“Suppose you read the letter,” Toomey suggested. “I’m certain you will find the answer to your question there.”
“Yeah,” Caviness said. “Yeah, I’ll read the letter.” He began to read and, even though he was reading silently, his lips formed every word.
“What does the letter say, Caviness?” Slater asked.
Caviness looked up from the letter, then put his hand over the words.
“This here is my letter, and it ain’t none of your business what it says.”
THREE
St. Louis
It was dark. Jennie and Dog were walking home. For many years, Jennie had made her living as a prostitute, but it wasn’t a profession she chose. Born to a half-black mother in a whorehouse in New Orleans, Jennie had been sold into slavery as a very young girl.
The man who bought her, Lucas Younger, had intended to make her into a housemaid; however, as she was a very beautiful young girl, he realized early that if he played his cards right, she could be worth a lot of money to him. When she was but thirteen, he paraded her in front of a collection of the finest and wealthiest gentlemen of New Orleans. The price one man paid for the privilege of being first more than compensated Younger for her purchase in the first place.
He managed to get away with selling her for the “first” time for almost six months, until word got out as to what he was doing and he was forced to flee New Orleans, taking Jennie with him. Going by wagon from New Orleans to St. Louis, he made Jennie available for all who would pay. In those early days, Jennie would sometimes service as many as twenty or twenty-five men in one night, all arranged by Lucas Younger.
It was during that trip north that she met Preacher for the first time. As a twelve-year-old boy, experimenting with beer for the first time, he was easy pickings for Younger, who knocked him out, put him on his wagon, and took him with him. Preacher was called Art then, and Jennie was a full year older than he was. Younger attempted to make the boy his slave, but Art got away, killing him in the escape.
A few years later, their paths crossed a second time. Jennie, now the slave of another, was still being forced to earn her keep by prostitution. At this meeting, Art managed to win Jennie in a shooting contest.
By then, Jennie knew that she was in love with him, and the thought of being his slave actually pleased her. But Art would have none of it. He gave Jennie her papers of manumission, freeing her forever. In turn, Jennie provided the boy, who was not yet known as Preacher, with his passage into manhood.
Even though Jennie was now free, she was a person with a checkered past, unable to earn a living in any way except the only way she knew. Once more she became a prostitute, but this time, working for herself, she was at least able to profit from it. Because she was frugal, she soon earned enough money to start her own brothel, which she staffed with a full complement of girls, carefully chosen for their looks and demeanor.
The House of Flowers, as she called her brothel, quickly became the most successful operation of its kind in St. Louis, and its parlors hosted some of the most influential men in the city and state. It also became a lightning rod for civic action groups, especially the Women’s Auxiliary of the St. Louis Betterment League, whose president was Sybil Abernathy, wife of the president of the board of directors of the River Bank of St. Louis.
Once Jennie had her business going, she left “the line,” as it was called when one was an active prostitute, doing nothing but administer her house. From that time on, the only time she was ever with a man was on those rare times when Preacher would come to St. Louis.
Jennie was in love with Preacher. She never spoke abut this to him, because she knew that it could not work out. Preacher would never be happy in a city, and she could not live in the isolation of the mountains. As a result, Preacher’s visits to St. Louis were all the sweeter because they provided little windows on a life that she could only glimpse, but would never have.
When Jennie learned that Sybil Abernathy intended to force her husband to call in the loan, she took 475 dollars from her savings and presented it to the chief teller at the bank. It was enough money to pay off the mortgage on her house, thus making it fully hers, safe from the machinations of Sybil Abernathy.
What Jennie did not realize was that Preacher had also paid off her mortgage, doing so quietly because he was afraid Jennie wouldn’t take the money from him. In neither case, however, was the money credited. Jennie wound up losing her house.
Now, Jennie shared a small house with her best friend, Clara. Clara, who was a few years younger than Jennie, had lived in the House of Flowers with Jennie and the other girls. Although Clara lived there, she was not, and had never been, one of the prostitutes.
By living together, the two women were not only company for each other, they also shared living expenses. Clara earned her money by working in a café, whereas Jennie earned her income by working as a seamstress. Jennie was a very good seamstress, but she had to struggle for a living. Many of the women in town, aware of her past, would have nothing to do with her.
One of the most vocal woman against her, was the one most opposed to her while she was running the whorehouse, Sybil Abernathy.
Ironically, it was Mrs. Abernathy’s house Jennie was coming from tonight. Though it killed Mrs. Abernathy’s soul to have to work with Jennie, the bank president’s wife was in a bind. She had been invited to a party at the governor’s mansion in Jefferson City, and she had nothing to wear. The only way she could get ready in time was to use Jennie’s services.
She decided to do so, but insisted that Jennie make her visits for fittings only at night. In so doing, Sybil thought it would lessen the chances that Jenny would be seen coming to or from her house.
“After all, unlike you, my dear, I do have a reputation to uphold,” Mrs. Abernathy had said.
Mrs. Abernathy was a very exacting client, and if Jennie hadn’t needed the money, she would have told her to get someone else to make her gown. But she did need the money, so she put up with Sybil’s demands, redoing the seams, making adjustments here and changes there. It was nearly midnight by the time she left for home.
