by Ann Parker
Harmony. Ten years younger. Calm and considered against Inez’s impulsive and stubborn nature. Married well, as their parents wished, and stayed close to home, whereas Inez eloped and left without a backward glance, captivated by the Southern drawl and charms of a charismatic cardsharp and the lure of adventure out West.
Inez sighed.
And Harmony now raises my son. What would I do without her? We know each other’s dreams, foibles, and darkest fears. I owe her so much. Who else would have taken in my little William, my life’s greatest gift, with such love and compassion?
A second inner voice interrupted: Were Flo and Lizzie close like this? If Harmony were—God forbid, murdered—how far would I go to find her killer and extract payment?
Inez knew the answer to that. She’d pursue the murderer through the gates of hell without looking back. Kill him if she could, and hand the Devil her soul with no regrets.
“What’s got that murderin’ look on your face, Mrs. Stannert?”
Inez started, and looked up. Abe was leaning back in the chair, brown eyes quizzical, one long arm resting on the top rung of the ladder-back chair.
“A stray thought, that’s all.” She focused her attention back on the letter, scanning through news of her parents, the summerhouse, and the weather. The next sentences swept away the black clouds that had invaded her soul. “Oh! Listen to this. ‘My best news I’ve saved for last. I have made arrangements with my husband for nanny, me, and little William to come to Colorado before the summer is out. I had pointed out that it has been well over a year since I’ve last seen you, that you are pining for your son, and that circumstances are such that it is far easier for us to come to you than vice versa. And, of course, to leave the busy life of New York for a brief respite at the Colorado and Manitou Springs shall do us good. I have had to promise that we will not, of course, come to Leadville, as my husband has read naught but ill of the violence and turmoil there. I believe he’s thinking of the mining strike you wrote of in May? In any case, he refused to share any more information as to his misgivings, as he feels we women are too delicate for knowing much of the rough, violent worlds of men.’”
Inez stopped, aware that she was divulging much more of Harmony’s inner thoughts to Abe and particularly Bridgette’s avid ears than Harmony would no doubt wish. “Well, and of course, she goes on. In any case, the upshot is, I’ll be able to see my sister and son again, come August!”
My sister. My son. She thought of the last cabinet photograph sent by Harmony, earlier that summer. The image showed a child, not a baby but not yet a young boy, still many years of skirts ahead of him. A face still familiar, but rapidly changing into someone she no longer knew. Her heart constricted. “It will be a long month until we meet,” she said softly, then refolded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
Bridgette clapped a hand to her broad bosom, beaming. “What wonderful news, ma’am! And just think. You’ll be able to take the train nearly all the way to the Springs.” Her eyes clouded a bit. “Although the stage might be safer. I’ve heard terrible things about the trains, ma’am. How they fall right off the tracks in those narrow gorges.”
“Piffle,” said Inez briskly. “They are as safe as anything else—think of all the stagecoach accidents we read about—and much, much faster.”
“Well, you got time to work that out,” said Abe. “Right now, we got the piano tuner comin’ to bring that old upright back into shape later this afternoon. Just thought I’d remind you ’bout that, so’s you can be here when he comes.”
“Thank you, Abe. I had forgotten. Too many things going on.” She picked up a fork and pushed a sausage around the plate, drawing patterns in the congealing grease. “I’d better go help Sol. He had a lineup at the bar when I came through. It’s bound to be a very busy day. A busy weekend.”
“Afore you head out there, Mrs. Stannert , I’ve been thinkin’. About Frisco Flo’s place. She was hopin’ to move anyhow, last I heard. And now that young gal, Miss Lizzie, some sad business there. Flo’s in jail….”
“And?”
“Just mebbe,” Abe said. “We’re in a position to strike while the iron’s hot.”
“Meaning?”
“C’mon Inez.” He leaned forward, bracketed his empty plate with his elbows. “I know you’ve had your eye on that piece of property for a long time. Could be, we could swing it now. Talk to Flo, see if we couldn’t increase her liquidity a tad and buy the building at a good price. Everybody’d win. She could move to that Fifth Street pleasure palace she’s been talkin’ about. We could open another place at the other end of the block. What d’you say, partner?”
