Sure enough, moments later the wagon—piled high to overflowing—eased around the side of the home. When it got to the road, it stopped briefly to allow a black tin lizzie to pass. It was a cop car and it turned onto the property and rolled right up to the front porch. Before either one of the policemen could exit the vehicle, the house door opened and a tubby youth came out.
“Hello Butch,” Shoe mumbled.
They watched as he climbed into the back and sat down on one of the benches there. Then the Ford rumbled off.
“Jack?” Shoe asked. “What’s your gut telling you?”
“What you taught me,” he said as he straddled his bicycle. “Never lose a potential source. I’ll take the cops. You find out where they’re moving.”
Shoe took off after the furniture. He hadn’t been on a two-wheeler in a while and his legs were screaming, but he did his darnedest to keep up. Fortunately, the overloaded wagon took its time as it picked its way around some of the deeper ruts and holes in the road path. Shoe watched household goods slide and readjust themselves with every pothole. He slacked off a bit so he could take evasive action should anything come flying his way.
The truck headed east toward the downtown, which was somewhat puzzling. Cheap housing would be west, on the outskirts. Possibly they would hit Bayside Avenue and head up that way out of town. But when they passed that, proceeded on through Nevis proper, and took a left onto Ironwood Street, Shoe quit speculating. This was deep in the elite section of town. Two blocks past the Stroup Elementary School, the movers pulled up to a tidy white house with a neatly manicured yard behind a sturdy white picket fence. Shoe parked a few houses away and waited. A final goodbye to a friend or benefactor?
Dumbfounded, Shoe watched as the waggoneer unlashed the load, and the chair, footstool, and beds were moved inside. This wasn’t a moving-out, it was a moving-up. Unless he was greatly mistaken—which wasn’t often, nowadays—houses up this way were way too expensive for average folk like the Koenigs, or even for reporters like himself. Where had the windfall come from? He jotted down the house number. It was all a matter of property records.
Chapter Eighteen
Slow Cows and Fast Tails
After he picked up speed, Jack let the bicycle coast. He didn’t need the smarts of Mr. Einstein to know the police car was headed back to the station house for Butch’s lecture. He let it slip ahead and followed behind in the dust cloud it was kicking up.
It was a workable plan until the coppers made an unexpected left onto Birch Street—a street that could lead them right out of town. Why hadn’t he anticipated that? He rose out of his seat and pumped harder, praying his feet would stay on the pedals. When he had the cops back in view, he stayed on them. It was a busy street. The police would have little curiosity about someone cycling behind them.
Just as he settled back into a steady, comfortable rhythm, the paddy wagon suddenly swerved. He found himself closing in on the rear end of a horse cart full of barrels. He jerked right and jumped the sidewalk, scattering a group of matronly biddies holding court. Screams, indignation, and quite possibly his name followed. And he was pretty sure it was Mr. Markle, the stationer, whom he chased back into the safety of his store. The rest was a godawful blur.
Miraculously, he hit nothing, and at the end of the block, he safely followed the squad car around the corner onto Atlantic Street. Another quick right put them on Bayside. His original hunch was correct. The car eased up to the police barracks and in a flash, Butch and two coppers climbed out and disappeared inside through a side door.
Maybe an hour later—enough time for Jack to get sick of flipping his Babe’s baseball card—Butch emerged alone from the alleyway. Which was kinda strange, considering the lengths the cops had gone to get him there.
Butch caught sight of him right away but didn’t hail him. Instead, he hesitated as if considering a run for it or at least a change in direction—which didn’t seem to include a trip back indoors. He hotfooted it up Bayside.
Jack didn’t cross the street after him but matched him step for step up the hill. When they were a sufficient distance from the barracks, he called out to him.
Butch checked over his shoulder, but there was no one following them. He motioned Jack further up the hill and joined him there. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you escaped this two-bit town.”
“Yeah, D.C. now, but I was in the mood for a visit. I was just heading over to Mac’s for a soda before I catch the train back. Want one?”
