The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (21 page)

With mindful concern for his back, the long-built Dix Anderson stepped off the smoking train, under the trestle, and into the chaos of the Minneapolis depot. The city’s rank air walloped him like a brick in the head and forced a cough. He carried his bag, which he’d bought an extra ticket for just to keep it next to him.

He was tired from his ride, and from his thoughts. Guilt and despair had racked his mind the entire way. He’d had nothing better to do than to stare out the window, preoccupied with the days ahead and with past regrets.

Now that he was here, he knew he needed to muster his energy and ready himself for the onslaught of Minneapolis. The city reminded him of a woman he’d met once, long ago, before even Martha. She’d been a ravishing beauty, stunningly skillful in the art of cajolery. However, a terrible illness had overcome her, and she’d died as a tumor had savaged her insides at seventeen. He could sense the decay, here as well, just underneath the surface. Somewhere, somehow, Maisy had gotten lost in it, and paid for her misstep with her life. He vowed, again, as he had a hundred times since he’d ridden from his farm that morning, that he would discover the cause of her demise, and exact vengeance.

As he strode through the bustling crowd, his get-up immediately drew stares and gaping mouths, but he paid them no mind. There were a handful of reasons for the attention paid to him. For one, his white mustache was old-fashioned, sweeping across his face and naturally curling at the corners. He was also a good six inches taller than most of the mass of travelers he walked through. As he had been a lawman in the West, he wore clothes befitting his past, including heavy boots, a wide-brimmed slouch hat, and a long Mackinaw coat, which went down past his knees. It was made from old three-point trade blankets, bright red with black checks, a far contrast to the sea of black and brown coats and suits worn by the Minneapolis men around him. He cared very little for material possessions, but the coat was special to him. He’d received it at one of his first jobs, working for the Hudson’s Bay fur company at fifteen years old. He’d already reached his six-foot-four height when he worked in the Canadian forests, carrying packs of fur on his back. No one batted an eye in Bemidji, as the pattern and color were a common sight in the north woods, but here in Minneapolis he stood out like the Eiffel tower in a cornfield. He’d had the coat through countless scrapes, and while he’d closeted it when he retired as a sheriff, something moved him to take it out again for his journey to Minneapolis. Perhaps it was the comforting familiarity of the wool, snug over his shoulders, or the way it made him feel like an individual up against an ocean of sameness. And also, a more important reason. It hid the two Colts that sat tight on his hips.

His old friend had agreed to meet him, and true to his word, he was there. Martin Baum was looking intently at his watch, and then up to the board that displayed departure and arrival information, when Anderson approached him.

“Martin,” Anderson said. “Glad you could find the time to see an old badger like me.”

“Anything for an old badger,” Baum returned, with his mouth turned up in a sideways grin. He was much rounder now than Anderson remembered, and wore a brown suit that was fraying at the trouser and sleeve cuffs. His collar was worn and greasy, and even his derby hat had seen better days. Despite his clothing, though, and his sagging, tired face, he looked genuinely pleased to see Anderson. They went back a long way together.

“Happy New Year, Dix. How was the ride in?”

“Tried to sleep, but nothing came of it.”

“It’s good to see you again,” Baum said. The two old friends walked together through the depot and out into the cold. Fat flakes drifted lazily down through the evening air, trying their best to cleanse the dirty, icy sludge marred by hundreds of sets of footprints.

As they made their way to the street, Anderson spotted three young boys sitting on the curb, all crying and looking miserable. Hurried passengers moved around them without taking a second glance. As Anderson and Baum approached, their eyes widened at the sight of the towering sheriff. One was chubby, with pasty, tear-stained cheeks. The second was rail thin, with dark hair and olive skin. They looked to be around twelve, Anderson thought, but the third boy couldn’t be older than six or seven. He was a cute looking little shaver, with pink cheeks, pinched by the wind, and blueberry eyes, which stared at him like he had just flown down from the sky.

