Hop Alley (9 page)

HIS ASSAILANT’S IDENTITY

YET TO BE DISCOVERED.

The Bulletin’s Own Pressman—

A Model Employee for Three Years—

Devoted Husband and Father of Four—

He Is Not Expected to Last the Day.

          
At about eleven o’clock last night Hiram Cowan, a printing press operator for the
Bulletin
, stepped out of the Silver Star Saloon near our offices, at whose door he was met by either one woman or two, depending upon the witness telling the tale, and shot through the abdomen with a small pistol. Mr. Cowan fell to the ground, whereupon his assailant or assailants fled into the darkness. Although the finest in medical care has been provided for him he is not expected to see the sun set again.

               
Members of the Denver Police expressed confidence that an arrest of the murderer can be made by this afternoon at the latest, and that with luck the victim will live sufficiently long to identify his killer.

I put the paper down and found that the boy wasn’t listening. His gaze was fixed at the ground, and his left foot skidded back and forth in a slow rhythm. He looked as close to thoughtful as I had ever seen him.

“That mean he’s dead or ain’t?”

“Sounds like he’s going to be, soon enough. Did you see it happen?”

He looked up at me, his breath whistling softly through his half-open mouth. “Nuh-uh.”

“What’s your interest, then?”

“That’s my old man.”

I glanced at the article again. I had failed to recognize the father’s name, I realized, because I’d never bothered to learn the boy’s surname. I was surprised to learn that his father was employed, since I’d been under the impression that Lemuel was the family’s sole source of income, and I said so.

“I mostly am, since he don’t bring much home with him.”

He didn’t look very sad about his old pa’s impending demise. “Do you want to go and see him?”

He shook his head no. “Not particular.”

B
ETWEEN THE PRIVY
and the stable the odor in the summertime was faint-making, but on this chilly afternoon the ammoniac smell that wafted upward was ever present but faint, more like the memory of the stench than the thing itself. The sensation was almost pleasant, calling to mind long-ago Ohio mornings puzzling apart the most rudimentary of the classical texts before the curiosity-killing drudgery of the school day began.

Now I sat browsing through the
Rocky Mountain News
in the angular light that leaked down through the cracks between the rough pine boards of the shabbily constructed outhouse
around that time of day. When I had finished I put the paper into the rack I had fashioned for storage of reading materials and pulled from it that morning’s already perused
Bulletin
, whose front page, with its account of the shooting of Lem’s Pa, I tore into strips and rendered illegible.

My schedule for the afternoon was clear of obligations and appointments, and my plans vague. I didn’t relish the thought of languishing in the gallery, ordering the boy about and waiting for clients who likely would never materialize, but I hated the thought of missing any who might unexpectedly wander in. I stepped out squinting into the last white light the courtyard would receive that day, and my thoughts went straight to the prints languorously revealing themselves on the rooftop: a sweet elderly lady brought in by her granddaughter for her first photograph, shriveled as a dried-out apple and peering into the lens as though into Satan’s eyeball with an expression wholly unlike the kindly one she’d worn upon entry; a glum lad of sixteen or so trying to make himself out as a dandy, who had required assistance in knotting his silk cravat and in combing his shaggy hair into a poet’s wild mane; and finally one of the broomstick madam’s young ladies, who had come in with her patroness wanting to have a portrait made for the parents of a young client who had taken a strong liking to and wanted to marry her, one that would make her look like a lady. As I began to ascend I looked upward to find Lemuel peering anxiously down at me
from the edge of the rooftop, and I assumed he was waiting for his turn to go down and void his bladder.

“Hold your horses, I’ll be up in a moment,” I told him, but when I reached the top he didn’t take the ladder.

“A man brought a box by and he’s waiting to be paid.” This simple turn of events completely stymied him, and the thought of paying the man from the cashbox never entered his inch-thick blond skull. I took a moment to check on the progress of the prints, which to my satisfaction were about exactly far along as I’d calculated, then climbed down the other ladder into the foyer and found a very angry messenger waiting on the piano bench. He was the size of a stevedore and spoke like a fallen schoolmaster.

“I hope your bowel enjoyed a satisfactory evacuation,” he said, “having cost me as it did goddamn near a quarter of an hour.” An enormous moustache like a horse brush covered his mouth completely, and just above and below it on the left side could be seen the ends of a gruesome scar the lip cover was doubtless meant to hide. Like Lemuel he had only one useful arm, his left; the right was lost entirely. Idly I pondered whether its severing had been concurrent to receiving the scar on his mouth, and I ignored his insolent tone in favor of providing the boy with a valuable lesson.

“You see, Lem?” I said, gesturing at the empty sleeve. “This fellow’s down to one arm permanently, and he hasn’t let it slow him any.”

Lemuel stared with mute terror as the man stood, scowling at me, and recited bitterly the price owed on delivery. I paid him from the billfold in my vest and took the package. The messenger left without further comment, and before I had a chance to open the package the street-side door opened again. A pair of drunks stumbled up the staircase and into the foyer, laughing.