“I don’t know,” Butch said, glancing back down the hill. “I was getting a ride home.”
Shoe still didn’t see anybody. “Looks to me like you’re on your own. Besides, since when were you looking forward to a ride with them? Are they done with ya?”
“I-I think so.”
“Then come on,” Jack said, pulling on his arm. “Don’t you want a few minutes’ peace without anyone watching everything you do?”
Butch licked his lips, contemplating. “Go, go, go,” he said and shoved Jack in the direction of the depot. They ran up Bayside until they got to Seventh Street and walked the final block to Mac’s Pharmacy, silently kicking a smooth pink stone between them until Butch kicked it under a flivver.
Outside Mac’s sat a gray-bearded man, a thick book open in his lap and a bindle at his feet. As they drew near, he picked up the bowler next to him and shook it hard enough to bounce around the few coins inside. He moved as if every movement was painful, but his gaze was keen. “Are you prepared to enter the kingdom of your Lord and Savior?” he asked.
The boys cast their eyes away and quickened their steps into the pharmacy.
Butch’s eyes went wide as they lit on the elaborately carved counter that ran the length of the back wall. As Jack had suspected, this was a first for Butch—his family was too strapped for cash to fritter it away on a luxury like ice cream. As far as Jack was concerned, this was the most beautiful building in Nevis. He hadn’t been in all of them, of course. For years he had suffered through Whitey Dorsey bragging about eating baseball-sized ice cream cones inside a place that looked like King Arthur’s castle. He had to wait until he was seven before he got his chance to see if Dorsey was lying. His Uncle Frank—on one of the rare occasions he came home on shore leave—treated him to two scoops of chocolate ice cream with a banana thrown in to make it all look decent. Now that was kingly! He wasn’t much on fruit, but it beat out Whitey’s single scoops of vanilla by a mile.
The boys slid onto chrome stools at the counter while the scowling soda jerk eyed them with suspicion. Jack didn’t get any more respect here than he got at any of the other stores he had routinely borrowed merchandise from. He pulled a dime out of his pocket and tapped it on the counter. “Two black cows.”
The jerk took the coin and bit into it. Satisfied it was legal tender, he began to dazzle them. Down into the white ceramic container his silver scoop went, and out it came again with rounded, creamy balls of frozen delight that he dropped one by one into fluted crystal glasses. He jerked silver handles and with a hiss, root beer joined the concoction, its foamy head threatening to overflow the glass. In a final flourish, the soda jerk thrust a striped paper straw into each and slid them across the counter.
It was a magical display, and as far as Jack was concerned, there was no benefit in slaving away at school when you could do this all day. He took a moment to pay homage. Butch dug in as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
The jerk gave them a brief, smug look before turning his attention to the patron who had come in after them. “What can I get you?”
The well-dressed man put his folded newspaper on the counter. “Nothing yet. I’m expecting someone else.”
It was the same man Jack had seen on the street corner down near the police station. When Jack looked his way, he nodded cordially as if they were old friends. Jack gave him a pleasant ice cream-fueled grin and wondered what he would order. Anything that suited his fancy, he decided. He just had that look.
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Butch pulled out a handful of pocket change, sorted through it until he found a nickel, and slid it across the counter toward Jack. “Pay my own way,” he said.
Jack cocked an eyebrow. That was some impressive dough. “Working for Western Union looks pretty good.”
Butch tugged a Western Union hatband from inside of his jacket. At one end, 18b had been added in a neat, even hand. “Twenty cents a day. Good enough money to expect us to run from one end of Nevis to the other, day or night, and they didn’t think twice about sending us into the worst areas of town—places no kid should be going. Yeah, they’re real good. Western Union didn’t care.”
