The Cold Millions

by Jess Walter

  Then Joe led him to a second building, behind the first one, a machine shop where two men ran cutters and grinders, threaders, presses, lathes, taps and dies, and the table saw that had taken the goob’s fingers. “Stay away from that goddamn saw,” Joe said.

  Joe’s brother, Paul, worked in back with a big machinist named Dominic; Rye’s job was to go between storefront, storeroom, and machine shop. He liked being around the machines, the smell of oil and metal. Dominic was especially nice, stopping his drill press and raising his goggles to explain to Rye what he was doing. That day Rye cleaned up metal tailings and rubber shavings, oiled the saws and presses, and mostly fetched nuts, bushings, and bolts to take up front. He swept the floor so clean the men could’ve eaten dinner on it.

  “Kid’s a fast learner,” said Dominic at the end of the day, and Joe agreed and said he wouldn’t mind if the eight-fingered goob found other employment. He gave Rye a dollar for the day and another half for what he called “a bonus for coming in on short notice.” He said, “Check back Monday; if the goob don’t show, the job’s yours.”

  “Thank you,” Rye said. He put the money in his pocket and pulled on his coat, his bowler, and his ermine gloves.

  Big Dominic was getting dressed to leave, too, and he looked at Rye and opened his mouth to say something, but Rye cut him off. “Weasel,” he said.

  Back at Mrs. Ricci’s house, she fed him dinner like he was part of the family, “Mangiare!” she said when she caught Rye thinking about Gig, staring out the window with his fork in the air. After dinner, Rye built them a fire and sat drinking tea and reading the afternoon Chronicle, like a regular fellow home from work.

  There was a front-page story about the raid and Gurley’s arraignment: “With the arrest of the petite and startlingly pretty agitator Mrs. Jones, and the permanent closure of their hall, the city has struck a final blow against the IWW’s dangerous insurrection.” Rye read the phrase “petite and startlingly pretty agitator” again, as if Gurley were a debutante. The Industrial Worker had been shuttered for good, the story went on, and more than a thousand copies burned. The paper was banned within the city limits. Any printer who took it on would do so under threat of prosecution. Eight union officers and five newspaper editors had already been found guilty of conspiracy and sentenced to six months in county lockup, with the preliminary trial for Gurley Flynn and Charlie Filigno set to start in two weeks. In the meantime, she was under house arrest, forbidden by the judge from publishing or speaking publicly about the case. “We’ve whipped the IWW,” Police Chief Sullivan was quoted as saying. “We took the fight to them and it’s over.”

  It certainly felt over, Rye thought as he stared into the fire. There was no mention of Gig in the news story, and he wondered if Lem Brand had lied about getting his brother out of jail.

  He slept uneasily again, repeating over and over in his mind what he’d say to Early if he came back (Look, I don’t want any trouble for Gig and me . . . ).

  In the morning, another skiff of snow had fallen, like sugar onto a biscuit. After breakfast, Rye swept Mrs. Ricci’s steps and walked downtown along the old hobo highway. It was rare to walk the trail and see no one, but with so many men in jail or wintered up, Rye felt alone in the world. He emerged in the fuel and freight yards east of downtown, then walked the tenderloin into the center of downtown and eventually to the building where Fred Moore had a small office on the second floor, and where Rye took off his bowler and asked to see his old lawyer.

  Fred came out of his office in shirtsleeves. He clapped Rye on the shoulder. “What great timing, Rye,” he said. “I just got some news.”

  “How’s Gurley?” Rye asked.

  “Climbing the walls,” said Mr. Moore. “We’ve got her preparing for trial, but she’d rather be out there fighting.”

  He led Rye back to his office and explained that, two weeks earlier, he’d petitioned the court to dismiss the conspiracy charge against Gregory, since, unlike some other union leaders, he wasn’t an elected officer. Moore had argued that since Gig had already been found guilty of disturbing the peace, he should be released after thirty days, like the other nonleaders arrested in the original free speech riot, and not charged again with conspiracy.