“What’s got you so upset?” he asked the little one, gently bending to look him in the eye. The child stuttered a little as he examined Anderson’s guns.

“Are th-th-those real, Mister?”

The plump boy smacked his friend on the shoulder. “Don’t talk to no strangers, Petey.”

“Well,” Anderson said, giving him a wink. “Between you and me, no. I just wear ‘em for show, to scare the bad men away.”

“They don’t shoot?”

“Well of course they do,” Anderson said, smiling. “Just not bullets.”

“Then what?”

“Whatever you want. I’m partial to strawberries and marshmallows.”

The chubby boy wiped his tears away with his arm and gave a little grin. “I’m partial to ‘em too! Is that why yer mustache is so white? Covered in marshmallows?”

“Aw, skittles, you two,” said the dark haired boy. He stood up, eye to eye with the bent Anderson. “We got scads of friends around here and I’ll shout if you keep talkin’ to us. Just go away.”

“I’m a sheriff,” Anderson said.

“Yeah? Then where’s your badge?”

“I don’t have a badge.”

“See?” cried the dark-haired boy, his eyes flashing with triumph. “A fake sheriff.”

“Sheriffs carry stars, young man. Not badges.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver star, bent on one point, but polished to a silver gleam. They oohed in unison, and the dark boy sat down, bedazzled by its beauty.

“That sure is swell, Mister. You ever mix with In’juns?”

“Come to blows? Never.”

“Oh.” The three boys were uniformly disappointed.

Anderson’s back was stiffening, so he wiped some snow off the curb and gingerly sat down next to them. “You keep crying like that in this weather and you’ll make enough ice for a pair of skates.”

“Pshaw, Mister,” said the littlest boy.

“It’s getting dark. You should go home.”

“We’re waiting for someone.”

“For who, partner?”

“Just someone.”

Baum bent over and wagged his finger. “You can’t loiter here, none of you can.”

The dark-headed boy moved between his friend and Baum, his small fists raised and ready to scrap. “Scram, why doncha? You like goin’ around pickin’ on kids, huh? Are ya willing to take a pop on the nose, grand dad?”

“None of that is necessary, young man,” said Anderson. His back already hurt in this position, and he needed to stand again. With hands in the dirty slush for support, he tried to lift himself up, but his body wouldn’t go. It just wouldn’t go. He tried again, straining to stand, and suddenly the three boys had rushed to his side, pushing him up with all of their strength. He held onto their small shoulders, slowly easing up to his full length. Getting old was a hard hard thing, he decided.

“Much obliged, young men,” he said, feeling in his pocket for coins.

“No sir, we don’t need that,” Petey said, with a little sniff and a wipe of his nose. “But if we ever need a sheriff with a strawberry gun, then you can owe us, right?”

“That’s a mighty fine deal,” Anderson said.

“You’re welcome to stay with me,” Baum said, as they continued down the sidewalk. “I’m lodging in the city. You can sleep on the floor in my room, or get one of your own near mine.”

“Thanks, but I’ve engaged a room somewhere else. Is there a place we can talk? I can’t take too long, and I need your wisdom.”

“Of course,” Baum said. “We can take a bite to eat and discuss old times and whatever else is on your mind. You must be hungry.”

“I am,” Anderson replied. He paused for a moment, and looked into Baum’s doleful eyes. “And you must be, too.”

“A reference to my current state of dress,” Baum said, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Baum led the sheriff to a modest-looking cafe across the street. Most of the dinner guests had left, so it was quiet. Anderson ordered steak and mashed potatoes with butter, and Baum a cup of coffee from a shuffling waiter who looked as though the recent rush had about collapsed him. Although the waiter was tired, he still stared at the two uncomfortably until they realized he wanted them to remove their hats. They did, and Anderson apologized. The waiter huffed in return and left.

“I asked you to meet me for your help, so the least I can do is treat, Martin,” Anderson said. “A single cup of coffee won’t sustain you.”

