The Best Bad Things

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The Best Bad Things Page 8

by Katrina Carrasco


  “Put the gun on my desk. That knife you carry, too.”

  Alma walks forward stiffly. She is impressed by Wheeler even as she wants to whirl around and savage him. There is the sense of wasted time—of wasted effort. He set this snare for her when he ought to be chasing Sloan and keeping better tabs on Delphine’s product. Beckett knew too damn much and was too willing to talk about it, but nothing he said suggested Wheeler is turning away from Delphine. Everything she’s seen points to a conscientious man: he keeps business quiet, stays respectable, sends men out to silence loose cannons like Beckett. He is good at his job. Ironfisted and decisive.

  Except when it comes to her.

  He has been too forgiving. He has given her too much time.

  They cross the threshold into the back office. Alma’s eyes are sun dazed, her vision haloed with afterglow. But there is a shadow beside Wheeler’s desk.

  Someone else is in the room.

  She stares until the man comes into focus. He holds a silver pistol. He is Conaway’s size, with meaty arms, a thick neck roped with muscle. Ruddy skin. Cropped beard along his lantern jaw.

  Propelled by Wheeler, she walks up to the desk until the edge bites into her thighs. She takes her weapons from their holsters with deliberate movements: no need to spook the man holding a cocked Remington. Her pistol thumps solidly onto the wood. Her knife clatters. Without them she feels unanchored, unsteady, subject to a different, lesser kind of gravity.

  “I warned you to throw him in the bay.”

  Wheeler shoves her forward so she loses her balance over the desk. She keeps her feet but only just. The other man is silent. He has small gray eyes.

  “If you’d followed my instructions, you might not be where you are now.”

  “And just where is that?” she says.

  “Fucked.” Wheeler collects her weapons, putting them into a drawer and withdrawing his black-lacquered gun.

  Alma holds her fists tight against her thighs. So he bested her. Fine. Maybe he wants her to say it. Impress his big friend.

  “Enough with the games,” she says. “What do you want?”

  Wheeler nods at the other man, who sets down his gun and circles the desk toward her. She sees the metallic flash in his palm, but he is faster than a big man should be, the knife already at her throat even as he’s twisting down her jacket to trap her arms behind her. There is a line of cold fire along her neck, a thread of heat dripping down her skin. The big man’s pulse bangs against the back of her head. He’s enjoying this, the bastard.

  Wheeler is staring at her. His lips are pressed into a thin seam, his cheeks pallid. His eyes narrow.

  He is forcing himself to watch.

  This is no mere pissing contest—not if it’s enough to make him wince. Alma’s heart punches at her breastbone. Delphine warned her. Still, she didn’t believe Wheeler would kill her. Until now. She is losing the fight to keep her breaths even.

  “God damn it,” she says, the words slicing the knife deeper into her skin.

  She is not shaking, she is not shaking, she is steady as a rock, but what if Delphine’s name does not save her. The man behind her pulls her closer and his erection jabs into the small of her back.

  “Delphine,” she says, blood coming faster over her throat. “I work for Delphine.”

  8

  JANUARY 25, 1887

  TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW WITH SAMUEL REED

  WHEREUPON THE FOLLOWING PROCEEDINGS WERE HAD IN THE JEFFERSON COUNTY JAIL, PORT TOWNSEND, WASHINGTON TERRITORY, ON JANUARY 25, 1887.

  LAWMEN PRESENT: CITY MARSHAL GEORGE FORRESTER, OFFICER WAYLAN HUGHES

  TRANSCRIPTION: EDWARD EDMONDS, ASSISTANT DEPUTY COLLECTOR, U.S. CUSTOMHOUSE

  MR REED: I didn’t kill Sugar. I didn’t kill anyone. I told you, I was working last night.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: For your mystery employer?

  MR REED: I don’t want him involved. I don’t want to give you his name.

  OFFICER HUGHES: That makes confirming your story difficult.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Come on, Reed. You’re usually on Union Wharf in the evening, loading boats. Two people described the man who put the body into a scow at Union: short, stocky, dark complexioned, gray cap and coat. That sounds just like you.

