The Winter Family (18 page)

The man took off his cap and approached the bar. Ollie drew him a mug of beer and set it down on the bar.

“Ten cents,”
Ollie said.
“And it comes with free lunch.”

Ollie nodded toward the table at the other end of the room and said,
“Why don’t you get something to eat before the regulars show up.”

The man put his dime down on the bar and walked over to the food. A heaping mound of loaves of rye bread, hard white cheeses, cold meats, and pickled vegetables was laid out in a buffet. The man loaded up a plate and sat back down at the bar, lifting his mug.

“Your health,”
he said.

Ollie nodded as he polished the mugs.

The saloon was very large, perhaps twenty feet by eighty, and filled with solid wooden furniture, mostly benches and long tables. Stout waitresses were sweeping the floors and wiping the tables. German accoutrements, flags and maps and art and photographs, hung on every wall, alongside long mirrors.

The man smacked his lips.

“Good, isn’t it?”
Ollie said.
“I bet that’s the first real beer you’ve had in a long time.”

“Yes,”
the man said.

“What’s your name?”

“Jan Müller,”
the man said.

“And your cousin told you to come here? What’s his name?”

“Hans,”
Jan said.

“I know many Hans Müllers,”
Ollie said.
“What does he look like?”

Jan looked uncomfortable.

“I have not seen him in more than twenty years. I do not know. I know he works at the reaper factory. He said he would leave a message for me.”

“The reaper factory?”
Ollie said.
“I don’t think … I don’t know. Well, I don’t have a message for you.”

“Oh,”
Jan said. He looked down at his free lunch and picked up a pickle and ate it.

“Well, don’t worry!”
Ollie said.
“Your cousin steered you to the right place. I have cared for hundreds of men like you who are new to the country! What’s your profession?”

“Woodcutter.”

“That’s good! They’re rebuilding the whole city. I can get you on a work gang in the morning. If you have no place to stay, I can find you lodgings for tonight. Just stay here till after the lunch rush. And tomorrow we’ll have you made a citizen.”

“Tomorrow?”
Jan said.
“I thought it took much longer than that.”

Ollie winked.
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. I have many friends.”

“I don’t want to get in trouble,”
Jan said.

“You won’t. We have friends even on the police now. You’re lucky you came here. Do you know anything about American politics?”

“No.”

“Well, the Democratic Party are our friends. The Republicans are our enemies. They’re always working to keep the little fellow down. They try to close our saloons on Sundays. They even complain that we give men a free lunch here. Imagine that! They complain we give workingmen a free lunch. We need to make you a citizen so you can vote for the Democratic man. His name is Harrison. He’s gone to the beer gardens with us on Sunday many times. He’s practically a German himself. He even said so.”

Jan was making a crude sandwich and stuffing it in his face.

“Anything you say,”
he said around a mouthful of food.

The sound of high-pitched, excited voices came from outside.

“Here they come!”
Ollie cried, his voice rising in a little squeak.
“I’ll be back!”

The door banged open and children poured in, most of them carrying two or three metal lunch pails. They rushed straight to the bar and lined up, yelling and laughing, and Ollie filled their buckets with beer, one after another, writing down names in his little book. One of the boys, a tall one, had a staff across his shoulder with which he could carry four pails at once. Once they had the beer they came for, they turned and hurried, carefully, out of the saloon.

Soon after the men came in and grabbed food and beer and rushed to the wooden tables to save a spot. They were stained with sweat and grease and their clothes were poor but they were all laughing and
talking. None of them looked run-down or defeated. Many of them took a newspaper off the rack to read. They shook salt and pepper on boiled eggs and smeared mustard on salami and clanked their heavy mugs together and drank.

How they did drink. One beer after another, as if it were a race, as if they were trying to get as much down as they could before the whistle blew, calling them back to work. Before long men were weaving, barely standing on their feet.

Someone who was clearly not a workingman came into the saloon. He was short and broad and dressed in a fine suit that was as sharp as the autumn air. His hair was slicked back and there was a diamond pin in his lapel. The men gave a great cheer when they saw him and he waved his cane in the air and grinned and motioned at the bartender. The gesture was unmistakable: a round for the house.

