Peterson blinks, tucks his hands into his pockets. His breathing speeds. His tells are as glaring as a lighthouse beacon, poor overmatched bastard.
“Clay?” he says. “The bartender? I drink at Chain Locker sometimes. Who doesn’t.”
“I don’t,” she says. “But maybe Beckett did. I ought to go see Clay and ask him.”
At the door she stops, fixing on her cap against the sunlight flowing low over the rooftops of Upper Town.
“You sure you’ve got nothing else to tell me?”
Peterson, alone in the dimness, closes his eyes.
“No,” he says.
* * *
The inside of the church smells of cold stone and wood varnish. Alma walks down the aisle toward the candle chapel, the rustle of her skirts a reminder to walk slow, to take the swagger out of her gait. Her skin heavy with powder. Her ears conjuring old rites in the echoes of her footsteps. Heel, toe. Droning Latin chains of sound. It’s been years since she made the sign of the cross. If she blessed herself incorrectly at the back of the church, at least there is no one to see—it is Monday, midafternoon, and the pews are empty. Delphine stands alone at the bank of votives, a flickering taper in one ungloved hand.
“Let’s not make a habit of this,” she says, quiet, when Alma stops beside her.
“I don’t plan on it,” Alma says. “You know French chalk makes my head ache.”
Delphine’s perfume is a welcome distraction from the powder’s sugary scent. Alma leans closer to her as she reaches for a taper. Candlelight plays on the long column of Delphine’s neck, her skin cinnamon brown against a dark lace collar.
“What is so urgent?”
“I wanted to see you.” Alma crosses herself again, trying out another sequence of movements and deciding she had it right the first time.
“Rosales. I already stand out too much for my liking, and I can’t encourage suspicious visitors,” Delphine says. “I shouldn’t have to explain the consequences of us being seen together, and how little wanting to see each other justifies the risk.”
A mutual wanting. Alma lights the taper. Holds it to a votive until flame leaps.
“What are the terms of my promotion?”
“The terms?” Delphine is facing forward, hands clasped, as if in prayer. Her voice pitched so low it is barely a whisper.
“Wheeler says he’s training me to be his replacement.”
“Yes.”
“He says if he doesn’t move up, I don’t move up.”
Now Delphine looks at her, a sideways glance, one eyebrow quirking. A red-and-gold patch of light from the stained-glass windows gilds the sharp line of her jaw, the full curve of her lips. She is smiling.
“Don’t be greedy,” she says. “Everyone deserves a reward for a job well done.”
“He ought to be working for me,” Alma says. “I can find the leak faster if I’m in charge, uncontested.”
Delphine’s mouth takes a harder shape.
“Did you bring me here to complain about having to cooperate with a partner?” she says.
“No. I asked to meet you because I’m tired of knowing half the information I need to know.” Alma pinches out the flame on the taper’s end. “I can’t be efficient that way. What is your plan?”
Delphine takes up her lit taper, lays it against another candle’s wick. In the pause Alma adjusts her dirty shawl, using the movement to glance behind them. All empty gleaming pews. No movement at the door. The confessional a latticed block of shadow against the near wall.
“You’re being trained to do Nathaniel’s job.” Delphine shakes out the taper. “But not here. In Tacoma.”
“Tacoma?”
The city where the organization’s tar is unloaded and sent to dealers all over the country via railroad. Distribution central: the real heart of things.
“I’m sure by now he’s filled you in on the situation there.”
“The inefficient situation,” Alma says. “I don’t like middlemen.”
“I agree. And I’m eager to hear all your ideas for improvements, once you’ve taken your new position as Tacoma deputy.”
Delphine sifts through her reticule. Slides a handful of small coins into the wooden donation box. Alma drops a coin in, too, regretting her choice of meeting place. No food, no drink. Delphine not meeting her gaze full on, adding to the obscure sense that Alma is in trouble for something—a vague guilt cued by the massive wooden crucifix and the echoes of the Paternoster.
“You vetted the organization. You’re tracking the missing product,” Delphine says, draping her gloves over one wrist as she loops closed the laces of her purse. “And while you do so, I want you to learn from Nathaniel. You don’t have much experience with … desk work.”
