by LeMay, Jim
Mitch was surprised but answered, “Why no, we got plenty a young’ns t’ tote the truck to us when we need it. That’s their job anyhow, not yours. That’s why they git a share a the profits. Go ahead but don’t let him work y’ too hard.”
So John raced back to Bernie. “So where do I start?”
“Hey, slow down,” said Bernie with a smile in his voice. “Don’t you want to know what I’m paying you?”
“Why – oh, sure!”
“Grub, room, and two ens a day. You get Wednesdays off so it’ll be twelve ens a week. I’ll need you on weekends.” That wasn’t bad pay considering a grown man working as a field hand could expect board – though on a farm, never eating as well as at Haas House – a place to sleep, though probably in the barn, and three Nelson dollars a day. And not bad considering what a single nellie would purchase. It would buy two restaurant meals, though of nowhere near the quality and variety Bernie furnished, and two meals was all most people ate anymore. It would pay for a night’s room at a scrounger’s hotel, a very simple room shared with a number of other guests that you probably wouldn’t know, any more than you knew their intentions toward you. It would buy eight beers at Bernie’s.
But John didn’t know any of that so he had no way of judging the value of his pay. To him it represented vast wealth. He couldn’t know that twelve ens a week wouldn’t earn him enough to buy the scratch he’d need by the time Matt returned from Nellie’s Fair. “Hey, thanks, Bernie! You’ll see that I’m worth every bit of it.”
“I’ll make sure you earn it. Follow me.”
John did, through the large kitchen, which was steamy and bustling with chatting women washing the breakfast dishes, his first time there. Then through the door to the servants’ stairway. Only instead of going up the stairs, they went down into another vast kitchen that filled the whole basement, still dark at this early hour. The only illumination came from the dim dawn light seeping through the window wells.
No, not another kitchen. It was true that there was another stove here, actually a homemade looking affair with a grate over a cast iron belly in which a fire danced. A large pot partially filled with water rested on the grate. There was also a large metal sink, likewise homemade. He saw tables, shelves, and racks like those found in a kitchen but they were filled with inscrutable gadgets and implements, huge cooking pots, and vats. About twenty barrels sat in the darkest recesses of the basement, most of which, John would later learn, contained maturing beer.
“This is the brewery,” said Bernie. “I need someone to work in here almost full time in this season. I can’t afford the time, and I got too much other stuff for Luke and Jake to do to let them spend much time here. And frankly, neither of them,” he gestured to the stairway they had just descended; Luke was entering from the outside with a pail of water, “well, they’re just not suited to careers as brewmasters. Right, Luke?”
Luke smiled a greeting at John and said, “’S right, Bernie. I ain’t cut out for this here woman’s work.” He emptied the water into the pot on the stove and turned back toward the stairway.
“Wait a minute, Luke,” said Bernie, “you’ve got a replacement. John’s gonna be our new brewer. I got other stuff for you to do. You’ll find that brewing is not mere ‘women’s work’, John, but what I have you doing today will make you think Luke is right.” He turned to Luke and said, “John’ll work in here today, Luke. I need you to clean the public rooms upstairs for me. After you finish that, Jake should be finished helping Joey in the stables. You and him come to me for your next project.”
Luke nodded, set down the pail, and started upstairs with a parting, “Good luck, kid,” to John.
“Your job du jour,” said Bernie, looking around the room, “is to clean this place up. We’re going to brew a new batch tomorrow, and the room has to be spotless from top to bottom. Same with all the equipment.”
He took John by the shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. “When I say spotless, I mean more than clean. I mean I want to be able to eat off the floor. Scrub the room first and I’ll inspect it. You’ll undoubtedly have to go back to hit certain areas, maybe the whole thing again. Luke’s been helping me three years, and he still can’t get it right the first time. Then do the equipment. It has to be sterilized and put in airtight containers. We’ll do that together this time because it’s even more important than cleaning the room.