The remaining children crowded around the man in the suit and he dropped hard candies in their hands.

Ollie scurried around the bar and soon he was pumping the hand of the new arrival and they were speaking quietly to each other, their words lost in the din.

Jan turned toward the men on the benches and made an almost imperceptible movement with his head. Immediately, someone bellowed, “Thief! Thief! That man’s a fucking thief!”

The conversations cut out.

A man stood up on the other side of the room. He was young but balding and inclined to fat and he had a stupid, mean face. “He’s paying for your beer with your own money. He stole it from you!”

“Shut up!” someone cried.

“You stupid fucking krauts,” the man shouted. “The Irish have been running the Democratic Party like a private club for twenty years! You think it’s going to be different when you put their man in the top spot! They’re not going to need you once they’ve got what they want! Workers’ rights, I say! Hurrah for socialism!”

Someone lunged at the shouting man but he struck his assailant in the neck and knocked him to the ground. Next a few tried at once, but the man had a club and he beat them off.

“Come on then, you fuckers!” the socialist said. “Come on you stupid …”

Jan launched himself at the man, knocking him back into the wall, wrapping one of his scarred and powerful hands around his neck.

“Fuck you,” the socialist said, clubbing Jan across the face with his wooden baton. Blood splattered the wall. Jan threw punches wildly, and although he took a savage beating, he seemed to be getting the better of it.

Finally the socialist drew a knife and stabbed it into Jan’s side. Jan cried out in pain but didn’t let go. He drove the socialist’s head into the wall until he slumped and went limp, and then he dragged him to the door and threw him outside for the kids to kick.

When Jan turned around to face the crowd everyone applauded, and whistled, and shouted their approval. Jan pulled the knife out and felt the blood rush down his side in a sticky flood, momentarily unstable on his feet.

A buxom waitress with thick blond pigtails steadied him and brought him around the bar to the back room.

“It’s okay,”
she said.
“You’ll be fine.”

It was a cold room, with barrels of beer stacked up along the walls and cuts of meat hanging from hooks. The light came in from a little window near the ceiling. Jan sat down, a little more heavily than he’d intended, on a box of pickle jars. They made a clinking noise.

He lifted up his shirt and the girl pressed a rag into his wound. The cut on his face was dripping blood onto the dirt floor.

Ollie and the man with the diamond pin in his lapel came into the back room.

“Nice work, boyo,” the man said in a thick Irish accent.

“He doesn’t speak English,” Ollie said.

“Really? That’s grand. I actually came here looking for a tough man who doesn’t speak English.”

“Why?” Ollie asked.

“A few problems with one of me fellow aldermen.”

“Who?”

“Terry Sullivan.”

“But he’s a Democrat.”

“Ollie, you know I trust you,” the Irishman said. “But trust everyone and cut the cards, as I always say. You don’t need to know these things. Just let me know if this man is one of us.”

“I’ve never met him before today.”

Jan looked up at both Ollie and the new man.

“Introduce me,” the Irishman said.

“Jan, this is Mickey Burns. He’s one of my friends who I was telling you about.”

“All right,”
Jan said, as the blood trickled down from his scalp to his chin.

“Ask him if he wants to come work for me tomorrow,” Burns said.

“Are you sure?” Ollie asked.

“Sure I’m sure. He’s fresh off the boat, isn’t he?”

“We don’t know a thing about him.”

“And he doesn’t know a thing about us. It’s perfect.”

Ollie shook his head.

“Jan, Mickey has some work to do tomorrow, but he’s worried about his safety. The Republicans have brought in some very dangerous men from out of town to try to intimidate us before the election. Do you think you could stay with Mickey to keep him safe? He would pay you very well. And it would be good to have him as a friend.”

Jan looked down at the floor and wiped his brow. Then he looked back up again.

“Do you know where my cousin is?”

“No, I don’t. I can try to find him for you.”

“I don’t know who to trust.”

“What is he saying?”

