“Be with you in a moment!” he called loudly, hoping his voice would carry to whomever had just come into the front of the store and mollify them long enough for him to finish laying the sole of this pair of boots — he believed the secret to his boots reputation as exceptionally long-wearing came as much from the nails themselves as the rhythm of driving them through the sole. He never spoke this theory aloud or showed anyone — even his apprentice. Two nails left, and the arrival of the would-be customer nary disturbed his tap-tap-tapping. Done.

He straightened, stretching his back and taking in a deep breath. Getting to his feet he parted the curtain that blocked the view between the front of the store and the back. The sight of this potential customer made him pause for a moment. The tall man stood a good six and a half feet, Victor guessed, his suit an immaculately tailored black double breasted pinstriped number that must have cost more than Victor paid in rent for the store for a year. The man peered through silver-framed reading glasses, inspecting the sole of a dark brown work boot Victor had on display, turning it over in his large, dark hands. “You do beautiful work,” his words a deep basso profondo. He paused and looked up from the boot, meeting Victor’s eyes. “You come highly recommended.”

“Thank you, sir,” Victor said, then hastily added, “Umm, I beg your pardon, but I wonder whether you’re in the right shop. I specialize in work boots — most of my clientèle are construction workers.”

“What suggests to you that I’m not a construction worker?” the man asked, stepping closer.

“Uh, well, your suit for one…”

A broad grin creased the man’s round clean-shaven face. “I’m joshing with you, Victor. Though my father worked on many buildings in the city,” he looked up at the ceiling as if he were gazing right through it to the towering buildings around them. “I imagine he would have very much appreciated the supreme craftsmanship in these,” he gestured to the boot in his hand.

“Thank you again — How do you know my name? How can I help you?”

“Sydney,” the man said, “Please, call me Sydney.”

“Of course, sir, err, Sydney. How may I help you?”

“I’m the general manager of the Elysium Hotel. I trust you’re familiar with it?”

“Of course. Best hotel in the city, I understand.”

“Best hotel in the country, I’m proud to say, and have been for the last two generations. But we have a problem, Victor, and I believe you are… uniquely qualified to help us.”

Victor realized the direction this conversation was going and didn’t like it. He licked his lips nervously and said, “No… no, I don’t think I can help you.”

“Our main elevator banks have stopped working. Have you seen them?”

“No, I can’t afford the Elysium,” his words came out more clipped than he intended.

“But you’re familiar with the elevators? They’re the architectural showpiece of the building,” the man’s cadence picked up. “Surely, you’re familiar with their design. A single iron pillar behind each elevator car, no cables, no supports…”

Victor took a moment to decide how to answer. “Yeah, I’m familiar with them,” he said curtly. “You’ll need an ironist for that.”

“Indeed.”

“Too bad there aren’t any around anymore.” He paused. “Though I heard of a guy in San Francisco who claimed to be an ironist. Maybe check him out?”

“Your grandfather built that elevator bank, Victor.”

“Oh, I know,” Victor said. “And if he were still alive I suspect he’d be able to help you but he’s been dead twenty years. The last of the ironists… Well, except maybe for that guy in California. You should check him out…”

“Victor, I’m here because I believe you’re more capable than you acknowledge.”

“Thanks,” he smiled. “I’m not. My grandfather is long-dead. His knowledge died with him. Iron magic, as far as I or anyone you’ll talk to, died not long after…” he sighed. “Look, Mr…”

“Sydney.”

“Yes, sorry, Sydney. Look, I’m impressed my grandfather’s work lasted as long as it did. That’s serious craftsmanship! But if there’s an ironist out there, I don’t know of them. I’m sorry.”

Sydney studied him silently for a long moment.

“Why don’t you use galvanized nails?”

“They’re more expensive,” Victor retorted.

“Your boots are the best. You charge a premium for work boots, yet you buy cheap nails? I don’t buy that.”

“Do what you want.”

“Our head of facilities has a pair of your boots. Has worn them every day for the last five years. I looked at the soles of his shoes the other day when he was on the ladder. Those nails are pristine.”

“You’re point?”

“He walks to work from the subway every day, rain or shine. I wonder how many puddles or how much slush he’s stepped through. And yet, not a dot of rust on those nail heads.”

“What is your point, Sydney?”

“You’re an ironist, Mr. Duvey, like your grandfather.”

Victor didn’t speak.

“Could I persuade you to at least come with me to look at the elevators?”

“I can’t help you—”

“Just look,” Sydney held out his hands defensively. “We’ve got emergency measure in place right now for our existing guests, but we have fifty three floors of rooms and suites. No easily accessible elevators means we have to shut down. If we shut down, that’s a terrifying amount of money every day. Please… just look.”

“I’ve got a store to run here,” he started, but was interrupted by the ringing of the bell and his apprentice, Dave, coming in from his lunch. Great timing, kid, Victor thought as the young man walked quietly past them and into the back.

“I can pay you for your time. Say, three hundred dollars — just to look.”

Victor bit back a knee-jerk reaction. Three hundred dollars to just look? How could he reasonably turn it down? “Okay,” he acquiesced, “but just to look. I’m not—”

“Not an ironist, I know. Shall we?” Sydney gestured towards the door.

“David!” Victor called towards the back.

“Yeah, boss?” David said, his head appearing through the curtain.

“Watch the shop. I’ll be back in a few.”

“You got it.”