Although Mrs. Abernathy had thought she was hiring Jennie in secret, such a piece of gossip was just too juicy to keep. The news didn’t come from Jennie, because she had told no one—her sense of integrity extended even to someone like Mrs. Abernathy. But others were aware of the arrangement, and soon the entire town knew that Jennie was making a special gown for Sybil Abernathy to wear to the Governor’s Ball.
One of those who knew was Ben Caviness. He also knew that Mrs. Abernathy had demanded that Jennie work for her only at night. Armed with that information, Caviness waited in an alley along the route between Mrs. Abernathy’s mansion and the small house that Jennie shared with Clara. As he waited, he reached down to grab hold of himself. The letter had been very specific as to what he had to do to earn the fifteen dollars the bank draft represented. It was going to be fun.
Unlike some of the larger cities back East, St. Louis had only a few street lamps, and they were in the middle of town. In the part of the city that was closest to Jennie’s house, the streets were narrow and shadowed. It was particularly dark tonight, for there was no moon out. Had Dog not been with her, Jennie would have been too frightened to be out.
Dog sensed the man before he smelled him, and he smelled him before he heard anything suspicious. As they approached the alley, Dog stopped. The hackles stood up on the back of his neck. He let out a low warning growl.
“What is it, Dog?” Jennie asked. She reached down to pet him.
There was someone in the alley ahead . . . someone waiting for them. Dog didn’t know who it was, but he knew that whoever it was, he was up to no good. Dog lowered his head slightly and moved ahead slowly, deliberately.
Suddenly, a man jumped out of the alley in front of them.
Jenny let out a gasp of alarm.
“Good evenin’, missy,” Caviness said with an evil smile.
�
��I know who you are,” Jennie said. “You’re Ben Caviness. How dare you jump out at me! What do you mean frightening me like this?”
“Missy, you’re causing a lot of trouble for a very important man, and he don’t like it none,” the man said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Epson don’t want no more letters bein’ wrote about him,” Caviness said.
“I don’t care what he wants. I will continue writing letters about him until I get my money back.”
“Then I reckon I’m going to have to change your mind,” Caviness said, taking a step toward her.
Until now, Dog had merely been watching Caviness. The moment Caviness started forward, Dog leaped toward him, snapping, and nipping him on the leg.
Startled, Caviness jumped back.
“What the hell! Call that dog off! Call him off!”
“I expect you’d better get on out of here,” Jennie said.
Dog continued to growl. He wouldn’t attack again unless the man attacked Jennie. But if need be, he was in position to do so. He growled and made another lunge toward the man, though he held back at the last minute.
“No! No! Call him off! Call him off!”
“Get out of here, and I’ll keep him back,” Jennie promised.
Caviness turned and ran, chased down the alley by Dog’s barking and Jennie’s laughter.
Clara was asleep when Jennie and Dog returned, but Jennie woke her up to tell what happened.
“Oh, Jennie, that is so frightening,” Clara said. “You should go see Constable Billings.”
“Ha,” Jennie said. “A fat lot of good that will do. I have complained about that toad Epson stealing money from me, and the only thing it accomplished was to have him send Caviness after me.”
“Well, to be honest about it, what can Billings do about Epson? Epson is with some bank in Philadelphia now. I’m sure that Mr. Billings has no jurisdiction over him. But he could certainly put Caviness in jail.”
“For what? For wetting his pants?” Jennie asked. “Because I’m sure that’s what he did when Dog got after him. Besides, if Caviness is the best Epson can come up with, then I don’t think I have anything to worry about. You know what they say. Better the devil you can see than the one you can’t see.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
Jennie laughed. “And you should have seen him run! I laughed so hard that my sides hurt.”
Clara laughed as well. “Oh, I wish I could’ve seen that,” she said.
Jennie rubbed Dog behind the ears. “I’m not worried. Not as long as I have Dog to look out for me.”
Philadelphia
Once more, Theodore Epson was summoned to Joel Fontaine’s office. This time, it wasn’t just Fontaine, but the entire membership of the board of directors was present for the meeting. They had been talking among themselves, but they fell silent when Epson entered.
Epson looked around nervously. “You sent for me, Mr. Fontaine?”
“I did.”
“To what purpose?”
“Have a seat, please,” Fontaine said without directly answering Epson’s concerned query.
Whereas the others were sitting in comfortable chairs around a table, the seat Fontaine offered Epson was a small, straight-backed, wooden chair, placed at some distance from the others.
“Mr. Fontaine, may I ask what is this about?” Epson asked.
“Mr. Epson, we have received another letter from Mr. Ashley of St. Louis,” Fontaine said. “And this time, he included a report that Miss Jennie . . . ” He looked through the letter. “There doesn’t appear to be a last name.”
“She has no last name,” Epson said.
“No last name? Of course she has a last name. Everyone has a last name,” one of the board members said.
“Many colored do not have a last name,” Epson said. “She is a colored woman.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware of that,” the board member said.
