Winter drank his whiskey. Eventually, Lukas did the same.
“But you don’t care about them,” Winter said. “Not except for how they make you feel about yourself. I know your type, Lukas. So have a drink and enjoy the party. And go or stay. I ain’t your goddamn keeper, thank Christ. But don’t be giving me any bullshit. I’m sick to death of it.”
35
Jan, Dusty, and Bill arrived at the Michigan Avenue Hotel well after ten o’clock. The door opened immediately after their knock, to almost pitch darkness. They fumbled their way inside and the door was shut behind them. Only then did the man who had opened the door raise the shutter on his lantern.
“Gentlemen,” Noah Ross said.
Jan Müller started. “You look just like your brother,” he said.
“The likeness is remarkable,” Dusty said.
“You must be hungry,” Noah said. “Please come with me.”
He let them into the dining room. Cold meats, cheese, and bread were waiting for them. While they ate, the waiter Archie pumped out foaming mugs of beer and set them down at the table.
“Is Quentin here?” Dusty asked.
“Yes, and Fred Johnson,” Noah said. “The Empire brothers arrived earlier today. They are both upstairs. You will be staying in this hotel. My brother will give you your instructions. All except for you, Mister Müller. Because of your German heritage we have picked you to attempt to infiltrate the Democratic Party. You will begin tomorrow. I recommend you attend the saloon of Ollie Reiman around noon and pass yourself off as a new immigrant looking for assistance. If you earn their confidence they may let you in on their other plans.”
“How shall I earn their confidence?” Jan asked around a large mouthful of bread and cheese.
“I will leave the details to you,” Noah said. He looked at his large silver pocket watch and then nodded at the three of them. “I must be off. I have a busy day tomorrow. Have a good evening, gentlemen.”
“Yes sir,” Dusty said.
Bill had already finished his beer, and he motioned to Archie for another. When Archie appeared to be moving slowly, Bill put a silver dollar on the table, and the waiter made it disappear and then increased his pace.
They ate and spoke by candlelight. Bill moved from beer to Scotch. A pleasant haziness enveloped his mind: the liquor, the dark, the quiet night. They heard footsteps approaching their table and turned to see Fred Johnson, dressed in only a union suit and carrying a candle.
“Freddy!” Dusty cried.
“Well look at you sorry sons of bitches,” Johnson said, shaking his head in disapproval.
Dusty stood up and clapped Johnson on the back. Jan only nodded, without making eye contact. Johnson did not acknowledge Jan at all. Shortly afterward, Jan excused himself and, taking Johnson’s candle, went to his room.
After he was gone, Dusty said, “Shit. How long are you two going to keep that up?”
“Ain’t no reason to quit,” Johnson said.
“It was eight years ago now,” Dusty said.
“It don’t matter,” Johnson said.
“How are you going to like being locked up in a hotel with him?” Dusty asked.
“Oh, it’ll be fine,” Johnson said with a smile, and his eyes caught the candlelight.
Dusty laughed.
“Is Quentin upstairs?” Bill asked as he took another swallow of whiskey.
“Nah,” Johnson said. He jerked his thumb in the direction of Archibald. “This whoreson’s been letting him out on the sly. He’s at some cathouse with the Empire brothers.”
Archie’s bright white smile was very noticeable in the dark.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Dusty said. “What if someone sees them?”
“Hell no, it’s not a good idea,” Johnson said. “But what are you going to do?”
When Bill became drunk he gained a sad and knowing air, and he had it now.
They chatted more, and then Dusty went up to bed. Bill and Johnson were quiet for a while. Then Johnson turned to the waiter and said, “That’ll do, Archie.”
Archie left, and other than the candle at their table the darkness was complete in the shuttered dining room.
Johnson leaned back in his chair, so his face was out of the light. Bill sipped the last of his drink.
“They don’t lock up the bottles here at night or nothing like that?” Bill said.
