DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way

by Thomas Holladay

  The taxi slowed, made a wide turn in the street, and stopped in front of a four story, red brick apartment building.

  Mikhail had never been there before. "Wait." He climbed onto the road.

  "Right front . . ." said Paddy, nodding toward the building. "Third floor, in case you don't know."

  "Thank you. I did not." Mikhail looked up at the corner apartment on the third floor.

  What should I say?

  Paddy said, "How is he? Is he dead?"

  "No." Something about the word moved Mikhail's feet up the front steps and through the front door. One foot fallowed the other up a carpeted wooden stair, a tediously slow climb.

  The second and third floor landings were narrow, one turn around the central stair, only two apartments per floor. Dim light flooded down from a skylight. It was getting dark outside.

  He centered himself at the door to James King's apartment, knowing he must hurry. His left hand showed dark red around his fingernails. Nothing she would want to see. He placed it behind his back and knocked three times with his right.

  The door opened with nobody there.

  "Ah."

  A small boy craned his head around the door, looking up and Mikhail. "What do you want?" Very bold.

  An attractive, slender woman pulled the boy into her legs and opened the door wide, with a warm smile and inquisitive eyes.

  No words would come. His expression must have said plenty.

  Her face tightened. "Give me a minute." She picked up the boy and rushed into another room, leaving the door wide open.

  Mikhail took one step inside a large, warm, comfortable-looking parlor. A round bay window in the corner looked at buildings across the street. It was a nice place to come home to.

  She returned wearing a heavy wool coat and bonnet—dark blue, somehow appropriate.

  He followed her out and closed the door, moving quickly downstairs and onto the street.

  Paddy gave her a nod, set the foot brake, and started to climb down.

  She climbed in unassisted.

  Mikhail climbed in and sat opposite her.

  The taxi rolled slowly downhill.

  Her eyes demanded answers.

  "He's been shot."

  She did not flinch or waver. "Is he . . ?"

  "No. He was awake when I left. There are doctors attending the wound."

  Mikhail saying these words eased the tension for both of them.

  "You're Count Mike, aren't you?"

  "Yes. Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky." He dipped his head, a seated bow. "You may please call me Mike Zabel. Or Michael."

  "My husband speaks of you often. You're one of those rising stars he's always talking about. He doesn't ever think of himself that way, but he is. Jim's a shooting star, so bright and quick."

  "Da, da. Yes, he is. I like him very much. Everybody likes him."

  The gas streetlights on Montgomery had been lit. Only another block downhill to Washington. It was too crowded to reach the intersection.

  Paddy stopped at the curb a half block uphill.

  Mikhail climbed down and helped her to the sidewalk.

  Paddy set his brake. "Let me know if I can do anything, anything at all."

  The street hushed at the sight of her. Those who recognized her pulled others out of the way, clearing a wide path across the intersection.

  Mikhail led her toward the express office, toward her Jim. They stepped inside the door and stopped.

  Men stood on desks, holding lanterns to shed light on other men crowded around Jim's table.

  Jim's blood showed bright red on their rolled-up white shirtsleeves and arms. One said, "I think you tore his sub clavicle artery getting that bullet out."

  She said, "Is that Dr. Cole?"

  The doctor who'd just spoken turned toward them with a grim look. They knew each other. He turned back to Jim.

  "There's five doctors here." Abe Warner stepped between Mikhail and Mrs. King. "Dr. Richard Beverly Cole, a good friend of Jimmy's; Hugh Hughes Toland, the best surgeon in the state; and three others. They've been probing around for that ball since you left."

  One of the other doctors said, "Dr. Toland, we need to stop this bleeding."

  Toland said, "If we stick a sponge in there, there's a strong chance it can coagulate and stop the bleeding enough for the artery to mend itself."

  "I disagree," said Cole, angry or desperate. "We need to open him up a little and pinch that off; try and tie it."

  "We do that, he'll lose that arm for sure."