“Ummm.” Inez thought of her secret deal with Flo. The signed contract in the saloon’s safe. The kitchen suddenly felt unbearably warm and close.
Sol threw open the door to the kitchen and without preamble said, “Mrs. Stannert. Good. You’re here.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “The Hatchet, uh, Officer Ryan is here. He wants to talk with you, ma’am.”
Inez’s stomach—sausages and all—did an uneasy lurch. “Tell him I’ll be right out.”
Bridgette brightened. “Oh, it’s Officer Ryan? I had no idea he came here so often. That’s what comes of being in the kitchen all the time. Tell him I’ll bring him a cup of coffee with cream, the way he likes it, Mr. Isaacs.”
Sol nodded and retreated.
Bridgette bustled around, remarking, “ Officer Ryan, he’s such a hardworking man. He’s doing wonders cleaning up State Street from all the sin, may the Lord and all his angels be on his side. I know you and Mr. Jackson grumble about him collecting the taxes, but he’s only doing his job. Which is more than can be said for others on the force! I don’t know why you dislike him so much.”
Inez laid her knife carefully crosswise her plate. Oh dear. Apparently Abe and I haven’t been careful enough about what we say and where we say it. If any of the things we mutter about The Hatchet should get back to him, he could make life very difficult for us. Even more so than he does already.
She debated how to phrase a caution to Bridgette, but Abe spoke first.
“Well now, Bridgette, just ’cause we get crosswise of Officer Ryan from time to time don’t mean he’s all bad. I’d not be spreadin’ around what Mrs. Stannert and me say in the back rooms, if you catch my drift.”
Inez threw a grateful glance at Abe as Bridgette shook the long-handled fork at Abe like she was preparing to attack the Devil himself with one of his own instruments. “Mr. Jackson, I’d never! And besides, none would believe me. Those in a position to know say, when the plate is passed, those twenty-dollar gold pieces come from none other than his own pocket. Why, he’s listed in the parish newsletter as one of the seraphim. And that doesn’t happen with a penny-in-the-plate-on-Sunday churchgoers. And he’s there every Mass. At least, that’s what I hear.”
Inez shook her head. “How many masses does your church have?”
“There’s one every morning at six and two on Sunday. And, there’s the Rosary. He’s always at the Rosary on Monday nights when I go.”
Inez went to the wall of pegs holding a welter of overcoats, hat, aprons, and umbrellas, asking over her shoulder, “Mr. Jackson, please refresh my memory. We did pay our fees this month, did we not?”
“On the twentieth, same’s always,” said Abe. “I handed him the money myself. Want me t’ cover your back whilst you’re facin’ down the law?”
She paused, deliberating. “It might not be a bad idea for you to be nearby. Within earshot. Particularly since you were the one who ponied up for the fee this month.”
Abe grinned. A flash of white teeth, slightly feral, against dark brown skin. “Understood, Mrs. Stannert.”
Inez tied the apron around her waist and pulled her favorite coffee cup off from a shelf. Bridgette, who was preparing a cup of coffee on the table, jug of cream nearby, jumped forward, enormous enamel coffee pot in hand. “Coffee, ma’am? I was just
pouring for Officer Ryan. How full would you like it?” She sounded anxious to make up for her verbal misstep.
“Half will do.”
“Only half?” She sounded disappointed.
“For now.” Inez held out the cup.
The Devil’s own dark brew hissed out the spout.
“Cream, ma’am? I have some right here.”
“No thank you, Bridgette. I’ll top this off with something a bit more bracing to help me face Officer Ryan and whatever he may want.”
Bridgette pursed her lips—her way of showing displeasure when she knew better than to voice it—doctored The Hatchet’s coffee, and hurried out the passdoor to the saloon.
Inez sighed. “I had no earthly idea that The Hatchet was a papist. Much less, such a devoted one. Did you, Abe?”
