The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (12 page)

“Look at them,” replied Queen, as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “They’re all friends again. If you want to go and spoil their little game, then do it yourself.”

Cahill took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and marched into the area in front of the tramp room, turning everyone’s eyes to him. Someone farted, and laughter erupted.

Christ, he looks uncomfortable, Queen thought. This will definitely be an entertainment.

“Now listen here, fellows!” Cahill cried. “This man needs his shoes. You’re under the roof of the Minneapolis police department, and you can’t go around taking someone’s belongings in a pretend trial!” The hobos looked suspiciously at him, and murmured in low tones to each other. Slim came to the bars and extended his hand through to Cahill, who reluctantly shook it.

“Hello, good sir. You speak with the authority of an officer of the law. How can I help?” Slim asked with a pleasant smile.

“I told you my name before, when you ignored me and accosted this poor fellow instead.”

“We got our own set of rules and it suits us just fine. No offense, young man, but why should you care? He ain’t hurt in any fashion. Well, maybe his feelings, perhaps, but those will mend in time. Ain’t that right, Jim? C’mon over here and tell the elbow yer okay!”

“Elbow?” Cahill asked.

“Sorry about that sir, just some slang we have for gents like you. Detective, is what it means.”

With a set of slouched shoulders, Milwaukee Jim came forward, and forced a big grin. “Don’t worry about me. I s’pose I’ll survive without a pair of shoes, although …” his face dropped dolefully and he gave a long sniff, “they were a gift from my daughter. She gave ‘em to me the last time I saw her, just before she fell hard to melancholy and had to be sent to an asylum.” The men around him snickered under their breaths.

“A real tear-squeezer,” Slim said.

“If that’s true, give them back to him,” Cahill demanded.

“Anybody see Milwaukee Jim’s shoes?” Slim turned and shouted. The hobos all looked around and scratched their dirty heads. “Yer welcome to come in an’ search yerself, young man. But would you mind reminding the cook about supper first?”

“I saw you take them from him!” Cahill shouted, puffing up his chest. “I demand right now that you hand them over.”

“Or what?” shouted a voice from the back.

“Or …” Cahill thought for a moment. “I’ll turn you all out. Onto the street. Before supper is served.” The room gave a collective gasp of anguish. Slim’s jaw dropped slightly, but he picked it right back up and gave a little smile. “No need for something like that, sir. I’m sure we can find them if we just search hard enough. Anyone back there have any luck yet with Jim’s shoes?”

An arm immediately extended out from the crowd holding a dangling pair of shabby shoes. Slim took them delicately, and then handed them to Jim. “Just as fresh as when they last parted from yer feet,” he said.

“There,” Cahill said, with satisfaction in his voice. “That wasn’t so hard. Every man deserves the dignity of a pair of shoes, I think.”

“Now that I’ve pondered it, I’d say I have to agree,” Slim said.

“And I,” said Milwaukee Jim. His smile revealed more black holes than teeth as he put his shoes back on with a flourish, and he winked with gratitude at Cahill.

“I’ll go remind the cook now about your supper,” Cahill said, which was met with a gush of verbal approval from many of the hobos, including even a small smattering of applause. “If I come back down here again, though, and see poor Jim here missing his footwear, I’ll make good on my promise.”

“No doubt you will, sir,” said Slim. Cahill turned back towards Queen, barely able to contain his elation. Queen rolled his eyes as they walked up the stairs.

“Now that you’ve saved the blistered feet of a tramp, I guess you’ve reached your pinnacle.”

“Yes, sir.” Cahill beamed, trying to keep up with his short legs.

They got to the main floor, and Queen stopped, panting slightly from the exercise. His eyes were on fire and burned into Cahill. “I’ve got to know something from you, right now.”

“What is that, sir?” Cahill sucked in his breath at the detective’s intense stare.

“If you want me to show you how I do things in Minneapolis, you need to swear to me that you won’t go to Colonel Ames with every little detail of my business. You said you felt torn between Ames and me, which is fair, and something I understand. But know this: you have to pick a side. There’s no way of playing both. If it’s Fred Ames you choose, I don’t care, but I want you out of my sight because I will not have you telling him where I drink, play cards or go to Sunday church. I’ll quit the goddamn force and become a private detective again before taking that nonsense!” He held up his finger, warning him not to interrupt. “You think I have a temper? You’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg with me.”

Cahill nodded, eyes wide.

“So what’s this special relationship you’ve got with him? Here you are, suddenly on the police force, and a lieutenant? Not a patrolman, or even a sergeant.” He leaned in to Cahill’s ear. “What’s going on between the two of you?”

“Detective Queen, no disrespect intended, but I can’t give you details of what happened in the Philippines. It’s very complicated, and involves high-ranking officers in the military. Much higher than the Colonel.”

The last thing I need is for Commodore Dewey to come steaming up the Mississippi in a bloody flotilla looking for me, Queen thought. Navy politics, however, was not what he really suspected was going on. What other reason could there be for someone like Colonel Ames to take this doe-eyed chucklehead under his wing, except that they were involved in some nefarious, underhanded affair?

“Well, if the two of you are backgammon bunkies, I’ll find it out,” Queen finally said.

Cahill’s mouth opened, stunned. “That is preposterous! Nothing of the kind, sir! I-I like girls! Very much so! How could you think such a thing?”

“Well, I can’t think of anything else. What could a lowly private have done for his colonel that would get this kind of reward? You must have something on him.”