“I would like to get my picture taken with my bosom chum, here, Mr. Schuster,” one of them said. He was the bigger of the two, but they were both big. He was jug-eared and square of jaw, and I had the idea that, sober, he was probably stern of countenance and not inclined to such impulsive behavior as getting your picture taken in the middle of the afternoon.

Mr. Schuster just stood there, looking around at the foyer, drunker than his companion and only dimly aware, I thought, of the nature of his visit. They had money, to judge by their new-looking clothes, and appeared willing to part with it lightheartedly, so I led them into the studio and ordered the boy into the darkroom to make ready the plates for a full portrait session, with
cartes de visite
and eight-by-twelve-inch single and double sittings. I suspected they wouldn’t even remember they’d had the pictures made, much less where to pick up the proofs, so I would charge them an up-front fee for a
de luxe
sitting. I spent the better part of two hours with them, trying to get them to settle down enough for a sharp exposure, and when they were done I hurried them out the door, doubtful I
would ever see them again. I’d print up a set of proofs just in case, but they would almost certainly have left Denver before they remembered their picture had been made, much less where they’d had it done.

Mrs. Fenster returned from Hop Alley with the day’s clean linen and informed me that she had procured me a client. “The old Chinee owns the laundry and about eight other things down there, his nephew’s going to bring him down tomorrow for a picture. He’s good for a bunch of
cartes de visite
to send home to China, and probably a big one too for the laundry wall.”

“I’m much obliged, Mrs. Fenster.”

“That’s all right. He gives me the eye, you know, when I go in.” She put her hand to her enormous hip with her elbow jutted outward, and raised an eyebrow.

“Is that so,” I said, striving to keep the doubt and mirth out of my voice.

“Oh, it’s all right. Long’s we can make a little money off of him.”

“Of course.”

W
HEN THE SUN
was low in the sky I took a walk with the laughable notion of getting some fresh air into my lungs; laughable because a layer of fog and smoke hung over the entire Denver basin like a doused campfire as it did on any moist day cold enough for fires to be built. It was getting colder as I made
my way downtown and entered Schrafft’s Biergarten, where a large crowd had already gathered to celebrate the passage of another workday. A tiny orchestra played music on the bandstand, and the few women present were dancing in front of it with those men bold enough to have asked first. Standing at the bar I searched the crowd for a friend but saw none; I ordered a beer, then asked the barman if there was an errand boy on the premises. I slapped down a whole dime, since this was the better sort of beer hall, and the bartender slid a mugful down the slick bar. After a sip I composed a note on a piece of scrap in my vest pocket, and a moment later a boy not much bigger than Lemuel stood before me. Feeling expansive, I gave him a whole quarter and strict instructions to hand the note to no one but Ralph Banbury at the
Bulletin
.

The hall was filling up and growing noisier, and while there was still room I took a seat at one of the long tables that ran its length. Nursing at my beer and watching the crowd as the sky grew dark and the gaslights came on, I thought how many friends I would have found stepping into my old saloon in Cottonwood, and how few I had in this townful of friendly acquaintances. I consoled myself with the thought that I was making a good living and concentrated on the loveliness of the dancing girls, who waltzed now to a quick tempo. One of them in particular caught my fancy and lifted my spirits, a fair-haired belle without much skill as a dancer who laughed good-naturedly at her every misstep.

I imagined she was German by birth, as were a large percentage of the clientele, and noted a wisp of loose hair,
frisé
and pale as wheat straw, that she kept sweeping back from the left side of her forehead with a slightly irritated half smirk at whichever fellow she was dancing with at the moment. By the time she was on her fourth partner that wisp was dark, slicked to her temple with sweat; I had half determined that I would approach her and take a slot on her dance card when it came to me that my attraction was founded on her slight resemblance to my own absent Maggie. I remained seated, watching her with my hat discreetly on my lap.

I might have gone home if not for the invitation I’d extended to Banbury, but the boy returned shortly—the
Bulletin
’s offices were just two blocks away—and reported that Mr. Banbury would join me within the half hour. I took a seat with my beer and drank it slowly, growing ever more morose with every tune the orchestra played and with every whirl the dancer I’d fancied made on the dance floor.

W
HEN
B
ANBURY ARRIVED
he slapped me on the back and set two beers down on the long table in front of us. He had on a brown bowler, and the bandage over his eye was gone. That eye itself was barely discernible between its swollen purple and black lids, but the other was wrinkled with merriment. “You cheap son of a bitch,” he said. “I assumed you’d be buying the suds.” He took a long swig from his glass and belched.

“How’s your eye?” I asked, and took a last drink from my first glass and then another from the fresh one.

“Better than it was,” he said. “I hate like hell having to lie every goddamn time somebody asks me about it, though.”

“Tell them you’ve been set upon by irate subscribers again.”

He took out two cigars, clipped them both, and handed me one. He looked up toward the bandstand, where a polka tune had just ended. “Jesus, Bill, do you see the one in the blue dress?” he said, jerking his head toward my dancer. She was just sitting down on a bench next to her last dance partner, and they shared a kiss and clasped hands as the band started anew.