“He says he doesn’t know who to trust.”

Burns grinned and took his billfold out of his pocket.

“Tell him I’ve got something he can trust right here.”

That afternoon, Charlie Empire returned to the Michigan Avenue Hotel to find Quentin Ross and Johnny drinking in the dining room. Bill Bread was at the bar. Everyone took a turn laughing at Charlie’s face, which was mottled with blue and yellow bruises. One of his eyes was almost swollen shut.

They ate peanuts and threw the shells on the ground, laughing
and talking, and smoked one cigar after another. Archibald came for them a little after sunset.

“Well, you’re all just having a grand old time, ain’t you?” Archibald said.

“Archibald, my good friend,” Quentin cried. “Please tell me you’ve come to release us!”

“I surely have,” Archibald said. “But you best keep your voice down. Mister Bread, you coming?”

Bill did not even look up from his tumbler of whiskey.

“He’s at home right where he is,” Quentin said. “Archibald, time’s a-wasting.”

“All right,” Archibald said. “Let’s go!”

They went through the kitchen and out the service door. A carriage was waiting right outside, and they were only exposed to the street for a second. Johnny Empire was last in line, and by the time Quentin and Charlie were seated there was barely any room.

“Johnny,” Charlie said, “go up on the fucking roof!”

“No, no,” Quentin said.

“Yes, yes,” Charlie cried. “The roof, Johnny!”

Johnny hesitated, with one foot in the door.

Quentin said, “We must make room. We’ll make room.” Quentin crammed himself into the side of the carriage. “Come on, John! Get in before someone sees you!”

Johnny wedged himself through the door with difficulty, then balanced uneasily between them all.

“Don’t fall on me!” Charlie cried. “Fall on him!”

Johnny laughed and then collapsed into the empty corner of the carriage. He had to bend his head almost all the way down to his knees.

They passed the bottle back and forth and shouted and laughed until the carriage came to a stop. The door opened and Archibald herded them out into an alley. The buildings had windows with lacy, frilly curtains that blocked any view of what was going on inside but allowed reddish light to shine through.

“Not very subtle, is it?” Quentin remarked.

“Oh, they’re all paid up with the police here,” Archibald said.
“These are all King Conor’s places, and he just about owns the police these days.”

“Remarkable!” Quentin said. “What a town! It truly does embody the American spirit, just as my brother said.”

The men made their way down the narrow alley to a side door to one of the brothels. Within an hour they ran back out, disheveled, half undressed, the women screeching and launching chamber pots at them from the windows.

“What the fuck, Johnny?” Charlie said, drunk, angry, hopping on one leg as he tried to pull his pants on.

“Ha ha ha ha!” Johnny bellowed, loud enough to wake the dead. He was shirtless and what little hair he had was gummy and tangled and standing straight up.

The three men charged down the alleyway. Archibald was waiting by the carriage.

“How’d you get kicked out of that one?” Archie asked. “I don’t know where I’m gonna find somewhere low class enough for you sorry beggars to spend more’n an hour.”

“It was all a misunderstanding,” Quentin said. “Johnny means well but he does not know his own strength. Please, we must hurry.”

They piled into the carriage. The coachman struck the horses and they were off at a brisk trot.

“Ha ha ha!” Johnny laughed, rocking back in his seat. His hands were bloody.

“I’m going to cut your fucking peter off,” Charlie said.

The carriage clattered down the road for a time before it came to a stop. The door opened to reveal the Michigan Avenue Hotel.

“Why are we back at the hotel?” Quentin said. “The night is young.”

“You boys need to lay low for a time,” Archibald said.

“Like hell we do!” Charlie said. “We’re paying you well enough.”

“You paid me to take you to a cathouse,” Archie said. “I took you to the cathouse. It ain’t my fault you didn’t last an hour.”

Charlie’s bruised and battered face contorted with rage and he made as if to lunge out of the carriage. Quentin caught his shoulder and whispered in his ear. Charlie struggled once but Quentin dug
in his fingers and kept his mouth pressed up against Charlie’s ear. Eventually Charlie relaxed.