Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (10 page)

Mink withdrew her hand, again reminded of Wage.  “May I dare ask the occasion for such festivities?”

“Ah,” Reginald replied, “Another birthday, I am 22 and one month today!”  He leaned in clumsily and whispered, “Did you bring me a present?”

“Dear Reginald, your father and I gave you your own motor car not a month ago.  I am sure that shall suffice until you are 23.”

“No, actually, I wrecked it last week.  Damn road tends to snake about when you drive it after a few drinks, wouldn’t you say, boys?”

“Reginald,” Mink replied, “I am sure the university does not think highly of such actions.  You would be wise to be more cautious so close to graduation.”

“Oh mother, it’s a shame such good looks aren’t accompanied by intelligence.  Have you not heard?  My father will be donating the new building for the business school at our soon-to-be alma mater.”  He turned toward his friends with his hands outstretched.  “The Thomason School of Business at Northwestern University!” His friends clapped aristocratically.  “Be not worried though,
dearest
mother, I intend to escort you to the ribbon cutting next year.” His friends laughed and cheered.

“You are bordering on inappropriate, son.  Please show more respect for your
dearest
mother,” Mink said.

“What do you think, boys?” Reginald yelled, putting his arm around his mother.  “If one didn’t know better, we could be husband and wife.  What separates us, anyhow—seven, eight years?”

“Reginald, I do believe you have had too much to drink.  If you will excuse me, I am going to retire for the evening.  Please behave yourselves and have Jimmy drive you back to campus at a decent hour, if you don’t mind,” Mink said.

“Yes, mother,” Reginald answered.

Mink walked back up the stairs, hearing the jeers and taunts behind her, her grace barely overcoming her mortification.  She went to her room.  Miss Laura illuminated her vanity and left a wash basin for her.  Mink plucked a jar of petroleum jelly from the drawer to help remove her makeup.  She began a familiar nightly ritual.  It was cathartic to remove her colorful shell and stare at her true self in the mirror.  Deep down, she understood Reginald’s behavior.  Providence, too, had uplifted her station in life.  She only spent three months at the orphanage in Baton Rouge.  On her eighteenth birthday, the nuns rounded up enough money to send her to New York.  She was going to be reunited with her younger sister, who, after the death of her father, went to live with her Aunt Margery and Uncle Danny.  Mink elected to stay in Baton Rouge in order to finish her schooling and tend to her father’s affairs and bankrupted estate.  As it turns out, the nuns’ charity only got her to Chicago.

She continued to study herself in the mirror, and that’s when her green eyes turned an ice blue.  She was now looking at Wage Pascal, a grown man, still handsome, still bold.  The reflection of Wage began crying.  She rushed to the mirror to comfort him before realizing it was herself that had begun to cry again.  She shook her head and noticed an envelope on her pillow in the reflection.  It was addressed to her in her sister’s handwriting.  She changed into her sleeping robe and crawled beneath the covers.  She opened the letter and began reading the news of her sister’s exploits and new engagement.

Detective Simon Porter

June 9, 1914

The House of Black Curtains

New Orleans, Louisiana 

The House of Black Curtains was alive with patrons, whores, and a piano player furiously playing ragtime music.  There was even a line for the kinetoscope.  The detective sipped tonic water at the crowded, wood-paneled bar.  He eyed an old Chinaman, fat about the midsection, in an obsidian robe and slippers, who waddled in from the street.  Long, ghost-white hair flowed from his small Mandarin cap.  His mustache curved at ninety degrees toward his impressively long and equally white goatee.  He took a seat at an empty table by the tall divided windows facing the street.  Another gentleman, rotund and gruff with a curly black beard, emerged from a gaggle of gentlemen and hastily walked across the room to join the Chinaman.  He sat down across from him.  And then,
he
walked in.  A gentleman with a reflective white smile and a brown slouch hat strutted into the establishment.  His sleeves were rolled and his white shirt was tucked into his brown slacks held up by a slanting bullet belt.  The off-white handle of his Peacemaker curved out of his holster.

  He winked and waved at every waitress and drunkard, most of whom could almost remember his name, but never forget his face.  The detective knew it was him; it was Wage Pascal.  He let them get settled.  Wage sat next to the Chinaman, diagonally from his partner, and tipped his hat.  The rotund man reached inside his coat, pulled out a small pouch, and laid it on the table in front of him while Wage signaled a waitress.  He slung the beauty with matted black hair into his lap, put his hat on the table, and placed his order.  The Chinaman reached under his robe and placed a black bag on the table.  It was curious how the old man could have discretely carried in such a bag.  They all began to talk.  Wage put one hand on his gun handle and signaled his partner to slide the pouch across the table.  Detective Porter left his tonic water and approached the party.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.  May I join you?”  Without permission, the detective slowly pulled out the chair across from Wage.  He sat down and stolidly adjusted his black suit coat and tipped his bowler cap.  “My name is Detective Simon Porter.  I am licensed agent in the employ of Pinkerton, and I have come to retrieve property wrongfully taken from my client.”