Abe stood and carried his dirty plate to a nearby dishpan. “Nope. But I know plenty of men who found religion at about the same time as they found political ambition. If’n The Hatchet is gunnin’ for the city marshal spot next April, he’s doin’ all the right things, gettin’ hisself known in church circles, droppin’ big coins in the plate, bein’ kind to widows and orphans. Now, if he’d just give us a break on those taxes and fines he seems so eager to collect between fee days, I might just vote for him, too.”
Inez snorted. “I’d not elect him for dogcatcher. Even if I could vote. He’d probably tax the poor dogs every time they howled.”
Abe held the kitchen door open for her, and she walked out into the main room of the saloon, with all the dignity and poise she could muster.
The Hatchet stood, one foot on the rail, his cup of coffee steaming before him. Bridgette was chattering, hands wandering along the top buttons of her dress, patting her gray hair, done up in a functional bun. Sol jittered around on the other side of the bar, looking nervous as the saloon’s cat, which Inez noticed was squeezed into the thinnest of spaces between the out-of-tune upright and the wall.
She slid behind the bar and set her cup of coffee opposite The Hatchet’s mug. “Officer Ryan, what may I do for you?”
Hatchet turned to Bridgette and said, “Excuse me, Mrs. O’Malley. I’ve got business with Mrs. Stannert here. See you tomorrow at late Mass.”
“Oh yes.” She pinked high on both cheeks. “Well, the Devil loves idle hands so, back to the kitchen I go.” She batted her eyes, adding, “I’ve a multitude of things to do before confession this afternoon,” before beaming at him and displaying a missing incisor. “If you’d like more coffee, or some sausages, Officer, just let Mr. Isaacs know and he’ll tell me and I’ll bring them right out. Bless you, sir.”
“Thank you, Mrs. O’Malley. Much obliged.” He watched her go back to the kitchen, her ample hips swinging.
He ignored Inez for a beat longer as she drummed her fingers impatiently on the countertop.
Finally, he faced her, leaned over the bar, fist clenched, eyes narrow, jaw jutting forward. His words were completely unexpected. “What was your business with Flo Sweet at the jail this morning?”
Inez turned away to run a finger down a bottle of brandy gracing the backbar, giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts. I might need more brandy than coffee to get through this conversation.
She returned to the mahogany and The Hatchet, and poured brandy into her own coffee, remarking, “I went as a representative of our church. Is that a crime?”
“Don’t see where any proper church is gonna care about the disposition of one of Leadville’s most brazen sinners.”
“It’s exactly these lost souls that need our help most,” she retorted. “‘O God, the proud are risen against me, and the assemblies of violent men have sought after my soul; and have not set thee before them.’”
His expression was hard as flint. “You’d best not quote the Bible at me, and you’d best stay out of Mrs. Sweet’s business. I seem to recollect saying something like this just yesterday. You must have a short memory, Mrs. Stannert.” He straightened up. “I’ve come for the fee for sale of liquor.”
“We paid the twentieth. As usual,” she said tersely.
“Can’t say I recollect such.”
“You must have a short memory as well, Officer Ryan.”
His fist, resting by the untouched coffee, clenched. Inez got the distinct impression that if she’d been male, she’d now be nursing a bloody nose for her impertinence.
“I’m city collector and an officer of the law. And I’m sayin’, you owe for July.” Dark violence threaded his voice.
The blatant lie just served to irritate her rather than set her quivering with fear. She glared back, not moving toward the cashbox under the bar.
“Something wrong, Officer?” Abe’s calming voice, at her back.
The Hatchet didn’t even acknowledge the question. Instead, he turned his back, rested his elbows on the bar, and leisurely surveyed the room. “Seems like there’s gambling going on over there.”
A small knot of men were playing cards. Another table was engaged in a loud and enthusiastic round of betting as to whether a fly would manage to swim its way out of a tumbler of whisky or whether it would drown.
“Your point being?” Inez asked coldly.
“Gambling’s illegal in the state of Colorado,” said The Hatchet. “Carries a fine of fifty dollars.”
Inez’s jaw dropped open. She snapped it shut with such ferocity that for a moment she was afraid she had cracked a tooth. “This is,” she searched for a polite phraseology, “absolutely ridiculous. If you were to fine every single person and place involved in gambling in Leadville, you’d have to collect from every man and a goodly number of women.”
