The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (11 page)

“Where did she come from? I need to tell her family about this.”

“We never discussed her past. She wanted to start a new leaf, and I was willing to leave it alone.”

Queen gave a wry, disbelieving smile. “How is it that the errand boy knows more about her past life than you? Let me guess how much you really know. You ‘found’ her as she stepped off of the train, wide-eyed and in wonder of the big city. She told you about her hopes and dreams for a new life. Then you seduced and enslaved her.”

Dander curled his lip, but forced it back. “You’ll never, ever know of our relationship. She was the only woman who I’ve ever truly loved.”

“So you owe it to her, then, to tell me where she came from. She’d want her parents to know, Dander.”

“If she told me, I don’t remember. True love can enhance, but often dilute true memory.”

“You said before that you plucked her from the countryside. So from that little slip I can narrow it to outside a major town.”

“She had rural charm. My assumption.”

“If that’s the game you want to play, I have other things to attend to now,” Queen said, taking a puff from his cigarette. “I’d pray to God, if I were you, that I’m able to resolve this in your favor. Also, if I were you, I’d send word to the idiot that works for you to stay out of my way.”

“Of course,” Dander agreed. “Pock will not impede your visit. And will you require any of those funds I mentioned before? If it helps grease the hinges of this cell door, I’m delighted to contribute.”

“The hell if I’ll take any of your dirty money for this.”

“Which implies that you’d take my dirty money for something other than this?”

“Screw off, Dander. You and your dough-head friend can sit here and rot in this cell until Christ Almighty returns to earth and sends your pitiful asses to hell, for all I care. And don’t think I don’t know why you won’t tell me what Maisy’s name is, or the name of her hometown. Her pop is a sheriff, and when he gets word about this, he’s going to find you and beat you down terribly. And by damned if I’ll feel an iota of sympathy for you, because you deserve it for what you did to her, even if you weren’t responsible for her actual death.”

If anyone could pull off a charming smirk, it was Dander. “Gracious me! We don’t want the infamous Detective Queen to lose his ongoing battle with his uncontrollable temper, now, do we?”

With a well-aimed motion, Queen tossed the burning cigarette into Dander’s face. He yelped and fell backwards as the glowing embers scattered into the air. “That’s the first wise thing I’ve heard you say today, Dander,” Queen said, and he turned and walked out of the cellblock.

Sergeant Krumweide looked up this time as Queen passed him.

“Another busy day at Central?” Queen asked.

“Most of the work has fallen on my shoulders today.” Krumweide had red hair and a chubby face, with untrimmed side-whiskers crawling from his cheeks. Queen had known him for years and trusted him. They were different ranks, but skipped the formalities.

“I’m not supposed to be talking to a certain prisoner today,” Queen said. “But I did anyway.”

“I’m far too busy to watch for plainclothes detectives slipping in and out of the jail.”

“You know that doesn’t sound good, August. You’re the keeper of the gate.”

“Not my fault Fred Ames cleared out the police station to fatten the audience for Doc.”

“So you and I are the only ones here?”

“No. There’s a driver in the stable, and the matron and cook are here too. A couple of officers on the second floor. Oh, and another detective is here, looking for you.”

“Who?”

“Never seen him before. Short and broad shouldered. Said he’s new.”

You’ve got to be joking, Queen thought. Doesn’t he have anything better to do than play tag-a-long? “Where is he now? Taking a piss on someone besides me?”

“He was going to come and find you, but went down to the basement, into the tramp room, instead.”

“Why the hell would he do that?”

“Said he wanted to see what it was like down there. I told him, don’t bother; he’ll be seeing more than he wants to soon enough.”

“Sergeant! Come down quick! These men are rioting!” a voice echoed from below.

Queen sighed. “The jailer’s gone, too?” he asked the sergeant, looking around.

“All gone to the inauguration.”

“Well, I guess that leaves me.”

“Do you need help?” Krumweide asked, with a tired look that said helping Queen was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

“No, I know how to handle hobos.”