Alma clasps her hands under her chin, trying not to laugh because Delphine is right. The powder is coming off between her fingers, the insides of her knuckles showing darker, pitch stained. This meeting was worth the risk—she is learning the purpose of Delphine’s maneuvers—but she is eager to strip off the itchy cotton skirt, the cloying powder, and duck back into Camp’s clothes.
“Once you’ve studied that part of the job, and the two of you have solved our problems here, you’ll move up,” Delphine says. “Organize our new Tacoma outpost. It’s what you want: autonomy, legwork.”
She makes the sign of the cross and steps toward the aisle, turning to Alma at last. Under her bonnet her dark hair is curled away from her face in thick braids. The windows’ rainbow light is bright in her eyes, soft against the planes of her face. She looks younger in the parti-colored glow.
“I’ve had you in mind for this for some time,” Delphine says. “William Pinkerton was a fool to throw you out into the street. But I thank him for delivering me such a talent.”
Alma likes this promotion. She likes that Delphine planned this for her; that Delphine has been thinking about her in the long years they’ve been apart. She wants to reach up and stroke the other woman’s cheek. But that door might be shut. They have not touched since Alma came to town.
“You’ll be my chief deputy.” Delphine’s purse clinks with coins as she pulls on her gloves. “You can do the job as Camp, if you like. And perhaps, once you’re settled, you could reach out to some of your old friends. The more women in my employ, the better.”
“From the Women’s Bureau?”
Delphine nods, smiling again. A hot shiver washes over Alma’s skin. Here’s an offer Delphine has never made before. William Pinkerton shuttered the women’s division in 1884, after his father died; old man Pinkerton had seen the genius of female agents, but his son William had never liked the concept. Alma doesn’t know what became of the other spies—after Hannah’s death in Yuma and Alma’s subsequent dismissal, she drifted away from her fellow agents, ashamed—but a few of them would like this work. The rougher women. The women who didn’t mind breaking rules and didn’t have much love for William. The idea of seeing them again, after almost ten years, is a thrill and a worry all at once.
“I want to make you happy, Rosales.”
Alma shakes her head. She does love to hear the other woman say her name.
“You want to make me happy?” Alma steps closer, so she has to tilt her chin up to meet Delphine’s eyes. “Because this all suits me fine. But I have a few other suggestions.”
“Not in church, you don’t.”
Delphine sweeps past, jasmine perfume and flickering jewelry, her bootheels ringing on the stone floor.
“What’s Wheeler getting, to make him happy?”
“Do not ask for me like this again, unless there’s an emergency,” Delphine says, over her shoulder. “The town is too small to risk discovery. Have Nathaniel send a message. Or Nell, since you’ve clearly made some inroads in that direction.”
“No need to be jealous.” Alma’s not sure what to feel strongest between the stings of irritation and the tempting sense that Delphine is, finally, flirting with her. “Now that I know the terms, I’m all yours.�
�
* * *
Hoop & Barrow is lit up like a slat lantern, candle glow streaming from its gappy clapboards. Rain glitters as it passes through these bands of light, riding sideways on a strong wind that numbs Alma’s hands and feet despite her lined pockets, despite her woolen socks. Sparks crackle from a pair of chimneys that throw pine-scented smoke into the blow.
She sits just inside Hoop & Barrow’s woodshed, which is sheltered from shore view by its three walls and set back from the wharf behind the saloon. Her seat is a beat-up, unmarked crate the size of a fat sheep, its wood peeling with splinters. It is worth $230, untaxed. In Tacoma it’ll fetch $540. In San Francisco, it’s worth almost triple the untaxed price. Twenty-nine and a half pounds of Wah Hing brand opium. Neatly packed and ready to hand over to Sloan.
Spare logs are arranged behind her boots, so if someone unwanted stops by, she’s simply a man hunched in the shed, perched on the saloon’s lumber pile to stay out of the wind.
She can’t see Driscoll, but he is posted by the saloon’s rear door, to run interference should a keeper come out to fetch kindling. Otherwise it’s her and the gale and the crate, her hands too cold to even fumble with her watch and check the time. It should be near on nine thirty; she was only five minutes early, even though it feels like she’s been sitting in the frigid shed for hours.