  “It was a sound argument,” Fred said, “but the last thing I ever expected was this judge responding to a sound argument.”

  While the lawyer spoke, Rye was looking down at Mr. Moore’s desk, at what appeared to be a coffee stain on the swirls of dark wood grain.

  Fred cleared his throat. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Ryan? The judge ruled in our favor. Thirty days is today. Your brother’s getting out this afternoon.”

  Rye looked up to see Fred Moore’s disappointment at his reaction. “Oh. That’s great news. Thank you, Mr. Moore.”

  Fred smiled and shrugged, rearranged some papers on his desk, covering the coffee stain. “I haven’t had a lot of victories to celebrate in this fracas, but I’m two for two with you Dolans.”

  “No, it’s great,” Rye said. “I was just surprised is all.” Even if he could tell Mr. Moore about his deal with Lem Brand, Rye realized he wouldn’t want to take away his lawyer’s sense of accomplishment.

  “The city is altering its strategy,” Mr. Moore said. He explained that the first prisoners, like Gig, had done their month in jail for disturbing the peace and were being released, hundreds more expected to go in the coming weeks. These men had been beaten and put on bread and water, or had gone on voluntary hunger strikes, and most were in no shape to protest again. Others were eager to move south for work or bed down for winter. With the union rethinking its strategy and the Industrial Worker shuttered for good, the protests had dwindled to the occasional hobo who made his way past the railroad guards. So now the city could concentrate on prosecuting the leaders and sending them to state prison.

  “After your brother’s release, the only two left are Filigno and Elizabeth. If Pugh convicts them, it’ll be a clean sweep.”

  Mr. Moore got his hat and coat, and he and Rye left the office and walked the four blocks to the jail. It was a cold, sunny day, few people out on the streets. There was a café a block from the jail, and Mr. Moore gave Rye two bits and suggested he wait there. “I don’t know how long it will take to get him released.”

  Rye was relieved not to have to go to the jail. He sat in the window of the café with a cup of coffee, watching people in scarves and heavy coats hurry down the sidewalk, trailing dusty clouds of light new snow.

  Everything Rye had done the last month had been with this in mind—the day his brother got out of jail. Meeting with Ursula and Lem Brand, going to Seattle with Gurley to raise money to hire Clarence Darrow, talking to Del Dalveaux, Wallace and Taft, Early Reston and Brand’s man Willard—all for this moment.

  But now that it was here, knowing that all it had taken was a flick of Lem Brand’s wrist, Rye felt demoralized. It didn’t matter what he did, what Gurley did, what Fred Moore did, what any of them did. Somewhere there was a roomful of wealthy old men where everything was decided. Beliefs and convictions, lives and livelihoods, right and wrong—these had no place in that room, the scurrying of ants at the feet of a few rich men.

  It made him think that Early Reston was right, in his way—even if Early wasn’t really Early—that maybe it was the castle that needed to be blown up, and that was when Rye looked up and saw, through the light haze, his lawyer walking down the street with a tall, gaunt man in a snow-dusted coat, a patchy beard climbing his sallow cheeks to his bruised eyes.

  Rye rose and met them at the door, and he and Gig fell into each other. The smell was overpowering, and Gig was bones beneath his baggy coat. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a squeak, then “Rye-boy,” and then he was crying and Rye was crying, and for a long time, they just did that.

  28

  The eight-fingered goob decided he wasn’t cut out for machinery work, and on Monday, Rye became the full-time stock boy of North Hill Fittings and Machine Sh
op. Each morning Rye got up, checked the envelope under his cot, and said goodbye to Gig, who had spent the weekend days curled up on his cot and the nights sitting in front of Mrs. Ricci’s fire. “I’ll be back around six,” Rye said as he put on his coat, hat, and gloves. Gig said nothing.

