The Best Bad Things

by Katrina Carrasco

  Jesus. Alma drags her bile-soured sleeve across her mouth.

  The only thing buying her time now is how long McManus holds out.

  31

  JANUARY 24, 1887

  “I don’t know who’s in Seattle,” Benson says.

  Alma hits him in the soft meat over his liver, twisting into the punch. He coughs out an oath. Sags forward. She hits him again. Using her right arm only, but her left is tingling, wanting to snap out and back, jab and hook.

  “God damn it.” Benson’s gray eyes are squeezed tight, pale against the red blaze of his face. “I can’t give you a name I don’t know.”

  “You’re lying,” Alma says.

  “Kopp sold you out,” Wheeler says, his arms folded over his chest. “Why protect his friends?”

  Benson’s breathing is pocked full of hitches. While he gasps, Alma shakes out her arm, her neck, a thin trickle of sweat ribboning down her temple. She shrugs off her jacket. Tosses it onto the desk. Wheeler sits in the chair behind it. Clay is in the corner, smoking, impassive. They’re in the back office of Clay’s boardinghouse. Muffled voices filter in from the lobby, but louder are the wavelets under the wharf, Benson’s wheezing.

  Alma tongues salt off the corner of her mouth as she folds up her sleeves to the elbow. Finally, Wheeler is watching her work. Watching her hammer punches home. She’d rather a standing opponent—a circling opponent, the trading of pain, the thrill of landing a fist just right, the total captivation of another’s attention. Whaling on Benson while he’s tied to a chair feels cheap. But she owes him some blood. And she likes Wheeler’s eyes on her, the narrowed heat of them over the rim of his whiskey glass.

  “I ain’t got shit else to say.”

  Alma rolls her neck. Eyes on Wheeler. The sweat-ripe bulk of Benson between them as she settles her breath, cracks her knuckles. That same current that connected them at the boxing match back in the air, smell of blood, of electricity. She gauges the bottom of Benson’s sternum, then locks her gaze with Wheeler’s as she slams her fist into the thin strip of bone. Her muscles hard, fast. Benson choking. Wheeler’s lips peeling back from his teeth—oh, yeah, he’s in the game, she wants Clay and Benson out so they are alone, they can knock bodies at last.

  Benson starts laughing, a thready chuckle.

  “Fuck you,” he says. “You queer piece of—”

  “Wheeler already knows,” Alma says. “That won’t buy you anything. Confine yourself to tar. And Kopp.”

  Now Benson is not laughing, his face starting to turn more gray than red, shifting against the ropes that hold his limbs, his torso, to the chair. Clay steps up to the desk. Lights a new cigarette with the end of his last and stubs the butt into an ashy tin dish. Benson is the cause for Peterson’s troubles with the police and otherwise—the one who got the boatbuilder involved in the tar thefts and blackmailed him into cooperation. Clay told Wheeler as much when Wheeler assured him Benson was under control, and Wheeler arranged Clay’s presence here as an olive branch: to make up for Peterson’s suffering.

  “You want to walk, you tell us who Kopp’s working with,” Wheeler says.

  Alma hits Benson again in the sternum. Then in the meat of the throat. His eyes popping bloodshot as he gasps. A bubble of spit on his lower lip.

  “I only knew Kopp. He arranged everything on the Seattle side,” Benson says, voice rasping. “And there was Beckett, but he was damn useless.”

  “Beckett,” Wheeler says.

  “I saw him all the time at The Captain’s.” Benson curls forward, inhaling bad, and Alma fists his curly brown hair and hauls him upright, so he can’t hide his eyes. “He was crazy for that dancer Kitty Jean. He’s the one got me talking to Kopp.”

  That night in the Cosmopolitan’s gambling parlor, when she was casing Dom Kopp, Beckett and Kopp argued over Beckett’s reluctant friend. That friend was Benson. Reluctant to steal more opium too quickly. And after Kopp spoke of Benson, he mentioned Irondale.

  “What’s in Irondale?” Alma says.

  Nothing in Benson’s posture, his eyes, signaling surprise, but he’s got a damn good poker face; he hadn’t flinched in the street when she asked about Kopp. It’s a shame Benson turned sour. With his size and his habit of playing dumb while keeping sly, he’s a useful man to have around. She lets go of his hair. Wipes its oily residue on her trouser leg.