“I thought you were going to quit,” Johnson said.
“I’m always going to quit,” Bill said. “You know how it is. You say you won’t have a drink, then you say that one can’t hurt you. Then you think, Well, hell, the first one didn’t hurt me, it’s not like one more will make a difference. Things proceed. Eventually you’re drunk. You can’t deny it. You’re drunk. Then you think, What a weak-willed son of a gun I am. I did it. I went and did it. I got drunk again. No self-control, no self-respect. What should you do then? Well, since you’re so worthless, why not get drunk? Perhaps tomorrow will be different.”
Johnson made an amused noise from the darkness. Eventually he said, “It couldn’t have helped. What happened in Mississippi.”
“There’s always an excuse,” Bill said. But then: “No, of course it didn’t help.”
After a pause, Johnson said, “We never got to talk too much after.”
“No.”
“I thought you were going to North Carolina.”
“I was.”
“How’d you end up with Müller?”
“There wasn’t nothing for me in North Carolina,” Bill said. “All my family’s land was gone. First it went to carpetbaggers. Then the Klan ran them off, and it was white folks. My family were sharecroppers, they had nothing for me, and no use for me. By then I was already drinking again. I kept thinking of my uncle. You know?”
Johnson’s eyes were flat. Bill continued.
“I knew Reggie had family in West Virginia so I went there. I met up with him. He was going to head out to Minnesota to meet with Müller. As it turned out, I went to Minnesota, and he went to Kansas instead. Those were tough days. I had some close calls with the law.”
“Why didn’t you come to Kansas?”
Bill shrugged.
“Müller had work. I could trust him.”
Johnson spat on the floor. “You can trust him,” he said.
“More than some,” Bill said.
“I know Quentin is no saint,” Johnson said. “But it wasn’t his fault what Winter did.”
“I know it,” Bill said. “I was there.”
“It can’t be true that the Empire brothers didn’t know anything about it.”
“I don’t believe it myself,” Bill said. “But I don’t know for sure. Winter sent me away, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we were in Aberdeen,” Bill said, toying with the crystal glass in his hand. “Me, Reggie, Johnny, and Charlie. And Winter. Some men from the town were missing and the people were telling us different stories of where they were at. Winter got the idea that they were with Captain Jackson, planning some raid. To be honest, I couldn’t disagree, but of course no one in that town would talk. And Winter, he just looks at me. Gives me this long, appraising look. Like he’s figuring how much I’m worth. So I said to him, What are you looking at? And he said, Bill, whyn’t you go search the Rodney place? It was about fifteen miles away.”
“I know it,” Johnson said.
“I took Reggie with me,” Bill said. “I had the strangest feeling riding out of that town. It was so quiet in the streets. Such a poor town, houses so run-down. No money there at all. I felt like there was a cold wind at my back. I felt like I was running, like I was being a coward, but I didn’t know what I was running from. Or I didn’t want to admit it.”
Bill shook his head, tossed the heavy crystal glass in his hand, and caught it. Then he held it up to the candle, so that it broke apart the light and scattered it over the soiled tablecloth.
“I don’t see how he could have kil
led all those folks just on his own,” Bill said. “But that’s what he said. And no one who survived remembered Charlie or Johnny doing anything. Just Augustus Winter with his white hair and golden eyes.”
“Don’t think they don’t know it,” Johnson said. “Charlie and Johnny don’t suffer anyone to talk ill of Winter. It’s like he cast a damn spell on them or something. I think they’ve been looking for someone to boss them around since Duncan died.”
“Well, whatever anyone says,” Bill said, “Winter got rid of the Klan in that town.”
“Yeah,” Johnson said.
“Did you read about Winter in the papers? About how he was riding with the Klan?”
“I read it,” Johnson said. “I don’t believe it.”
“No?” Bill asked.
“Of course not. The Klan?” Johnson shook his head.
“Why not?” Bill asked.
