Leaden Skies

by Ann Parker

  The Hatchet nodded. He drained the scalding coffee without so much as a cough or twitch, pulled out an overly large handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed at the mustache curving around his mouth. With a final cold glance at Inez, he replaced his police cap, smiled and touched his cap at Bridgette, and left with Officer Kelly.

  Inez stared at the empty coffee cup before her as if it were poisoned or might burst into flame, then looked up at her cook. “You know The Hatch—um, Officer Ryan?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Oh yes, ma’am. He’s a member of the parish. I see him at Mass and Rosary regularly.”

  “Really.” The mental picture of The Hatchet on his knees, praying, was unnerving.

  “Oh yes, ma’am. And he visits the church every week to light candles for his dear wife—she’s not well, you see, doesn’t live in Leadville—and his daughter, poor thing, died about age ten, I’ve been told, barely old enough to take Communion. At least she’s with Our Lord.”

  “Really.” Even more mind-boggling was the realization that The Hatchet, one of the most feared men on State Street, was a family man. A husband. A father. Maybe that’s why he’s so despicable. Far from home and hearth, some men lose direction, take on a different character, drink too much, become cruel.

  “How do you know all this, Bridgette?”

  “Well, ma’am, I keep my ears and eyes open. And between this and that, I put two and two together and get four.”

  “Ah.”

  I must remember to be careful what I say when Bridgette’s ears and eyes are open and nearby.

  “You know Officer Ryan, ma’am?” Bridgette looked expectant.

  Perhaps looking to add two more and get six.

  “Not well,” Inez hedged. “He spends a great deal of time on State Street in his capacity as city collector, of course. And in performing his duties as an officer of the law.”

  “Oh, and aren’t we lucky to have him!” Bridgette gushed. “He’s a lovely, lovely man. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Why, if elections were held tomorrow for city marshal, he’d win, hands down. Now that Marshal Watson’s home is gone, well, I wonder if the marshal will stay or leave. And a firebug on the loose! I’m sure that Officer Ryan will find whoever’s responsible.”

  “’Scuse me, Mrs. O’Malley.” It was a penitent, hat in hand, looking doleful. “Not t’ bother you or none, but I’ve been awaitin’ for my stew awhiles an’ I got to get back to the diggings.”

  “Oh my, here I am chatting away when there’s work to be done.” Bridgette flashed a guilty smile at Inez and hurried to the kitchen, with a “Right away, young man!” directed to the fellow who was old enough to be her own father.

  The Harrison Avenue door swung open on a gust of raucous laughter. A huddle of men in spotless frock coats and fashionable top hats, beards and mustaches gleaming, paused on the threshold.

  “What then, Wesley?” said one. “Did the poor chap confess that he’d strangled the parlor lass in a fit of unrequited love?”

  Inez squinted at the men, who were not only letting in the rain, blown by gusts outside, but also blocking all entrance and egress. Wesley. Why does that name sound familiar? All she could see of the fellow in the middle was a silk stovepipe hat.

  “Gustav, recall that I mentioned the madam of the house was straddling him most indecently, skirts hitched up revealing garters of purest silver, the barrel of her pistol plunged into his mouth. Poor fellow couldn’t say a word. He was as much in danger of choking to death as to having his brains expelled. It was clearly up to me to bring order to the seamy scene.”

  Then, Inez remembered.

  Flo’s. This morning. That young impertinent son-of-a—

  “So Wesley, how’d you handle it? Not the sort of thing that you see back in proper old Beantown.”

  “Well, I couldn’t let the poor wretch get his brains blown out without hearing his story first. Frontier justice was about to take place, and it was not clear that he was guilty of anything other than being found at the scene of the crime.”

  The men finally moved away from the door and toward the bar. Without so much as a by-your-leave, they claim-jumped prime real estate along the brass rail by simply crowding in and spreading out. Displaced patrons, jostled out of the way, turned to the newcomers, and Inez thought she saw more than one with murder in his eye. The storyteller was now fully visible, and Inez confirmed that, yes indeed, he was the “Mr. Wesley” of that very morning, he of the sharp elbows, slight mustache, fine gloves, and silver-headed umbrella.