“Yes, well, let us return to business, shall we?” said Fontaine. “According to Mr. Ashley, this is a report filed by Miss Jennie, No Last Name, with a Constable Billings. Are you familiar with Constable Billings?”
“Yes, he is the chief law enforcement officer in St. Louis,” Epson replied.
Fontaine cleared his throat. “Mr. Epson, this report which Miss Jennie filed with the constable alleges that you hired someone to threaten her. According to the report, he accosted her late one night. Had it not been for the fact that the lady was accompanied by a dog, he would have done her bodily harm.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“You don’t believe the lady was attacked?” Fontaine asked.
“She may well have been attacked, for St. Louis is a wild and mostly undisciplined town,” Epson replied. “But I assure you, if that is the case, I had nothing to do with it. Why would I?”
“According to the report, the man who attacked her said that”—Fontaine adjusted his glasses and read directly from the letter—“ ‘Mr. Epson don’t want no more letters wrote about him.’” Fontaine looked up. “What do you say to that?”
Epson shook his head. “I don’t know what to say,” he said. “Other than to say it isn’t true. I have hired no one to harm her.”
“Do you have any idea why she would make such a claim?”
“Yes, I have a very good idea. She is trying to extort money from me by making the claim that I took mortgage money from her without posting it to the books.”
“So, it is your contention that this is part of an extortion scheme on her part?”
“Yes, her part, and William Ashley’s as well. Is there any paperwork to substantiate the claim that either of them gave me any money?” Epson asked.
“Apparently not,” Fontaine said. “For no such paperwork was included in the letter.”
“Then I ask you gentlemen to consider this,” Epson said. “We are all bankers. We deal with money every day. Our only protection against such spurious claims as these is the signed documents by which we do business. Can you imagine passing over an amount of money as large as all that without getting a signed receipt?”
There was a murmuring of agreement from the members of the board.
“Mr. Fontaine, as this is obviously an attempt at extortion, I am the aggrieved party here. I am the one who is being falsely accused. Fortunately for me, the very basis by which we do business, the signed receipt, is, by its absence in this case, proof of my innocence.”
“You know, Joel, Mr. Epson has a point,” one of the other board members said. “In this business we live or die by supporting documents. It seems to me contrary to everything we stand for to be accusing one of our own of a violation, when there is no evidence, such as a signed receipt to substantiate this woman’s claim.”
Fontaine looked at the others. “Yes, I agree. Gentlemen, I am inclined to take Mr. Epson at his word,” he said. “How say you?”
Most of the board agreed, but one of the members held up his hand.
“Yes, Miller, what is it?”
“In principle, I agree. However, it just so happens that I will be making a trip to St. Louis in a few weeks. Suppose, while I am there, I visit with Mr. Ashley and this woman and talk to them in person.”
“Good idea,” Fontaine said. He looked up at Epson and smiled. “For now, Mr. Epson, we will take no action. I’m sure that you will be exonerated. But if Mr. Miller is going to St. Louis anyway, we may as well put this whole thing to rest once and for all. I’m sure you agree that would be the best approach.”
“Yes,” Epson said. Taking out his handkerchief, he dabbed at the beads of sweat along his upper lip. “Yes, I agree, that is best. And I assure you, I welcome a full inquiry into the matter.”
“I was certain you would,” Fontaine said. “Now, gentlemen, let us all get back to work, shall we? After all, we do have a bank to run.”
That night, in his apartment, Epson walked over to the window and looked out onto the street below. What a mess
he was in. He had not set out to steal anyone’s money. But when the opportunity presented itself, the temptation had been just too strong to resist.
He recalled the sequence of events that had brought him to this point.
The River Bank of St. Louis had just opened for the day’s business, and Epson had been at his desk for no more than five minutes when William Ashley arrived. Stepping inside the bank, Ashley looked around for a moment, then came straight over to see Epson.
“Mr. Epson, I wonder if I might have a word with you?” Ashley asked.
“Certainly, Mr. Ashley,” Epson replied, standing to greet him. “It is always a pleasure to greet one of our fair city’s most powerful businessmen. How are you doing, sir?”
“I’m doing fine, Epson,” Ashley said.
Epson’s eyes squinted, and he continued the conversation in a somewhat more guarded tone. “I must say I’m a little surprised to see you, though. I’ve been given to understand that you have started your own bank for the fur trappers.”
Ashley shook his head in the negative. “Not at all,” he said. “All I’m doing is keeping some of my trappers’ earned income on the books for them.”
“Isn’t that what a bank does?”
“I suppose. But I’m only doing it as a favor for my trappers. Most of them don’t like to carry any more money than they need.”
“Nobody does,” Epson said. “That’s what banks are for. You could steer some of your accounts our way, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Ashley replied. “And I fully intend to, over a period of time.”
“Really?” Epson asked, brightening. “So, have you brought me a deposit today?”
“Not a deposit, but a payment.”
“A payment? I don’t understand. A payment for what? You don’t have a loan here.”
“It isn’t for me. It is for one of your customers. It’s more than a payment actually. I intend to pay off the entire mortgage.”
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