Chapter Text
Five beers deep. Hadn’t moved a goddamn inch. Irish pisswater, creme on the top. Just what he needed. Calhoun whistled as he shined his glasses, lining them up the way he liked them. Most of the MIT students could get into the higher end bars. Gordon wasn’t wanted there. There wasn’t a chance in hell he could have been accepted if he wasn’t lucky. It just so happened that Dr. Kleiner took a shining to him, and steamrolled his way through admissions to get a shiny, wax stamped acceptance letter in his hands. A friend in a high place, as it were.
Under Kleiner, he studied physics, and he was immediately taken by the Atomic Theory. It was as if he could look at the world as a building, and the atom was this fundamental brick, this keystone of creation. It was a magnificent, noble, perhaps tragic cause to dedicate himself to a fledgling study. But there was an issue. Whilst it could inform the newly christened Laws of Thermodynamics, the Atomic Theory was highly lacking in details. The atom was just an idea without shape. They needed the structure of this brick.
Like all great thinkers, he spent his free time contemplating structure.
Gordon drank to get creative. And he drank to numb the sadness. Numb the boredom. Even joy, when he needed a hit of whiskey to temper his optimism. Not that there was much to begin with.
MIT wasn’t kind to him. That’s why he had to drink at an Irish pub, creatively named Calhoun’s . He wasn’t a talented namer, that Calhoun, but he was a pretty respectable man. Warm eyes, a domestic double chin, unkempt stubble. The man ran his establishment pretty tight and didn't let things get too rowdy. But he had an open door policy. It was perfect for someone who needed somewhere to get drunk and think.
Calhoun knew the value of that as well. If his stories were true, and many were inclined to believe him, he used to guard caravans going westward before the railroad made him obsolete. He had lots of absurd tales. Drunken wrestling with lake squids, wayward romances with Cherokee princesses… staring the devil in the eye, knees buckling in the Chihuahuan. Praying to god and getting no answer.
Two years ago, Calhoun met the devil in a nettle field. His eyes were like cactus flowers, colored like tequila. With skin as pale as moonlit dust. The devil hit him with a premonition; the Black Ridge was his kingdom, and no man made of god was to set foot there. That’s why he threw in the hat at age thirty. Still a fairly young man. But it was about time for him to settle back home, and Massachusetts was as close to Ireland as he was getting nowadays.
Gordon belched and tapped the side of his glass. With practiced obedience, he was topped off again.
“Damn, Gordon. Temper yourself. You’re gonna wet your whistle with lunch instead of a lager.” He poured himself a drink for the nerve. Babysitting a drunk Gordon had become one of his pastimes since opening up, “Get yourself nice and get comfortable. We’ve got live entertainment tonight. Twelve Finger Mildred’s tickling the ivories. I can bring her behind the bar and put in a good word for ya.”
“Too soon.”
“God didn’t give her two extra fingers for nothing. A loverly night for the two of you is just what I’m prescribing, as well as a shot of courage. Dr. Calhoun’s private reserve.” He shook the bottle of whiskey in front of Gordon’s face, a coquettish little smile on him, “I’ve shaved vanilla in there for me and the missus, but you two get a sip of that? Heh. Won’t be able to keep your damn hands off each other.”
“My body only yearns for Emily’s.” It was a lie, but at the same time there was a touch of truth to that statement. He wished he was something different. Emily was the mother of his son, and took the boy in the divorce. At night, when he laid down in bed, he looked to where she used to be. He’d hold her in absentia if he was sober. Couldn’t be sober at night.
“That’s why you turned to the bottle and not to god. Got it.” He rolled his eyes, “Listen Gordon, you ain’t even fooling yourself. Your body didn’t yearn for Emily. It yearned for a bottle of Irish pride and this Adam nonsense you're looking into.”
How many times would he have to explain this? Gordon sighed and massaged the rising headache, “Atoms. Indivisible particles that make up everything. We want to figure out what they are. It would explain the behaviors of—“
“Last thing I need to hear is a drunkard talking about his hypothetical… god dandruff! Why don’t you go hump a percussion ball… thing instead then, hmm?” Barney didn’t know anything about Newton’s cradle except what Gordon had told him. It was a perpetual motion device made up of several percussive balls that yadda yadda blah blah blah boring .
“A piece of dandruff might have quadrillions of atoms in it. We don’t know.”
“Man, just drink, will ya? You’d think there being nothing else after fifty or… a hundred years means it ain’t real. For some smart guys you sure seem stupid.”
“Atoms are most definitely real. It’s about structure. I think the shape of the atom will dictate the state of the material. I was talking with Kleiner about this—“
Calhoun shoved a piece of bread in his mouth, “Hold up, new customer. Come have a seat, lad! What can I get you today? Our doors are open to all people, even Italians!” He had that soft, comfy bartender belly-laugh that compelled customers in, “Just a joke.”