  “Kopp’s depot,” Benson says. “And Peterson’s boathouse.”

  Clay shifts in the corner, not making a sound, but his movement catches Alma’s attention. His face blank. Cigarette sending a curl of smoke along his cheekbone.

  “We kept a load of tar there once,” Benson says. “I snagged it from the Madison warehouse, and Kopp was going to send it over to Seattle in a special crate. But he was too chickenshit to store the crate at his depot, even though it was mostly full of bricks. Why the fuck would you keep bricks in a boathouse?”

  “Bricks.” Alma clenches, loosens her restless left hand as she follows a thread of memory. “A crate full of bricks.”

  That foggy morning on the Seattle dock. Dockmen stacking crates heavy with bricks next to her. Next to Frank Elliot, who recognized her and told her he’d recently arrived in Puget Sound with his missus. Mrs. Loretta Elliot. Up to no good again, maybe.

  “Did the crate have a name on it?” Alma says.

  “I didn’t look that close. It was weeks ago.”

  She steps away from him, pulls a torn envelope off Clay’s desk, a charcoal pencil. Her hand jittery after the punches, but she traces out the lines well enough. The sunburst logo stamped on the Elliot & Co. crates stacked on the Seattle dock. The same logo she saw in the local paper, on Nell’s kitchen table, advertising the best bricks and building supplies in the Sound.

  “How about this?” She holds the paper up to Benson. “Was this on the crate?”

  The spit on his lip is tinged red. His eyes tick between her and the sketch.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  Loretta Elliot. Knowing her, she was perishing of boredom from the moment she stepped onto Seattle soil. In a rush to make friends in low places, as she likes to do. Maybe one of those friends told her how, using her husband’s company’s crates, she could move a lucrative amount of tar.

  Loretta saw some of Alma’s opium hauls down San Francisco way. And not three weeks ago, Frank Elliot told his wife Alma was in Puget Sound.

  “Did the Seattle people give you my name?” she says to Benson.

  He shrugs, ropes creaking, and she punches him in the stomach.

  “They said look out for a woman named Rosales, from San Francisco,” Benson says, breathing hard. “Who knows a thing or two about tar.”

  Damn it, Loretta. That was unfriendly. Though maybe it wasn’t a warning, as Benson took it. Loretta needs all the help she can get—judging by the cut-rate price she put on the auctioned tar in Seattle, the woman has no idea what she’s doing. Maybe she was just reaching out to someone else with contacts in the trade—trying to recruit Alma for her fledgling ring. Whatever her intentions, Loretta’s proven to be one hell of a nuisance.

  “You said you didn’t bring a woman with you from the city,” Benson says. “So I figured it was a dead end—until I stopped by your boardinghouse.”

  This explains his patter of questions about San Francisco, that rainy afternoon at the warehouse. And later, he was the one who went through her gear while she was out at Nell’s. He saw the men’s clothes mixed with women’s and put two and two together. Clever, Benson. But not clever enough.

  “Who’s your man on the loading crew?” she says. “The one who swaps the bills?”

  “I don’t have one.” Benson shakes his head. “Never tried the bill swap before—things were taken care of by a man in Seattle.”

  Alma sets the paper on the desk. Benson’s talking easy enough now, so this might be the truth. Her left hand clenches, loosens. Its bones and skin itching for a throw. Bend, twist, drive from the hips—her shoulder yowling but a damn good hit in th
e fatty center of Benson’s gut. She wants him too busy with trying to breathe to listen in on her and Wheeler.

  Around the desk. Wheeler’s body a magnet in the dim light, in the smoky kelp-tinged chill. She leans down to his ear. Clove aftershave in her nose, her mouth. Her hand at the back of the chair, thumb knuckle tracing the edge of his shoulder blade.

  “I know who’s behind this,” she says, low. “A woman who’s married to a former cop. A boring former cop, who won’t be happy to hear how his wife is using his new business as a front for smugglers.”

  “So we have enough?” Wheeler says.

  “Yes. We don’t even have to ask Kopp.”

  Wheeler stands. Picks up his hat. Alma peels herself away from him, from his heat. She shakes out the bar rag at the edge of the desk and crams it into Benson’s mouth. He tries to bite her but there’s too much cloth between his teeth. His stretched cheeks shiny with sweat. McManus, gagged, comes back to her. The thin line between her and Sloan. It’s a dirty game.