“I can’t see how they’d have him. And he wouldn’t do that. Winter’s been fighting those sons of bitches for years.”
“Hmm,” Bill said. And then he whispered, so quietly that Johnson had to strain to hear him. “You didn’t see him. When Sevenkiller and Captain Jackson were torturing him. You didn’t see him then. I knew right away.”
“I think I know Augustus Winter by now,” Johnson said.
“You ought to,” Bill said. “There ain’t much to know.”
36
The next day found Ollie Reiman standing behind the bar in his saloon. It was just before the lunch rush and Ollie was polishing one mug after another and stacking them on the shelf. The door opened and a stranger came inside.
“Hello there,” Ollie said.
“Guten Tag,” the man said.
“Do you speak English?” Ollie asked in German.
“No,” the man said. “I’ve just come from New York. My cousin told me to come here.”
“Oh, welcome,” Ollie said. “Sit down, sit down!”
The man took off his cap and approached the bar. Ollie drew him a mug of beer and set it down on the bar.
“Ten cents,” Ollie said. “And it comes with free lunch.”
Ollie nodded toward the table at the other end of the room and said, “Why don’t you get something to eat before the regulars show up.”
The man put his dime down on the bar and walked over to the food. A heaping mound of loaves of rye bread, hard white cheeses, cold meats, and pickled vegetables was laid out in a buffet. The man loaded up a plate and sat back down at the bar, lifting his mug.
“Your health,” he said.
Ollie nodded as he polished the mugs.
The saloon was very large, perhaps twenty feet by eighty, and filled with solid wooden furniture, mostly benches and long tables. Stout waitresses were sweeping the floors and wiping the tables. German accoutrements, flags and maps and art and photographs, hung on every wall, alongside long mirrors.
The man smacked his lips.
“Good, isn’t it?” Ollie said. “I bet that’s the first real beer you’ve had in a long time.”
“Yes,” the man said.
“What’s your name?”
“Jan Müller,” the man said.
“And your cousin told you to come here? What’s his name?”
“Hans,” Jan said.
“I know many Hans Müllers,” Ollie said. “What does he look like?”
Jan looked uncomfortable.
“I have not seen him in more than twenty years. I do not know. I know he works at the reaper factory. He said he would leave a message for me.”
“The reaper factory?” Ollie said. “I don’t think … I don’t know. Well, I don’t have a message for you.”
“Oh,” Jan said. He looked down at his free lunch and picked up a pickle and ate it.
“Well, don’t worry!” Ollie said. “Your cousin steered you to the right place. I have cared for hundreds of men like you who are new to the country! What’s your profession?”
“Woodcutter.”
“That’s good! They’re rebuilding the whole city. I can get you on a work gang in the morning. If you have no place to stay, I can find you lodgings for tonight. Just stay here till after the lunch rush. And tomorrow we’ll have you made a citizen.”
“Tomorrow?” Jan said. “I thought it took much longer than that.”
Ollie winked. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. I have many friends.”
“I don’t want to get in trouble,” Jan said.
“You won’t. We have friends even on the police now. You’re lucky you came here. Do you know anything about American politics?”
“No.”
“Well, the Democratic Party are our friends. The Republicans are our enemies. They’re always working to keep the little fellow down. They try to close our saloons on Sundays. They even complain that we give men a free lunch here. Imagine that! They complain we give workingmen a free lunch. We need to make you a citizen so you can vote for the Democratic man. His name is Harrison. He’s gone to the beer gardens with us on Sunday many times. He’s practically a German himself. He even said so.”
Jan was making a crude sandwich and stuffing it in his face.
“Anything you say,” he said around a mouthful of food.
The sound of high-pitched, excited voices came from outside.
“Here they come!” Ollie cried, his voice rising in a little squeak. “I’ll be back!”
