Time Out of Mind

by John R. Maxim

  “What happened then?”

  ‘They just laid low. They were already staying at the Claremont Inn.”

  “But you said she was hurt and frightened. Was she frightened of Tilden?”

  “No.” Corbin shook his head. “The soiled-dove reference hurt her, mostly because of the child she was carrying. I can see her crying and taking Tilden's hands and putting them on her belly, and I can see him holding her and promising that everything would be fine once they got her to Greenwich and that he'd take care of Colonel Mann. That's the part that frightened her. I'm not sure they ever talked about whether he killed Ella, but she was afraid he was going to kill this Colonel Mann. But he wasn't. Mann was easy to fix because all you had to do was pay him and he'd never mention your name again. That was a point of honor with the colonel, ridiculous as it sounds. The real problem was Carling.”

  ”I gather Tilden then had at him a second time.”

  Corbin shook his head and was silent for a long moment. “It gets mixed up here. There seem to have been a whole series of violent fights. After the one in the Hoffman House, maybe two weeks later... now, see, this is also after Tilden went to see Margaret and asked her to have his child, but that had to have been a very personal meeting because Tilden doesn't let me see it, except I can see where John Flood is urging him to go to her—”

  “Whoa!” Gwen Leamas stopped him. “What do you mean, Tilden doesn't let me see it’? You sound as if you think Tilden’s still around.”

  ”I think he's part of me.” Corbin met her eyes.

  “But do you think he's a living person? Living inside you right now, I mean.”

  ”I don't know,” Corbin answered. “Your uncle seems to think he is.’’

  “Correction. Jonathan.” Gwen Leamas frowned. “Uncle Harry believes, and I believe it too, that you're carrying an unusual number of your great-grandfather's genes and therefore his memories. That's not the same as believing that he's still alive.”

  “You keep telling me that I've become Tilden when I've been with you.”

  “You've become like him. It's those memory genes, nothing more.”

  “Fine.” He shrugged. · '

  “Do you believe that, Jonathan?”

  “Sweetheart”—he touched her cheek—“I'll believe whatever helps me handle all this. But for the record, no. No, I do not believe Tilden Beckwith is still alive inside of me.”

  Corbin gestured with his head toward Maple Avenue, still a half block ahead, and started Gwen walking again.

  How'd I do? he asked himself.

  Fine, he answered.

  Twelve

  Gwen took Corbin's hand and tugged it to break the thoughtful silence of the last half block.

  “I'm sorry I lectured you, Jonathan,” she said. ”I guess I'm getting a bit spooked.”

  “It's okay, hon.” He squeezed back and let her see a smile. “Glad to have you in the club.”

  “Where were we, anyway?”

  ”I kind of hoped we were getting ready to change the subject.”

  “Just one more loose end.” She made a kissing sound to appease him. “You said Tilden was going to confront Colonel Mann, or perhaps Ansel Carling, but you thought there was some other violence in the meantime.”

  “There's a lot. But it all runs together.”

  “Well, who else did he beat up on?”

  Corbin was silent for a long moment. Gwen saw that he was wincing. “Nobody always wins, sweetheart,” he said at last.

  “Good evenin' to you, sir.”

  Gwen felt his hand crushing hers as it tightened into a fist.

  “You look like a gent what'd have a match to spare.”

  Two men. One in a grimy pea jacket. The one speaking wore a heavy fleece-lined coat.

  Tilden had just stepped into the glow of the Osborne's electric lights when he heard the voice and hesitated. Had it not been so late, had he not still been wrapped in the warmth of these last few hours spent with Margaret, he would have tightened his grip on his cane and passed them with a shake of his head. They would, he knew, have expected no more for their impertinence. Had it not been for the memory of Margaret's tears, her tender solicitude in answer to his neglect of her, he would have wondered why two such men should be abroad at night in this part of town. Coarse and common men. White men, yet coming from the direction of the Negro section to the west where no white men ever went, save policemen and rent collectors. Had Margaret not asked him for a week's grace in deciding upon his proposition, a week without contact, a condition which weighed heavily upon his heart, he would not have paused and fumbled absently at his pockets for matches he did not carry.