“I am afraid we know nothing of wrongful property, friend,” Wage replied.  “Now if you don’t mind, my colleagues and I were discussing business.  Feel free to excuse yourself and have a drink on my tab.”  Wage signaled the black-haired waitress again.  “Agnes, dear, be the sapphire that you are and escort Detective Porter here to the bar for a drink on my tab.” 

“I must insist, Captain Pascal.  It is a matter of great importance that I stay and conclude my business with you.”  The detective folded his hands in his lap while Agnes tugged at his shoulder.

“I ain’t got no business with you, friend.  And the fact that you know my name and I don’t know you makes me a little more than apprehensive.  Now kindly leave,” Wage replied.

“Allow me to assess the situation, if you will—you are Captain Wage Pascal, formerly of the 1
st
Volunteer Cavalry.  Given the slight horizontal nystagmus in your eyes, I gauge you have already had a fair share of alcohol.”  The detective turned the other party members.  “You are Black Vomit Bill, another veteran of San Juan Hill, where you suffered Yellow fever.  Given your military bearing and scarred knuckles, my guess is you were a sergeant with an affinity for inflicting corporal punishment.”

“Sergeant 1
st
Class!” Bill yelled back.

“And you are the infamous Mr. Jade, opium peddler and the man who hired Captain Pascal here to pilfer the unique round stone in that satchel, which you are exchanging for the large sum of money in that bag there.”

“Impressive trick.  Your keen powers of observation no doubt serve you well in your profession,” Wage said.  “But I am afraid the only property you will attempt to retrieve is
rightfully
mine.”     

“Perhaps I should clarify,” Detective Porter asserted.  “Mr. Hamilton’s curious stone, which you so ungratefully relieved him of, has immense sentimental value, and I
will
be taking it.  And once I do, I will take my leave.  It is my hope that I will not find you, or your colleagues, disagreeable.”

“And if you find me disagreeable?” Wage asked, as he leaned back and crossed his arms.

“Then I’m afraid you will cause a great deal of commotion, which I will handle expediently and
then
take my leave.  With the rightful property in tow, of course.”

“Well then, I am afraid we are at an impasse.  ‘Cause I can’t let you take said property,” Wage replied.

“Captain Pascal, you are welcoming a great deal of discomfort, and I would prefer not to be the purveyor of such unpleasantries.”

“Do you play chess, friend?” Wage asked the detective.

“I do,” he answered.

“Then you know an impasse ends in a draw between opponents.”

“That is my understanding of the game, yes.”

Wage drew his ivory-handled revolver. He pointed the six-inch barrel at the detective’s nose and pulled back the hammer.  “I don’t mind a draw.  Now,
kindly
take your leave and let us get on with our business.”  Agnes backed away, her face pale.

“Captain Pascal, you are being unreasonable,” Detective Porter said, as he opened his jacket pocket to reveal his own ebony-handled revolver on his belt.  “In addition to chess, I am also familiar with this game.”

Wage gritted his teeth.  “I am tired of games.  Go have a drink with Agnes there, or have a drink with the devil when you see him shortly.  Your choice.  Mr. Jade, please take the satchel with your
rightfully
purchased property and be on your way.”  Wage looked to Bill.  “William, please take our payment and proceed with plan B.”  Now it was the detective’s turn to draw his gun.  Wage looked back at the detective, only to see the four-inch barrel of his gun pointing at his forehead.

“I believe this is a true impasse, Captain Pascal.” the detective said.

Agnes screamed, alerting everyone to what was going on at the gentlemen’s table.  The piano music stopped abruptly.  Wage and Detective Porter didn’t seem to notice the ensuing calamity; they were focused only on each other, speaking a secret—but strangely natural—language with their eyes.

Bouncers rushed to their table, their guns still in their holsters.  Some patrons fled, but most stayed with their prospective whores and waited to see what would happen.  They all gathered around like children watching a schoolyard standoff.

“Your move, Captain,” the detective said.

Black Vomit Bill feigned grabbing for the money bag and instead swung a small black club at the detective.  It hit him on the temple.  Detective Porter’s gun fired as he fell to the ground.  The whiz of the bullet could be heard as it ricocheted off a chandelier and into a patron’s foot.  He was just barely sober enough to notice and scream.  Mr. Jade ducked under the table.  Then the real commotion began.

Wage stood up to fire at the downed detective, but the nearby bouncer with a beard grazing his belt buckle drew on him first.  Wage knew the bouncers always refrained from shooting on account of it was bad for business, but that did not stop two other bouncers from pouncing on him. Wage scuffled with them on the floor with limbs flailing while Detective Porter scrambled to his feet. 

A young man, looking more like an apprentice bouncer, drew his revolver with a shaky hand and pointed at the detective, who holstered his weapon and tried to place his hat back on his head.  Black Vomit Bill went to punch the dazed detective. He missed because of a well-timed duck and hit Agnes square in her shoulder, nearly separating it.  The detective displayed a defensive boxing stance and noticed the absence of Mr. Jade. 
The crafty old man already slipped out! 