  Inez’s hand closed hard on the whiskey bottle she was preparing to put on the backbar. She contemplated whether it would make sense to order them out, give them the cold shoulder, or—

  The cut of their cloth convinced her otherwise.

  Their pockets were bound to be well-lined. As long as their tastes in liquor followed suit, and they ordered favorably and frequently, it couldn’t hurt to let them stay. Too, she was curious to see how far Wesley’s story would stray from the road of truth. He had already fairly departed from that particular thoroughfare and was busy forging a tall tale that straggled ever upward, above treeline, into exceedingly rocky and doubtful territory.

  “Well, then, Marcus, I strolled up to them, tapped the lady of the house on her milk-white shoulder—the dressing gown having come nearly quite undone you see—and said, ‘May I offer some free legal advice, madam? You are standing, or shall I say squatting, before the foremost lawyer of the firm Lawton, Lawton, and Crouse, original of Boston, youngest partner thereof, and, God willing, your future Colorado senator. I have been sent to open a new office in Denver to bring sound and sober legal advice to your rough and uncivilized territory.’ She looked up at me, her demeanor changed, she batted blue eyes, no doubt made enormous by overuse of laudanum, and with the poor fellow thrashing around beneath her, said—”

  “Welcome to Leadville and the Silver Queen Saloon, gentlemen,” Inez allowed her voice to slide into a friendly range. “As they say out here in our rough and uncivilized territory, ‘What’s your poison?’”

  The group looked at her with delight mixed with some alarm. She detected no shred of recognition from Wesley.

  “Well, well,” interjected one of his companions, who sported a fiercely groomed red mustache of gleaming proportions. “A female mixologist? Something else sadly lacking in Boston and Washington! So, are you one of those infamous pretty waiter-girls we’ve heard so much about?” He leered, stroking his mustache with the head of his walking stick.

  Inez smiled her sweetest smile and said, “Gentlemen. I am the owner of the Silver Queen, the drinking establishment in which you now stand. As such, I’m at your service, ready to fulfill your every desire for liquid libations. But that is the only desire we quench here. Unless you have a hankering for dinner, in which case we serve the best stew and biscuits in town, along with the usual hard-boiled eggs, pickles, etcetera, etcetera. And I assure you, we have such quality spirits that will make you feel at home. We have Spanish wine. French champagne. A choice selection of beers from Milwaukee, Golden, our own fair city, and more. We have bourbon—”

  “Have you,” Wesley set gloves on the bar, “lemonade, milady?”

  The fellow with the red mustache smirked. Another companion coughed into his gloved fist, choking back a laugh.

  “Lemonade.” Inez crossed her arms and studied Wesley for a hint as to the joke. He was gazing over Inez’s shoulder in the backbar mirror at his and his companions’ reflections.

  “Exactly, my dear gentlewoman,” he said. “Braced with some of that fine spirits frumenti you mentioned. And crackers and a spoon. If you please.”

  Deciding to play along, Inez retrieved a tall glass, shoveled shaved ice into it, poured in a quantity of fresh-squeezed lemon juice, and added powdered sugar and water. She tipped in a shot of whiskey and, interpreting the rise of his eyebrows to mean “more,” added another. Dipping down to peer beneath the counter, she
located a dishpan full of used cups, bowls, and spoons. Inez surreptitiously wiped a spoon clean on her apron, and used it to briskly whisk the now potent lemonade. After placing glass and spoon before Wesley, she retrieved a small plate of crackers for him.

  He paid, removed a glove, crumbled the crackers into the glass, and, stirred, creating an intoxicating cracker-mush. Wesley smirked at himself and his companions in the mirror, and said, “I promised the old girl that I’d not drink, on my honor.”

  “God forbid you sully your honor, Wesley” interjected one of his companions.

  Wesley spooned up the concoction with evident delight.

  “He’ll not fool her,” said a voice.

  Inez turned to find Wesley’s minder from earlier that morning, elbow on the countertop. He gazed at Wesley with an exasperation that Inez associated with mothers of out-of-control children.

  “‘Her’ being whom?” Inez pulled a clean shot glass from under the bar. “And, before you answer, I’m assuming that you are looking for something to clear the morning from your throat, Mister…?” She allowed her voice to lift in a question.

