The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (3 page)

A bright burst of light filled her vision, followed by blinding pain. Her eyes adjusted to his hideous, ogling mug, still trying to stick his tongue into her mouth. The fear was choking her now. She threw her head from side to side, banging it on the pavement in frustration as ice slashed at her cheeks. He laughed, pulled out his prick, and tore at her clothes, in a vile dash for the finish line.

With a sudden burst of fury, she tried pounding on his back. His hand swatted her arms away, bouncing them against the slick concrete and back into the snow.

There, she thought. She had no more go. Nothing left to fight with. Let him do what he will with her. She released her fingers from tight fists, spreading them out into the soft snow. And then she felt it, dancing along her fingernails. She stretched her hand and clasped the thick, jagged icicle, still buried like an unbroken sword deep in its snowy sheath.

“If you weren’t Emil’s favorite, I might just ask you to be my girl,” he grunted. She responded with a sweet smile and brought the icicle up in an arc and then down into his neck with every ounce of her strength. Most of it shattered, but a dagger-sized splinter punctured his skin. He howled with pain, grabbing the back of his neck in bewilderment. She still held a piece of the icicle and used it to hit him in the jaw. He rolled off her as he pawed at his face. More voices now, coming from somewhere in the house, and a light flared up in the kitchen. A window on the upper story opened, and she heard Edna’s scream.

Higgins wiped the blood from his neck and tried to push himself up. She was faster, and cut a dash through the heavy snow towards the shed. Somehow her legs lifted. She fell down but struggled back to her feet. Her front half, face and tangled hair included, was white with pressed snow, but she fought forward, not daring to slow for fear of losing her momentum. She’d lost her shoes in the scuffle with Higgins, and could barely feel her feet as she clambered onto an ash barrel and forced herself to the shed’s roof. Knifing through the snow, her fingernails scraped on the tin as she scrambled up the incline, slipping and scratching until she reached the fence. She willed herself to stand up and touched the top with both hands. There it was, the Church of the Redeemer. An orange glow still shone from its windows, and she ached for the safety of its sanctuary.

“Good lord, aren’t you a sad sight.” The voice was soft, and sweet with sarcasm. The hair on her arms stood straight, and her throat went dry. Her grip on the fence suddenly weakened, but she managed to turn and locked her eyes on his. There was Emil Dander, standing over Higgins. Beside him hovered Pock, as rat-like as usual, holding a rifle in his dirty hands. “Come on down from there, love, and get back into the house. You must be chilled to death standing in this wind. I’ll have Pock wake the cook and get some hot water on the stove.” Dander lit his handsome grin and stretched out his gloved hand to beckon her towards him. Pock, chuckling, lifted the rifle and pointed it at her.

Her gut told her to scramble to the top and ignore him. Leap to the alley behind and scream until her throat was raw and her lungs gave out. Risk taking a bullet, or breaking an arm or a leg, just to never have to kiss him again with his dry, rough lips. But the rifle’s barrel glinted from the kitchen’s light and Pock’s expression told her he probably wouldn’t miss. Perhaps reason might work with him? It hadn’t ever before, but she had an advantage, she hoped. Shooting her atop a fence was something he must want to avoid for fear of witnesses. Even in the depths of a slum, there might be witnesses. She decided, in desperation, to try and make her case.

“I-I-I’ll never set foot in that house again, Emil!” Her voice sounded weak and unsteady, and she heard Pock snigger. “I can’t go through another night there.”

“Now why would you ever say something so hurtful, my dear? You really cut me to the quick. Break the heart of the man who has treated you so well.”

“That’s a bald-faced lie, Emil. I’m not going to let you make another nickel off of my misery!”

“Misery? You have warm food, a soft bed and protection from those who might harm you. Come now, and be rational. Let’s go back inside and talk by the fire.”

She could barely contain her fury at his condescension. With a deep breath she summoned her strength. “I’m through with this life, Emil. I’ve had enough. Let me return to my family, and I promise I will never mention this to them. You have my word.”

“Your word,” he scoffed, “is not to be trusted. Climb down from there and get back into the goddamn house. Starting the New Year with foolery such as this makes my blood boil.”

“No! Emil, no!” She felt like a rat caught with a lantern, about to be strung up by her tail. Dander would punish her with crushing savagery if she returned to him, and she had no intention of returning. She would jump now, indifferent to the fall, rather than into his arms. “I’m not coming with you, Emil. Shoot me if you feel you have to, but know that my grandfather will come for you if you do. He’ll find you and make sure you pay for this.”

Silence. She could sense that he was thinking now, contemplating the best course of action. She took advantage of his withdrawn stare to look up towards the sky and watch the soft flakes fall like a thousand white stars. The wind suddenly picked up, stinging against her bare skin. She could taste the snow as it landed on her lips. Then, a movement in one of the house’s windows stirred her to attention. She recognized Trilly immediately, but also the dull stare in the girl’s eyes, utterly vacant despite the scene unfolding in front of her. My God. This life has left her completely soulless. Get out of Minneapolis and go home to your family and never, ever look back. She aimed a reassuring smile at Trilly, trying to break her trance. But seeing no emotion there, she turned her eyes again to Emil Dander, who looked grimly back. Sweet words would come from his lips no more, she now knew. Her threat had sealed her death, and she could see it from the ominous cast of his face. She watched him motion to Pock, who, squinting along the rifle’s sight, cocked back the hammer and aligned the barrel with her head.

“What a sad end, I think,” Dander said. “She was never much to gaze upon, but there were always plenty of men willing to pay handsomely for her.” Pock nodded agreement and sneered. A glint of remorse flickered in Emil’s eyes, but died as quickly as it came. Pock was a deadeye with a rifle, and it would be easy to explain away the gunshot on New Year’s Eve. As long as she fell within the confines of the yard, no one would be the wiser.

