by Len Levinson
“I don’t think they knowed each other.”
“Where does she live?”
“Niggertown.”
“Know her address?”
“White folks don’t go to Niggertown. You go try it, you’re liable not to git out alive.”
~*~
A drunken miner passed out at the bar, another slept on the floor, a musician played an Irish fiddle on the stage.
Stone checked the liquor stock. In the kitchen, a Negro cook fried steaks at the stove. “Your dog ain’t left since you been here last. Every now and then I throw him a piece of meat.”
The hound gazed at Stone from the corner. Stone patted his head. “I wonder what his name is.”
“That’s just a soup hound,” the cook said. “He don’t get no name.”
The dog looked up with pleading eyes at Stone. “You want a name?” Stone asked. “How about … Muggs?”
The dog barked.
“Muggs it is.” Stone returned to the stove. “You know where Maxine Goines lives?” he asked the cook.
He shook his head no.
“She’s Miss McGuinness’s former maid. I want to talk with her.”
“Don’t know nothin’ about it.”
“Figured there aren’t many of you people in town, you’d all know each other.”
The cook flipped a steak in the air, caught it in the black greasy frying pan. “Us people don’t all know each other.”
“I’m going into your section of town to find her. You can’t give me any idea where to look?”
“Wouldn’t go there, I were you.”
~*~
The stamp mill slammed in the distance. Muggs followed dutifully along the sidewalk. A pack train of ore-laden mules trudged down the middle of the street. Stone and Muggs arrived at the Lodestone Gazette, Edgar Faraday looked up from his desk. “You’ve been causing me a lot of trouble, young man!”
Muggs growled, baring his fangs. Stone leaned his fists on Faraday’s desk. “Start looking for another town to set up your printing press. Lodestone’s on its way out.”
“Where’s your proof?”
“You can’t prove there’s gold here, and neither can anybody else. They tried to kill me at the stamp mill. How’s that for a front-page story?”
“If I print it, no need to look for another town. I’ll have a bullet in my head, but at least I won’t have to worry about goddamned deadlines anymore. Don’t you understand: This world’s crooked from top to bottom. How many wars’ll you have to fight before you figure it out?”
“What about decent folks being ruined? Shouldn’t you warn them?”
“Give ’em a good story, that’s what they like. There’s one underneath your nose, but you haven’t thought of it. The first three men to strike it rich in Lodestone live on the top floor of the Sheffield Hotel. They won’t talk to me, but maybe they’ll talk to you. People like to read about the rich and imagine themselves living in luxury too. You want to help the people of Lodestone, give them something to dream on. I’ll pay an extra ten dollars for the story.”
Stone left the Lodestone Gazette, followed by Muggs. A crowd of well-dressed people strolled on the far side of the street, somebody called his name. Mr. Moffitt, vice president of the Kansas Pacific Railroad, waved.
Stone crossed the street. Moffitt stood with his friends and associates, plus Mayor Ralston, members of the town council, and Marshal Kincaid, who glowered at Stone.
“You’re still in town!” Mr. Moffitt said. “We were wondering what happened to you. Mayor Ralston, have you met John Stone?”
“Don’t believe I have,” said Mayor Ralston with a broad smile. Every adult a potential voter, he shook Stone’s hand.
Moffitt chomped the cigar in the corner of his mouth and hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. “You may be interested to know John Stone’s the man who shot... what’s his name?”
“Tod Buckalew,” offered one of the gentlemen.
Moffitt slapped John Stone on the shoulder. “I’d be honored if you’d come to my party tonight.”
“I’ve already accepted a dinner invitation.”
“Stop for a drink afterward. We’re on the second floor of the Sheffield Hotel.”
Stone made his way toward the outskirts of town, Muggs at his heels. Buildings became more decrepit, garbage lay in the gutters. An old white-haired Negro man drove a wagon down the middle of the street, mud sliding and dripping around the wheels. Stone saw Negro children playing on the sidewalk. They took one look at him and ran.
