by Mae Berry
“Miss Lawton, you are still here?” And to think she had given him the benefit of the doubt and assumed he didn’t know she was waiting. And waiting. And…
“Yes, Mr. Arnold.” She met his dismissive gaze.
“No appointment?” His face looked like he’d stepped in horse droppings. Or at least smelled it.
“No sir, I wished to speak with you.” She hoped her tone conveyed contrition.
“I am a busy man, Miss Lawton. Against my better judgment, I carved time from my busy schedule for you previously. Even stopped by on my way home. It would be a fool’s choice to allow you any more of my time.” He took a step toward the door.
“Please, wait sir!” Sam rose and lifted her hand, “I humbly apologize for my tardiness the other day. I arrived moments after you left. I assure you, while I take full responsibility for my tardiness, I was pursuing a suspect in another case. It delayed me.” She ignored Mr. Arnold’s snort of derision. The exaggerated sincerity she forced into her voice choked. “I assume, sir, your issue is still unresolved. I am also sure, I can take care of this inconvenience and in a manner more lucratively appealing than expected.” Mr. Arnold sent another derisive glance at her and hesitated. He was a tall man and Sam hated that even at this distance she had to peer up at him. Tall men. Ugh. Her life consisted of blasted tall men trying to intimidate her. If she didn’t need to placate Hattie…
“Fitzpatrick. Time?” His voice boomed and a young man behind him jumped and glanced at the clock over his boss’s head.
“Ah… 1:26 sir,” his voice cracked.
Mr. Arnold rubbed his chin then turned back toward his office flicking his fingers over his shoulder. She hurried to follow. How Hattie had convinced this conceited fop to stop by was a mystery. His office was more imposing than the anteroom. The wallpaper appeared gold-flocked. The room contained upholstered wingback chairs in masculine patterns set up around side tables in intimate groupings. A sideboard along one wall sported cut-glass decanters. The other side contained an elegant chaise lounge large enough to double as a bed. Mr. Arnold rounded his massive cherry wood desk and sat in his equally massive calf-hide chair. His broad shoulders filled the seat. He leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankle. Sam noticed his waistline was going to paunch. Not a full belt lapping stomach, but it headed that way. Mr. Arnold tapped his fingers on the arms of his chair, his scrutiny took in every detail of her person. He did not offer her a seat. Sam prepared herself to grovel.
“Well, Miss Lawton?” He steepled his fingers, elbows on the arms of his chair.
“Sir?”
“Don’t waste my time.” He glowered. “How long and how much?”
Sam tipped her head to the side and pursed her lips. “I would need specifics before I can—”
He sat up and moved closer to the desk. “There are two locations with losses. I need you to figure out who so I can terminate them.” He looked at her dubiously. “Can you do that?”
Sam ground her teeth. “Yes sir, I have done similar jobs for—”
He waved. “Yes, yes,” he studied her as he leaned back. Sam’s face flushed as his glance slid down her periodically stopping to linger. His lip curled. She noticed minute traces of coal powder on the inside of his collar and felt the urge to laugh. She was right. He blackened his hair. It cut his intimidation factor.
“You are nothing like your mother, are you?”
Humor fled. The blood drain from her face as she schooled her features. “No, sir, nothing.” His expression shifted, and she saw something in his eyes. Something she had seen before. She took an unconscious step backwards.
“Your father… is dead?”
Sam kept her face emotionless, but she couldn’t resist a pointed glance at the portrait of the man’s family on the wall. “Yes, sir.”
“Fine. I will have Elwood fill you in on the details. You will do the work with a twenty-five percent reduction in the estimate Mrs. Lawton quoted. You will have my results in…” he tipped his head to the side, “let us say three weeks.” His tone left no room for negotiation. Her cheeks burned once again as she swallowed down a retort. This was about appeasing Hattie, nothing more. He shot her one more piercing look daring her to say something. She met him stare for stare. He looked down at his papers and waved her off. She silently crossed his office and put her hand on the cut-glass knob. He cleared his throat, and she turned.
“Miss Lawton, I would prefer to deal with Mrs. Lawton from here on. She can attend me here at my office with updates.” His eyes flicked once to the chaise lounge. “Could you relay that information please?”
Bile rose in her throat. She clenched her jaw and nodded. “Certainly, Mr. Arnold.” She exited and closed the door behind her.
