The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (34 page)

The streetcar stops were tight with men and women waiting to board, and as the temperature wasn’t biting cold yet, he thought he’d hoof it to his hotel. Instead of heading back up Hennepin he decided to turn northwest, and moved through the darkening shadows towards Second Avenue, a longer way home but far more interesting. As he went he noticed the neighborhood gradually change. While he still walked along cobblestone streets lined with canopied brick storefronts, things were dirtier and the occupants less affluent. Streetwalkers and night hawks lingered on corners, and tag rags mooned about in alleys as he strode by.

The number of saloons was increasing as well. As he passed each one, he was drawn by the warm light, rowdy laughter and melodic songs. He considered a beer and then decided not. He wanted a clear mind to sort out some of the information he’d gathered at the library that day.

The good librarian had offered to look around through the library’s archives, and had come back to the delivery room with a stack of old, musty books, documents and snipped newspaper accounts, all about the failed town of Nininger. He’d pulled out an old advertisement, touting the community to prospective residents, complete with the picture of a sturdy looking steamboat plowing up the river, with “Nininger” displayed proudly on the paddlewheel.

EMIGRATION
UP THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER

The attention of Emigrants and the Public generally, is called to the now rapidly improving TERRITORY OF MINNESOTA. Containing a population of 150,000, and goes into the Union, as a state during the present year. The CITY OF NININGER, Situated on the Mississippi River, 35 miles below St. Paul, is now a prominent point for a Commercial Town, being backed by an extensive Agricultural, Grazing and Farming Country.

He had sifted through the mountain of information until he’d finally found what he was searching for, a bound leather register that filled his nostrils with the stink of mildew. It was a list of everyone who had bought a Nininger lot, and those who’d managed to build houses and live there during its brief, doomed existence. The names were a hash of nationalities, from a wide geographical swath, many from eastern American cities, and even overseas. Among those names was one he had hoped to find: an O.H. Gottschalk, who, accompanied by his wife and two children, ages eight and five, had upended their lives and traveled from New England to Minnesota. As he continued to dig, he discovered in a file a newspaper clipping that shed some light.

NEWS OF YESTERDAY

O.H. Gottschalk, a prominent musician of German-American extraction, has been extended an invitation as Music Director for the new city of Nininger. He is editor of the Deutsche Musik-Zeitung of Boston and one of the finest musicians in America. He is reported to have high prospects for creating the best Musical Department West of New York.

So the Gottschalk family had been important, and Mr. Gottschalk famous in music circles. Donnelly had probably considered it a coup to snare such a respected individual. If, in fact, one of these two children of O.H. Gottschalk happened to be the man he was hunting, then something tragic must have happened to trigger his downward spiral into trampdom. No doubt the family had lost considerable money in their ill-timed decision, and it might have been enough to ruin them. He could see how such family destruction might have led to resentment and hatred, even trickling down to the youngest. But on the other hand, this hobo he chased, the son of O.H. Gottschalk, seemed to obsess unnaturally over Donnelly’s work.

So, what did he have here? He had a possible answer to why this hobo had become the man he is now, and a definite connection to Ignatius Donnelly, but not more than that. He still hadn’t found the German, and he needed to do that soon, not only for the answers he sought, but also for Petey, who needed his big brother to help navigate through this difficult life. He’d been counting on Tom Cahill for help with that, and had expected all afternoon for the young detective to interrupt his work in the reading room with news about Gottschalk’s possible whereabouts. Anderson wasn’t worried, but found it odd that mere hours after Cahill had informed him that he was to be the sheriff’s tail, he had also disappeared. Most likely the incompetent colonel had realized how ridiculous it was to waste a public-paid city servant, riding herd on a creaky old man. At least he hoped that was how it was. He liked the earnest young tenderfoot, especially his uncompromising honesty; he was similar to Anderson’s memory of himself at that age. Straight and true to a fault.