A young Negro woman, slim and pretty, stepped onto the sidewalk, carrying a basket on her arm. Her eyes widened when they fell on John Stone.
“I’m looking for Maxine Goines. You know where she lives?”
“You on the wrong side of town.”
She scurried away. Dusky faces behind windows studied him. He could smell fear. Why’d Maxine Goines give up the best-paying maid job in Lodestone? Stone felt eerie in the silent neighborhood. A leader was somewhere in the community. They could reason together. Probably a lawyer or doctor. Look for his shingle.
Muggs padded behind him, growling in his throat. They heard a piano in the next building. No sign over the door, he pushed it open. The piano stopped. All conversation ceased. He approached the bar.
“Beer.”
The bartender filled a glass. Stone tossed him a coin. “Know where I can find Maxine Goines?”
The bartender shook his head. The atmosphere could be cut with a knife. Stone sipped. The pianist returned to his keys, playing strange rhythms. Stone felt like an intruder. He placed the half-full mug of beer on the bar and walked outside.
Muggs waited for him. A brightly painted barber’s pole grew on the far side of the street, next to a window revealing a Negro getting a haircut. Stone turned the corner and saw a small sign:
CHURCH Reverend Jack Reynolds
Stone crossed the street and knocked on the door. A wizened Negro woman opened it.
“Want to speak with your pastor.”
“What for?”
A Negro man in black suit and white collar appeared in the vestibule. He was in his thirties and wore thick spectacles. “May I help you?”
“I was looking for Reverend Reynolds.”
“That’s me—how do you do?”
They shook hands. Reynolds was an educated man. Stone felt at ease. “I wondered if I could ask you a question?”
“Delia, bring us some tea.”
Reynolds led Stone to a small room with a desk and jam-packed bookshelves. A plain empty cross nailed to the wall, the inscription read: HE IS RISEN.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Maxine Goines.” Stone explained how she’d left Belle McGuinness’s employ under mysterious circumstances. “Could you take me to her?”
“No, because it would place her in jeopardy.”
“From whom?”
“You’re new in town, but you’ve already become Belle McGuinness’s latest lover, new reporter for the Lodestone Gazette, and you push into places you don’t belong.”
Stone was surprised. “How do you know all that?”
“We wash your floors, cook your food, take care of your children. We know everything that happens in your part of town.”
“Did Marshal Kincaid threaten Maxine Goines?”
“Mind your business, you want to keep living.”
“I’m sure somebody told Christ to mind his business, but he didn’t.”
“You’re not Christ.”
“Neither are you.”
Silence for a few moments, the maid brought in a pot of tea with two cups, served the hot green liquid, backed out of the room. Reverend Reynolds stirred his tea.
“They say you’re a gunfighter, Mr. Stone. I’m sure you can defend yourself against anybody, but what about Maxine, and what about me?”
“Maybe I’d better go.”
“You may finish your tea. The damage has already been done.”
> “I’m sorry ...”
“Some people like to stir things up, peek underneath rocks, go where they shouldn’t.”
“This town’s going bust, but nobody believes it. Investors stand to lose their life savings in worthless stock.”
“No one in this part of town has anything to invest or lose.”
“When the bubble bursts, everyone will be hurt. Could be riots. It’s happened before.”
“We’ve survived worst. If you want to worry, better worry about yourself, Mr. Newspaper Man. The people who run this town won’t tolerate you long. A miracle you haven’t been killed already. My advice to you: Get on the next train.”
~*~
Stone ambled through the central business district of Lodestone. Something crashed onto his shoulder, the hand of Kevin McGeachy. “Heerd you moved in with Belle McGuinness. When you a-gonna invite me fer dinner?”
Stone eyed McGeachy with new interest. The miner dug earth every day, a prime source of firsthand information about what was in the ground. “You found gold in your mine yet?”
“Once I get below the ledge I’m on now, hit the mother lode.”
“You ever actually meet anybody who struck gold?”