It was almost as if The Hatchet didn’t hear her. He was examining the far end of the room, by the piano. “I understand you staged some theatrical-type entertainment over the past few weekends.”
“I believe you were here when one of the afternoon events took place,” said Inez.
“I’m suspectin’ this wasn’t a benevolent performance to help out your church. Guess you owe the city ten dollars a performance. Plus another fifty for sellin’ liquor at the same time.”
Inez stared. “Are you trying to drive us into ruin? To hell with it! I will not pay!”
Abe set one hand on her shoulder, a warning.
The Hatchet reversed his stance, towering over the bar once more. His pupils mere pinpricks. “Use of obscene language, that’s another fifty. And I recollect there’s a hundred dollar fine for assemblage of women for purpose of attracting customers to a saloon. You had an actress here for those performances. Add you behind the bar, that’s two women. Sounds like an assemblage to me.”
Abe’s hand pressed down harder on Inez’s shoulder, a tactile caution. He guided her to the side, away from the escalating confrontation. “We’ll pay the fines and the fees, Officer. You just set down what we owe, an’ we’ll do what we gotta do to make things legal.” Abe slid a piece of paper over to The Hatchet, along with a worn pencil. “Just tote it up, there, Officer Ryan.”
The Hatchet scratched out illegible notations, before saying, “I’m letting you two off easy, with a warning. Two hundred fifty will cover it.”
“Done,” said Abe as Inez gasped. “Miz Stannert, let’s go on up and get Officer Ryan here the money we owe.”
Abe propelled her up the stairs to the office, pushed Inez inside, and slammed the door behind them. “Don’t say a word, Inez. Not a word. Now’s not the time to argue with the law. All he needs to do is whisper in the ears of the right people, and we’ll be shut down this weekend quicker ’n you can spit and you’ll be cooling your heels in the calaboose. And you know how they’s prone to forgettin’ where they put the keys to the cells when it suits their purpose. You could be there for a long time. A month, more, if’n The Hatchet gets a mind to call in some chips at city hall.”
“But, it’s outright robbery! It’s no different than if he were to pull a gun on us and take the cashbox! Except he’s wea
ring a badge, which somehow makes it all legal.”
“Inez, I hear you. Now, you hear me. We stand to make a hell of a lot more’n two hundred fifty this weekend alone, especially since we’ve decided to stay open on Sunday, this one time. Business keeps goin’ like it’s goin’ the past couple days, we’ll have enough to finish up your fancy gamblin’ room up here, buy Flo’s place, and who knows? Have extra to spare. I’m willing to give The Hatchet his due, and get him out of our way.”
“Abe, don’t you see? He’s punishing us—me—for talking with Flo. What right does he have?”
“He’s got all the right that the badge and the uniform give him. And that’s plenty right now. Not only is he city collector, he’s got most of the city council standin’ firm behind him, ’cause he’s doin’ a bang-up job collectin’ fees, fines, and such to fill the city’s coffers. That talk that Bridgette was makin’, it wasn’t just Irish blarney. It’s a real possibility that he could end up bein’ marshal come the next election.”
Abe spun the dial on the safe, clicked through the combination and opened it. Inez, arms crossed, watched grimly. He counted out two hundred fifty in mixed bills and coinage. “We’ll get a receipt for this,” he promised as he closed the safe and placed the money in an envelope.
“A lot of good that does,” she grumbled. “He just looks right through them when it suits.”
Back downstairs, Abe put the envelope on the bar. “Here y’go, Officer. You can count it, and sign off here.” He pushed the list of fines and fees so it lay side-by-side with the envelope.
“I’ll count it later.” The Hatchet scribbled an illegible scrawl on the list and pocketed the envelope inside his vest. He turned to Inez. “Keep your eyes on your own business, Mrs. Stannert. That’s my last warning.”
Inez deliberately turned her back on him, making a point of rearranging the pyramid of Old Crow bottles on display. She watched in the backbar mirror as The Hatchet headed toward the State Street door.