“If you want to become a brewer, you must have two compulsions: cleanliness and purity of ingredients. You’ll learn a lot of other important principles, but those are the first ones and you gotta obsess aver them, all the way to your bones, before you learn anything else. Neither Luke nor Jake can ever learn that, though they think they have.” He shook his head sadly as he took his hands off John’s shoulders. “They’re not comfortable unless they’re doing work that leaves manure between their toes.
“Anyway, let’s get to work. Be sure a pot of water’s heating on the stove all day. You’ll need it for cleaning the room and equipment, and Luke for mopping the public rooms. Fill the pot from the well. You know where the well is? Good.” Then Bernie showed John where all the cleaning equipment was and described the order in which he should clean the room, furniture and fixtures first, then the floor and even the windows. “I’ll let you get started and check in from time to time. I got other stuff to do.”
John took Bernie’s directive to make cleanliness a “compulsion” very seriously. He washed and scrubbed, examined every surface critically, and then cleaned it again. He kept water hot for himself and for Luke. Bernie came in about mid-morning and looked around with his hands on his hips, frowning.
John was mopping the floor. As Bernie turned to leave, John asked, “See any spots I missed, Bernie?”
“Yes, I do, but no sense of showing you now. I’ll wait till the final inspection.”
John’s heart sank. He had thought he had done a really good job. He finished mopping the floor, then scrubbed certain spots that hadn’t come as clean as he liked. Then he started scrubbing the furniture, windows and even the walls.
By the time Bernie came back, John had cleaned the room as thoroughly as he thought humanly possible. He was really tired and covered in sweat even though the basement was cooler than the upstairs. His hands were raw from the harsh lye soap, and his knees were sore from kneeling on the concrete floor. Bernie stood at the foot of the stairs, frowning, hands on hips, scrutinizing each portion of the room. Then he moved all over it, examining everything in detail, kneeling for a closer look whenever necessary.
Finally he sighed, came over to John, and said, “Well, not bad for a first try, son, but there’s a few places you need to hit again.”
Bernie pointed them out to John. Most were obscure parts of the room that he hadn’t even noticed. Bernie left and John went back to work. He was devastated. If Bernie asked him not to work any more after today, he wouldn’t be able to afford enough scratch to leave with the gang. Whatever would become of him? How would he live? Of course Maude and the others would take him back. With a pang he again realized he missed them, knew he should never have left Newcastle. He resolved that if Bernie didn’t want him he would pack his things and leave, slip out some night without a word to anyone and go back home.
When Bernie returned, he examined only the areas which he hadn’t approved the first time. John decided his new job would be over if the brewery didn’t pass this time.
But Bernie stood up with a slight smile. “I guess that’ll pass this time.” He looked at John’s red, sweaty face. “Take a break, kid. Sit out there on the back stoop in the fresh air until the paying customers finish lunch.”
Gratefully, John wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve and did so. A pleasant breeze soughed through the trees behind the house, peacefully, almost hypnotically. It looked like Bernie would keep him, at least for the present.
He was surprised when Bernie shook him awake some indeterminate time later.
“Time to get our ass
in gear,” he said. “The paying customers have finished lunch. Time for you and I to have a bite. Then start washing pots and vats. I’ll come down later and I’ll show you how to sterilize the equipment.”
So the day went. After Bernie and John finished the sterilization, Bernie had a few more chores for him. Everyone worked until the paying guests had finished supper and then they ate. Then, though John was through for the day, Bernie had to run the bar until the guests went to bed and the locals went home. John was so beat he wondered how the man did it.
After John finished eating, Bernie called him over. “If you want breakfast, come down a little before the guests have theirs and eat. Then we go to work. Tomorrow you’ll brew your first batch of beer.” He smiled a broad smile. “I promise that tomorrow will be a lot funner day.”
But John hardly listened to him. He was thinking, I still got a job!
He went up to the gang’s room, intending to read a little and go to sleep, maybe read one of the stories out of Kipling’s Jungle Books. Only Mitch and Lou were there, Mitch mending a tear in his scratch bag, Lou lying on his cot reading a book. Mitch asked, “So how’d the new job go?”