When they arrived at the Elysium they entered through the service entrance and Sydney led him to a service elevator. As he inserted his managers key and turned it to “Maintenance Deck” he explained, “We have a number of service and freight elevators that use conventional lift mechanisms. They’re not set up for guests, of course, but for the time being they’re the emergency solution we have. The elevator shuddered slightly as it rose.

Victor had been to the Elysium before. His grandfather had led him across the great foyer to the delicate glass-fronted elevators. He remembered the pride in his grandfather’s face as they entered the elevator car in the middle of the five, and he remembered how perfectly smooth the ride was. They took it up to the top floor and the only indication they were moving came from visual cues as the world scrolled by outside the glass door. He couldn’t actually feel any movement in the car at all. All the while, his grandfather beamed.

Victor was literally jolted out of his reverie by the elevator making an abrupt stop at the maintenance floor. The doors opened on a concrete pad connecting a number of catwalks. Sydney took the lead, walking purposefully onto the wide grated catwalk ahead of them. They crossed open pipe conduits and giant bundles of wires as they reached another concrete pad and changed directions onto another catwalk. After the third direction change Victor gave up trying to keep up his mental map. Finally, they crossed another catwalk and Victor recognized the arc of iron pillars ahead of him — these were the columns for the main elevator. A catwalk traced the arc of the five pillars of extremely pure, matte gray iron nearly a meter in diameter that rose straight up to collars affixed to the ceiling of the building, just a few feet above their head. As his eye traced the pillars he saw blemishes.

“How long have the elevators been out of service?”

“A day… 36 hours at most,” Sydney returned.

Victor moved right next to the pillar that caught his eye and sighted up the length to the ceiling. “This one’s been giving you trouble for longer than that.”

“Yes,” Sydney returned, “We haven’t operated that elevator for a few weeks now.”

“The rust is a dead giveaway — it won’t form on charged iron. But once that charge drops… oxidation within days, some within hours. Look, you can see the rust up there,” he stepped back and pointed.

“I see,” Sydney said, squinting.

Victor placed a hand on each pillar in turn. “Well, it’s clear you’ve got a problem here,” Victor said after touching the last pillar. “Stone cold. You’re definitely going to need an ironist if you hope to get these functioning.”

“We need your help,” Sydney said.

“I’m not an ironist, I told you…”

“What would your grandfather do?”

White hot anger surged through Victor, but he tamped it down. When he had his emotions as under control as he could he asked, “Do you know how my grandfather died?”

“A car accident I believe.”

Victor smiled wryly, “Yeah, a car accident… right after the passenger in the car next to him put a bullet in his head.”

“That wasn’t—”

“In the papers? Yeah, it wasn’t part of the narrative. You see, fancy hotels weren’t the only demand for ironists. The military also saw the advantages of harnessing iron magicians. He worked with them on a number of projects — a lot of ironists did. Until it became clear their work was being used to kill. They all stopped, every one of them. My grandfather was the most outspoken — their unofficial spokesman. They killed him. The government. They believed if ironists weren’t going to work with the US, it’s in the country’s best interest to make sure they don’t fall into Communist hands. What started as killing the leader led to an all out extermination— sorry, I mean a lot of ironists getting into fatal car accidents.”

Sydney was quiet. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

“Yeah, me too,” Victor said looking at the pillars.

“Oh, I’m sorry about your grandfather, certainly. But I’m also sorry about this,” Sydney said as he suddenly shoved Victor towards the pillars with all the force he could muster. The railing of the catwalk gave way and Victor flailed as he fell towards the pillars and the cold polished marble floor so many stories below…

Only he didn’t fall far.

Sydney stepped to the edge of the catwalk. About a meter down Victor hung, each hand braced against an iron pillar. He breathed heavily as he hung there, but it was an effort to recover from the shock rather than from exertion. “Are you happy?” he said incredulously, adding, “You son of a bitch?”

“Completely,” Sydney said, dropping to a knee and offering a hand.

Victor pushed off of the far pillar and placed both hands on the same pillar, using his open hands one over the other to scale the smooth pillar as if it were a ladder. He climbed above the level of the catwalk and them leapt to the walkway.

Sydney stood up, dusting off the knees of his suit. As he straightened, Victor punched him in the mouth.

“I deserved that,” Sydney said, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief he pulled out of a jacket pocket.

“Yeah, you did,” Victor said, still breathing faster than normal. “Now if you’re satisfied, I’m leaving — send the check to my store.” He looked from one catwalk to another trying to remember the way back to the elevator.

“Fifteen thousand dollars.”

“What?”

“That’s what I’m willing to pay you to get these elevators working again.”

“Are you insane? After you just pushed me off the catwalk?!”

“I had to make sure you really were as capable an ironist as I suspected.”

“And if you were wrong?!” Victor demanded.

“I wasn’t wrong.”

“But what if you were?!”

“Fifteen thousand, off the books. I appreciate your desire to keep your skills hidden. You can work after hours, slip in the back…”

Victor wanted to laugh in his face. Victor wanted to punch him again. Victor wanted to walk away without saying a word. But he didn’t. He thought about that insane amount of money. And then, no matter how hard he fought it, he thought about his grandfather beaming as they rode the lifts that he had built that now lay dormant…

“Fifteen thousand,” Victor said. “Off the books. No one else knows.”

“Absolutely,” Victor said, extending his hand. “Can you start tonight?”

Victor drew in a long slow breath and let it out equally slowly. Then he took shook Sydney’s hand. “Yeah, I can start tonight.”