  Mikhail grabbed Mrs. King on her way down and stopped her head from hitting the floor. Warner took off his coat, rolled it up and placed it at the end of a nearby bench. He and Mikhail carried her and laid her down with her head on Warner's rolled coat.

  One of the doctors said, "Put that pillow under her feet."

  Mikhail lifted her head, pulled out the coat, and gently laid her head on the pillow. Warner took and slid his coat under the back of her knees.

  Coleman stepped up and showed them a cone-shaped bullet. "This here came from one of those new Colts, called a revolver. By the size of the bullet, I think it's the new Navy Colt."

  Warner said, "Who did this? Anybody see what happened?"

  "It was James Casey." Mikhail relived the scene in his mind. "He asked Jim if he was armed. Jim showed his empty hands and spread his coat. Casey walked up and shot him anyway."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Early morning light found Dr. Cole at Jim King's side, checking the pulse under his left arm near the bandage.

  Charlotte King spoke softly with Dr. Cole and turned to Mikhail. "Michael, could you gather some volunteers to move him? I want to take him home." She handed him a heavy wool blanket. "Use this to carry him to the wagon."

  Coleman said, "I've got a flatbed wagon waiting on the street."

  Dr. Cole said, "Dr. Toland and the others overruled me. They put a sponge into the wound. The bleeding has stopped for now, but there's almost no pulse to his left arm. Try not to move it."

  Abe Warner, Billy Cahill, Coleman, and two men Mikhail had seen but didn't know surrounded the table, waiting for orders.

  Dr. Cole positioned Warner and Mikhail across from each other at Jim's shoulders. Coleman stepped to the end of the table at Jim's feet. Billy and one of the others stood along Jim's right side. Cole and the last man chosen positioned themselves at Jim's left side.

  Cole said, "Okay, roll him onto his right side." Cole held Jim's left arm tight to his body and pushed, helping the others roll Jim onto his right side.

  Jim wheezed, biting down on his pain.

  Mikhail bunched half the blanket tight against the length of Jim's body, spread the remainder over the blood-soaked table, and nodded.

  They rolled Jim onto the blanket.

  Warner moved quickly, helping to pull the bunched blanket out from under Jim's right side.

  Jim smiled against the pain. He was going home.

  Coleman took the foot end of the blanket and Abe Warner took the shoulder position on Jim's left side. Billy Cahill grabbed the edge of the blanket next to Warner and the two others grabbed the blanket on Jim's right side.

  Dr. Cole looked at each of the bearers, making sure of their eye contact. He used his hands like an orchestra conductor and made a lifting motion. "Okay, lift him up."

  They lifted him off the table and carried him toward the door.

  Mikhail easily followed a cleared a path out to the wagon where a crowd beyond counting had gathered overnight. Mikhail backed onto the flatbed wagon at the corner and helped carry Jim aboard.

  "Keep him suspended, men," said Cole. "Don't set him down. We don't want to jar anything." The wide flatbed afforded ample room for all to step aboard. There wasn't far to go.

  Dr. Cole waited while the bearers shifted and shoved into position.

  Mikhail said, "Okay."

  Cole climbed onto the front bench with the teamster and Charlotte King. Cole said, "Okay, men, everybody bend your k
nees a little in case there's any bumps."

  They shifted around, watching each other, bending their knees equally for balance, bracing their elbows off their knees.

  Cole said, "Okay, driver. Take it real slow."

  Men crowded both sides of Washington Street all the way up the hill, all worried about someone they considered a friend.

  The wagon stopped in the middle of the street in front of Jim's red brick apartment building.

  Under the watchful eye of Dr. Cole, they carried Jim off the wagon, keeping him level, carrying him sideways up the front steps and onto the porch.

  Inside, a door with a mattress on it had been lowered by ropes from the fourth floor landing, resting on the floor. The ropes hung slack enough to slide between them and carry Jim onto the mattress.

  Jim had somehow fallen asleep, snoring a little, a good sign.

  Coleman hurried up to the forth floor where a block and tackle had been suspended under the skylight. He, John Drury, and two other men looked down, waiting for orders.