She knew there was nowhere to go for her except over the fence, to take her chances on the fall. If she was lucky and her legs didn’t break, she’d run to the church’s front door and beg for help. Someone was there, after all, ringing the bell. If she was going to go, it had to be now, before Pock pulled the trigger and it was over. She whipped around like a whirlwind, grasped the fence once more and pulled herself up. Throwing her leg over, white and exposed in the pale night, she heard the gun discharge. It sounded crisp and sharp in the biting cold. Perhaps it might miss me, she thought with a speck of hope, but then she felt a numb sensation, surprisingly warm, splayed through her body, making her shiver with ecstasy. She ignored the odd feeling and willed herself over the fence. For a brief, precious moment she paused to look up at the church’s full figure, wrenchingly beautiful in the stone-gray light, a picture postcard of serenity if she’d ever seen one. Then, she felt her body begin to fall, and the night went to black completely.

CHAPTER 2

I
F EVER A PLACE COULD BE BOTH
spectacular and vile, it was Minneapolis. It was a city just past puberty, still gangly and awkward, but brimming with exuberance over the fortunes a new century might bring. It was a place that saw brick skyscrapers rising at a rapid-fire pace, sometimes ten stories high and outfitted with the latest glass elevators, shimmering skylights, and towers that speared into the sky. Giant department stores ate up city blocks, and Eastern banks competed to build the most elaborate Gothic representations of their importance and power. Wedged precariously between these grandiose beauties were dingy shanties and ragged clapboard lush-cribs, surrounded by dirt yards and worn wooden sidewalks. Drunks and vagrants stumbled through their alleys and across their stoops. The gleaming corporate facades were meant to declare to America that Minneapolis was on the rise. This was certainly true if one believed these buildings equaled civic achievement. Even Saint Paul, which once rivaled Minneapolis in population and wealth, now kowtowed to what was becoming obvious. Minneapolis was on the verge of declaring victory in their age-old cosmopolitan battle. Businessmen, however, leaving the enormous lobby of one of the great wonders west of Chicago, Nicollet Avenue’s legendary West Hotel, stepped into muddy, half-paved streets and the horrid stench of spilled garbage. Wheeler-dealers of choice Minneapolis properties propelled themselves into a league of millionaires, but jostled for walking space with gangs of pimple-faced ruffians and world-weary immigrants. This was Minneapolis, half boy and half man, full of innocent eye-opening wonders, but beating under the surface with the heart of an untamed animal.

Detective Harmon Queen, proud member of the Minneapolis Police Department, believed with his very soul in this wild contradiction of high and low. He listened respectfully to the old-timers who pushed down watery beers and yearned for the good old days, telling wistful stories of their first arrivals. How fifty years prior it had been a ramshackle little town filled with rough roads, small, unpainted houses and limestone rubble littering the landscape. Steamboats ambled up the Mississippi River, and well-heeled passengers delicately stepped into the mud alongside frontiersmen and farmers, to try their hands at making a fortune in a town in its infancy. Eventually the population grew, streets and avenues were planned, and a man named Pillsbury brutally harnessed a once magnificent waterfall’s power, creating a flour-milling empire that finally put the city on the map. While he hadn’t lived that story, Queen felt as though this seedy gem of a city’s pulse pumped through him. He was the same as his beloved Minneapolis. A crack of a smile flashed under his thick mustache as he breathed in the sweet aroma of a filthy town. But he quickly looked around, to be sure no one saw this display of undiluted love that they’d certainly never understand.

Confident he was clear of staring eyes, Queen loosened his tie a little. The quiet New Year’s Day morning was relaxing him, despite the chill. He really had no need for caution, because any of the crooks he might meet seemed to automatically sense his approach. Perhaps they would shoot a furtive glance his way or look uncomfortably at their shoes as he passed. On a typical day on Hennepin Avenue, the part of Minneapolis most densely populated with saloons, clusters of ne’er-do-wells on corners would shuffle out of his way as he strode down the sidewalk. To some, he would nod slightly in greeting. Others he ignored. All were terrified at his sight, exactly the way it was supposed to be. Queen’s blue eyes were always alert and watchful, and he surveyed his line of sight with intuitive knowledge of the city’s movement. Even though today was a holiday morning, his guard wasn’t down.

Many who noticed him, without knowing of his reputation, might snicker at his slightly disheveled appearance. His suit and overcoat were well tailored, but still rumpled and stained, and he reeked of tobacco smoke. It wasn’t that he was predisposed to untidiness. It was just that he’d been out all night. Heavy, dark rings circled his eyes, and his silver-specked black hair hadn’t been washed in days. Drinking was something he enjoyed tremendously, but he frequented rum-mills and billiard rooms mainly because that’s where the real business was conducted after the sun went down. Harmon Queen was not quite yet Chief of Detectives, but he was a very enterprising man. He smoothed down his mustache with a gloved finger, reached up to straighten his derby, and picked up his pace a little. Despite the cold, he had extra scoot in his step. This was the week when everything would happen.

There had been no sleep for him last night. He had sent word to his sister that he’d been ordered to help maintain the peace over the evening’s revelries and wouldn’t be home. He kept that promise, spending the night at various saloons and blind pigs to make sure that peace was kept. Yes, admirers had offered him more than one celebratory drink, and as always the admirers multiplied as the hours progressed. Most everyone was in high spirits, and Queen was a pleasant witness to lots of good-natured gaiety. Some questions were asked in low voices by nerve-wracked saloonkeepers about whether newly elected Mayor Doc Ames would keep the collection fees tight or raise them, and he had honestly told them he didn’t know. Things were chaotic right now in the Ames camp and speculation was flying over how, exactly, the old man intended to reign.