John shrugged, a gesture unconsciously borrowed from Matt. “He hasn’t got rid of me yet.”
“That’s called gettin’ fired or gettin’ shit-canned,” rumbled Lou from his cot.
“In that case,” said John, “I haven’t gotten shit-canned yet.”
“So far, so good,” said Mitch.
John plopped down on his bunk, rummaged through his things until he found The Jungle Books, and began to read. For the first time he realized he might not earn enough to buy the necessary scratch to go with the gang to Colorado. If not, he would return to Maude. If nothing else he had had an interesting adventure.
* * * *
Late Monday afternoon, Matt reached what looked like the temporary tent town Billy had described, Stanley Market. It occupied the intersection of the road he was traveling with a much broader north-south highway. As he drew closer, it became more recognizable as a market, about the size of the one in Coleridge Gardens. Signs were posted at regular intervals around the perimeter, commanding newcomers to “CHECK ALL WEAPONS AT NORTH TENT".
As Matt checked his rifle and machete as instructed, he saw a nearby fenced area reserved for people who wished to spend the night. He went to the enclosure, paid for a night’s stay for himself and his horse (fortunately they accepted nellies) and then was allowed entrance. The place was almost full of the gear of traders, scroungers, and farm families. One large group had taken up the whole eastern half of the enclosure.
First he cared for Bernie’s horse, a placid aging mare named Lady, claimed a place to roll out his bedroll, and went to the latrine. As he exited, wondering if his fee included meals or if he would have to find something to eat in the market, a man approaching the latrine grabbed him by the arm.
“Don’t I know you?”
Matt looked up. He saw sad brown eyes regarding him from a seamed brown face, under a tangle of brown hair – Chadwick’s man who had led the search of Newcastle. The Brown Man. Now he knew who comprised the large group occupying so much of the camp. Matheson’s men. And so dangerously near to Coleridge Gardens. “I don’t think so,” said Matt.
“Sure,” said the man, with a look of recognition lighting his lugubrious face. “You’re the skinny guy from that town with the Fever.” His expression hardened. “I think y’ better come with me. The boss’ll wanta see y’.”
Chapter Seventeen
Matt knew that refusing to accompany the Brown Man to meet his boss would be futile with so many of their colleagues in the camp. Besides, this might give him an opportunity to discover their next move, to warn the gang if it were in danger. He was under no immediate threat if he could portray the person they thought he was.
“The boss’ll want t’ know what you’re doin’ here,” said the Brown Man as he led Matt into the center of their camp. Matt barely kept himself from saying, Minding my own business, asshole. It was best to remain as neutral as possible until he was able to assess the situation. He tried to formulate answers for all the possible ways the upcoming conversation might turn.
Matheson’s group had accumulated a considerable amount of scratch since he’d seen them passing Newcastle and standing in front of Maude’s apartment a little over a month ago. There were over a dozen two-man tents, and right in the center of the encampment was a large tent. Matt bet that a lot of the horses in the common corral belonged to these guys too. The Brown Man led Matt up to a big black man who sat in front of the large tent cleaning his rifle. The man looked up as they approached.
“Who y’ got here, Tim?” the black man asked the Brown Man.
“Remember that town you sent me an’ some a the boys t’ check out?” said the Brown Man. “The one with the Fever sign? This was the guy we talked to.”
“Izzat so?” The big man looked Matt up and down. “You’re a long ways from home aincha, pal?”
“Yep. Haven’t been this far for a long time.”
“I’d be right interested in knowin’ why you’re so far from home.”
“Well, when your men and, uh, Tim here came to town, he told me ’bout the men you were looking for. Tim told me if I heard anything about ’m to go to Columbia, ask for Boss Chadwick or Del Matheson and tell ’m what I knew. Said it’d be worth something to me an’ my folks. I heard ’bout some guys that may be the ones you’re lookin’ for. Or may not, for that matter. I thought it was worth a trip to Columbia though.”