Chapter 5
April 14, 1891
West Bottoms, Missouri
As Mahoney’s fist crashed into Finn’s left eye, he spun and dropped to his knees. Sweat dripped off his face to the sawdust floor. He ran his tongue over his teeth. All there, none loose. Cheers and groans erupted, palms slapped as money exchanged hands. The reek of sweat and stale beer filled the space. Finn shook his head to clear his vision. He’d lost his stance. The fight was over. The rules of an Irish stand-down were simple the first one to move his feet, lost. No retreating, no dancing around. Stand like a man and take it. He sat on his haunches, put one hand to his jaw and held the other up to his opponent, the giant of a man still standing, grinning down at him.
“’Nough,” Finn spat out blood. Split lip too. Great. “Mahoney, lad, ye did me in today. More’s to you. Your drinks be on me.” Mahoney’s grin stretched even wider.
“Tanks kindly, Finn-O,” Mahoney bowed low, almost toppling to the floor, “Alway happy to oblige you, and take your money.” The big man cackled. Finn watched him swagger to the doorway of the back room and enter the bar. Cheering erupted at his appearance, the conquering hero. Finn shook his head, his throbbing eye was swelling shut.
“Finn, man, yer killin’ me,” groaned a lilting voice. He looked up, squinting around the dusky room his eyes finally focusing on a wiry man in rolled shirtsleeves and suspenders; a mug clutched in each hand.
“Sorry, Daniel,” Finn slurred, struggling to his feet, “tis your own fault for being my friend. Or at least for bettin’ on me.” He attempted a grin but his aching jaw protested.
Daniel shook his head, his sandy curls flopping against his forehead. “Aye, you sorry sot.” Daniel shrugged under Finn’s arm and the two staggered through the doorway to a nearby table. Jeers and laughter greeted Finn who flapped a hand toward the crowd. The dark, dank atmosphere in the saloon was at odds with the sunlight and the warm breezes blowing in the open door. Finn half fell to his seat with a groan. He ran his hands down his bare chest flicking sweat. The smell of unwashed men and boiled cabbage hung over the entire room. The mixed-matched chairs and tables were scarred and none to clean but sturdy enough to hold up to a bar fight.
“Drink.” Daniel clunked a mug in front of Finn. “What ‘xactly happened? You had ‘em.”
Finn shrugged as he rubbed an ache on his ribs. Not broken, thankfully. But he’d be as colorful as a rainbow come morning. Without the pot o’ gold - unfortunately.
Daniel squinted over the top of his mug and asked, “Why you be here now, Finn? Somethin’ up?”
“Full house, eh?” Finn looked around the room.
“Aye, dock duty was light this morn. Most of the lads were let go early.”
Finn grunted. “Won’t sit well with Jimmy.”
“You mean Mister Pendergast.” Daniel’s twinkling eyes bellied his disapproving tone. He shrugged, sipping his ale. “Aye, he won’t be happy. He needs ‘em working and earnin’ money or they get restless.”
Finn laughed and took a careful sip of his tea. Irish breakfast blend, his favorite. Jimmy kept it stocked for him. Jimmy was like that. Took care of his own. “He speak to the bosses?”
“You know the man keeps a low profile since the election.”
“Aye, it’s all politics Danny boy.” Finn took a bigger gulp of tea and looked around the room again.
Daniel snorted and rolled his eyes. “So, Finn me boy, is everythin’ set for tomorrow night?” Daniel flicked his thumbnail at a spot of dried food on the table.
Finn’s green eyes crinkled in amusement. “Spit it out man. What you be askin’?”
Daniel’s gaze swept the bar then narrowed on Finn. He stared without blinking. Finn sighed as the grin slipped from his own face.
“Aye, Daniel. All’s good. Tomorrow night is set. No problems.”
Daniel slapped him on the back. Finn sucked in a breath as the whack spiked the pain in his ribs. “Speaking of which, I need to be goin’. Where are my effects, Daniel?” He tapped the table with his fingertips checking the surrounding room.
“Safe, and I’ll be returnin’ them to ye as soon as you answer me first question.” Daniel placed his mug on the table and fixed his blue eyes on Finn.