“Hello there, are you uh, Mr. Calhoun?” Gordon's first impression of this fellow was that he was way too well-to-do for this part of town. A black silk tailcoat trailed behind him. His golden vest held at his potbelly, matching the primed bowtie at his neck. This was no place for a high hat like that.
He didn’t have the bravado a rich man usually held. Rather, he sat down at the bar next to Gordon with a sheepish look to him. Like a kid drinking his first beer after hearing a sermon about the devil living in each and every drop of alcohol.
“This is he,” Calhoun’s gaze turned shifty. His whole demeanor changed in that instant, with the tension in his shoulders bleeding into his hands and hips, “Who is asking?”
“I’m look—looking for a Mr. Freeman? Mr. Kleiner told me to try here. I uh, have an opportunity for a man of his merits. We’re highly interested in his thesis. He’s as close to an expert on Thermodynamics as—as there is!” He rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “At least in the Union.”
“You’re sitting next to him,” Gordon was going to need a stronger drink than beer to handle this guy. He was childishly inarticulate, and he was underdressed for the event. His hair was uncut, with an obvious beer belly that he usually hid decently with a corset in professional environments. He was dressed like a laborer, in a plain woolen shirt and slacks.
“Let me—let me introduce myself! I’m Dr. Thomas Coolatta, I’m a zoologist at Harvard. Assistant researcher in the—the physiology department. I put rats in an ice tube thanks to your work in thermodynamics!”
“That’s… lovely Tommy.” Yeah, this guy sounded fucking insane. “Who referred me to you?”
“My father works with some really really powerful people. I used to think I was a orphan but it turns out I wasn’t.”
Gordon and Barney shared a glance, and then turned their attention back on this freak as they sipped their drinks.
“My dad’s boss told him… that he needs to send a crew to the um, north of the Chihuahuan. The reward is ten thousand dollars to collect anomalous substances. He wanted a physicist to study the material’s properties.”
Gordon’s jaw dropped, “Ten thousand dollars between how many people?”
“Each.” Tommy readjusted his top hat. Judging by the make of his clothes and the dainty face of his fingers, he wasn’t lying about his wealth. Those were a rich man’s hands.
He could buy a mansion in Spain with that kind of money. He could fund endless experiments! He could finally move to France and work with top physicists in a more civilized land, in a country of intellectuals!
Gordon grabbed his hand in a firm handshake, without Tommy having ever extended the palm. Did he recognize his overeager attitude? Hopefully not–Gordon was desperate, but his pride dictated that he couldn’t seem desperate, “Tommy, I don’t care what you want me to do! It’s a deal!”
Calhoun knew him well enough to see what was happening here. Gordon saw dollar bills, potential, a future made manifest. And Gordon was the kind of man who never worked a day at the factory. That man wouldn’t last a goddamn day in the desert. Not with his smarts, not with his brawn, and sure as hell not with that drunken temper of his. “Don’t be playing with snakes. The devil is in the desert and you’re just—“
“The devil can kiss my rich ass when I’m through.” He tapped his glass, and Calhoun, being the pleaser he was, filled him right back up all the way.
“I can’t afford you leaving! You’re practically feeding my wife!” He watched Gordon’s adam’s apple (or in his case an atom’s apple) bob as he finished his beer in a few seconds. Truly savoring one last drink.
“She can stand to lose a few pounds.” Gordon exhaled, hydrated and satisfied from his watered down swill, “Tommy, when do we leave? I’ll have a talk with Kleiner about the trip. I’m sure my institution would—“
“Taken care of! Mr. Freeman, we have compensated MIT for your absence already.” This Tommy character tugged at his bowtie and dipped his head a touch, getting more on Gordon’s level. There was a doughy look to his eyes. He could have been mistaken for a rather tall boy were his jowls not so mature. Each long stride he took was akin to a foal’s first steps, learning to use its oversized legs.
“Perfect. Let me get my affairs in order.” Gordon couldn’t tell if it was the beer talking or not, but this sounded like a great idea to him. If Calhoun could do it, so could a Freeman. He stumbled onto his feet and set down some coin to settle his tab, “See you, Calhoun!”
“Don’t do it, man! Just because the divorce–”
“What divorce?” Gordon knew what he wanted, and as he met Barney in the eye, he could see the damn near sober conviction in them, “I’ll write to you!”
“You son of a bitch… Happy adventuring.” Calhoun saluted him as Gordon followed Tommy out. Turns out, that stubborn bastard was easy to convince with a bit of a bribe. He could only watch pitifully as he left. Fighting Gordon was like wrangling a full grown Angus bull; You don’t. There was an unease in his chest; He wasn’t quite sure if he’d ever see him again. A quiet funeral was held for a favorite client, and he poured himself a shot of whiskey in his honor.
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