Bill went for another strike, but Detective Porter closed the distance and unleashed a barrage of punches to his midsection.  With proper form, the detective knocked the wind out of him, but Ol’ Bill didn’t need wind to fight. He countered with a right cross to the detective’s face, nearly knocking him down.  Another bouncer, tall and thin, went to restrain Bill, but the old prizefighter launched him across the room, where he fell hard into an onlooker’s escort for the evening.  The onlooker retaliated punching the bouncer.  The escort then punched the onlooker in defense of the man who kept her safe. 

Punching, ducking, scratching, kicking, chair throwing, more ducking, spittin’ teeth, bleeding, and hollering were the familiar signs of a bad-old-fashioned barroom brawl.  Meanwhile, faint whistles could be heard from the street.  The detective continued to contest the pugilist, Black Vomit Bill.  Unfortunately the instruction he learned at the university ceased to do him any good as Bill grabbed him about the lapels and hoisted him up.  That’s when Madame Deborah, clad only in a black bustier and black stockings, walked onto the second floor mezzanine with her double-barreled shotgun in hand.  She fired a shot into the ceiling.

“All right, you sonsabitches!” she cried.  “Those of y’all with a death wish just keep on doin’ what y’all are doing.”  She opened up her barrels with a snap and went to reload two shells, and that’s when Ol’ Bill promptly threw the detective out the nearby window.  Thanks to adrenaline, breaking through the window was painless, as was landing on the curb of Canal Street.  The shards of glass that pelted him like stings from enormous bees, however, were entirely palpable.  Lying there, half on the sidewalk and half in the street caked with mud and dirty water, Detective Porter heard Madame Deborah’s shotgun fire again.  He groaned and turned his head in every direction, surveying his position but accepting his lack of current resourcefulness. 

People began to scatter outside the House of Black Curtains.  In the fray of people, a troupe of gentlemen with tall black hats began to infiltrate and surround the building.  With their dark clothes against the night sky, they were only recognizable by their badges and gleaming copper buttons. 
Coppers!  Their response time is quicker than expected. 
The detective instinctually buttoned his jacket, concealing his gun.

A policeman with a full mustache knelt beside him in his prone state. “Hey!  I got one,” he yelled to the others.  Detective Porter tried to reach for his own badge, but the enthusiastic policeman leaned in close and inhaled deeply.  Disappointed to smell no alcohol, he stood and refocused his attention on the fleeing patrons.  The overzealous policeman stuck out his arm and grabbed a man of diminutive stature running frantically in his direction.  The encounter nearly knocked them both over.  “I gotcha!” he screamed.  The policeman began to beat the unfortunate soul mercilessly with his billy club.  The detective leaned over to prop himself up and realized the dirty water had a faint trace of urine in it.  Slowly, he stumbled to his feet and witnessed the small man get officially apprehended and escorted toward the horse-drawn paddy-wagon down the street.

Detective Porter grabbed his bowler cap that had landed a ways off, dusted it off, and placed it slowly back on his head before he hobbled to the broken window and peered inside.  He surveyed as fast as he could, but he could no longer see Captain Pascal or Black Vomit Bill. 
Too slow.  They’re gone.  Lost in the fray.  Need to recompose. 
The detective stood as upright as possible and walked to the nearby alley, where he leaned against the brick wall.  He took systematic deep breaths and could finally feel warm blood running down his scalp. 
Focus!  Where are they headed?  A nearby bar?  Perhaps a hotel?  Where do the ne’er-do-wells find recreation?  They must rear their heads somewhere.
 
I can find them!
  Then Detective Porter collapsed, landing on his backside. 
I need a moment.

The sounds from the street were all he could record.  More fleeing patrons’ quick footsteps, cops yelling, men scuffling, shots fired, women screaming, Canal Street strollers gasping, Canal Street strollers continuing their rhythmic footsteps, Madame Deborah’s voice echoing in the night air, and then, finally, calm.  The detective, finally more clear-headed, braced himself against the cold brick wall and stood up.  Slowly, he walked back to the street and performed his familiar checklist with his hands:
badge, pocketbook, pencil, sketchbook, gun. 

The detective properly adjusted his bowler cap and walked toward the entrance of The House of Black Curtains.  He stopped to observe the swinging doors shattered and laying on the ground. 

“Porter!  Porter!” he heard a young voice screaming down the street.  Little Master Leroy stopped abruptly in front of him. “Porter,” he reiterated out of breath, “I did what you asked.  I followed the Chinaman.” He bent over his knees and took a few deep breaths before standing up again. “Bastard was faster than I thought.  He took all kinds of turns, hoppin’ over fences and climbin’ damn walls and such, but I followed him.”

“Master Leroy,” replied the detective, “please calm down and cease your swearing.  Where did he go?”

“Quickest way is to take Canal Street west of here, ‘bout half a mile.  Then take a left just after Herring’s Textiles on Bourbon Street; he went into the little curio shop with a green light hanging above the door.  It’s run by a Chinaman, too.  He went in there, I swear!”