The waiter dropped a plate of biscuits on a table next to theirs, and Baum’s nostrils flared slightly as he caught the buttery aroma. “If you insist, Dix, then I won’t fight it, but you know I’ll have the check at our next meal.”

“Fine,” Anderson said. Baum flagged the waiter down and pointed at a number of things on the menu. The waiter nodded wearily and went to the kitchen.

“How are you holding up, Dix? With Martha gone things must be difficult.”

“More than you can imagine,” he said. “I miss her every day.”

“I miss my Joanne, too.”

“What happened?” asked Anderson. “You mentioned a boarding house. Why aren’t you in your home with your wife?”

“She had enough with my drinking,” Baum said. He picked up a fork and began absentmindedly wiping it clean with his finger. “About all she could take. I don’t blame her.”

“Well, being the wife of a police sergeant is difficult.”

“I’m not on the force anymore, Dix. I was fired. Thrown out with the garbage. Two days ago.”

Anderson raised an eyebrow in surprise. “For true? How could that happen?”

“I had a nice comfortable job in a precinct that doesn’t see much action. A good way to spend the golden years, I thought. Old Doc Ames comes in and hires his brother to clean the house. He fired half the officers on the force.
Half
. Remember Swan Walton? He was the captain of the Third precinct under Mayor Gray, and now he’s been reduced to janitor in the very same building. Can there be anything more humiliating than that?”

“What in God’s name would Ames do that for?” asked Anderson.

Baum looked around to the left and the right, and leaned in. “The con is on, Dix. The biggest con ever, right here in Minneapolis. I know what they’re about to do and it’s going to be whopping.”

“Do? What do you mean, do?” Anderson asked. Plates of steaming food were set before them, and Baum slathered a hot biscuit with butter and thick strawberry jam. He devoured it and started fixing another as he talked.

“Every cop he fired was as honest as the day is long. We’re all similar that way. You know I am. Hell, I know I’m old and not quick on my feet, but you know I’ve always tried to do what’s right. You can swear an oath on that, Dix.”

“Indeed you are, and you have.”

Lowering his voice even further, Baum narrowed his gaze with an intense seriousness. “What I’m about to tell you, I don’t know for absolute certainty, but I’m pretty sure of it. I’ve been doing my own investigative work, just asking some questions. I’ve got nothing better to do, and have a handful of friends still on duty. The Ames boys replaced us with criminals. Honest to goodness true-to-life swindlers, robbers, bruisers and cheats. Some were yanked right from their cells and into Fred Ames’s office, and handed a badge before they left. A sober business, Dix.”

“And these friends of yours that are still working in the department have told you this?”

“I don’t have absolute proof, if that is what you mean,” Baum replied, wiping some gravy from his chin. “But people talk, and these new officers are already blabbing away. Bragging about what they plan to do and how they’re gonna use their sway to pad their pockets.”

“It could be just talk, Martin. I’ve seen some crazy things in my day, and I know you have, too. It’s just hard to believe that a mayor of a city the size of Minneapolis could pull off organized corruption like this without raising hairs.”

“I’m willing to bet on it. A dinner at the West, and that’s more expensive than I can afford. I’m certain bad things are going to happen. Call it my lawman’s intuition.”

“Well, I have some of that too, and I just can’t see it. I stopped a sheriff from terrorizing a small town in South Dakota once, but there were only a few dozen families under his thumb. Pulling it off in Minneapolis, with its industry and the millionaires behind it seems like lunacy. They won’t let that happen. Do you think these big bugs will risk their reputations and the reputation of this city and look the other way while shakedowns and cons are going on around them?”

“That’s just it,” Baum replied. He had a thick piece of halibut in front of him, with a side of buttered carrots, and put a fork full of both into his mouth as he talked. “If the right people are put in charge, no one will be the wiser for it. If they’re making lots of green, everyone will keep quiet for a piece of the take.”

“Who have you heard is taking part in this?”

“Doc and Fred Ames, of course. Harm Queen, without question,” Baum said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Do you know him? He’s the rottenest goddamn apple on the tree.”