The tramp room was always active this time of the year in Minneapolis. Once winter came, most hobos jumped on the quickest boxcar out of Minnesota and rode it into warmer, sunnier climates, but a handful stayed. Inevitably, when the temperature got unbearable, many of them would find a way to get themselves collared, because warm meals and a dry roof were much more desirable than an empty stomach and a snowdrift for a bed, even despite the basement’s rank, moldy stench. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the din increased and the voices sounded raucous, but Queen stopped when he met Cahill, evidently on his way back up for help.

“They look like they’re gonna do something bad to one of their own,” Cahill said. “We need to stop it.”

“You followed me here to the station?” Queen asked testily. “You plan on reporting every step I take to Colonel Ames now? Is that what your job is, Milkshake?” He grabbed a handful of fabric close to Cahill’s throat to emphasize his anger.

“No sir. I just thought you might need help. I didn’t want to go without you.”

“You’re a goddamn spy, that’s what you are.”

“I’m trying to do what’s right,” Cahill replied, his eyes showing hurt. “I’m barely on the job and already I have found myself in a difficult position, wedged between my commanding officer and my partner.”

“We’re not partners,” said Queen, letting go of his collar.

“Regardless, sir. I’m trying my best, and I think we should help this man out. He’s surrounded by enemies.”

“Did you say something to them already?”

“I told them to leave him alone, but they just ignored me. I thought about opening the door to let him out, but didn’t want them all overrunning me and escaping.”

“You know they want to be here, right?”

“What?”

“It’s their choice. If they don’t have money for a lodging house, they opt for jail instead. They’re not going anywhere, especially since it’s almost mealtime. You want a real riot? Try to separate a hobo from his goddamn food.”

“But listen for a moment,” Cahill said. The sound was loud, men banging with tin cups and plates on the bars, jeering and cursing.

“If this is what I think it is, it won’t get violent,” Queen said.

“Kang’roo court is now in session!” came a loud, enthusiastic voice, followed by catcalls and applause. An utterly miserable moan from what had to be the most wretched creature in existence followed the declaration. Queen made sure he was still hidden in the shadow of the doorway, but stepped out to get a better view of the proceedings.

“What are they doing?” Cahill whispered.

“Just what they said. It’s a mock trial. They call it a kangaroo court. Something hobos do to pass the time.”

There were at least forty men in the large holding cell. The station’s basement smelled even worse than its main floor, as the stench of sweat and dirt from the unbathed hobos mixed unpleasantly with the uncirculated air. Mold seemed to slither over the walls, and its musty stink added to the already unbearable odor. The tramps in the room seemed oblivious to the state of their surroundings, however. They’d made a small clearing for the man, who had a look of complete agony on his worn face. He wore a battered stovepipe hat and an oversized coat and pants, and was being turned in a circle by a couple of genial-looking fellows. The rest of the tramps in the large, communal cell were a dirty, motley collection of shapes and sizes, but didn’t appear at all ill-tempered to Queen.

“State your name,” said a thin, bald, bearded man, evidently the ringleader and judge for the bunch.

They stopped spinning the hobo, who floundered to maintain his balance and stand up straight to face his accuser. This, of course, elicited a fresh round of jeers and hollers.

“QUIET!” The man shouted. “This is a serious affair! This ain’t no time for playground antics!” The men around him turned somber-faced, some looking down at their shoes, shuffling their feet and ashamed.

“Your name,” he repeated.

“Milwaukee Jim,” the hobo replied with a whimper.

“And how do you find yerself in kang’roo court?” the man asked.

“I wished I knew,” said Milwaukee Jim. “We’ve always been friends, Slim. Why do you got to go and do me this way?”

“You said you don’t have a red cent on you,” said Slim. “However, Yankie over here said he heard you jingle when you walked. Wha’ does you plead? Guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” Jim mumbled.

“Yankie, I appoint you the court searcher today. Are you willing to be searched?” Milwaukee Jim nodded weakly.