  MR REED: Maybe I was wearing a different cap and coat.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Maybe you’d better cut the crap and tell us why you killed Sugar Calhoun.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Come in, Jackson. Set it … set it here.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Did you telegraph Chicago?

  OFFICER JACKSON: Yes, sir.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Here’s a drink, Sam. You want it, you just have to answer the question.

  MR REED: I didn’t kill her.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: That’s not the right answer.

  MR REED: I didn’t … (inaudible)

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: What?

  MR REED: I put her in the boat.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Really.

  MR REED: But I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t. I was just loading the boat as I was told.

  OFFICER HUGHES: By whom?

  MR REED: If he finds out I ratted on him, he’ll pay me back, in a bad way.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: That’s not our problem. If you sleep with dogs, you wake up with lice. Isn’t that how it goes, Hughes?

  OFFICER HUGHES: Fleas.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: God damn fleas, then. You wake up with fleas.

  MR REED: He’ll know it was me who squawked.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Sam. Have another drink, Sam.

  MR REED: Oh, Christ.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Who told you to load the boat?

  MR REED: I’m never … Oh, Christ. His name’s Barnaby Sloan.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Barnaby Sloan? He’s that fellow—

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Let the man tell it his way. Who’s Barnaby Sloan?

  MR REED: He’s a big name on the waterfront. He runs a boardinghouse near Quincy Wharf.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: What house?

  MR REED: It’s next to the empty lot at the corner of Water and Madison.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: He’s a big name. Why? For running the house?

  MR REED: He runs lots of things.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: You’re going to need to be more specific.

  MR REED: He has girls … a cathouse. Uh, there’s talk on the wharves about men shanghaiing sailors. Some say they’re his men, doing that. And dope. There’s … there’s talk of that.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Opium?

  MR REED: Can I have more whiskey?

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: What’s the talk of opium?

  MR REED: (inaudible)

  OFFICER HUGHES: Take as much as you want.

  MR REED: Thanks … Some say he brings dope in. From Canada.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: I’ll be damned.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Have you seen him bring in opium?

  MR REED: Uh …

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Answer the question.

  MR REED:… Yes.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Will you swear to that in court?

  MR REED: No.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: You’re telling an officer of the law, directly, that you will commit perjury?

  MR REED:… No?

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Listen, you stupid son of—

  OFFICER HUGHES: Sir. Sir, please. We can come back to this. But we ought to be talking about Miss Calhoun.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Oh, you’re damn right we will come back to this.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Do you know why she was killed?

  MR REED: No.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Do you know any reason Barnaby Sloan would want her dead?

  MR REED: They weren’t friendly. She wouldn’t cooperate with him. But I’m not saying he killed her.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Better him killing her than you, right?

  MR REED: I don’t know who killed her, or why. All I know is Sloan told me to load a scow on Union Wharf, late.

  OFFICER HUGHES: And then what.

>   MR REED: There were a few boxes and a bag. I was left to load them alone. The bag was terrible awkward. I got it up on my shoulder and an arm flopped out of the top. An arm! It fell right along my shirtfront.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Sloan never had you load bodies before?

  MR REED: No. Jesus, no. Like I said, there was talk he had … other things … in his crates, from time to time, but otherwise it was just the usual cargo.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: The usual cargo? Meaning what?

  MR REED:… I don’t know. I never asked.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: You said he’s got you working nights on the docks.

  MR REED: Yes.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: And you said he has a boardinghouse, girls, a shanghaiing operation, and dope.

  MR REED: Yes?

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Any other businesses to add to his busy schedule?

  MR REED: Uh. Not that I know of.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Then I’ll tell you what, son. Only one of Sloan’s businesses requires you and a crew of men to load freight at night. Every night. And that’s the opium smuggling. I think Sloan’s usual cargo is crates and crates of opium.