Her thoughts, ice slippery, keep sliding between Tacoma and Sloan’s men and McManus. The Tacoma deal even more enticing the more she mulls over it. A job in the place she considers the supply chain’s most important link, with a handpicked crew of the best women and men willing to do black-market work. This handoff the next step toward that prize. So where are Sloan’s men? Where did McManus go after dropping off the product? Is his mystery woman a cover for another kind of sneaking? Will Sloan’s men have the money neat and easy to count or try for a distraction with something amateur like a jumbled bag of cash? Is McManus the leak, or is she jumping onto a suspicion with too much certainty? She likes to trust her hunches, but she’s not been flawless in Port Townsend: her first instinct, after vetting her three marks, was to pin Sloan as Delphine’s deputy. Ever since Yuma there’s been the nagging specter of what can happen when she runs in, guns blazing, only to find she’s guessed wrong.
Boots on the boards, vibrations shaking up her shins before she can hear the footfalls. A man steps into the square frame of the woodshed’s front. His eyes are narrowed under a sopping cap, his hands hidden in a tarpaulin jacket. Alma waits for the second man, the second set of footsteps. This one she recognizes: Loomis, the egg-eyed tough from Sloan’s boardinghouse, lower lip still fat with tobacco, ruined nose dark red in the dim light.
“Evening, lads,” she says, flexing life back into her hands in her pockets, the joints sticky. But if she’s cold and slow, so are the men.
“Camp,” Loomis says. “You have the tar?”
“You have the money?”
The first man takes his hands from his pockets—empty, pale in fingerless wool gloves—and reaches under his tarpaulin. He pulls out an envelope, waxed against the damp, and holds it out to Alma. She takes it. Undoes the flap. Inside are three notes stamped by the Citizens Bank of Oregon. She slides one out with a fingertip. It is signed for one hundred dollars. She closes the envelope and holds it up, her jaw tight.
“Deal’s off,” she says. “Those aren’t United States Notes, and I don’t take other currency from first-time customers.”
“What do you fucking mean it’s off,” the man says, not taking the envelope.
“Get out of here,” she says. “If you don’t have the money how I want it, I’ve got nothing for you.”
The man slaps the envelope aside. Its waxed white shape slides over the mossy boards. Neither man moves to retrieve it, which makes pretty clear the papers inside aren’t worth shit. He reaches into his coat again, but Alma, still seated, has her gun out now, aimed square at his groin. This is going badly. Sloan either has no interest in this arrangement or he’s testing her—testing to see if she knows her stuff or if she will be an easy mark. Alma doesn’t like tests.
“Is this really how you want to kick off our new partnership?” she says to the man before her. “You: gelded. Me: closed for business.”
“Here’s the fucking money.”
Loomis reaches under his coat, works an envelope out of his vest. Alma holds it with one hand, her other still training the pistol at the first man, who’s gone cheese colored and quiet. She almost drops the envelope—her cold fingers not quite closing around its sides—but gets it into her lap, where she can pry it open. Three bundles of United States Notes. She lifts one bundle out, counts ten tens, holds it to her nose. It is crisp and smells proper. That’s the way she’s learned to do it, after six years in the business. Fresh cash has a certain smell, a starchy paperiness with the tang of ink. Well-handled bills keep some of that scent, too, but should also smell of sweat, of dirt, of copper.
“Tell Sloan I want one hundred dollars extra next time.” Alma fingers through the rest of the cash, tallying it to the expected total. “To make up for this shit.”
“Where’s the tar?” Loomis says.
“I’m sitting on it,” she says. “And pick up your trash before you go. If someone finds three hundred in false notes behind Hoop and Barrow, it’ll ruin this spot for good.”
