by Bill LeFurgy
Jack stood on the sidewalk in front of the beanery, wincing at the sudden clack and screech of a passing streetcar. People glanced at him as they came and went. They saw a tall, clean-shaven man in his late twenties, lean as a wolf, a battered derby pulled low over his eyes. Despite his threadbare suit, frayed shirt, and scruffy necktie, his black leather shoes gleamed.
Nobody looked at him closely enough to detect the paralyzing dread that made it hard for him to take a breath. And he had good reason to be afraid. He owed Jimmy “Knuckles” Vogel nine hundred dollars, plus the 20 percent vig, with no way to start paying the marker when it came due Saturday. If he didn’t come up with a two-hundred-dollar payment, Vogel’s gorillas would come visiting. But that wasn’t driving Jack’s panic.
He forced himself to go inside and find a table with a view of the front door. Black coffee showed up, but as the burned, bitter liquid hit his lips more of it slopped onto the saucer than into his mouth. He poured the brew back into the cup, willing his hand steady as the homey smell of hot grease stirred a faint interest in breakfast. Looking back to the door, his stomach flopped and his fists clenched. These were the kind of people he was truly scared of—thankfully he saw them first.
The man was big, with a neatly trimmed dark beard. Pulling at the guy’s hand was a boy about three years old. The child looked calm but could start bawling any second. A week ago, the last time he was in this place, a squawking brat had conjured Jack’s ghosts and sent him into one of his violent blackout fits. He could only hope today’s kid would keep his yap shut.
“Should I be mad or glad to see you, hon?” The waitress, unlike himself, remembered all the details from his last visit.
“Be happy as a June bug, darling. I’ve got nothing but joy in my heart.”
“And nothing in your wallet.” She was an older woman with a humped back and a mass of wrinkles framing deep-set eyes. “Mr. Top Hat was in a couple of days ago looking for you about a job of work he needed doing. He’s given up on you, I reckon.”
Lady Fortune was really giving him the cold shoulder. The man with the top hat had paid top-dollar last month to cover up a congressman’s habit of cheating at high-stakes poker. Jack delivered a payoff to the cardsharp, who was threatening to blab. But the guy was greedy and wanted more. Jack countered with a threat to spread word about the sharp’s ring with the hidden pin used to mark cards. That shut him up. “Sorry to have missed the man. I was showing some visiting English nobility the sights.”
“Flapdoodle. The only dukes you know are your two ignorant fists.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Joke if you want, but everybody knows you’ve got real bad nervous trouble. Get both your oars in the water, boy, or nobody’s going to hire you to get a cat out of a tree.”
“Doing great. Honestly, I’ve spent the last week strolling around our fine community.” That was true if walking feverishly twelve hours a day counted as strolling.
He took the same path every time, about twenty miles, from his room near the Fells Point waterfront out Dundalk Avenue past the eastern city line to the smoke-belching steelworks at Sparrows Point, then back along North Point Boulevard and west all the way to the seven-furlong oval of Pimlico race track, then back through Druid Hill Park and along the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad tracks to his starting point. It was the only way to manage his relentless agitation and tortured thoughts. And dodge his ghosts.
“Get ahold of yourself.” She punched his arm, leaving it numb. “Where’s the man who understands people like nobody’s business? There’ve been times when you’re more like one of those clairvoyant mind-reader types than a private detective. Like when you figured out where they hid that kidnapped boy.”
“That was almost a year ago.”
“Sure. But you saved a kid. Some soft-headed types went all swoony and thought you were a hero.”
“Yeah, and it did make me all warm inside. Too bad it didn’t make me any money.” The family had hired him to get the kid back, promising a fat bonus. He’d quickly tracked one of the kidnappers to a speakeasy over in the Canton neighborhood. The guy loved to blab, and three rounds of whiskey later, he let slip where the boy was.
Jack got lucky later that night when he found the kid’s two minders drunk. He was less lucky when one of them managed to grind a broken bottle into his calf, but the kid got home safe. He ended up with no luck at all when the family stiffed him on the bonus.