  MR REED: Well, I guess I … I assumed it was all goods for his boardinghouse.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Would he really be so brazen about it? Loading all that out in the open?

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: I don’t know. But Mr. Reed here sure as hell does.

  MR REED: No! No, I really don’t.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Let’s stick to what you do know, Sam. Let’s get back to the cargo Sloan had you load. There was a body in the bag …

  MR REED: I had to see who was in there. I set the bag down, looked inside. The first thing I saw was long wavy hair. That turned my stomach, I can tell you. I almost stood up and walked away. Now I wish I had.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Go on.

  MR REED: Sorry. Sorry, I can just see her so clearly. She was wearing a green dress. She didn’t have a scratch on her, but all her jewelry had been taken off. I’d never seen her without gold necklaces and pearls, even when … even when we’d been together. Alone. You take my meaning.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Get yourself together.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Did you take her all the way out of the bag?

  MR REED: No. I’d pulled the bag down to her waist, and I picked her up like that. Carried her into the stern sheets. On my way back to Sloan’s boardinghouse I ran into some of his men near Chain Locker saloon. I drank so much they left me there, and I woke up in my own mess outside the bar. I thought it was all a bad dream for a while, this morning. You know, like it didn’t happen?

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Unfortunately for you, it did. Murder. That’s a long life in prison, or a short drop on a rope.

  MR REED: But I didn’t kill her!

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: I don’t believe you.

  MR REED: Damn it! I didn’t—

  OFFICER HUGHES: Settle down, Reed. Come on. Sit down.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Even if you didn’t kill her, you helped cover it up. So don’t think you’re out of the deep water. You want any sort of bargain, you’d better have a hell of a lot to say about Sloan.

  MR REED: Sloan?

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: His boat. His usual cargo. Maybe his bagged dead body. You don’t want to swing? You better start talking about why he should.

  MR REED: Talking … like what?

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: When did you first meet him?

  MR REED: A few days after I’d seen Sugar, and started casing that cannery for her.

  OFFICER HUGHES: A cannery?

  MR REED: That’s what she wanted the keys to. On Quincy Wharf.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: You never got around to robbing it?

  MR REED: No. She told me to case the cannery and get the keys copied. I wouldn’t even know where to start with robbing it. Because I’m not a thief.

  OFFICER HUGHES: You said you were afraid she’d turn you in.

  MR REED: That was for older things. Things from our Chicago days. I was no angel but that’s the whole reason I came West, to make a new start, clean slate, all that.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Uh-huh.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Get back to Sloan.

  MR REED: The cannery was his building. She had me watching his building. Two days in to trying to find the door unguarded and his men collared me. I said I’d been hanging around because I was looking for work on the docks. Pretty sharp, right?

  OFFICER HUGHES: Sure.

  MR REED: Well, they thought so. They bought it. Said there was no work then but to check back the next day, when a few boats were due. And I figured, a paying gig, and what better excuse to figure out who held the keys so I could borrow them for a minute?

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Did you make it inside?

  MR REED: Yes.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: What did you see?

  MR REED: It was no cannery. There’s some old equipment in there, but mostly shipping crates.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: There’s that usual cargo again.

  MR REED: It was all harmless stuff, in the open crates. Cigars, sailors’ woolens. But I didn’t get close to much. I wasn’t at the cannery for long.

  OFFICER HUGHES: What happened?

  MR REED: This.

  OFFICER HUGHES: Good God.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Who did that to you?

  MR REED: Sloan. His boys caught me making a copy of the keys.

  OFFICER HUGHES: He tortured you?

  MR REED: He used a meat cleaver.

  MARSHAL FORRESTER: Jesus Christ.

  MR REED: I told him everything.

  9

  JANUARY 14, 1887

  “Let he—let him go,” Wheeler says.

  He takes a half step toward Alma and the man holding her.

  “Sir?”

  “I said stop.”

