family to take care of and any cent he takes from my check comes from their portion. He'd be too chicken to take it directly from me, but he also knows I wire to make sure Mother got all the money correctly. So I fixed the Babbage and I keep it quiet that Jenkins is the one who spilt whiskey all over it."

"Whiskey?" Nate shook his head. "Give me a fine brandy over that stuff any day. I feel like it could be used to strip the gears off a electro-scanner. Hell, I feel like it might melt away my electro-field." The Virginian made a face, remembering the first (and only) time Jimmy had convinced him to have a swig of the stuff. Jameson, which had been his maternal grandfather's drink of choice until the potatoes rotted in the fields and he abandoned the Emerald Isle for New York Harbor. It was harder to get in the States, but Jimmy still drank it in remembrance of Papa Quinn, who'd died when Jimmy was five.

Jimmy shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. He preferred not to laugh at others, preferring also to not be laughed at himself, but Nate looked as if he'd been forced to swallow sewer water. "Really, Nate. I drink it and I'm damn sure I still have an electro-field. Here, we'll go down to the scanner and I'll prove it to you."

"No, no, I believe you. Still, perhaps it is an Irish predilection. My English family prefer their brandy."

"Southerners..." Jimmy let out a mock sigh of exasperation and put down his book. "So, what shall we do with our riches?"

"Riches? You've got $75 to last you the month, boyo! If you didn't insist upon giving so much of your money away every month, then you could speak to me about doing something with our riches. You don't even have the money to buy yourself a new suit. I had to have it written off as an expense because I couldn't bare to see you taking that jacket of yours to the tailor anymore." Nate shook his head. "You've got to start thinking about your future. Get your sisters married off to fine gentlemen and think about saving up so you can marry yourself a fine lady."

"Is that what you're doing, Nate? Saving up for a fine lady?" Jimmy lengthened his vowels to match his partner's drawling accent. "You've a suit for just about every day in the week...how can you afford to save up for a wife? A decent wife, anyway."

Nate laughed. "I've got five years on you, Jimmy. Five more years of saving, five more years of bonuses. I've saved up pretty well and I'm thinking about retiring from this organization relatively soon. Thought I might settle down and go into the law."

"Well, as long as you don't go too far, I suppose that's a fair enough plan." Jimmy picked up his book again, but the words swam before his eyes. He'd never really given much thought to saving for the future; he always just assumed that he would. As soon as Annibel found a good man to marry, some of the burden would be lessened from Jimmy's shoulders, and when he got the other three married off, his mother could go live with one of them in their new house. Then Jimmy could--and would--focus on himself and his own future.

He'd always wondered what it was about money that made people so...wild. It changed them, warped their sensibilities and stole their moral decency. What wouldn't a even good man do for a lot of money? It was one thing Jimmy had never bought into. There were certain things that made life worth living and, yes, some of those things required money, but the idea that money itself was the goal, that simply having money to spend was the ultimate sign of one's worth, that was just anathema to the mechanicler. He never understood it. A man should appear well-kept, yes, and well-situated in life, but one did not need excessive amounts of money to achieve such a state. For his part, it was the one thing Jimmy didn't think he needed.

Having special blood did not make one a worth while individual. It did not make one special. America had decided that over a century ago when titles formally disappeared and the King was overthrown in favor of the Republic. But then why did Americans allow a such a simple thing as money to turn their heads upside down? If blood could not make one special, why was it that paper (and the rock it represented) could? A man's worth could not be measured by his wealth...or else one Horatio Moody was word thousands of Owain McKennas. And that was something Jimmy could not abide by.

"Let's go get a drink. You look like you're thinking too much. It's Sunday. No one should think so deeply on their one day off a week."

Jimmy shook his head to clear himself of his pondering. "And you shouldn't drink on Sunday, either, and that doesn't seem to be stopping you. But you're right. My thoughts weren't taking me anywhere helpful. Let's get a drink, and we can talk about where to go from here."