After that, he drifted toward fixing problems for a certain kind of rich man. The type who would pay well for hushing up a scorned mistress, shutting down an extortionist, or paying off a cop to dismiss this or that charge. Stuff that Jack justified to himself as only borderline crooked.
The work centered on assessing two things about the person who could make the client’s problem go away. First was sensing an emotional soft spot—such as the mistress’s lingering affection, the extortionist’s secret fear, or the cop’s particular greed. Second was knowing how much cash it would take to leverage the sentiment to his employer's advantage. He had no shortage of work. When he could do it.
The waitress shook her head. “Do you have a nickel for some apple pie? Might as well make some money off you before you don’t have a feather to fly with. Or get killed.”
“Yes, ma’am, please. And another cup of your best black misery.” She ambled off with her skewed gait. He glanced around again to size up the crowd. The bearded man and the kid were busy with big dishes of steaming grits. Good.
Jack had come to Baltimore two years ago, fresh out of the army. The seventh-largest city in the country with half a million people offered anonymity—and the place was alive with money.
Baltimore’s harbor, on the Atlantic Ocean, generated cash from shipping everything from fresh seafood, to chemical fertilizer, to manufactured goods. The city was a railroad hub, and steel rails moved freight practically everywhere. Streams of travelers packed luxurious new hotels and fleabag flophouses every day of the year. Cash lubricated local politics, and there was the bonus of even more government-related dough flowing just forty miles down the road in Washington, DC.
He’d also come to appreciate Baltimore’s mad energy. People poured in from the countryside to make more money, grab more freedom, and have more fun than they ever could have dreamed of back on the farm. A supercharged culture carried everyone along on a current of change that left the old days and the old ways in the dust. The relentless focus on the hustle-rush, brand-new, right-now sometimes helped him forget about the past.
“Copper’s here looking for you about a murder.” The waitress approached with her veiny hands shooing. “I don’t know what you’ve gone and done, but get yourself out the back fast as you can.”
Jack had no memory of a murder, but it didn’t pay to take chances. The cops might just be in the mood to knock him around for the heck of it. Give any set of men uniforms and badges, and it was a sure bet they’d push people around just because they could. He ran into the alley behind the lunchroom. It was blocked at both ends. Men were rolling barrels off a freight wagon to the left, and two cops stood in front of a patrol wagon to the right, their tall leather helmets making them look like big bullets.
“Harden,” said a beefy sergeant with a patchy red face and drippy mustache. “You must think we’re galoots.” The man yawned extravagantly and smacked his lips. It was as if he’d just woken from a nap, which maybe he had. Cops were notorious for cooping—bedding down during their shifts in the cozy back room of some cooperative store owner or saloon keeper.
“Thought never crossed my mind,” said Jack, walking toward them. “Just trying to get away from a gal with a bone to pick. You know how that goes, right? If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”
“You’re coming with us.”
“Why should I, boys?” Jack heard the blood pounding in his ears as he looked at the cops in their long blue coats with the shiny brass buttons and the gleaming badges, slouching with the easy arrogance that comes from authority.
&n
bsp; The sergeant spit a long stream of tobacco juice at Jack’s feet. “Listen, lowlife, if you know what’s good for you, just do what I say. Or we’ll let the locust wood do the talking.” The other cop, his pointy nose veering brokenly off to one side, walked up and poked Jack with a nightstick.
Jack turned to the guy. “Lay off.” He tried to keep his voice level, but there was an edge to his words.
The cop took a step closer. He smelled of cabbage and beer. “Aw, that weren’t a good poke. This is.” The nightstick rammed into Jack’s ribs and almost knocked him over. Time slowed as he staggered and then straightened up. Jack looked at the cop and saw it would be duck soup to throw a right cross into that bent nose. He imagined the satisfying feel of the impact flowing up his arm as the cop went down. Satisfying but stupid.
“Come on now before we beat you like a darkie,” said the sergeant. “And hand over that Colt you got.”