“Lots of ’em.”
“Name one.”
“Them three fellers livin’ on the top floor of the Sheffield.”
“Anybody else?”
“What you drivin’ at?”
“What if this town’s a hoax? What if the mines never were?”
“Couldn’t be.”
“Why not?”
“I’d shoot myself, I believed that.”
“Sell the Grand Monarch while you still can. Get the hell out of here.”
“Sometime you give a man a pain in the ass. See you later at the Grand Palace.”
They don’t want to know the truth. Faraday was right. Something drew Stone’s attention to the far side of the street. Underneath the eaves, walking along slowly, Marshal Kincaid glared at him. He knows that I know, Stone thought. Maybe we should have a talk. About what? I know you’re an outlaw. Keep walking. Stay out of his way, hope he stays out of mine.
~*~
The train bells rang and whistle blew. “All aboard for Kansas and points east!”
A Negro porter carried Randy LaFollette’s valise toward the stairs to the railway car. “Should be home by Sunday,” he said to Amanda. “Assignment’s not far away.”
Amanda LaFollette forced a smile, though she felt queasy in her stomach. “Getting cold,” she said. “Don’t forget to wear your sweater.”
He took her in his arms. “Just remember I love you.”
She kissed his lips. “Be careful.”
“Last call for Kansas and points east! Aboooarrrd!”
They parted, he ran to the stairs. A conductor waited, examining his fob watch. The bell on the engine clanged. LaFollette entered the parlor car. Two Negro men in white coats served drinks to an assortment of travelers. LaFollette waved good-bye to his wife through the window. She blew him a kiss as the train pulled out of the station.
He hung his Louisiana planter’s hat on a peg, pulled off his doeskin gloves, sat at a table. Lodestone in three hours. He leaned back and lit a cheroot. A Negro waiter took his order. He thought of Amanda worrying about him. She dragged his mind, interfered with his concentration, but he loved her, needed her, couldn’t get along without her.
He met her in Muncie, Indiana, the schoolmaster’s daughter. She combined a country girl’s wholesome loving heart with a good education in the classics, deserved better than a gunfighter, his life awash in blood, but God brought them together and made her his woman.
The waiter served whiskey. Better off single, Randy LaFollette mused. Concentrate better. But I’d be lonely. Drink too much. Get killed anyway.
Raised in Delaware, son of a lawyer, expelled from numerous academies of learning, black sheep of his family, he had no respectable profession. Once, a long time ago, he shot a gambler over the turn of a card. Then somebody hired him to gun down a business rival. One assignment led to another. An old-timer told him he had talent. He practiced assiduously, invested in Denver real estate, got married, settled down. Life was good.
An elderly gentleman and lady approached the next table. “Do you mind?” he asked LaFollette.
“By all means.”
They sat beside him. “Charles Johnston, and this is my wife, Vivian.”
LaFollette told them his name.
The gentleman had a big white mustache, his wife’s hair matched his. “What business are you in, if you don’t mind me asking, Mr. LaFollette?”
“Death.”
Mr. Johnston and his wife paled in the wan morning light.
“I sell equipment and supplies to undertakers.”
Johnston smiled, thankful to be back in the business world again. “You must see a lot of the country. What’s your favorite town?”
“Denver, where I live.”
“We’re on our way to Ohio. Own a small factory there that makes hardware. Your firm might use our tools to make coffins. How’s business these days?”
“I expect it to pick up shortly.”
Chapter Seven
Madden hung his hat in the vestibule. He didn’t want to face Patricia and her sister, but a banker ate supper with his family. Patricia wanted a real husband and real marriage, as if such things existed. A grouchy expression on his face, he made his way to the living room. Patricia and Gail sat on chairs facing each other before the fireplace, light aureoling around them. He bent to kiss his wife’s cheek.
“Don’t touch me,” she said icily.
He poured a shot of whiskey. Nonchalant and suave on the outside, steaming internally, he asked: “Well, what have you ladies done today?”