  “Pardon.” He removed his hat. “Kavanagh. James Kavanagh. At your service, ma’am. ‘Her’ being Mrs. Wesley, mother of—” he pointed with his chin toward the young man eating his spiked lemonade— “that young jackass.”

  “Mr. Kavanagh. A pleasure. I’m Mrs. Stannert, owner of this, the Silver Queen.” She granted him a professional smile. “Am I correct that you are looking for something a little more straightforward than lemonade you can eat with a spoon?” She nudged the shot glass toward him, bottle ready to pour.

  He nudged the glass away. “Tempting, but drinking on the job would get me fired for sure.”

  “Then you’ll have to come back later when you’re off duty. And your job would be?” She wasn’t sure why she persisted in asking questions when there were plenty of other potential customers, ready to pay, tapping coins impatiently on the mahogany to get her attention.

  Kavanagh grinned, displaying a noticeable and not unattractive gap between his upper front teeth. “I have the unenviable task of keeping his nibs, young John Quincy Adams Wesley, out of trouble.”

  “Out of trouble? That’s a tall order. Most young men of his stripe come to Leadville, State Street in particular, looking for trouble of various sorts. I am not at all sure you’ll be able to keep him from it.” She eyed Wesley again, critically. “John Quincy Adams, is it? Named after ‘Old Man Eloquent.’ Has his father such high aspirations for him, then, as to become president?”

  “Not father, but mother.” Kavanagh said. “Being primed for a future in politics. I believe I’ve heard terms like ‘future senator’ and ‘someday governor’ bandied about. Wouldn’t be surprised if ‘president’ wasn’t far behind.”

  “Is that so?” She looked at Kavanagh anew. Of medium height and build, he seemed a man who could take care of himself. Obviously cut a notch or two above the riffraff, yet not high and mighty like the out-of-town gentlemen encircling young Wesley.

  A change of suit, and this Kavanagh could blend into any milieu.

  Kavanagh glanced into the mirror, seeking out Wesley’s image. “Well, since he’s here busy telling stories and charming the masses, and I’m here occupying valuable real estate, guess I’ll have a lemonade after all, Mrs. Stannert. None of the hard stuff in it, though.”

  Inez complied, and after accepting his coin, continued, “So, are the Wesleys in Grant’s entourage? I don’t recall seeing them in Leadville before today.”

  “Hmmm-mmm. At least, that’s the story. More like they’re here at the Tabors’ and the governor’s largesse.” Kavanagh cast a longing eye at the backbar and its seductive array of bottles before sipping his lemonade.

  Her curiosity increased further at the mention of Leadville’s self-made silver baron, now lieutenant governor of Colorado. “Tabor? They know Horace Tabor?”

  “Connection’s more through the missus than the mister, I gather.” He shrugged. “Young Maxcy Tabor knows Wesley. Through some Denver association or other, I think.”

  She almost snorted. “I imagine it must gall the lieutenant governor to have such a young pup gunning for Congress. Mr. Tabor has made no secret of his own political ambitions in that direction. And, as lieutenant governor and a millionaire, I’d say he’s got a head start.”

  “I suspect you’re right about that, ma’am. But the Wesleys aren’t slouches in the pocket-change department either. And I’d not want to cross swords with young Wesley’s mother. In any case, Tabor and Wesley have been gentlemen all along. No fist fights on the train ride out here. All proper and polite, I gather.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You seem to know quite a bit about them. Are the Wesleys so open with their lives?”

  He raised the lemonade to her, a modest salute. “I’ve had plenty of practice being a shadow, and folks don’t take much note of what they say in the presence of shadows.”

  “—And that,” announced Wesley. “About sums it up.”

  “Three cheers for you, Wesley,” said his red-mustachioed compatriot. “Seems you ought to buy us all a drink to celebrate your early morning escapade, traipsing about the less desirable parts of town, rescuing the demimonde from the brutal and misguided attentions of the law.”

  “I can do one better than that,” said Wesley. With a flourish, he produced a wallet. His gaze searched out Inez. Upon finding her, he raised his voice and said, “Mistress Barkeep. A round, please, for the house. For all those in this fair establishment ranked top amongst those hundreds arrayed in this most wondrous city in the clouds, which enjoys the heartiest and most honest and hard-working of citizens!”