Jack was fond of the Colt Army Artillery revolver, but not so much to get knocked around over it. He presented the piece butt-first. Twisty-nosed cop looked so disappointed Jack almost smiled before they hustled him into the Black Maria, slammed the wagon door, and threw the bolt.
Today’s roll of the dice was a crap-out, which was nothing new; he was on an endless losing streak. For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind: it hath no stalk; the bud shall yield no meal: if so be it yield, the strangers shall swallow it up.
The voice in his head spouting scripture was a new problem. Jack banged his skull against the wall for a few seconds before the voice quit. The wagon rattled and rumbled for a while and stopped. Then—nothing. Thirty minutes—an hour? —dragged by. He sat in the dark listening to the passing thump of hooves and grumble of metal wheels on the granite paving stones. The street whir was almost soothing.
With no warning the rear doors flew open and the cop sergeant grabbed Jack’s arm to hustle him along the sidewalk. They were on Baltimore Street, outside the Continental Building. At sixteen stories, the place was the tallest skyscraper in the city. They went into the grand entrance under the spread wings of two huge black brass birds—eagles, or maybe falcons—perched on columns four stories up. The cop stopped in the middle of the marble-clad lobby, plush with Turkish carpets and potted palms. A well-dressed gent with an upturned collar and silk cravat took a wide arc around them on his path to the door.
“Sarge, how about letting go of my arm? Promise not to run away. And it’s the least you can do for making me cool my heels for so long in your club car.”
“Shut your trap. Someone’s meeting us.”
A small, plain young woman approached them. Tendrils of mousy hair hung carelessly down from her upswept coiffure. Her well-cut clothes, erect carriage, and deliberate stride led Jack to peg her as high-class. But after noticing the lint, stains, and chemical reek on her long navy skirt and gray tailored jacket, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of her.
“Is this the guest for the Pinkerton Agency?” she asked the space between the two men.
“Yes, miss,” said the sergeant. “You got something for me?” She handed him an envelope. He opened it and riffled through a wad of cash. “Good day, miss.” The policeman tipped his helmet and turned to leave.
“Forgetting something, aren’t you, Sarge?” Jack stuck out his hand. The cop pulled the Army Colt, shoved it at him, and stomped off. Jack stuffed the pistol into his waistband and turned to the woman.
She looked past Jack’s left shoulder as she spoke to him. “Mr. Jack Harden. My name is Sarah Kennecott. I am to escort you to the Pinkerton offices.” Her flat voice struck him as snooty and stuck up.
“Sorry to be a bother, Lady Pinkerton, but I don’t trust people who shanghai me.”
The only change in her impassive expression was a slight twitch of her left eyebrow. “My name is not Lady Pinkerton. My name is Sarah Kennecott, as I informed you previously. I do not understand your reference to a city in China.”
“Come on. You paid that cop to kidnap me.” Jack glared at her while she stared off into the distance. “Forget it. ’Bye.” He turned to leave.
“Mr. Jack Harden. Wait.” He turned around. Her hands were fluttering and flapping in front of her like little birds. “We need you to investigate a murder. I must bring you up to the office.” She spoke quickly, her unblinking brown eyes skittering away from his gaze.
He’d worked with the Pinkertons in the past, although they had never dragged him into a meeting like this. Still, they paid well. “All right. But only if you call me Jack. And I’ll call you Sarah. I prefer that to Lady Pinkerton.”
“No. We are not nearly well acquainted for such informality.”
“The only time I get called ‘Mr. Jack Harden’ is when I’m hauled in front of a judge. It’s plain Jack or nothing, Sarah.”
Her hands jerked even faster as she pondered his demand. “Very well . . . Jack. Let us go to the elevator.”
“Hell, no. I don’t ride in those death traps.” He broke into a sweat. “Let’s take the stairs.”
“The office is on the top floor. It is a time-consuming climb.”
