The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (35 page)

He had in his sights the sweetest of morsels, a stunning seraph with an angelic face, and it consumed his every breath.

The prushun called Ollie had revealed its young sibling’s hideaway hole after an evening’s palaver of pain. The process hadn’t given him satisfaction, because it had not remembered their eternal pact. Long ago, the prushun had vowed to be ever devoted to him, but breached that oath when he shirked his duties and tried to hide with the flesh-peddler. When he finally found his prushun, weak and oblivious and just outside this Queen’s grasp, his fears had been confirmed. It was nothing now but a used and useless toy; dirty, to be discarded as soon as the littlest one entered his fold. Their unity of two, once made with love, was now shattered and sick. The prushun Ollie had refused, at first, to comply with his will, so he used fire to withdraw what knowledge he required. He had only felt sorrow afterwards, the sorrow of a broken heart, and a faint wash of past love that no longer existed.

Once he had his information he found this place with ease, but on this night the space below the bluff was devoid of life. Nothing chose to lay its head under the ice-cold rain. He listened to the low cracking of the frozen river’s edge, and the lapping of the black eddies that swirled cold and empty. The overturned boat sat as the prushun had told him it would. He saw remnants of cooking fire, bits of former life, but nothing that moved. The space beneath the boat was small, but he slithered in like a grass snake, looking for a sign, any sign, of his beloved. Other things shared the space, but he held his nose as he passed their belongings, wanting nothing to do with the rotting stench. Only an item touched by his prushun’s grace would satiate his hunger, allow him to pass the night softly.

Then he saw it. An exquisite, doll-sized mitten, the color of blood, under a pile of wet leaves. He could smell its scent, and leaped towards it, snatching it with a jump of joy in his heart. So sweet and dear, the scent of an innocent, virgin childhood, before any desecration despoiled it.

He held it, caressed it. And waited.

Anderson had figured it out. He was being cheated. Bamboozled, sucked in, sold, roosted over, rooked, bilked, scooped in. Whatever you wanted to call it, it was all the same damn thing.

They had let him win a few small hands, and then the game had changed. He had missed it the first time, but once the stakes started getting higher, and he began steadily losing money, about two hundred and fifty dollars’ worth in chips, he kept a firm eye on the dealer.

The second time, he spotted the dealer cold-deck him.

If there was anything the sheriff was good at, it was bluffing. He was a master at offering no emotions when the situation required it. Certainly this trip had been an exception to this; he had broken down in tears when the angel he’d expected to see on that marble slab was some other unfortunate, instead. But in the working world, he could be as stone-faced as the toughest, coolest hombre in town. He chose this face now, as he observed the dealer, with considerable skill, pull a fresh stack of cards from somewhere under the table and introduce them into the game.

He looked at Billy Edwards, who seemed to sense he was being watched, glancing back at the sheriff over his hand, flashing a little smile. He is the steerer, Anderson thought. This is a hold-up game, and he was being squeezed like a lemon.

“It’s your play,” a paunchy, round-faced player to his right said with an impatient stare.

Anderson laid down his hand, which held three queens. “I quit,” the sheriff said, void of expression.

Edwards chuckled. “Quit? Come now, friend. You want to walk away with a hand like
that
? This is a serious game, and while we all like a bit of good-natured codding now and then, joking about money maybe isn’t so funny.”

“No one is codding anyone,” Anderson said. He stood up, eyes flashing. “I saw your dealer wrist-twist under the table. This is a bunco game and someone here is trying to swindle me. Nothing but monkey-shines in your little back room.”

Edwards held out his hands, as if to bless a congregation. “That’s an accusation you sure shouldn’t be making, Anderson. We’re all friends here, and no one is out to flim-flam you. Even the thought of that is just plain ridiculous.”

Anderson shoved his few remaining chips into the middle of the table. “Worthless,” he said, burning a stare into Edwards.

“Christ, man. You’ve got three queens.”

The sheriff reached across the table and turned Edwards’ cards, spreading them out with his thick fingers. “And you have two kings.”

“You’ve got the better hand!”

Anderson snatched the deck from the dealer’s hand and flipped it over. The third and fourth king sat on the bottom. “I know we don’t normally see royalty in America,” Anderson snapped, “but it seems to have gathered for a picnic in the basement of this here deck.”

With lightning in his socks, Edwards moved to block the door, his arms out to either side. “Now, now, let’s not get this out of hand. If you can’t post the pony it’s nothing to be ashamed about. I sure as hell don’t carry that kind of cush with me, either. We’ll just go down to the bank, bright and early tomorrow, and you can have a check drafted.”

“You seem awfully concerned that the saloon gets its money,” Anderson replied. “I’ll give you credit for one hell of an acting turn, Edwards, but I have it all figured out now. Get out of my way or I’ll call for the law.”

Edwards was taller than average, but still shorter than the sheriff. Anderson, even in his advanced years, remained tough as old saddle-leather. He grabbed Edwards by his hair, pushed him out of the way, and threw the door open. He heard the table behind him explode with commotion as the remaining players stood up, knocked over chairs, and shouted obscenities.

“Give me my guns,” Anderson growled to the bartender.

“Cough up the cush,” the bartender growled back.

The saloon’s patrons stood up from their seats, mugs of beer in hand, and backed towards the walls.

“Come now, Anderson,” Edwards said from somewhere.