  ‘‘A fifty-center, that is.'' The man in the fleece jacket held the cigar up high, inspecting it in the glow of the Osborne's lights. ”I can remember when a full day bent over a shovel would fetch me little more than the cost of this one good Havana.`'

  Tilden looked up in spite of himself. The fist came low and hard to his stomach. There was no avoiding the blow; he took it full beneath his rib cage though he crouched to smother it as best he could. The cane in his right hand slashed forward by reflex, but it was poorly aimed. The man in the peacoat parried it and countered with a lead slung sap that tore away Tilden's hat and a flap of his scalp. He saw an explosion of white fire and felt his knee crash painfully against the pavement. He knew that he was down. Down and blind. Cover your head, Tilden. Bring your knees against your chest and your arms against your head. But the arms had gone flaccid; they could not obey the command of his brain. Then roll, for God's sake. Don't give their boots a target. Again, his body did not answer.

  A hand gripped his hair. A voice, soft and calm, was speaking to him through the diffusing light. “You've been a bad boy, you see. You've been fighting. 'Fess up, now. You've been fighting, have you not?” He felt an open palm smash across his cheek. ” 'Fess up, I said. The way we hear it, a feller can`t even have a quiet drink these days without you comin' in and busting up the place.”`

  Carling.

  Another hard slap shocked him. Its sound blew through the glistening cloud inside his head, dispersing more of it. Yes, he thought. Talk to me. Keep talking to me.

  “Bad boys get punished, don't cher know.” A third blow. The same cheek. “‘First bad boys and then bad little girls.'' The hand came again. But softly this time. Its fingers were caressing the side of his face. “‘And the way we punish 'em is we mark ‘em. We mark 'em so there's always a lookin' glass to remind them o' the error of their wicked ways.'' Tilden felt a thumb slide gently across his cheekbone until it came to rest at the corner of his left eye. Gougers. They were going to gouge his eyes and bring them back for Ansel Carling to see. Now. Now or never.

  A scream. The hand was snatched away from his cheek, and the man who owned it screamed. One hand, the other man's, still gripped Tilden's hair, but the hand of the gouger was now tearing at Tilden's forearm, then at Tilden's fingers, searching for a hold that would loose the desperate grip Tilden had on his genitals. Even the hold on his hair eased as the other man, the peacoat, wondered through ponderous wits about the source of his companion's agony. Tilden, from his knees, brought up the spike of his cane, ramming it with all his gathering strength into the armpit of the peacoat. That arm, too, snapped back, tearing his hair as it went. Tilden swung the cane once more, its silver knob finding Peacoat’s ear and staggering the man. He brought back the cane to strike at the one in the fleece jacket, but the cane's shaft struck the edge of a low iron fence and it snapped in two. Before Tilden could think to use the jagged edge as a thrusting weapon, the writhing thug in the fleece jacket wrenched himself free and, enraged, began a dance with heavy boots upon Tilden's body.

  “It's a pepperbox I'm holding, boys. Stand off.” The voice seemed to come from far away. It had a melodïc flourish to it, a resonance. Tilden knew that voice. “Back away nicely or, by God, I'll spray you both.”

  Nat. Nat Goodwin.

  “Tilden, can you stand?''
/>
  Tilden nodded that he could, but his legs would not serve him. A hand took his arm and helped him rise.

  “Careful with that thing, Nat,” the one in the fleece jacket said. “We'll be calling it a day now.”

  “You'll stand where you are,” the actor ordered.

  Tilden could see them backing off toward the darkness. The peacoat had one hand to his ear and blood was streaming from it down into his collar. The eyes of both men were locked upon the eight small barrels of Nat Goodwin's pistol.

  “Nothin’ personal, Nat. Just a job of work with us. Nothin’ we’d deal you into.” They continued backing away.