“You read the papers, right?”

“Of course. The 13th’s lively stepping was captured on the front page every damn day you were there. I do remember this: Ames got conveniently sick and was carried out of harm’s way just as the fighting was getting hot. People said he faked his illness because he was a coward and wanted to go home.”

“He really was sick. I was his orderly, and with him most of the time, so I should know. He had severe dysentery, and officers with him were convinced he’d die if he didn’t leave the island right away.”

“He was also accused of mishandling the Battle of Santa Maria, isn’t that correct? He sent reinforcements from one battalion to another, and the weakened one was attacked and defeated?”

“There is much more to the story than that. But yes, he feels beholden to me for my assistance in sorting through things afterwards.”

“What things?”

“I told you, Mr. Queen. I can’t tell you.”

“But you believe in him? Is he capable?”

“Very much so.” Cahill nodded vigorously, to emphasize his answer.

Queen grunted. No point in pushing him further, he thought. This was enough information for now. There were others on the force he could question, if need be. The kid seemed sincere, and he hoped for a day when he could trust him, but that day still seemed far away.

“I won’t make you pledge your allegiance to me, Milkshake. You need to sort out your loyalties on your own. But I won’t let you snitch on me, either. Are we understood?”

“Yes,” Cahill replied in a hollow voice.

“Fine, then.” He spotted Sergeant Krumweide, sipping something suspicious out of a tin cup. “Krumweide, is that driver doing anything out there besides scratching his family jewels?”

“What, do you need a wagon for something?”

“Colonel Ames needs us over at the inauguration.”

“You and the whole damn force. Everyone but the overlooked desk sergeant.” Krumweide took a large swallow of his drink. “Sure, go ahead, and toast the old coot one for me.”

While Milwaukee Jim was fortunate to be wearing his shoes, his pride had been swallowed and shit out an hour prior, when Slim had given him the soapy water and told him to start washing. The tramp room’s occupants were in the midst of a marvelous time, closely watching him scrub their plates, spoons and cups and pointing out when a spot of beef stew or a crumb of bread had escaped his rag. “When yer finished with that,” one wit exclaimed to a symphony of guffaws, “you can wash my ass!” The mood was good-natured and festive for everyone except poor Milwaukee Jim. And one other.

This other man sat in a dimly lit corner of the cell by himself. He was perhaps the only one in the room who hadn’t gone there willingly. His hair was greasy but carefully combed, and he had recently been clean-shaven, although three days in Central Station had interrupted his meticulous control over his whiskers. The clothes he wore fit well around his lean, sturdy body, and had once been very fine, but now were dotted with patches, like a quilt. A bowl of stew and a chunk of bread sat next to him, untouched, and his arms were folded in his lap. Even though the room was busy and humming with conversation, he didn’t listen or look, but just stared straight ahead, deep in concentration. Occasionally his mouth would move, as he recited words to himself, meant only for his own ears. The other hobos in the room kept their distance, because he had a reputation that frightened them beyond belief. Here they were safe in numbers, but any one of them, if confronted by this man on the streets, would run away, as fast as his legs would carry him, even dropping their precious bindles of food in flight.

His lips tonight were trembling more than usual. They were fleshy, and if a fellow traveler had any guts at all, he might have dared call his face fishlike. He had a small nose, beady eyes, and high forehead to complement his features. No one would ever call him ugly within listening distance, and even the most superstitious hobos wouldn’t mention his name without a three-state head start on an express train. As for him, though, he didn’t care what others thought. He deemed very few things in the world important anymore. The world’s joy had long since disappeared for him.

There was, however, something on his mind that needed attention. He had two prushuns waiting out there for him. One that would soon do his bidding, and one that had temporarily escaped his grasp. Both were very important, but for different reasons. The police wouldn’t hold him much longer, he knew, and once he got out, he would find them. One to love, and one to destroy.

CHAPTER 5

A
COUPLE OF INCHES OF SNOW
had settled over the area north of Bemidji where Dix Anderson had his little farm. He didn’t bother with a shovel or snowshoes, but just strapped on his boots with the fur lining and crunched out into the gray and white dawn to the barn and the coop beyond that to feed his animals. A cow, a sow, six chickens, a rooster, and his horse Charlie, along with a hot mug of coffee, kept him busy most mornings. Just beyond a stand of birch on the barn’s far side was a half-acre vegetable garden, and he’d been pleased the prior fall when his corn and string beans had come out almost untouched by birds and vermin. Even the cucumbers, which he’d never had much luck with, were a record harvest for him. Mrs. Ingebritsen had told him how beautiful they looked when she made a special trip to help with the confounding job of canning.

Nothing had been easy since his wife had passed the year before. The summer had kept him busy and had forced his mind to focus on other things, but the lonely winter had put him under a cloud. He struggled with everything, from cooking simple meals to caring for the wooden floor Martha had always so painstakingly scrubbed. He’d never paid much mind to how she did it, but now that she was gone he felt he owed it to her to try and keep it the same, and he’d racked his brain trying to remember the proper procedure. Did she use ox-gall to remove the stains first? She’d made homemade lye from wood ashes, but he couldn’t get the recipe exactly right. In the summer she’d sand the floors, but what had she done that prior winter when sand was hard to come by? All these things made him miss her in a heart-aching kind of way. Mrs. Ingebritsen told him there were oils he could buy from the store that would make it easier on him and his bad back, but he held on to the way his wife had done it because he thought it would make her happy, wherever she was.