  “He’s all yours,” Wheeler says to Clay.

  Alma puts on her jacket, opens the door. Outside, a narrow alley, sun dropping straight down from overhead. A vicious wind tears between the boardinghouse wall and the clapboards of the oil and glass shop next door. The alley blocked from street view on all sides by the two buildings’ angled stagger. Benson’s muffled shouting is almost lost in the wind and erased entirely when Clay follows Alma and Wheeler out and shuts the door behind them.

  “He won’t come back?” Wheeler says.

  “He won’t even get on alive,” Clay says. “No sense taking chances. Captain Patchett owes me a favor. He’ll dump him quiet a few days into the crossing.”

  There will be no body to link back to Wheeler. And he and Clay will be on good terms again, so Wheeler doesn’t lose his best source of waterfront information. Wheeler has structured this part of the plan neat as you please.

  “Did you two enjoy yourselves?” Clay says.

  Alma looks up from her cupped hands, the cigarette flaring between them. Clay’s black eyes are narrowed against the sun, moving between her and Wheeler as they stand beside each other. Wheeler adjusts the collar of his coat, one eyebrow raised.

  “What?” he says.

  “I find it strange you’d blackmail me when you have a strapping young man of your own,” Clay says, nodding at Alma.

  “Careful,” Wheeler tells him. “We’ve only just repaired relations.”

  Clay’s mouth twists. He shrugs, gold earring catching the light, and goes back into his office. The splintered gray door clicking shut.

  “It’s that obvious,” Alma says, grinning. She takes a step toward Wheeler. His coat still unbuttoned, catching the wind to flap against her knees. She slides a hand over his hip, bone ridge under fine-milled tweed, belt tracking along the top of her thumb. Finds the heat of his low belly.

  “Not outside.” He knocks her away, jaw tight.

  “How much longer are you going to make me wait?” she says, not moving back.

  “Not outside.” He buttons his coat, blue scarf tucked close to the hard pulse in his throat, and stalks toward the street.

  They emerge onto the foot of Quincy Wharf. Chain Locker is twenty yards away, on the pier. Sloan’s cannery just opposite. Its brick walls cooling Alma’s blood a touch. McManus is still in there, she hopes, and not on Wheeler’s doorstep. Maybe dead by now. If he’s lucky.

  Up Quincy Street, pausing at the Water Street intersection by a wrought-iron lamppost. Early-afternoon crowds all around them so Alma can’t stand as close as she wants. Playing businesslike, as though her body is not primed, wet at the armpits, wet between the thighs.

  “Who are the Seattle people?” Wheeler says, quiet, his eyes tracking over the sidewalk opposite.

  “Frank Elliot was a lawman in San Francisco,” Alma says, also in an undertone. “Incorruptible and a bother because of it. But his wife—she’s game. She’s also the one who gave my name to Benson. Now Elliot’s out of law enforcement and runs a brickmaking company in Seattle. If Loretta’s using his product as a cover for tar, I ought to let him know. Straitlaced bastard like that, he’ll turn his own wife in. It doesn’t get us the missing tar back, but we’ve sure as hell plugged the leak.”

  “Telegraph him,” Wheeler says. “Soon, before the post office closes.”

  “I will. The plan’s still golden.”

  “It is.” He looks at her, finally, and it jolts her good.

  “I don’t have to sleep,” she says. “I can come back to the office now.”

  “If you don’t rest, you’ll never make it,” he says. “You’ll get sloppy. And I have to speak to Edmonds. Stick to the plan.”

  Alma laughs, her tongue ticking over her back teeth. How will she sleep, keyed up like this? Thinking of the slick underside of his belt against her thumb.

  “You and your god damn plans. All right. I’ll see you tonight.”

  She doesn’t look back, walking south on Water Street, afternoon sun dripping off awnings in little sparks of bright, wind chilling the damp hairs at the back of her neck.

  * * *

  Down the boardinghouse stairs. That stain on the landing wall is shit—it’s been there for three days and lets off a vicious stink. Alma shakes sleep out of her eyes, her head, drowsy but waking fast. Soft parcel tucked under her arm, her last note for the Pinkerton’s agents in an envelope tucked into her vest. She wrote it sloppy, breaking out of the cipher halfway.