Yankie, a pimple faced youth not more than nineteen, padded up to the accused. “Sorry, Jim, but this here is a serious thing. Pull out yer pockets or I’ll have to do it for you.”

Jim reached in to his right pocket. “There’s a hole in this one,” he said, and pulled it out to show the group.

“And the other one?” Slim asked sternly.

“The other ‘un,” Yankie said with an anxious voice.

Slowly, Jim went for the second pocket. The eyes of his fellow hobos bored into the movement of his hand, and a low hush enveloped the room in anticipation of what treasure might be revealed. Jim moved his fingers about dramatically, poking in the corners.

“Drat, Jim. You’re too slow by miles,” Yankie said. He pulled Jim’s hand out, put his own in and felt around. “There’s nothin’ there, Slim. I figure he’s innocent!”

“I saw him hide money in a shoe before!” a voice called out. “Search them!” Slim nodded to Yankie, who sat down on his haunches and pulled off one of Jim’s shoes, turning it over and shaking it to no result.

“Now the other ‘un,” said Slim. Yankie did as he was told, and shook the second shoe, dramatically this time. Out tumbled the coins, clinking onto the concrete floor.

“I knew’d it!” Slim cried, as the crowd gasped in wonder. “How much is it?”

Yankie counted it out. “Thirty-six cents, Slim.”

“You know boodle ain’t allowed, Jim,” said Slim. “Money in here goes to the whole group. I can’t believe you was holdin’ out on us.”

Milwaukee Jim took off his hat and gripped the brim, wrenching it about a little. “My mother is holed up with a terrible sickness. She needs this medicine, you see –”

A voice piped up from the crowd. “You told me last week, Jim, your mother’s been passed on for ten years now!” The hobos all looked at each other, and let out a giant whoop of laughter, some falling to their knees with tears in their eyes. Even the bald-headed Slim couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“We all know how good you are at talking some poor farmwife out of a mug of coffee and a piece of apple pie with your sob stories, but do you really think you can pull the wool over the eyes of yer fellow travelers?” Slim asked. Milwaukee Jim stared sheepishly at his feet, still twisting at his hat brim. “I hate for this to happen to you, Jim, but you’ve got to be punished. You’ve been found guilty. The travelers’ law must be enforced!”

“Why do they call themselves travelers?” Cahill softly asked Queen.

“It probably sounds more dignified than ‘filthy flea-bitten tramp.’”

Cahill shuddered. “Shouldn’t we stop this? This is not a proper court of law!”

“Don’t see the harm in it,” Queen replied. “More honest than some courtrooms in Minnesota.”

“So, what’ll it be, Slim?” Jim asked forlornly.

Slim tapped his finger to his mouth. “Let me consider it. My first idea was to have you pace the floor of the cell one hundred times a day for the next thirty days, but there’s too many of us in here bein’ winter and all. I’ve got an idea. Anyone here like washing their own dishes?” Slim asked the group. Almost in unison, they shouted various versions of no. “That’s settled then. Mr. Milwaukee Jim, I hereby sentence you to wash every man’s breakfast, lunch and supper dish in this here booby room for one week. That, and hand over your shoes, so ya won’t hide no more boodle in ‘em.”

Milwaukee Jim let out a long sorrowful sigh, while the other hobos cheerfully slapped him on the back and congratulated him on his misfortune and then each other on their own turn of good luck.

“Put it in the tobacky fund,” Slim decided, handing the money to Yankie.

“A tramp hates work more than anything in the world,” Queen explained, shaking his head in disapproval. “He’d probably rather be released into a rail yard packed with armed railroad detectives before being told to pick up a plate and a towel and make the effort to put the two together. Looks like things have been resolved peaceably, kid. Time to go wish Doc good luck.”

“That doesn’t seem fair to me,” Cahill said, looking at Milwaukee Jim, who was now sitting on the floor, slumped against the bars. “It’s cold down here. He needs shoes.”