  Dr. Cole motioned and they raised the door enough to secure Jim with ropes around his knees and hips, guarding against possible mishaps.

  Mikhail hurried up to the third floor with Charlotte and opened their apartment door. A table had been placed near the bay window, obviously where they were to place Jim.

  Five of Jim's children had gathered around the table. They were crying quietly, wiping tears, worried about their father.

  A baby started crying in a different room.

  Jim's oldest daughter hurried toward it.

  Mikhail turned back to the landing and helped pull the door over the railing.

  Coleman directed from above, slacking rope as needed.

  Warner, Billy, Mikhail and the others carried the door into the apartment.

  Dr. Cole said, "Hold on a minute. Let's get rid of these ropes."

  Jim's two oldest boys untied the safety ropes at Jim's waist and knees.

  "Okay," said Cole, ". . . slide the mattress onto the table. Don't need a doorknob in the way."

  Coleman and John Drury dragged Jim and the mattress onto the table. Two of the other men took and carried the door out onto the landing.

  Jim woke and looked around the room at all his kids, at his wife, at Mikhail, Billy, and Warner. He fell back to sleep.

  In a strong voice, Charlotte said, "Thank you, gentlemen. Will you have some tea?"

  THAT WICKED MAN HAD promised to be home for Sunday supper, now two long days ago. She'd not heard a word.

  Why fret over this one?

  She still loved her dear, sweet Matthew.

  Not this one.

  Why her belly stirred whenever that man came near remained a mystery. He was the handsome one, no denying that.

  Matthew had been well educated, but too busy. This one had made time to educate her and Billy.

  This one's a mean rascal, gone two whole days with no word.

  The other ladies had gone out shopping, so Molly had to make tea for herself. Her head of steam might be hot as that kettle on the stove, watching through the back windows, hoping he'd come through that gate. She couldn't stop herself.

  And where's that Billy?

  I'd like to know.

  Had the two of them gotten into some kind of trouble? That Russian seemed prone to it. When he'd come home with a bruise on the side of his face, she'd known why. She'd heard all about it from Billy, not from Michael. Billy had heard it from his boss, James King of William.

  What kind of name is that?

  Michael had said he was to meet Mr. King after church.

  Two long days ago.

  "San Francisco has a new middleweight champ," Billy had boasted, as if he'd done the fighting himself.

  Indeed.

  She stood and poured hot water into her teapot, set the kettle aside, and settled back, allowing a bit of time for steeping.

  As if I need more steeping.

  Well, if she didn't hear something today, she'd send Raul to find out.

  And there they are.

  Young Billy and that man strolled through the back gate together, both looking like they'd been on a drunk, bags under their eyes, sneaking in the back door, pretty as you please.

  "Well, and I'd suppose you'll be wanting something to eat."

  "Hi, Miss Molly." Billy sounded sorry to be coming home at all.

  Molly jumped up like her legs had springs. "Two whole days, and I'm not supposed to wonder what's happened?"

  "James King of William has been shot." That man said it without as much as a look at her. "That tea smells good." He looked at her now, much more to say, the dear man.

  "Is it serious?"

  The both of them wore their worries like cloaks.

  She poured three cups of tea and sat, motioning to the other chairs.

  Billy said, "Mr. Mike was with him, down by the paper. The whole city's in an uproar. Mr. King has a lot of friends. I never knew."

  Michael said, "We carried him up to his apartment after the doctors worked on him all night. He asked me to go for his wife." His eyes filled with sorrow, maybe a bit of rage.

  "Will he live?" She handed the dear man a cup of tea and he sat.

  "I don't know. They worry about the bleeding." He touched his left collarbone. "The doctors cut an artery when they probed for the bullet." He sipped tea and looked at her, a warm smile. He always liked her tea; the dear, sweet, handsome man.

  Billy picked up and sipped tea, more optimistic. "He's got the best team of doctors ever. Dr. Toland is the best surgeon in the whole state, maybe the whole world. He put a piece of sponge in the wound. He says that'll cause the blood to clot." Billy sat, looking tired all over.

