Hop Alley

by Scott Phillips

  “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.”

  WHEN 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.

  WHEN BANBURY 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.

  “You change your mind about Cilla?” He licked some beer foam off of his moustache and then took a puff. “I’m going to keep up payments through the end of the lease in July, and then she’s out.”

  “Hell, Ralph, I can’t afford to keep a woman in a separate lodging.”

  “You’re a bachelor. She can move in with you and nobody’ll know she’s not your wife.”

  “I don’t want to live with her, for God’s sake.” I took a puff on the cigar. It was a good one, better than I’d had in a long time. “Have you told her yet?”

  He pushed his hat back to give his forehead some air. “No, and don’t you either. As long as I’m paying for that place, I’m going to get me a piece of ass once a week, and I don’t want to have to worry about her stabbing me in the midst of it.”

  “That’s a lovely sentiment.”

  “Don’t be high and mighty. Remember you’ll be getting at least as much of that as me until then, and on my nickel, besides.”

  We watched the dancers for a minute in silence.

  “Say,” he said. “How’s that Mrs. Fenster?”

  “She’s all right.”

  “You know, her brother-in-law got shot last night. One of my pressmen, that’s how I came to know her in the first place.”

  “I heard someone got him outside the Silver Star.”

  “That’s right. Gutshot the son of a bitch, and from what I hear nobody’s crying about it. We’re making him out in the paper to be a saint, since it sells a few more copies. All the wife wanted to know when she heard about it was how the hell were they going to pay their bills with him gone. I guess he beat the shit out of her pretty regular, and the kids too. I was there at Doc Marcy’s this afternoon, and I heard her say to him, ‘Not such a har
d one now, are you, Cowan?’ ”

  “His boy works for me, and he’s not too broken up about it, either. The old man busted his arm not long ago.”

  He nodded and chewed on his cigar. “Supposed to be a woman that did it. I was wondering myself if it wasn’t the older boy, the little squirrely one. He works for you?”

  “He couldn’t have done it, he’s timid as a runt kitten.”

  “Better watch that boy,” he said. He drained the remainder of beer in the glass in a single draught and slapped my shoulder again. “Sorry this has to be brief, old pal, but I have a rendezvous with a dainty little magnolia flower, and your summons provided a lovely excuse to leave the office early.” He tipped his hat and meandered off, the closest thing I had in the world to a friend right then, with the sole, possible exception of the woman we were both about to betray.

  DINNER THAT EVENING was chicken with gravy and dumplings, and a baked potato in its jacket, superfluous alongside the dumplings but delicious filled with the chicken gravy. When it was gone I felt quite inflated and was debating with myself the merits of a stroll for digestive purposes when I heard a rapping at the front door. I didn’t hear Mrs. Fenster grumbling about it and so assumed that she was downstairs at the johnny, and I descended the stairs myself to find Priscilla on the landing, dressed as if for church services or a fancy ball.

  “May I come in?” she asked, and I stepped aside to let her pass, and the ruffling and scratching of her skirts as she hastily ascended made me forget my postprandial walk.

  I showed her a quick tour of the studio and gallery. When she stretched out on the davenport in an inviting pose I informed her that it was the bed of my idiot helper, who would likely be returning soon from Market Street and his friends there. Her expression shifted imperceptibly from wanton to demure and she straightened herself. After a moment she rose, wiping her hands on her dress.

  “Perhaps there’s somewhere else we could have a lie-down?”

  I led her to my bedroom, and as luck would have it we crossed Mrs. Fenster on the way there. “Good night, Mr. Sadlaw. Sleep well,” was all she said, with no discernible sarcasm.

  As we entered my room I began unbuttoning my vest, and Priscilla pulled me to her. “Never mind undressing, just lift my skirts and give it to me quick.”

  It was only now that I saw, and smelled, how much she’d had to drink, most likely on top of a goodly dose of laudanum. I ran my hand under her skirts and underskirts and found her legs above her stockings bare; a quick application of my fingertips at their juncture confirmed that she had already performed most of the preliminary work of arousal herself. I followed her instructions and screwed her standing and from behind. When I was done we fell onto the bed, fully clothed down to our shoes except for my prick hanging at half-mast from my trousers.

  “That was just the thing, Bill,” she said.

  “Good,” I said. We lay in silence for a while, and then I thought of my earlier interview with Banbury. “Don’t you usually entertain my landlord Monday evenings?”

  It was a moment before she answered, and her voice quavered slightly when she did. “He sent word this morning he couldn’t come. I came to town to see if I couldn’t catch him in a lie, or maybe change his mind.”

  “Did you find him?”

  “No.” She was quiet for a minute. “I’m so afraid he’s with that bitch of a wife.” She sobbed out loud, and it went on for a few minutes. When she stopped she rolled over and kissed me, and started unbuttoning my vest. Five minutes later we were naked, and doing it as it was meant to be done, and the whole time I kept telling myself I had to tell her the truth. But we went to sleep without talking any more, and in the morning it seemed once again like a bad idea.

  AT EIGHT THIRTY a.m. I sat at the breakfast table alone. Priscilla had elected to return home rather than face Mrs. Fenster at table, and as soon as my coffee and eggs arrived the boy entered with the morning papers.