Jack spotted a placard mounted on an easel:
Attention all Guests! We wish you to know the Results of the latest test of our Safety Air Cushion Elevator System! Bobo, a Circus Monkey, was dropped from the sixteenth floor in our Elevator Car. Bobo is fine!
He pointed at the sign. “You think that if this elevator contraption is safe for a monkey it’s safe enough for me, right? Nuts to that.”
“What you say does not make sense in my ears.” Her face remained an immobile mask.
An elevator car opened with an emphatic ding. “Going up,” called the operator.
She stepped toward the car and turned around. “You must come with me.”
Frenzy had him by the throat. He wanted to run out of the place and was ready to knock down anyone in his way. Instead, he reached out to her with a nervous laugh. “Listen, lady, I don’t like those things.” She shrank away, resting flat against the marble wall. The elevator closed and whooshed off without them. “I wasn’t being fresh, honest,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just hate elevators. They spook me.”
She stared at the floor. “I cannot stand to be touched.”
“Touched by the likes of me, you mean.”
“My senses are keenly susceptible to stimuli from all individuals.” Sarah stepped away from the wall. “You should have stated initially that you fear riding in elevators.”
“Jeez, read between the lines. You can’t expect a guy just to admit being scared.”
She stared past his right shoulder. Jack weighed the need for a job against the difficulty of dealing with this odd gal, and the job was losing. He was also still real sore about how the cops had dragged him here. Screw the Pinkertons for making his life even harder—he’d take a chance at getting work elsewhere.
“I will take your arm, which may reduce your anxiety concerning the elevator car.” Sarah was now standing uncomfortably close.
The offer was so charmingly sincere that Jack’s fear and irritation ebbed just as a new car opened. “Okay, I’m game.”
She took his elbow firmly and led him into the car. He gave a tight smile, amused that she was fine with touching if she was the one doing it. Jack thought about making a joke about how the princess had to kiss the frog rather than the other way around but terror blotted out everything as the operator slammed the metal safety gate shut.
A scream began crawling up from his belly as the car shot skyward. Then something close to miraculous happened—Sarah gave his arm one squeeze and he stopped shaking. He remained terrified, but no longer felt like he was jumping out of his skin. “You must be an expert stenographer to work for the Pinkertons,” he said as they walked into the sixteenth-floor hallway. “They hire men for all their secretarial positions. Maybe it’s your skill getting guests up to the office.”
“I am not trained as a stenographer.”
She�
��s got no business working for this outfit, thought Jack. Probably just a peculiar girl parked here as a favor to her family. Maybe her only talent is handling a nutty uncle. After a short walk they were in the office of the Pinkerton superintendent.
“Sarah.” The superintendent had a thin mustache curled at the tips and a stripe of whiskers down his chin. His manner was one of oily overconfidence, much like a second-rate magician. “I told you to have one of the men bring Harden up.”
“It was more efficient to escort him myself.” It dawned on Jack that she used the same voice—a monotone without emotion or inflection—all the time, regardless of whom she was addressing.
The superintendent gripped his forehead and swept his arm down in a show of irritation. “Remember, darling, you’re here to take notes. I’ll tell you if you need to contribute to the conversation.” He turned and pressed a moist palm into Jack’s hand. “Harden, glad to see you. Sorry for the abrupt invitation, but we have an emergency, and I figured the police could find you quicker than anyone. Meet my close friend Horace Shaw. He owns a big oyster packing plant on Henderson’s Wharf down in Fells Point and is a sure bet to be our next mayor.”
A brawny man of about forty-five stepped forward. His meaty face was sunburned and scarred. A carefully groomed mustache sat awkwardly out of place between a lumpy nose and thick, tobacco-stained lips. The suit was new and expensive, the fine cloth straining against his bulk. A diamond stickpin glittered from a pricey necktie, and a chunky gold ring hung off his right pinky finger. Despite the clothes and jewelry, the man came off as seedy. Jack knew the type. Born dirt poor, the guy had brawled and hustled his way to success. And while Shaw wasn’t entirely comfortable fitting into his elevated station in life, he had no intention of sliding back down.