She keeps her gun out, tucks the cash into her vest. Standing from the crate is difficult. Her legs are stiff, and the sense of peeling away from all that product is tangible. But she pushes past the men—a breathless moment when they might grab her, might flick a blade into her side—then she is through their thick bodies and into the rain, a freezing sheet over her chin, her still-tender neck. She walks toward Hoop & Barrow, its lights and crowds and music. Footsteps behind her. Her spine tenses. She glances over her shoulder and it’s Driscoll, gliding along fifteen paces behind. Her lungs fill a little more deeply. She takes the long way round Washington Street toward Wheeler’s offices. Cash counted and stowed tight. One step closer to Tacoma. Satisfaction bubbling in her stomach.
17
JANUARY 18, 1887
“‘You, gelded. Me, done with you cunts.’”
“He didn’t say that.”
“Oh, yes, he did. Cool as a fucking cucumber.”
Alma sits on the carpet, her back against the blue wall. Greasy paper in her lap. A kidney pie dripping gravy down her fingers.
“You were too damn close if you heard that,” she tells Driscoll, who is relating the handoff, with embellishments, to Conaway.
They are gathered in the hall, sharing a late breakfast and Driscoll’s flask. Outside a light snow is falling. Wheeler is away at one of his gentlemen’s meetings in Upper Town. Sloan’s money has been counted, double-checked, and locked away. He paid in full for his first crate of company tar. Now all he has to do is smear it all over himself, and Delphine’s trap is baited.
“I got nervous when they threw that envelope,” Driscoll says, taking a nip of whiskey. “So I split the difference between the pub and the woodshed.”
“Next time stay where you’re meant to.” Alma shoves the last of the pie into her mouth, buttery crust sticking to her lips. “Are there any more?”
“I got one for the boss,” Conaway says.
“He’s feasting on ham and soft-boiled eggs.” Alma holds out her hand, not getting up. “Champagne. Caviar. Oysters on the half shell.”
“I heard they have steaks four inches thick at the new club on the hill,” Driscoll says.
“You excited about four inches?”
Conaway fends off the boy’s swatted punch, chuckling, and hands Alma the pie. Its greasy paper wrapping is translucent in the light falling through the cracked door. She unwraps it and bites into the crust. A seep of warm beef and butter.
“Put my bet down this morning,” Driscoll says, giving Conaway the flask. “It’s at ten to two, Mac’s favor.”
“I’ve got a few dollars on the stranger, myself,” Conaway say
s.
“Sneaky bastard!”
“If he wins, I’ll be rolling in cash. Enough to try out that steak you’re talking up.”
“Might not be a bad bet,” Alma says, around her mouthful of food. “The Tacoma man is undefeated.”
The Macaulay-Dobbs match is set for the next evening, and the waterfront is alight with it: bets piling up in favor of Mac; rumors of men filtering in from Tacoma, looking for trouble.
“He’s never fought Mac before,” Conaway says. “Three times he’s been invited, and this the first he’s stepped to the scratch. I think he’s shy.”
“Oh, you go tell him so, John,” Driscoll says, laughing. “Go tell that big strapping bastard he’s shy.”
“I might,” Conaway says.
“The fuck you will,” Alma says.
“I haven’t seen a good set-to since ’85, when Dempsey came to Portland to fight Campbell,” Conaway says, shrugging off their jeers. “On an island in the river, all rain and sleet. The second match was something—a couple of local crimps, London Prize Ring rules, beating each other to ribbons. Three men were killed after that, one with a fucking crate. God’s truth. Some bastard smashed it over his head, then stabbed him with one of the slats.”
“Christ Jesus,” Driscoll says.
“I was at the Goss-Allen championship, outside Cincinnati,” Alma says. “In ’76.”
“You weren’t,” Conaway says.
“Waited in line for six hours to catch the train to the secret spot,” she says. “By the time we got to the pitch there were bloody noses everywhere, swelling eyes. My pal lost a tooth.”
Her memories of that day are hazy, blurred by adrenaline and thirst and a good dose of fear. She and Ned braved the chaos together. Alma was still new to men’s clothes, with no fights of her own under her belt. That trip was the most dangerous thing she’d ever done. Sweating in her starched trousers on the long ride to Cincinnati, then jostling into the queue for the Louisville Short Line. She didn’t drink anything for two days beforehand because once they boarded the Louisville train there would be nowhere safe to piss for hours.
The Best Bad Things Page 20