  “Move, Tilden,” he barked. “Get inside.” Goodwin shoved him up the steps. It could be, he knew, that those two bummers had enough. But it could also be that they carried longer guns than his little pepperbox and were backing into an advantageous range. Nat Goodwin held his ground until he saw the outer glass doors swing open and the frightened night manager ran down for Tilden and took his weight. Goodwin followed them, backing in, his pistol still trained on the two retreating toughs.

  He was wearing a dressing gown, Corbin remembered. Nat Goodwin. The actor. It was made of silk brocade and it reached to his ankles. It was red. The collar was of velvet and Corbin could see dull spots on it where spilled makeup had been imperfectly scrubbed away.

  “Thank you, Nat. I owe you.” Tilden rested on a lobby bench.

  “Thank Mr. Peebles here. He came and woke me when he saw those two closing on you.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Tilden nodded gratefully. “But please, no word of this.”

  “Come along, my friend.” Nat Goodwin helped him to his feet. “Let's see if I can piece you together.”

  “Nat, you knew them,” Tilden whispered when he was out of the night man's hearing.

  “Just another pair of toughs, Tilden. New York's full of them.”

  “Who were they?” Tilden allowed himself to be led into the elevator. Neither man spoke during the short ride to Goodwin's floor. Then Tilden asked the question again.

  “It's no good calling the police, Tilden,” the actor told him. “The fellow you nearly gelded is thick with Captain Devery and Clubber Williams.” Goodwin pushed open his apartment door and guided Tilden through to a large mirrored dressing table he kept in his bathroom.

  “Williams?” Tilden repeated the name as Nat Goodwin took a wet sponge to his scalp. “They were sent by Ansel Carling, Nat. Why should Williams have a hand in it?”

  ”I don't know that he does. Except that Carling works for Jay Gould and so does Williams when he's needed. You're sure Carling is behind this?”

  “The man as much as said it.” Tilden winced at the touch of a chloroform swab to his cut. “Nat, he meant to take my eye.”

  Goodwin frowned.

  “That doesn't sound like the Clubber's style. It's his stick that got him his reputation and got him hob-nobbing with his betters. He wants people to fear him well enough but not to turn from him in disgust as they would a gouger. Ask me, Williams knew nothing of it except perhaps to pass on a name or two.”

  “I'll have that name, Nat.”

  “There are a thousand like him.” Goodwin stepped to his tub and turned on both taps. “As he said, it's just a job of work with him. Why go after a hireling if you know who's paying the freight?”

  “‘Because he talked like he was paid to hurt Margaret as well. ‘Bad girls get marked,’ he said. Carling made the same threat.”

  Nat Goodwin chewed his lip.

  “What do you mean to do, Tilden, given the man's name?”

  “He spoke of me, and Margaret, looking in a mirror always and remembering what he'd done to us. I mean to have him remember me.”

  “You'd go after him alone? If that's your plan, my friend, you'll get no name from me.”

  “Perhaps John Flood will back me.”

  Goodwin sighed deeply. “And perhaps my pepperbox as well,” he said.

  Pepperbox ... Big John Flood.

  It was done the next day, Corbin knew. It seemed to him that Tilden should have waited longer, until he was healed or at least not slowed by the bruises on his back and thighs. But Corbin could smell a foul yellow mixture, which Nat Goodwin had plastered upon his welts after another soaking in a tub of salts. And he could see in his mind the gloves that John Flood had brought for him. Tight, fingerless gloves of thick piled leather. They had little pockets sewn into their palms to hold either sand or birdshot, and there were strips of rough canvas stitched across the knuckles. Have you seen to Margaret? Tilden asked him. Give her no thought, John Flood answered. She's safer by half than you will be if you don't keep your wits full about you. And John Flood gave a nod and wink to Nat Goodwin, which Tilden saw but did not question.