The door banged open and children poured in, most of them carrying two or three metal lunch pails. They rushed straight to the bar and lined up, yelling and laughing, and Ollie filled their buckets with beer, one after another, writing down names in his little book. One of the boys, a tall one, had a staff across his shoulder with which he could carry four pails at once. Once they had the beer they came for, they turned and hurried, carefully, out of the saloon.
Soon after the men came in and grabbed food and beer and rushed to the wooden tables to save a spot. They were stained with sweat and grease and their clothes were poor but they were all laughing and talking. None of them looked run-down or defeated. Many of them took a newspaper off the rack to read. They shook salt and pepper on boiled eggs and smeared mustard on salami and clanked their heavy mugs together and drank.
How they did drink. One beer after another, as if it were a race, as if they were trying to get as much down as they could before the whistle blew, calling them back to work. Before long men were weaving, barely standing on their feet.
Someone who was clearly not a workingman came into the saloon. He was short and broad and dressed in a fine suit that was as sharp as the autumn air. His hair was slicked back and there was a diamond pin in his lapel. The men gave a great cheer when they saw him and he waved his cane in the air and grinned and motioned at the bartender. The gesture was unmistakable: a round for the house.
The remaining children crowded around the man in the suit and he dropped hard candies in their hands.
Ollie scurried around the bar and soon he was pumping the hand of the new arrival and they were speaking quietly to each other, their words lost in the din.
Jan turned toward the men on the benches and made an almost imperceptible movement with his head. Immediately, someone bellowed, “Thief! Thief! That man’s a fucking thief!”
The conversations cut out.
A man stood up on the other side of the room. He was young but balding and inclined to fat and he had a stupid, mean face. “He’s paying for your beer with your own money. He stole it from you!”
“Shut up!” someone cried.
“You stupid fucking krauts,” the man shouted. “The Irish have been running the Democratic Party like a private club for twenty years! You think it’s going to be different when you put their man in the top spot! They’re not going to need you once they’ve got what they want! Workers’ rights, I say! Hurrah for socialism!”
Someone lunged at the shouting man but he struck his assailant in the neck and knocked him to the ground. Next a few tried at once, but the man had a
club and he beat them off.
“Come on then, you fuckers!” the socialist said. “Come on you stupid …”
Jan launched himself at the man, knocking him back into the wall, wrapping one of his scarred and powerful hands around his neck.
“Fuck you,” the socialist said, clubbing Jan across the face with his wooden baton. Blood splattered the wall. Jan threw punches wildly, and although he took a savage beating, he seemed to be getting the better of it.
Finally the socialist drew a knife and stabbed it into Jan’s side. Jan cried out in pain but didn’t let go. He drove the socialist’s head into the wall until he slumped and went limp, and then he dragged him to the door and threw him outside for the kids to kick.
When Jan turned around to face the crowd everyone applauded, and whistled, and shouted their approval. Jan pulled the knife out and felt the blood rush down his side in a sticky flood, momentarily unstable on his feet.
A buxom waitress with thick blond pigtails steadied him and brought him around the bar to the back room.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”
It was a cold room, with barrels of beer stacked up along the walls and cuts of meat hanging from hooks. The light came in from a little window near the ceiling. Jan sat down, a little more heavily than he’d intended, on a box of pickle jars. They made a clinking noise.
He lifted up his shirt and the girl pressed a rag into his wound. The cut on his face was dripping blood onto the dirt floor.
Ollie and the man with the diamond pin in his lapel came into the back room.
“Nice work, boyo,” the man said in a thick Irish accent.
“He doesn’t speak English,” Ollie said.
“Really? That’s grand. I actually came here looking for a tough man who doesn’t speak English.”
“Why?” Ollie asked.
“A few problems with one of me fellow aldermen.”
“Who?”
“Terry Sullivan.”
“But he’s a Democrat.”
“Ollie, you know I trust you,” the Irishman said. “But trust everyone and cut the cards, as I always say. You don’t need to know these things. Just let me know if this man is one of us.”
The Winter Family Page 14