“What question?” Finn glanced at the bar, the surrounding tables, anywhere but his friend. He ran his hands through his thick brown curls. Its reddish tints, a testament to his Irish heritage, were lost in the dim light of the bar.
Daniel snorted and lifted his mug to his mouth. “The one about why you’re here in the middle o’ the day? Fightin’?”
Finn twirled his mug and avoided Daniel’s eyes. “Me effects, Daniel?” He took a sip. “I have to be gettin’ to a meetin’ ye know.” Finn grimaced as his brogue grew stronger.
Daniel sighed and nodded at Finn’s eye. “That one’s gonna be a grand shiner, and yer lip is split.” He stood and moved through the crowd toward the barkeep. After a few words, he shuffled back with Finn’s things. Finn drained his mug, cringing at the contact with his lip. There were days when he wished he hadn’t sworn off alcohol. A good shot of Irish whiskey would be just the thing to dull the pain, and his meeting.
“Don’t worry, Danny boy, everythin’s grand. Just grand.” Finn stumbled to his feet, stifling a moan. He buttoned his shirt over his sweaty torso and gingerly put on his vest. He checked his colt revolver, slid it into its sheath and buckled his shoulder holster. With Daniel’s help, he put on his suit coat and re-tied his neck tie. He steadied himself on both feet and shot his friend a cocky grin.
Finn straightened the 5-pointed star on his vest and nodding at Daniel, went out into the noon sunlight. Assistant Deputy Marshal Robert Thomas Finnley ready for duty. Maybe, just maybe he should have waited to fight until after his meeting with his boss.
✽✽✽
“Why is it every time you come in you look like a… a backstreet brawler.” The florid face of US Marshal Richard P. Fenton took on even more color. The man’s collar was always too tight, his neck rolls spilled over the edges of the starched edge. When he became angry it swelled so much that Finn feared for his ability to breathe. “Why is that Finnley? Why are you the only one?” Fenton waved an imperious hand up and down. Finn stood before his mammoth walnut desk, cap in his hands, trying to appear contrite. Failing miserably. Fenton’s indignation increased. “Hmm? Tell me Finnley.” The corpulent man stood, slammed both hands down and pointed a beefy finger in Finn’s face. “Don’t you respect this office? Don’t you respect your badge?”
Finn tried to be stoic. He had been doing something he shouldn’t. He could be fired for it, but sometimes Fenton’s rant took on a life of its own. The man fed on drama. Of course, Finn excelled at giving him reasons to be… put out. Finn had little respect for the man. As a political appointee, the marshal didn’t have a clue about investigative work. A weakness Finn exploited. Finn opened his mouth to reply and stopped at Fenton’s raised finger.
“This is the third time this month you’ve come in… disheveled!” Disheveled? Finn fought to keep his lips from twitching. He had a black eye and a split lip for goodness’ sake. The fact it was the fourth time this month, not the third helped insure his silence. He again tried to appear contrite, but Fenton was too fired up to be mollified. “I am more than inclined to suspend you! Perhaps I should assign Brownlee to investigate you! Yes! That is an excellent idea! See what you are really up too!”
Finn thought fast, the last thing he needed was the aptly named Brownlee on his case. The man’s only interest was fawning over those who could help him get ahead and walking over those who couldn’t. Finn had no delusions about where he fell. “Sorry sir, had a run in with two blokes who took exception to my questions—” Finn tried to keep his demeanor neutral, yet apologetic. Professional. Despite his closing black eye.
“Questions about what?” Fenton’s flush increased to the color of red sour drops. Finn loved red sour drops. “You should have been wrapping up the paperwork on the Smith-Wilson affair. Not out asking questions!” Fenton pounded his fist harder making a pen jump and a stack of paper topple. Conversations in the next room paused. The temperature in Fenton’s small wood paneled office rose.
Finn grimaced and resisted the urge to loosen his collar. “Well sir, I wanted everything in order for the report. Didn’t want someone higher up questioning our methods and thoroughness here in Kansas City. You know they think of us as frontier, sir. Backwater.” Finn widened his eyes in what he hoped was an earnest look. “I wanted the best face on the case as possible.” This was one of the few times he appreciated his Irish heritage. Blarney came to him naturally. Fenton eyed him. Fortunately, Finn was a master at masking what he thought and his boss had a tendency to be all bluster and little action.