  The saloon was O'Gorman's and Tilden’s man was Billy O'Gorman himself. He'd be in the back, Nat Goodwin had learned, playing poker with two fat cats from Tammany and a pair of rubes down from Buffalo who'd be nearly blind on O'Gorman's liquor within the hour. Goodwin entered first and took a place at the end of the bar where he could watch the two bartenders. John Flood entered just behind Tilden, a handkerchief at his nose, and quietly took a stool near a pool table where two rough-looking men with short cropped hair were intent on a game of nine-ball. Stay cool, lad, he urged to himself. A cool head keeps 'em off balance.

  Tilden walked to the center of the bar and stood surveying the half dozen tables and the score of men who were lounging there, some hard, some more like ferrets. He stepped to the nearest table and pushed it several feet farther from the bar. Next he moved the chairs, lifting one of them with a ferret still seated in it. The two bartenders exchanged glances. The larger one took a step closer to his bung starter. Nat Goodwin rested a hand upon the butt of his pistol. Tilden moved another table, its two patrons looking at him more with curiosity than annoyance. They noticed his hands, which were covered with wool knit gloves stretched tight over outsized palms. He would not be the first man to come in doing songs and tap dances for free drinks and a sandwich, or to do a juggling act, or to take on the toughest man in the house for a pass of the hat. This last seemed the more likely given the look of the man's nose, except he wore the clothes of a swell. At a far table, a man with a bandaged ear reached from his seat and took a pool cue from its rack on the wall.

  “What's your pleasure, sir?” the larger bartender asked.

  “Mr. Billy O'Gorman, please. Tell him Mr. Beckwith is here to see him.”

  The bartender, Joe McArdle, gestured toward the space Tilden had cleared. “You figurin' to mix it up with Mr. O'Gorman? You got ambition.”

  Tilden pointed to the mirror and row of bottles behind McArdle. “I'm going to ask for him one more time and then I'm going to throw a chair through that.”

  The bartender shrugged. He brought up his hands, showing a long-handled wooden hammer. ”I guess you must be holding some good cards. I got this here mallet. You mind showin' me what else you got before I go botherin' Mr. O'Gorman?”

  “Right here.” The sound came from John Flood's mouth. All eyes except Tilden’s followed as John Flood rose from his stool and walked toward the man with the bandaged ear. The man seemed to know what was coming. He pushed back his chair and waited, the pool cue held low at his side. Flood, without breaking stride, feinted with a shoulder and easily ducked the tapered stick as it whistled past his head. A crushing right hand slammed downward to a point below the bandage, making the sodden snapping sound that told of a jawbone separated from a skull. John Flood's left hand seized the man's shirt and steadied him, unconscious, in his chair. Joe McArdle's expression, save for an understanding nod, changed not at all.

  “Would your name be John Flood, by chance?” he asked.

  “Yours truly.” Big John bowed at the waist.

  “Another time, I'd admire to shake your hand. Will you be asking Billy to take you both on, can I ask?”

  “It's Mr. Beckwith's show. I'm here to keep it square.”

  T
he two men playing nine-ball stopped their game and took seats at the edge of their table. McArdle studied their faces. They, too, seemed familiar.

  “Fair and square you say. On your word?”

  “On my word,” Flood called back.

  McArdle turned to the smaller bartender. “Would you tell Mr. O'Gorman that there's a fine gentleman here to dispute him. Tell him it's my opinion he'll be back at his table before the next raise.”

  The bartender walked quickly to a door at the rear of the room, rapped twice, and entered. He was gone a full minute, Nat Goodwin noted. When the white-aproned man reappeared, he announced in a nervous mumble that Mr. O'Gorman would be joining them shortly. He glanced once at Tilden and then, Nat saw, once more toward the doors leading to the street.

  “On your toes, Tilden,” he said softly. “O'Gorman will be coming at your back.”

  The words were barely out before Nat Goodwin felt a draft on his cheek, then a fuller rush of air. He turned, almost casually, his right arm extended and his pepperbox pointed full in the startled face of Billy O'Gorman. O'Gorman had come in at a runner's crouch, a baseball bat held low in front of him. His surprise ruined, O'Gorman straightened and spat.