He stopped to look at a saddle in a shop window, and thought about his horse, still stabled in a Bemidji livery, waiting to take him back to his farm. He hoped everything would be just as he left it when he finally returned home. Perhaps, just perhaps, he might have a granddaughter to take home with him. Her bedroom was still as she’d left it, as Martha hadn’t had the heart to change a single thing.

He had turned to finish his walk back to his hotel when an eager-looking fellow with long side-whiskers approached him from under a streetlight. He carried a wad of tobacco in his cheek and turned politely, just as he approached, to spit the brown juice in the opposite direction. He was a distinguished looking chap, and his eyes glinted of merriment when he gave a friendly smile.

“Begging your pardon, but have we met before?” he asked. “My name is Billy Edwards. Do I know you?”

“Not likely,” Anderson replied. “The name is Anderson.”

“A common but stout name,” the man said. “Do you have the time, per chance?”

Anderson pulled out his watch. “Twenty-five past six.”

“Ahhh,” the man cried, looking over his shoulder at the watch’s face. “That is unfortunate. I had made plans to meet a friend at the West Hotel for dinner at five-thirty, but I was delayed with business.” He winked at Anderson. “The kind of business my wife would slaughter me for if she ever found out.”

“I see,” Anderson said. In an instant he felt very old. The thought of being with a woman in an intimate way hadn’t occurred to him since his wife had died. Those sensations seemed to have gone into hibernation a dog’s age ago.

“Say, would you mind keeping me company for a time? I’m venturing my friend has already taken his meal, and I need a bit to eat.”

It had been a good while since Anderson had eaten, and his hunger had already been stirred by some of the smells wafting from the saloons nearby. The man might offer him some information about the local resorts as well, since he seemed to know them from personal experience. Maisy could even be holed up in a back room along this street.

“I’ll take you up on your offer, Mr. Edwards,” Anderson replied. “A thick slice of ham and a pile of salted fried potatoes would go down well.”

Edwards chose the Dandelion Saloon, only a block away, for supper. It was a middle-class affair in the typical fashion. A couple of poorly-made lamps splaying dim light swayed from the patterned tin ceiling, its paint yellowed and peeling. A long dark bar with an iron foot rail ran the side of the joint. Over the warped mirror behind the bar hung a faded portrait of George Washington. He probably never would have imagined while living that his fate after death would be to preside every evening over a pack of drunken, crowing men.

Despite the surroundings, the meal turned out to be amiable and surprisingly decent. Anderson had decided to indulge in a single glass of Gluek beer, while his dining companion had thrown down three. Their conversation was general: about President McKinley and the strong state of the Republican party, the notorious Pat Crowe gang, which had evaded capture for months now, and the latest escapades of hatchet-wielding temperance crusader Carrie Nation. Edwards confided his occupation, clerk in a Chicago law office, and explained he was visiting for the week with business colleagues. The sheriff was less willing to speak of his own business, and Edwards, a very polite and genial chap, didn’t push or pry. Anderson put his lunch hooks into that ham he had been craving, and the potatoes were nice and crispy, slightly burned on the edges, just the way he liked them. The pleasantries lasted a good two hours, but as the evening progressed, Anderson’s mind filled with the tasks still to be done. Morning would come early and he needed to find Cahill to plot his next move. However, he still had some questions to ask his dining companion.

“You’d mentioned before your interest in a more carnal satisfaction,” said Anderson, wiping his chin with a napkin. “I don’t have an elegant way with words, Mr. Edwards. No finesse, as it were.”

“Aha!” Edwards cried. “You wish to accompany me this evening as I continue to peruse the local goods? Find the gratification of female companionship? You are quite welcome to join me!”

“Too old for that,” Anderson said. “But curious. Are there many joints like that around?”