“Still, I don’t understand why you got involved in a fight.”
Fenton was weakening. He was a political animal and Finn understood what made people tick. He had bet his life on it more than once. “Yes, sir. Sorry sir. It’s all finished.” Finn hoped Fenton didn’t go through his stacked in-box too soon. Somewhere in that pile was the Smith-Wilson report Finn had filed and dated two days ago. Fenton was still shaking his head. Time to move the conversation along.
Finn grabbed the first thing that came to mind. “Now that the case is finished, sir, weren’t you going to bring me in on the Crystal Palace investigation?” Finn hoped his attempt at redirection was subtle enough. Fenton considered him. His eyes were still angry and when a cunning look crept into them Finn swallowed hard.
“Nooo…” Fenton’s inflection turned speculative as his eyebrows scrunched together and lips pursed. Not good, when Fenton’s face took on the “weasel look”, as Finn dubbed it, unpleasant things happened. Usually to Finn. “I have another case for you. Yes, I do.” Fenton’s chuckle made the hair on the back of Finn’s neck stand. “Not the Crystal Palace. A new case just came in and you are perfect for the job. Just perfect.” Fenton rubbed his palms together and released another pleased chuckle. He returned to his spindle-back chair leaving Finn standing. Finn cursed himself for bringing down the man’s ire on himself. Stupid. Stupid.
Fenton leaned back. “It seems, Assistant Deputy Marshal Finnley, that the wife of Mayor Holmes has a friend; a woman who sews for her, I believe. Seems this woman’s husband ran off with the couple’s three-year-old boy a few days ago.” Fenton sat forward, his eyes glinting with unsuppressed glee. “Seems Finnley, you are the perfect man to investigate.”
Finn stifled a groan. The blighter had probably run off with his mistress and took the boy along. If he was any good at hiding, Finn would chase his tail for weeks trying to track him. With the mayor’s interest in the case Finn wouldn’t get away with reaching a “reasonable conclusion”. No, he would be forced to find the blasted man and the sniveling tyke or risk the mayor’s wrath. Fenton knew it too. He knew a case like this wasted Finn’s talents.
“And would his lordship the mayor be askin’ for me by name?” Finn couldn’t resist the jibe even though his accent betrayed his anger.
“Hardly,” Fenton snorted. He grabbed a very thin folder and shoved it at Finn. “You have work to do. Finish up your paperwork on Smith-Wilson and then start on this…” he rifled the file, “… Richards di
sappearance.” He waved his hand in Finn’s direction and returned to his papers. Finn executed an exaggerated bow and slapped his cap on his head. Whistling an old Irish drinking song, he exited the office.
✽✽✽
“Bobby-boy! It’s been too long since you been by, lad. What’s been stopping you from visiting your ma?” Finn grinned as he wrapped the thin woman in a tight hug. Her scent hit his nostrils, lilac water with a faint hint of talcum powder. The woman’s sky-blue eyes sparkled in her face; at odds with the stacks of wrinkles in the corners. Laugh lines, she called them. Her unique way of speaking was one of the many things Finn loved about her. An American farm girl, Mabel Shipley had married into the Irish clan of Finnley. Over the years her exposure to living in the community had caused a bit of brogue to creep into her accent, but at its heart it remained a stubborn mid-western twang. Finn looked her over carefully. She was a small woman, but she was too thin. He could see her collarbones sharp against the edge of her neckline. She was working too hard. Guilt crept in. He should have stopped by more often. Should have insisted she let him help her more-
“Have a sit down, I’ll get you a cup.” Finn took in the tang of fresh-brewed coffee that almost covered the odor of old sweat and cooking grease seeping from the pores of the building. His mother’s coffee, he loved the aroma. Too bad the taste didn’t match the smell. The nutty toasted brew she favored was strong enough to stand up to the best Irish whiskey. Could stand a spoon straight up in it. Just the way his da liked it. She still made it that way even after all this time, da’s way. It was probably the reason Finn preferred tea.
“Thanks, ma.” He removed his suit coat and slung it over the back of the kitchen chair. “Nora be by tonight?”
“No, your sister is over helping Aideen.” Mabel took out the tea canister and spooned leaves in a pot. “Ever since the new baby, Aideen seems a mite overwhelmed and Nora just dotes on that wee one.”