  Agent in danger. Discovered. I am going into boardinghouse after him. This part in code, and not in code that makes a lick of sense—no cover as a real letter with real sentences, just a jumble of words that point to the right spots in the Verne book.

  It is Monday night, January 24. Come quick. This part written straight. The temptation to spot the paper with ink, or tears, to add to the drama. She refrained.

  Out of the lobby, into the cold. Hustling down Water Street, thinned crowds after ten o’clock, but Sailor Town’s smoky bars are bustling, lit with fiddle music and shouting. She crosses Quincy—the urge to turn toward the office enough to hitch her step—and continues to the French Hotel. Her collar turned up against Sloan’s boardinghouse, opposite. Her new cap pulled low over her eyes. In the hotel lobby her boots ring on polished floorboards. The lamps are lowered for the evening, a muted golden glow. She waits by the door, studying the bill of fare for that week’s suppers.

  The desk clerk is alone, but a man in a pink gambler’s shirt soon walks up to the desk. He leaves it just as quickly, whistling. No good.

  Then a fur-coated man stomps down the back stairs, florid face, winking cuff links. While the clerk is dealing with him and his loud demands for hot water, she slips the envelope onto the counter.

  “Please pass that along,” she says, quiet.

  The clerk barely looks at her, nods, and takes the letter, tucking it behind the desk and trying to get a word in edgewise as the fur-coated man works himself into a lather. How can he shave with cold water? God only knows.

  And that’s another piece in place. Back into the street, grinning, parcel squeezing soft under her arm as she strides up Quincy Street toward the offices.

  Conaway is back at his post on the steps. Now that Wheeler knows who’s coming, he’s shuffled things to fit their scheme. Conaway’s meaty face droops with tiredness. He was on the stevedore crew the night before, new to the work, learning how to replace Driscoll on a quiet shift with no shipment but plenty of innocent cargo to haul. Then given only a few hours’ rest before being called to the office.

  “Long night,” Alma says as she climbs past him.

  “You’re telling me.” He takes off his cap and rubs the heel of his hand over the space between his eyebrows.

  Down the hall, and there is a bounce in her step, an expansive feeling of success. The plan is good. It’s going to work. The Pinkerton’s agents, distracted for a long while, barking up the wrong tree; Sloan, set up to fall; Kopp, disappeared; Benson and his Sea
ttle friends smoked out. Alma and Wheeler satisfying Delphine’s instructions to keep the business safe. The night stretches out before her in a slow unroll, each part of the scheme clicking into place. The next day will bring a fine piece of footwork she’s looking forward to. It will keep her on her toes.

  Then after, when they’re all lying low and Alma’s getting cozy in Tacoma, Delphine might finally come for a private visit to see how she’s settling in.

  But first. Wheeler’s door. Wheeler waiting inside.

  “You left the note?” he says when she slips into his office.

  The room is warm with hearth heat. He sits at his desk, jacket off, cuffs rolled up. Watchful. When she locks the door behind her, his mouth twitches.

  “I did.”

  She drops the parcel—her auburn wig, wrapped in brown paper—in the corner. Wheeler’s chair creaks. He walks to the liquor board and she does, too, watching as he pours a whiskey. Alma reaches over, sleeve brushing his vest, and takes the glass. Has a long drink.

  “So,” she says, handing it back. “We’re not outside.”

  His mouth on the glass where hers warmed it. Throat muscles rippling as he swallows.

  “Why won’t you let me call you Alma?” He plants his hands on the sideboard’s marble. Jaw working.

  “Because I like being Camp with you.”

  “I don’t know what you want,” he says, quiet. “I don’t know how to see you. There’s nothing gentle, watching you strike, but when we first—”

  “Now, boss,” she says. “I think I’ve made myself pretty clear.”

  She shifts, resting her left hip on the marble, not to make space but rather letting the movement bring her closer to Wheeler, her mouth a few inches from his ear. His nostrils flare.

  “I want to fuck you,” she says, and he tenses. “And not the other way around. And if you want to fight me, if you want to make it—”

  Another inch closer to him.

  “—hard, I don’t mind that one bit.”

  Her breath speeding. Her collar tight. Finally. Wheeler is burning up beside her, ears red, neck red, close enough so the heat from his arm runs along the front of her body, close enough that his clove aftershave is all she can smell. And he is not moving away. Her left hand closes proper into a fist.