Neither spoke. They’ve formed a cabal against me. “Did you take a walk through town, Gail? See anything interesting?”
“The riot.”
Belle McGuinness was the center of the riot, and everyone knew which errant husband was sleeping with her. My wife hates me, Belle’s giving me the runaround, and people say the gold’s gone. What worse thing could happen to me today?
“By the way,” Patricia said, “we’re having a dinner guest tonight.”
Madden brightened. “Who?”
“Gentleman named John Stone.”
Madden’s glass of whiskey dropped out of his hand and went crashing to the floor. Shards of glass flew in all directions.
“Are you all right, dear?” Patricia asked, a sly smile on her face.
~*~
“My suit ready?”
Luciano rubbed his hands together. “Of course, signor. Right this way, sir.” He led Stone to a row of suits on hangers and pulled one down. “Try it on.”
Stone stepped behind the curtain and donned his new suit. Then he stood before the mirror. A strange dude stared at him in shock. I look like the lawyer who just bribed the judge. I can’t wear this goddamn thing.
“How you like it?” Luciano asked proudly.
“Fits real well,” Stone replied. Can’t hurt the man’s feelings. “While I’m here, want to get a regular pair of pants and a shirt. Could also use a good wool sweater.”
Stone returned to the closet and put on his regular clothes. Luciano laid out the merchandise on the counter. Stone selected black jeans, butternut shirt, red sweater. “Put in on Miss McGuinness’s account.”
He left the haberdashery store and paused at the first alley. Halfway down lay a drunkard with an empty bottle in his right hand. Stone dropped the suit beside him, then returned to the street, entered the Grand Palace Saloon.
A few blocks away Marshal Kincaid slowed as he approached the bootmaker’s shop. In front of it, on the planked sidewalk, sat a Negro with a glass eye. “Shine you up, Marshal?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Kincaid sat on the stool. The bootblack worked both brushes against the leather covering Kincaid’s toes. Kincaid looked to his left and right, the
n filled his pipe with tobacco.
“You hear anythin’ ’bout the girl?” Kincaid asked in a low tone.
The bootblack didn’t look up at him. “She’s still home, ’fraid to come out. You ain’t gonna hurt her, is you, Marshal?”
“Got better things to do than shoot dumb little pickaninnies.”
“Somethin’ happened today, you oughtta know ’bout. John Stone was in our part of town lookin’ fer Maxine Goines, but din’t find her. Had a little talk with Reverend Reynolds, and left. Ain’t been back since.”
Marshal Kincaid’s teeth grinded the bit of his pipe.
~*~
Madden sat in a corner of the living room, listening to Patricia and Gail talking about Bangor, Maine, ignoring him as if he didn’t exist. Put rat poison in John Stone’s food? Bart played with the idea, but Stone might taste the chemicals and go for his guns. Randy LaFollette was on his way to Lodestone, better let him handle it.
Madden’s mind produced business schemes of every type. His father, a traveling salesman, encouraged him in this vein even when Bart was small. He learned his lessons well, arrived in Lodestone at the crucial moment, built a fortune, now worried about losing everything, including Belle.
“How do you know this John Stone fellow?” he asked Gail. “Where did you meet him?”
“On the train. When the robbers tore my clothes, he came to my aid.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“I believe he’s a cowboy.”
“Not much money in that. See gentlemen on your own social level, if you don’t mind a little good-intentioned brotherly advice. What’s he doing in Lodestone?”
“The outlaws took all his money. He found work at the Grand Palace.”
Patricia smiled at her husband. “You know all about the Grand Palace, don’t you, dear?”
“Everybody knows the Grand Palace, dear.”
“I understand they have prostitutes.”
“Most saloons do.”
“You ever met Belle McGuinness?”
“A few times.”
“They say she has many male admirers. You know everything that goes on in this town, Bart. Tell us about her.”
Bart mopped his brow with his handkerchief. “You might be interested to know that our supper guest, John Stone, is living with her.”