  Rye loved being a workaday guy: Grab a grip on the streetcar, arrive before eight, and wait for Joe to open the shop. “You don’t have to beat me to work, kid,” Joe said, Rye smiling: “I don’t mind.” He’d hang his coat, put on his shop apron, turn on the lights, warm the machines, and watch everything come to life, a rhythm to all of it, the flow of customers, the banter with Dominic, the precise order of cleanup at the end of the day. He liked to anticipate which parts customers needed, showing up with a toilet flange before the plumber from Millwood had a chance to ask for it. This garnered a nickname from Joe—Seer. A mechanic’s wagon would pull up and Joe say, “Seer?” Rye gazing into the future: “Hub roller bearings.”

  Joe’s brother, Paul, rarely spoke except to ask for things he needed. But Dominic, the big machinist, was even friendlier than he’d been on Rye’s first day. He asked where Rye was from and about his parents and siblings. “Well, you’ve had a tough go,” he said when Rye told his story. By Wednesday, he was inviting Rye to share his prodigious three-sandwich lunches, which he spread over the cutting table as carefully as a surgeon. And by Thursday, when Dominic’s wife found out the new stock boy was eating a half-sandwich from her husband’s lunch every day, she began putting a fourth sandwich in the basket. “Soon she’ll just send the whole loaf of bread,” Dominic said.

  But Rye worried about leaving Gig alone all day. His brother was hollowed out by thirteen days on hunger strike, on top of the beatings and privations of jail. Rye couldn’t believe how frail he seemed; even Gig’s hair was thinner. He had a bath at Mrs. Ricci’s, and a meal, but after that, he slept all day, rising only to pick at his food and sit by the fire Rye built each night, a blanket around his shoulders, his new fur-lined gloves on his hands. “Thanks” was all he’d said when Rye gave him the fancy box with the gloves in it. He didn’t even ask where they came from.

  At night, Gig’s breathing was raspy and uneven. He made noises in his sleep like he was being startled. The only time he spoke was late at night, when the brothers lay in the dark. Once he talked about the hunger strike: “We started after they put the rank and file on bread and water. The jailers thought this was pretty rich, so instead of our normal rations, they sent out for steaks and potatoes, fresh vegetables. They’d leave our fancy meals outside our cells all night. Then, after lights out, the rats came. We’d lay there listening to those rats eating our dinner.”

  Another night, he talked about Jules. “I met a Swede who was in his cell, said Jules went out good and strong, laughing, making jokes. Two other men I knew died in there, one with diabetes, the other I don’t know what he had. When the cops saw someone dying, they’d release the man so they wouldn’t have to explain a corpse in jail. The man with diabetes didn’t even have a family. They just released him to some woman who agreed to take him in for a dollar a day. He only made it two days, but I heard they gave her five bucks.”

  The next night, he said simply, “I shouldn’t have gotten us into this, Rye.”

  Rye didn’t hesitate. “It was the best thing I ever did, Gig.”

  “Nah, it was pointless,” Gig said. “Little kids shitting our own pants trying to teach our parents a lesson.”

  “Don’t say that,” Rye said.

  “It’s the truth,” Gig said.

  Rye had been waiting for the right time to tell Gig about Early, about Lem Brand and Ursula, about Del Dalveaux, about what he had done—but Gig seemed so broken by what had happened that Rye was worried about how he’d react if he knew the truth. He imagined his brother calling him a spy, or running out to confront Ursula, or going to try to kill Lem Brand or something crazy—so he decided to keep quiet until Gig had regained his strength.

  They barely talked about the union. Each night, Rye brought newspapers home from the shop to read by the fire after dinner. Gig might flip through the sports and theater sections, but he had no interest in stories about the IWW. Rye devoured them, especially stories about Gurley.

  She was everywhere, granting interviews in the labor-friendly Press and the establishment Chronicle and Spokesman-Review. To get around the judge’s ruling that she not speak about her case, she talked about the city’s arrest of the newsboys, “poor twelve-year-olds hauled off by the Spokane police goons to be sweated like bank robbers!” When all charges against the boys were dropped, she proclaimed victory: “The city’s war against children is over. Maybe now they will declare a cease-fire against its workers, too.” She railed against the decision to ban the Industrial Worker, saying that, as the sixth editor of the newspaper (with the first five now convicted of conspiracy), “I have no intention of abiding by this clearly illegal order! They’ve already detained and sweated and confined me, so I’m not sure what I have to lose, except my constitutionally guaranteed right to free speech.”