“Well,” said the man, “I can save you a trip. I’m Del Matheson. You can tell me what you know.”
“I went to Coleridge Gardens t’ sell some coon hides like I do every fall and heard folks talkin’ about some guys that sounded kinda like ’m. They said they’d been through there a couple weeks before and said they were headed northeast, up toward Chicago.”
“Describe ’m.”
“There was about a dozen men, armed. The leader was a short guy with bushy eyebrows that met over his nose.” (“That’d be Mitchell,” Matheson mumbled.) “They camped outside a town, stayed t’ themselves except when they went in to buy supplies. They had mules that carried a lot of stuff so folks figgered them to be scroungers that’d come to market. But they left before the market opened with their mules still loaded down, said they wanted to get to Chicago before the weather got bad.”
“Why Chicago?” asked Tim.
“Because, you idiot,” snapped Matheson, “they had something that had to be sold at a special market. They knew it’d be too easy for us to track ’m down if they tried t’ sneak in t’ Nellie’s Fair.” He sat there brooding, stroking his curly beard.
“So what’re we gonna do, Boss?” said Tim. “There’s no need t’ go on t’ Coleridge Gardens like we planned if they already been there.”
“How do we know this asshole’s tellin’ the truth? Now shut up an’ get outta here so I can think.” Tim turned away. As Matt started to leave with him, Matheson snapped, “Hey, you!” Matt turned. “What’s your name, pal?”
“Jerry Jordan.”
Matheson’s eyes narrowed. “Well, listen here, Jerry Jordan. I think it’d behoove you t’ stick ’round the market a couple days. Just in case we think a any other questions.”
Matt nodded. “I’ll be here.” Then he turned and followed Tim. When he caught up with him, he said, “Your boss is in a good mood tonight.”
Tim shook his head. “He’s been under a helluva strain. We all have. Them boys we’re after stole something a Boss Chadwick’s, and he told us not t’ come back till we find it. If we don’t find it, he’ll have our ass. We looked all over this country for ’m, but they just flat disappeared. Like smoke. Nobody’s heard tell of ’m till you come along.” Tim was headed toward a chow line. So the place did provide at least one meal a day.
Matt followed. He asked, “How did you come to Stanley Market? This is a long way east of where you came through o
ur town, Newcastle.”
“At first we looked for ’m ’round Newcastle an’ fu’ther west, figgerin’ they’d git as far away from Columbia as they could, but we couldn’t pick up no trail and nobody we talked to had seen ’m. Then we worked our way back east along the Missouri River, askin’ ever’body that lived ’long there. The last three places we stopped at, the McClellans’ an’ the Kanes’ an’ then at Parkerville, they said they hadn’t seen ’m an’ was sick a Chadwick’s men botherin’ ’m. The Boss’d already been there lookin’ for ’m. That’s the first we heard a him lookin’ for ’m hisself. That means he really wants ’m.”
They exited the chow line with plates of beans mixed with scraps of pork fat and a piece of overdone cornbread and sat on the grass under a maple tree to eat.
“Anyhow, we decided they hadn’t been on the river, and they hadn’t gone either north or west a where we first – uh – run into ’m. We’d checked all that country. Where the hell could they be?
“Then Del got the idea that maybe we was lookin’ in the wrong places. We heard tell that that Mitchell is a cagey little bastard. What if they was hidin’ somewheres close t’ Columbia after all, right under our noses? We knew they was hungry. When we first run inta them, we scairt ’m so bad they run off an’ left their truck an’ mules an’ ever’thing. So maybe they rounded up some more truck an’ took it to a market. Maybe one right close t’ Columbia! With Chadwick busy with his market maybe they figgered they could sell their stuff an’ sneak away before word got back t’ Columbia.
“By then we was on the river at Parkerville. That was gittin’ a little too close to Columbia for comfort – Chadwick had a post set up on the interstate bridge across the Missouri an’ that was real close t’ Parkerville. He’d already tol’ us not t’ come back without the stuff these guys had stol’ from him. Or else!”