His fist tightened around the band and he poked his straw up and down through his ice cream. “You know who cared?” he continued. “The whores down on the water. That’s who cared. Half the money in my pocket’s their tips. Something to snack on and a minute to ask what’d we’d been up to.” He blushed. “Unless they was busy. And even then, they pushed us right back out again. Like, ‘This ain’t the place for you.’” He shook his head. “Don’t let anybody tell you that what you do for a living says who you are. Nice ladies. Good money,” Butch repeated with a nod. “And smart too. Always planning ahead.” He fished around in his pocket change and produced a slightly larger coin and pushed it Jack’s way.
In God We Trust had been replaced with the phrase: The Fishmonger * Ten cents for a lookie * fifty cents for a doie. It wasn’t legal tender at all, but a bawdy-house coin—a man and a woman in courtly dress dancing on the obverse, and a naked Adam and Eve entwined in suggestive repose on the reverse. Jack felt his face flush. He handed it right back.
“Good for one free. ‘When you’re ready,’ she told me.” Butch returned it to his pocket.
Desperate to change the subject, Jack reached for the Western Union hatband. Butch shook his head and tucked it back inside his pocket.
“So, you’re number eighteen? What’s the b for?” Jack asked.
“Eighteen was already taken.”
“Your brother?”
Butch nodded. “He knew a good thing when he saw it. Split his runs with me. They paid him the full amount and we divvied it between us.” He heaved a shuddering breath.
“Was he out on a run . . .”
Butch stabbed his spoon back into the ice cream and pushed the glass away. “Can’t talk about it.”
“That what the cops told you? How come they were talking to you today? It wasn’t the first time, was it? You told ’em everything you knew, right?”
Butch ran his hand up and down his glass.
“Were you with him, Butch?”
“Gotta go.” Butch slid off his stool and patted Jack’s arm before walking away. “Nice seeing ya.”
“Wait! I know people, Butch.”
Butch turned back and looked at him with eyes so big that Jack thought they would swallow him whole. “Yeah, me too,” he whispered. “Stay away from Hanner Mackall, and if you’re smart, you’ll stop sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. Go back to D.C. Thanks for the company.” Three long strides and he was gone.
Jack looked at the ice cream melting in his glass and felt like puking. He left the rest. As he exited, the panhandler took another crack at him, but he didn’t even look the man’s way.
The door jingled a second time behind him, and the panhandler started in on that customer too. It was the newspaperman. He stopped to drop money into the beggar’s hat. Evidently he had grown tired of waiting for his companion. That, or he thought a kid was too dumb to realize he was being followed. Did the guy really think Jack didn’t notice him down at the precinct? Man, he hated when people underestimated him.
Jack bolted, ducking into the first alley he came to, and threw in a few more quick turns and sprints. When he was certain he had dodged his shadow, he glanced back again. Gee willikers! The man was still hot on him, hat in his hand and coat flapping as he rounded the corner after him.
Jack broke out into a full gallop. For a moment, he considered running the man ragged—just to let him know who was boss. That would have him reconsidering future pursuits. But when he eventually lost him—and he had no doubt he would—how much time would he waste worrying about where he had gone? He beat the pavement a few more blocks and then slowed to a walk. No. Playing games was pointless. Besides, his sides were pinched with pain. He needed to know who found it so important to follow a thirteen-year-old all over town. When the guy caught up with him, he would confront him directly.
He parked next to Trott’s produce cart and took a breather. When several minutes had passed and the guy was still a no-show—probably still laboring down one of the alleys—Jack swiped an apple and headed toward the heart of downtown and the financial buildings. He was no stranger to finance as conducted in the hustling street life. He was barely in his teens, but before he left Nevis, back alleys and the bustling wharf were his commercial district. This fancy section of town with its bankers and lawyers? Not his forte.
Once past the bank and the courthouse, he slowed to check each storefront until he found the Western Union Telegraph and Cable office. He peered in. It was a narrow establishment, like some of the older row houses over on Tenth Street. Near the door, two women sat hunched over typewriters, and to the rear of the space, a man in a white dress shirt busied himself behind a tall wooden console. It was Mr. Cramer, the curmudgeon who had given him a disapproving eye on more than one occasion. Jack didn’t see any customers. He entered to the jingle of the doorbell and clacking typewriter keys.