“I’m no rube,” Anderson said. “Just give me my pistols and I’ll walk out of here.”

“And go to the police, you said.”

Anderson pulled himself up tall and pivoted in a slow circle, surveying any extra dangers to be seen besides the bartender. The barkeep had his Colts now, but they were drawn and pointed at him and he looked hot enough to shoot.

“Hold on, now!”

The front door slammed open, and in walked three men, one wearing a plain suit and derby, and the others in Minneapolis patrolmen’s domed hats and blue uniforms.

“What’s this? A fight?”

The man’s face was covered in a bumpy red rash, his eyes fixed on Anderson. He gave two firm winks to no one in particular, and loosed a repulsive grin. “I’m Detective Norbeck from the Minneapolis police department. What’s going on here?”

“The bartender refuses to hand back my weapons.”

“Are those his?” Norbeck asked the bartender, who affirmed with a nod.

“Holster those shooters and give them to me.”

The bartender did as he was told, and handed the belt over the bar to one of the patrolmen.

“Guns aren’t necessary here, are they?” Norbeck asked, to no one in particular. He glanced around the room, noticing a couple of poured drinks on the bar top. He reached over and took one, downing it in a single swallow.

“Now, now, sir,” he said to Anderson with a glint in his bloodshot eye. “Let’s step outside for some fresh air, and you can explain to me what happened.”

“Speak to Billy Edwards. And the dealer, and the bartender. They’re all part of a con game, and they’ve meant to muck me out.”

“No, no,” Norbeck replied. “Just you.”

The detective led Anderson outside. The nearest street lamp was out, and the only light that shone on them came through the window from the saloon’s feeble bulbs and a bit of moonlight between buildings.

“You’re in serious trouble,” the detective said, trying hard to sound sober and severe. “Unless you have a permit to gamble.”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Well, that is a problem. It’s an arrestable offense, you know.”

“What about the others in there? Have they paid theirs?”

Norbeck’s face shone with the barest trace of humor. “Officer Evans, go in there and check all of them who was playing whatever game it was, for registered permits.”

The officer nodded and went in. The other cop stood silently next to Norbeck.

“Listen, here,” said Anderson, buttoning his coat. “You’ve got something much larger to worry about than me. Those men inside are running a bunco joint. I was the target tonight, but sharp enough to figure it out. What about tomorrow night, however? Or the night after that?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Norbeck said with a wink. “You need to fag out of town, now. You’re in deep trouble, Mister.”

“The hell you say,” Anderson growled.

“Go back to your room and pack your things. I’ll have this officer escort you. He’ll take you to the train and you can be on your merry way.” The detective picked a piece of flaking skin from his fat nose and flicked it aside as he spoke. “You had bad luck tonight, and were up against it. Be grateful I don’t march you down to the pokey for talkin’ back to me.”

Maybe it was his growing disdain for the way that law was practiced in Minneapolis, or perhaps it was his plain lack of fear about anything that could happen to him. Of course he wasn’t going to go. He didn’t care about anything except what he came here to do.

“If you think you’re going to run me out of town” he said, “you’ll need more than yourself and a couple of officers to do it.”

A gust of freezing wind whipped at their figures, swirling a tiny dusting of newly fallen snow on the sidewalk. Norbeck pulled out a nasty looking blackjack from underneath his jacket, and the officer next to him followed suit with a billy club.

“I haven’t broken somebody’s bones in a good long time,” Norbeck sneered. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

“I can give it out cold as well,” returned the sheriff.

It came faster than he expected. Anderson felt the blackjack smash into the side of his head, and another strike on the square of his back by the club, almost in unison. A brilliant white light filled his vision momentarily, and then everything went dark. He threw his fist forward, feeling it make contact with what he thought was flesh, but with only blackness before him he couldn’t see who, or what he’d hit. Another blow in his stomach forced the breath out of his body, and he staggered to one knee. A final hard wallop to his side and the sound of cracking ribs, and his hands braced the pavement in front of him. Finally a boot met his stomach from beneath, lifting him inches off the ground and then back to earth in an agonizing thud. A mist seeped through his head, clouding his brain in a numbing, vibrating tingle, and he suddenly felt sleepy. Fight, he told himself. Get up like a man and fight, and then go and find your granddaughter. Except his body wouldn’t move, as much as he willed it to. The feeling of sleep suddenly overwhelmed him, and he slipped in.

CHAPTER 12

T
HE ASSISTANT MATRON LED
Q
UEEN
through the Swedish Hospital’s sterile corridor, over freshly scrubbed and polished wooden floors, and through a wide, black-framed door. Six beds stood against each wall, separated by white linen curtains. Queen immediately spotted Sheriff Anderson, as his feet hung awkwardly over his bed’s metal footboard.

“He’s just too tall,” she told him, fret in her voice. “We have a man making an adjustment to another frame in the basement, and we’ll get it up to him as soon as we can.”

He looked in a rough spot. His chest was bandaged and his face was swollen and badly bruised, rendering him almost unrecognizable.

“Sister Swanson, his nose looks broken.”

“It is, Mr. Queen. Five broken ribs, a broken nose, swelling in the left ear, which he may not hear out of again. He came in with a concussion late last night, but has since regained consciousness.”

“Can he talk?”

“His pain is such that we’ve medicated him heavily. It is better that he sleeps, but even awake he wouldn’t be much of a conversationalist.”