  “You’d like her, Gig,” Rye said. “She’s got a lot of fight.”

  But Gig said nothing. He sat, each night, as close to the fire as he could get, staring at the crackling flames.

  One day, a week after Gig got out, Rye was downtown, making a delivery for the shop, when he walked past the big new Carnegie Library. It was a stately two-story pillared building—more like a church than any church Rye had ever seen. He stepped inside the big doors and watched well-dressed people move among the tall stacks. He felt intimidated. He was about to turn and leave when a young librarian, all neck and no chin, approached and asked if he could help in some way.

  Rye explained that his brother was in the process of reading Count Tolstoy’s War and Peace but had only read volumes one and three so far.

  The librarian looked confused. “Books one and three? Of the four?”

  “I thought there were five.”

  “Ah. I see,” the librarian said, nodding. “I’m guessing he’s reading the ’03 Scribner. Tolstoy’s collected, of which War and Peace makes up five of twenty volumes.” The librarian made a face as if tasting something rancid. “It’s a reprint of Gottsberger, from 1886, translated from the French by Clara Bell. Don’t get me wrong, Clara Bell is a real talent, her Dante impeccable, but an English translation of a French translation of a Russian novel? Isn’t that more like reading a rumor than a book?”

  It seemed as if Rye was supposed to laugh, so he did. This pleased the librarian, who took him by the arm. “Come on. I want to show you something.” He led Rye to a tall bookshelf near a window overlooking the river. With a practiced movement, he eased three volumes out inches from the other books, so that they seemed to float out from the shelf. They had dark blue boards, the color of a lake in winter, with a lighter blue and gold design down the spine, and a gold inlaid crown on top with the raised words WAR AND PEACE, TOLSTOY I, II, AND III, and below that what appeared to be a blue and gold heart-shaped scepter.

  They were the loveliest books Rye had ever seen.

  “Aren’t they something?” the librarian asked. “The 1904 McClure, Phillips and Company edition. The four books and epilogue are in three volumes, translated directly from the Russian by Constance Garnett.” He leaned in as if sharing a secret. “She nearly went blind doing the translation.”

  The librarian handed over the first volume and Rye opened it, careful with the onionskin title page. He looked around. “Is it . . . I mean, can I just . . .”

  The librarian seemed uncertain what he was asking.

  “I don’t know how this works,” Rye said.

  “A library?” The man smiled.

  That day, Rye checked out Volume I of Constance Garnett’s newer translation of War and Peace and proudly presented it to Gig as they sat by the fire. Rye tried to explain all the librarian had told him: “Reading a book translated from Russian to French to English is like— It’s like—” But he cou
ldn’t remember the librarian’s droll comment. “Anyway, it’s not as good,” he said. “But the man at the library said this is the best one. And I can check out the next volume when I return this one.”

  Gig said nothing. He looked pained. He held the book to his chest. “Rye, I don’t—” He shook his head. “You can’t keep doing this. Gloves. And books. I’m not—I can’t.” He just shook his head and didn’t speak again. He went to bed that night without cracking the book.

  Gig was still asleep the next day when Rye left for work.

  As Rye walked toward the streetcar, he saw a familiar car parked at the end of the block. He leaned in the window and startled Willard, finger up his nose to the knuckle.

  “Jesus!” Willard said. “Make some noise, kid.”

  “Sorry,” Rye said. “Shouldn’t you be—” He didn’t finish the sentence but thought, Better at this?

  Willard reached in his coat and offered him a cigarette, but Rye shook it off.

  “Anything yet?” Willard asked.

  “From Early,” Rye said. “No.”

  “And the money?”

  “Still there.”

  Willard looked at him suspiciously. “And has your brother heard from Reston?”

  “No,” Rye said. “Gig hasn’t left his bed.”

  Willard looked concerned. “Is he bad off?”