Mr. Cramer took off his glasses and looked up from a puzzling array of electric tubes and wires that Jack supposed was the telegraph machine. “May I help—” His friendly smile drooped into something less inviting. “Young Mr. Byrne, isn’t it?” He pointed his spectacles towards the door. “Out. Go pester someone else.”
Jack respectfully removed his cap. He’d been bum-rushed out of more exclusive joints than this. “Mr. Cramer,” he said. “I heard you’re looking for messengers. I’ve come to apply, sir.”
Cramer arched an eyebrow and considered a moment. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” Jack lied.
“Bicycle?”
Jack’s eyes flicked to the window as he tried to recall where he had left it. “Not a problem, sir,” he said.
Mr. Cramer waved him over to an empty chair opposite the typists.
Jack hesitated. He didn’t know anything about typing.
“It just so happens I’m desperate for another messenger,” Cramer said. “What jobs have you held before?”
It was mostly freelance stuff at the wharf, but Jack didn’t think Cramer would appreciate that. “Odd ones. This and that. Here and there. I’m told I’m a reliable self-starter, sir.”
Cramer stared at him as if a printed message would suddenly scroll across his forehead and proclaim him either the perfect job prospect or dismiss him as laughably unsuited. When that failed to appear, he said, “I need someone to deliver in the evening, late night if necessary, and anywhere on the wharf. You need to be quick about your delivery and not get into other people’s business. You don’t see anything, you don’t say anything. You can handle that?”
“Sure. I can start tonight.”
Cramer drew out a black notebook from a desk drawer. “Sign your name and address on line nineteen. Nineteen, that will be your number.”
When Jack had scribbled in the space beneath the Koenig brothers at 18 and 18 b, Cramer handed him a celluloid black-and-yellow Western Union pin. “Put this on.” Then he produced a black hatband with Western Union plastered across it in yellow. “That goes on your cap. Write your number on it.” When he was done handing out the accouterments of a messenger boy, he turned around and pointed to a chalkboard hanging next to the door. “Starting at 8 p.m., start checking that board. Once your number hits the top, you get the next message. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll have a special package going out tonight. Come back at e
ight . . . and not a minute short. Clear?”
Jack nodded. The only thing left was to procure another bicycle.
Chapter Nineteen
Old Faces and Lost Places
The Nevis courthouse was right around the corner from the train depot. Made sense to Shoe. It was railroad money that really built the town. When the Chesapeake Railway Express laid tracks into the sleepy bay town in 1901, they also laid the foundation for a strong banking system and a legal arena to handle all their business, not to mention all the collateral accountants, attorneys, and crooks that big money normally attracts. Some of Shoe’s best noncontroversial stories came out of here.
The courthouse and First National Bank of Nevis stood side by side. With their flights of broad stairs, ornate Corinthian columns, and chiseled pediments, they appeared as shrines to great American business acumen. Shoe supposed burnt offerings could be made around the rear of the building.
His black cap-toe oxfords echoed across the marble floor as he entered the courthouse and approached the records clerk’s desk just inside the archway on the right. He crossed his fingers and silently recited for a final time his sob story about an elderly aunt getting cheated out of her homestead by a couple of con men. If that didn’t get him a few sympathetic tears and access to the property records, he’d have to trot out his Pulitzer nomination and the Do you know who I am? card. He preferred to avoid that one. A low profile was always the best profile.
The girl behind the desk was young and cute—curly red hair, a mass of freckles that dotted her fair skin, and eyes of a startling deep blue. She looked familiar, but if their paths had crossed, he couldn’t recall where.
“How may I help—” she began, and then stopped. “Newspaper, right?” She gave him a smile and a friendly tap on the back of the hand.
He relaxed a bit. “Uh, yeah. Would it be possible to check property records? I’m working on something. Can’t say what right now, but it’s absolutely essential to the story I’m on.” Okay, a half-truth, but close enough.
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