  That sweet man said, "Dr. Cole says they might have to cut off his arm to save his life."

  "Dear Lord." Molly got up, collected some eggs from a basket, set a slab of bacon on the cutting board, grabbed a knife, and motioned Billy.

  He stood and sliced bacon.

  That man set his tea down and stood. "I need to wash up." He took off and hung his jacket on a hook near the back door. Dried blood showed at his shirt cuff and left hand. "I feel sticky." He went outside to wash.

  She'd clean his shirt and jacket while he slept.

  MIKHAIL SCRUBBED HIS hands with lye soap, but still felt sticky. He smelled bacon through the open door, stepped inside, and closed the door. "I'm hungry."

  They'd stood outside Jim's apartment all of Monday and Monday night. He hadn't eaten since before mass on Sunday morning. Now it was Tuesday. During those waiting hours, food had been the least of his concerns.

  Coleman and Warner hadn't eaten, either. They'd stayed to work the crowd outside Jim's apartment house, building public disapproval of corruption and crime in the city and of the downright lawlessness of the Law and Order Party.

  The time and place for a meeting had been set for Monday night. A general call to arms would be sounded in the Daily Evening Bulletin for Tuesday and Wednesday nights. A general assembly for all concerned citizens would meet at the old Spanish Presidio on Thursday, May 8, at 7:00 a.m.

  Coleman would make sure Downey showed up at the Olympic Club on Wednesday morning for their regular workout. They needed to know whether or not the state government would get involved. If the governor were to call up the state militia, the Committee of Vigilance would act accordingly.

  What, exactly, could that mean?

  He sat at the kitchen table where a platter of breakfast waited. He barely noticed Molly as he ate and pondered the dark alleyways in his tired brain.

  She sat across from him and pulled him back to the present. Her incredible green eyes pierced into him. "Have you had enough to eat?"

  He'd cleaned his plate and filled his stomach. "Yes. Thank you."

  She bit her lower lip, eyes wide, glaring into him.

  Billy had eaten and gone upstairs. There was nobody but her around.

  "What is it?"

  She blinked, puzzled by his simple ques
tion. "Have you no feelings for me at all?"

  "What? I, um . . . I often think of you."

  "Think of me how?"

  He dared not tell her his dreams of a closeness he longed for. He no longer dreamed of the Lady Catherine. "I might like to take you out on an afternoon excursion. We might stroll the amusements of North Beach and have some chowder at the Palace."

  She reached across the table, took his hand, and smiled. "That would be nice."

  Chapter Fifteen

  "My friend." Raul shook Mikhail.

  Mikhail woke from a deep, dark sleep, seeing James Casey's angry face as he shot Jim King.

  "The widow say you gotta get up. You're gonna be late for a meeting or something."

  Mikhail threw back the covers, sat, and scrubbed his face with both hands, pumping blood into his clouded brain, chasing vivid images back into darkness. Emptiness at the loss of James King lingered with his stillness, a familiar presence. Mikhail hated this feeling.

  Raul stood over him, hand braced off the upper bunk, a lot of questions in his dark eyes.

  "What time is it?"

  "Gotta be close to seven. We got time to work out?"

  "No. Sorry." Mikhail got up and dressed quickly. "We have a meeting at the Olympic Club Gym. You should join us."

  "Colonel Coleman gonna form another Committee of Vigilance. I already heard." Raul climbed to the upper bunk, unlaced his shoes, pulled them off, and dropped them to the floor. "Back in '51, those vigilantes put Raul on a ship and tell him to never come back. I did nothing for this. Somebody don't like my face. I mean, I did kill that bottle stopper, but they don't know 'bout that."

  "That will not happen this time. I promise you."

  "After that, I don't like vigilantes. I think I gonna stay here."

  "You're a good man to have around."

  Someone to watch my back.

  "Your friend die, Raul gonna show up."

  Mikhail thought about this as he dressed. "That happens, I think is better for you to be here. Guard the widow."