  “Heard some yelling when I come home last night,” he said. “Sounded like a gal.”

  “Never you mind about that,” I said, and I grabbed the Bulletin from the top of the pile. His father was on the front page again:

  COWAN YET LIVES

  THE GUNMAN STILL AT LARGE—POLICE HOPEFUL

  THE BULLETIN’S STRICKEN PRESSMAN WILL

  AWAKEN AND NAME HIS ATTACKER—HIS WIFE AND

  CHILDREN AT HIS BEDSIDE, KNEELING IN PRAYER.

  His Survival a Miracle, Says Doctor Marcy—

  More Eye-Witnesses Interviewed—

  Say Two Women Were the Assassins.

  Only yesterday morning the case of Hiram Cowan, a printing press operator for the Bulletin shot down in the street on the night of the 10th, was given up as hopeless and funerary arrangements were being contemplated. Yet sundown and dawn both found him clinging valiantly to existence, and there is now reason to hope that he may recover entirely. He is now under the care of Dr. Hamilton Marcy, whose services have been engaged by the Bulletin.

  I LOOKED UP over the edge of the paper at Lemuel and noticed Mrs. Fenster standing in the kitchen doorway behind him. The boy looked dispassionately at me. “So he ain’t dead?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Says down here they’re paying all your ma’s expenses in the meantime.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s a gesture to their readers more than to your family. It makes them look Christian and kind.”

  Mrs. Fenster gave a snort like a rhinoceros. “It’s all because it’s a good story, their own pressman getting shot in the street. If he was accidentally run down by a wagon you can bet they’d have let him die there in the street and found a new pressman in a hurry.” There was a note of disappointment in her voice that this wasn’t the case.

  “You know, Lem, I could take you down to the paper and introduce you to the editor. Maybe you could get a little money out of him.”

  “No, sir, I don’t care to do that.” He shook his head and left the room to start his work.

  THE AFTERNOON’S SITTINGS went smoothly, including the one with the owner of the laundry. The nephew who accompanied him spoke excellent English, and though he was formally deferential toward both his uncle and I, his expression was sullen to the point of hostility. I took no offense, particularly, as I decided to interpret it as an Eastern form of politeness; the uncle was so polite he addressed not so much as a glance to me except through the intermediary of the lens as I focused his upside-down image first in the eight-by-twelve and then the carte de visite camera. He had ordered sets of both, as Mrs. Fenster had predicted, and she made several excuses to enter the studio during the sitting, fluttering coquettishly about and trying to attract the attention of the old man, who might as well have been alone in the room. He was dressed in a magnificent black silk shirt that came down to his knees, with a pair of snakelike dragons embroidered on its front, and a single enormous one on the back. His trousers and a small, round, flat-topped hat were made of the same silk, and the pointed toes of his slippers were just visible beneath the trouser legs. When the sitting was finished the younger man bowed and bid us farewell, and the old man deigned to bow silently. I returned the bow with a short speech, and the younger man seemed satisfied with the correctness of the gesture.

  “He’s a very important fellow down there in Hop Alley,” Mrs. Fenster said, nodding at me as she made for the kitchen. She had come out to say good-bye, and neither the old man nor the nephew had acknowledged her verbally or otherwise, but I had an odd sensation that outside my presence she and the old man were quite friendly.

  FOUR

  SKULLDUGGERY!

  That evening after dinner Mrs. Fenster asked if she could have the rest of the evening off, as her sister was feeling poorly. I saw no reason not to oblige her, and at seven thirty I found myself alone in the house. The boy was gone, too, off whoring or whatever it was he occupied his evenings with, and I picked up Homer, which I read until around eleven thirty, at which time I felt a need for companionship, even tha
t of strangers. After determining that neither Mrs. Fenster nor her nephew had returned I descended, with the notion of returning to Schrafft’s Biergarten.

  The day’s smoky fog still clung to the town, and the street’s illumination was so diffuse it was impossible to distinguish clearly any object more than eight feet from the end of one’s nose. Using the vague glow of the gaslights for markers I headed in the direction of Schrafft’s, thinking foolishly that I might again see the young lady who had so captivated me the day before, and that this time I would have the audacity to approach her for a dance.

  Before I had traveled three blocks a horrible, rhythmic wheezing sound burst forth through the brume, twenty feet or so distant, I thought. Alarming as it was, congested and panicked, it had also a comfortingly familiar quality; I nonetheless flattened myself against the wall and awaited its arrival with my fists clenched, and in a moment I saw a mass begin to take dark shape, moving unquestionably toward me. It waddled from side to side, suggesting an enormous razorback boar loosed inexplicably upon the metropolis, and I finally called out to it.

  “Who’s there?”

  The sound stopped, replaced by a single sharp breath, and I heard a familiar voice call back. “I have a weapon,” it cried, feminine and brash, old and belligerent. “I’m not afraid to use it, either.”

  “Mrs. Fenster? Is that you?”

  “Mr. Sadlaw?” She came a little closer and her round, double-chinned face emerged from the mists, wide-eyed at finding me outside the house at this hour. I surmised that she had been running, if that was the word, from her sister’s house.

  “It’s me. Would you care for an escort home?”

  She nodded. “That would be most agreeable, Mr. Sadlaw.”