  He had a voice, she thought, that would project well on the stage. Or, out to the Senate galleries. The smile he flashed about the room glittered with warmth, enthusiasm, and an astonishing amount of honest likableness. Not that he needed to exude much charm once he’d declaimed “a round for the house.” With those words, he was guaranteed to become the immediate bosom buddy of every man jack in the room.

  “Mrs. Stannert!” Abe’s voice, sharp and nearly in her ear, shattered her reverie. “If’n you don’t mind takin’ that fellow’s money so’s we can see whether he’s got the silver to buy afore we pour.”

  Indeed, the eager crowds jammed forward, empty glasses at the ready.

  Inez hastened to Wesley, who fanned a handful of paper money at her as if to bring a breeze to the overheated atmosphere.

  She took the bills, blanched at the large denominations, and pulled out the saloon’s battered Heath’s Infallible Counterfeit Detector—At Sight from beneath the counter.

  Wesley looked nonplussed.

  “Your generosity, sir, is much appreciated by all,” said Inez, paging furiously through the slim pocket-sized volume. “It’s merely the Silver Queen’s policy that, for notes of this size, we need to be sure.…” She referred to the steel-etched images on the open page, compared them to the banknotes, then nodded at Abe. He began pulling whiskey bottles from the holding area beneath the backbar.

  Armed with a bottle in each hand, Inez commenced pouring into what seemed like a thousand out-thrust glasses, tin and ceramic coffee mugs, and even a stew bowl or two. She, Abe, and Sol lined up the emptied bottles to track the amount thus procured.

  One hard-bitten doublejacker, whose customary morose expression was creased in an atypical smile, raised his tin cup to Wesley. “Here’s to you, your honor. Should you decide to run, you kin count on my vote.”

  Wesley beamed. “Excellent! Remember that, old chap, when the next state election comes around. Remember the name of John Quincy Adams Wesley.”

  The miner said, “And would you be taking the side of the common working man?”

  Wesley smoothed his almost invisible mustache. “Let me put it this way. The wealth of the silver barons is most certainly augmented by the efforts of men such as yourself. Every man deserves a living wage.�
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  The miner considered, raised his cup another inch higher in Wesley’s direction, then drained it.

  Inez blew a loose strand of sweaty hair from her face and stopped pouring, realizing that all the drinkers had been taken care of. She scanned the bottles, pulled Wesley’s cash from her apron pocket, deftly separating out what was owed, and extended a twenty-dollar bill. “This is yours. The cost comes to—”

  “Keep it, keep it,” he waved the bill back to her, shut his wallet, and tucked it away.

  She raised her eyebrows. “You’re most generous. And this, even though I, as a woman, cannot vote?”

  It was meant as a jest. But Wesley jerked as though she’d prodded his private parts with the sharp end of an umbrella, and stared hard at her. He then mustered a smile, and said, “Ah, like all of the fairer, gentler sex, you, milady, wield power over us lowly men vastly superior to that of the vote. Should we give you the vote, I can well imagine a woman president would be next. Thus, women would be leaders not only in the domestic sphere, but the political as well. What should be left for us poor fellows?”

  He raised his eyebrows before turning to his companions for confirmation. Several laughed, as if he’d returned her quip with another, finer still. The red-mustachioed one clapped, the sound muffled by his gloves. “Bravo, Wesley. Bravo! You even court the citizens that cannot cast a ballot. Most extraordinary!”

  “Ah, but which one of you would not bow down before a fine display of dimples, or a turn of ankle, and promise the moon, or your political allegiance, for one chaste—or not so chaste—kiss?” He turned back to Inez. “Consider it a tip, Madam Barkeep. For the pleasure and the lemonade.” He leaned over the bar, closed her fingers around the proffered twenty, and said sotto voce, “I’ll be back. I’ve taken a fancy to your drinking hole, Madam Barkeep, Lady Silver Queen of Leadville.”

  For twenty, it hurts not to play the flirt to this pipsqueak.

  Inez batted her eyes. “Why, thank you Mr. Wesley, you’ve quite stolen my heart with your passion and your rhetoric. I’ll put your money to work by giving half to the Widows and Orphans Society in your name. In this manner, you can be assured that when those little boys become of voting age, they will know your name and praise it.” She tucked the bill into the waistband of her apron.