  The razor edge slips out of Alma’s skin. Her jacket falls away, freeing her arms, and she presses one sleeve against her neck, shaking with the thunder of her pulse, shaking but fighting hard not to show it. Her sleeve is hot over the back of her hand. Her neck throbs. Did that bastard nick a vein? Her sleeve is hot over her wrist bone.

  “If I bleed out because of you—”

  “You’ll live,” Wheeler says, though he is eyeing her chin, eyeing the heat blooming along her forearm. “Get a clean shirt out of the cabinet.”

  The big man moves around behind her, boots heavy on the carpet. When he comes back, he hands her a bundle of white. She packs the cloth against her neck, into the crease under her chin that burns with growing fierceness as her heart rate settles and the fissure of panic that buckled in her abdomen closes, fades away.

  “Start talking,” Wheeler says.

  “Not with him in here.” Alma jerks her head toward the man beside her, the motion tugging barbed wire across her throat. His gray eyes are pinched and wary. He fidgets with his red-smeared knife, and with his other hand adjusts his inseam.

  “Why don’t you go take care of that instead,” she says. “You might have better luck.”

  “Sit down before you fall down, Camp.”

  Alma realizes she is listing to the right. She gropes into a chair. Blinks to focus her eyes, the small muscles of her face protesting. The room loses its light coat of fuzz. Then Wheeler is at her side, holding out a glass of whiskey. She drinks half. Pours the rest onto the shirt, shoving it up against her throat again before she has a chance to imagine the pain. Oh merciful Christ. The breaths leaving her are fast, raspy.

  Behind her, the two men speak in low voices. Alma peels the shirt from her neck. A fist-size bloodstain, yellow with whiskey at its edges. Only a fist. She will be all right.

  The door shuts. Wheeler walks around the desk to his chair, rests his hands on the leather. But he does not sit. He circles around again to lean against the carved wood. His face is drawn, the untamed curls from earlier springing out around his temples. The knot of his tie askew.

  “Talk,” he says. “Quietly.”

  Alma angles her upper body to make sure the
other man is gone. The movement twists a grunt out of her.

  “He’s away,” Wheeler says. “But not far. You’re not leaving here until I’m sure of you, and if you don’t walk out, you’ll be carried.”

  “Delphine brought me up from San Francisco.” Alma forces the words through the band of pain around her neck. “I’d been down there greasing wheels for the Families.”

  Wheeler’s hands are clasped over one knee. The light on his ring quivers, almost imperceptibly, a tiny gold window into his thoughts. Turbulence rattles inside him despite his set jaw, his level voice.

  “Brought you for what purpose,” he says.

  “An audit. She gave me nothing—I was supposed to find the product, then try and find her.”

  “She trusts me so little.” His smile is parched of any amusement.

  “You’ve been having troubles with product going missing,” Alma says. “And there are more troubles on the way.”

  She will not tell him about the Pinkerton’s agents: she does not want to make a slip about the other angle in her game. Delphine can pass along news about the law. Though Delphine does not often deign to explain things. Her magnetic eyes, her measured speech; people turn to her, they wait for her. It will be the same with Wheeler. He will have to turn and wait.

  He slides off the desk, returns with a tumbler and the whiskey bottle. While he pours a golden skim into his cup, she holds hers out, too, her sleeve damp and red stained. She is pleased her arm is not shaking. It still hurts to breathe.

  “You shouldn’t have left Beckett for so long.” When she swallows whiskey, her throat burns inside and out. “He was a powder keg, and he was looking hard for a match.”

  “You don’t know a thing about the situation up here,” Wheeler says. “The alliances. The bloody hoops there are to jump through.”

  “I didn’t think you were the kind of man to make excuses.”

  A flash of teeth. The crack of his tumbler on the desktop. But he only glowers at her. If he is Delphine’s loyal man—that Alma’s still alive seems good proof of that—he can’t lash out at her any longer. They are on equal footing. Alma lets that sink in, one eyebrow lifted.

  “I’ll keep calling you boss,” she says, the mocking tone in her voice hampered by pain. “Since you like it.”

  Since it will remind him he is no longer her master.

 

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