“Yes, yes, certainly. Whatever your taste, it can be found, in any of a multitude of tenderloin districts across the city. You are a man of some experience, I’ll wager, with your rugged countenance and Western way. I’ll bet some young savage girl might be quite to your liking. There are choices for every taste. Older women, girls, men, boys, boys dressed as girls. If your pleasure lies in the Far East, or with a colored girl from the Deep South, there are resorts that cater to every whim and flavor.” He licked his chops and leaned back in his chair. “The possibilities are endless.”

It tore at his heart to even say the words, to associate Maisy with a place like this. He had no choice, though. He had to know. “I’m looking for a particular young woman.”

Edwards raised his eyebrow knowingly and leaned in. “Forward march, Mr. Anderson. Some young rapturous beauty you encountered one evening, and haven’t been able to duplicate since. I certainly know the feeling. What is her name? What does she look like?”

“Maisy. Her name is Maisy.” His body tightened as the words came out. “Corn-silk hair, and a beautiful smile.”

“Maisy, you say?” He rubbed his head in thought. “No, I don’t recall a Maisy. A Mildred, yes. Molly, a sweet Irish lass, with searing brown eyes. Plain old May is another, although she can contort herself in ways that make her much more exotic than her name implies. I know a Mai-Yoon, although you hadn’t mentioned her nationality.”

“Forget it, Edwards. I was just curious, like I said before. We don’t need to discuss it further, if you don’t recognize her name.”

“Certainly. We can drop the subject. I must say, you seem a sensitive fellow at heart, Mr. Anderson. Let’s have one more round. It’s my shout this time. Name your poison!”

“Thank you for your good company, but I need to go.”

“Why, so early?” Edwards grinned, revealing a set of slightly twisted teeth. “While we’ve established that a good old-fashioned screw is not to your liking tonight, the evening is still young, and I plan to play a few hands of cards at this very saloon.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I have it on very good authority that a lively game of poker is progressing at full swing in the back room.” He motioned with his head to a door just past the bar.

“Would you care to join me? An hour of good fun, and then you can retire with your winnings!”

Anderson couldn’t remember when he had last sat down for a game of cards. He once was tolerably good at it, and like his recent desire for the taste of tobacco, something tugged on him, urged him to give it a go. He felt that fire light again, the one that told him to live a little, like he used to, and take a chance or two before his coffin came to claim him. He needed sleep for another busy day of searching tomorrow, but a quick hand or two wouldn’t hurt.

“All right, friend. Let’s give it a go.”

Edwards clapped his hands together once, delighted, and Anderson followed him to the door. The bartender, a reserved, broad-shouldered fellow with a scar on his neck stood behind the bar and eyed them dully.

“He’s a big fellow for a barkeep,” Anderson said. “Does he do chucker-out duties too?”

“I’d imagine,” laughed Edwards. “But this is a quiet little place most of the time.”

The bartender came from around the bar and met them. “No guns allowed inside, gentlemen. Either of you carrying?”

“Not I,” said Edwards, patting himself for proof.

The barkeep inspected Anderson, who had already hung his coat and hat at the door, and was wearing only his suit and necktie. The pistols he carried were obvious behind the ill-fitting coat, so he unbuttoned it, revealing the weapons. He unstrapped the buckle and slid the belt off, handing the whole thing to the bartender.

“Expensive looking pistols,” Edwards said admiringly. “You come prepared for trouble, evidently.”

“I like to be prepared,” the sheriff said.

They went in.

The night was black and the moon used its curved head like a hook to reel him forward. He felt its tremendous power, letting it sheath him in its ethereal splendor.

No ponderous coat was necessary; he wore nothing but a shirt and pants. The moon melted the ice in his path, and he followed it along the river like a jackal, lithely crawling over rocks, blissful in the knowledge that the night was his.

All was going well, the way he knew it would. The thing he had killed, the one that peddled newspapers, had revealed the location of his first prushun. With that knowledge, it was easy for him to discover the sniveling little freak, in the company of a soldier under the command of despots; an oppressor named Queen. This Queen had picked up his scent, he imagined, but was only a distant threat, he understood, irrelevant at this moment in time.