The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (40 page)

“A jocker?”

“That’s what we call these fellows who catch the boys. Once you have a boy, you’ve automatically got three squares a day. Good food, too. Nice fat bundles, not just bread and butter.”

“How long do these boys stay?”

“Well, some, like the one I’d seen with Gottschalk on an occasion or two, scatter as soon as they have a chance. A few don’t mind the road so much, and they look to their jockers kindly, like fathers. But those are few and far between. Jockers’ll loan, trade and sell their prushuns. The market price is high.”

“And when they grow up?”

“They might go home, but usually they’re all messed inside their heads. We call ‘em ex-prushuns, and they don’t know any better than to go get their own boys, so they can abuse ‘em just like they were abused.”

Queen was certainly getting an education. He moved his hand into his suit coat, suddenly wanting to feel the cool comfort of his revolver’s handle. Trees and houses passed by as the train chugged towards Saint Paul, and Queen’s thoughts of his enemies turned from Gottschalk to ones closer to home. Once this was over, he would make it hot for that Irish bastard Kilbane, especially now that Fred Ames was equally incensed and on his side, albeit for different reasons.

The whistle blew as the train approached a curve, and a swirl of gossamer snow tickled the window, thawing against the warm glass. Soon it would be night, which would pose difficulties in navigating through the dark forest and into Nininger. In anticipation, he had telephoned his friend Peder at Dania Hall, who promised to have one of his men in Hastings waiting with two horses and a map. Having Jim as a guide made him feel more secure on their little expedition, as long as the tramp didn’t slip off the horse, or worse. It wasn’t a full moon, but it gave enough light to see through the bare trees, so he figured they should be okay.

When he asked Peder about the women, his friend had tried to ease his worry, reminding him of Big Snorre and the other strappers camped in the yard, but still promised to check on them when he finished work. Queen also wondered if Trilly had mentioned to Karoline what had happened between them. It wasn’t something a polite lady would discuss, but Trilly definitely wasn’t a lady. She was a cocked pistol, ready to fire at anything and anyone in her way. This left him more than worried about hurting Karoline, if Trilly were inclined to spill the details of their rendezvous. The poisonous look Trilly had given him just before departing now filled his head with doubt, and he pondered his standing with her.

He looked over and saw Milwaukee Jim sound asleep, chin touching his chest. Christ, what a life of freedom he had. No responsibilities, no appointments, and no pressure. He envied him at that brief moment. Then he noticed a dribble of tobacco juice run down Jim’s chin, and the aura broke.

“Jim, wake up. Spit that shit out before you get it all over your clothes and on the floor.”

The hobo stirred, and nodded amiably. “I must say, I haven’t been this warm since last July. What a toasty ride!”

“Better than a boxcar, I’d wager.”

“Most definitely.” He stood and stretched, his gut sticking out as his arms went back, and then wiped his brown chin with his sleeve. “Perhaps I’ll take a quick jaunt to the back rail.”

“And the washroom while you’re at it.”

Jim gave a short, clumsy bow, and began whistling “Camptown Races.”

Through the window, Queen watched the scenery passing by. Little houses rested snugly in rows, smoke drifting from snow-capped chimneys. The warm maize-colored lights from their windows flashed by in a comforting blur. Now approaching Saint Paul, soon they’d reach Hastings, then Nininger and finally, God willing, Tom Cahill and Ollie, safe and sound. He got lost in his thoughts, wondering what he would do once he stood face to face with this Gottschalk. Would he bother to arrest him, or just shoot him dead like he really wanted to?

“Detective Queen! An interesting night you have planned for yourself.”

Queen turned to see Jack Peach sitting in the seat beside him, lighting a cigar with a steady, easy hand. As always, he was dressed to the nines, in a suit as fine as cream gravy.

“This is the smoking car, isn’t it?” he asked, as he leaned to his side and put his matches in his pocket.

“You lied to me,” Queen growled. “You paid their bail and then cut them down to shut them up. I should put a bullet in your head.”

Peach chuckled and made a tut-tut sound, shaking his head disapprovingly. “That would certainly be standard fare for the notorious Harmon Queen we all love to read about in the newspapers. He loses his temper and shoots some poor soul in the middle of a packed train.”

“When I’ve finished my current investigation, your boss is next. Nobody comes into Minneapolis and does what you did and gets away with it. Especially not from goddamn Saint Paul, Jack.”

“We’re still not friends,” Peach reminded him. He blew smoke lazily into the air, and then pulled out his watch and feigned surprise as he looked at it. “Speaking of Saint Paul, it is, in fact, the next stop. Home, sweet home.” He patted ash from the cigar over Queen’s shoe.

It was everything Queen could do not to take Peach’s head and slam it into the seat in front of him. Who does this bastard think he is? He knew the answer a moment later, as Peach, with blazing speed, put his hand under Queen’s lapel and yanked out his pistol.

“Too easy,” he laughed. He flipped it over in his hand so he held the barrel, then tucked it in his jacket. “I’ve got my own, too, in case you’re wondering.” The train was slowing now, grinding its way into Saint Paul’s Union Depot. “This is where we get off.”

Feeling a deeper humiliation than he ever remembered feeling in his life, Queen buttoned his jacket and nodded. I guess I’m taking a little unexpected side trip to visit Jiggs Kilbane, he thought.

The smell still lingered in the air, the smell of sweat and fear. Gottschalk inhaled the salty stink, memorizing it and cataloguing it in his mind, for use one day when he wanted to relive this moment’s thrill. The prushun’s disappearance was unexpected and unpleasant, as the sun was setting and the time of reawakening getting close. Both boys were necessary, but only one lay comfortably in his possession.

This will require another death, he decided, of the man who let the filthy Ollie free. He also realized he needed nourishment to complete his purpose. He reached into his haversack for a chocolate, and placed it slowly on his tongue, allowing the bittersweet bite to dissolve with his warm breath. He encased it in his mouth and let its sweetness fortify him. He reached for another, and another, gorging himself like an animal until his mouth was full and the chocolate oozed from his lips onto the snow, splattering like dark blood. He felt his eyes burst from his head and his fingers tremble. And then he heard the faintest of noises behind him.

Cocking his head slightly, he turned, and was met with the bucket from the well, swung hard and into his face, shattering his teeth. His head snapped back, then upright in an instant. Blood and chocolate mixed into a stream that poured down his neck. A short man met his vision, wearing four eyes and a desperate expression.

Gottschalk could smell the fear on this one.

The man drew a gun, but Gottschalk reached out his long arm to grab his wrist, twisting until he heard the bones crack. The man screamed and Gottschalk twisted harder, grunting with delight at the splintering sound. He had done the same to many a rapist who’d dared approach him in his youth, leaving them crawling on the ground for mercy. So it came with great surprise when the man’s healthy hand formed a fist, and in a dazzling burst of movement, landed a blow under Gottschalk’s chin. It was a strong blow, and the German dropped to his knees with a whimper, surrendering to the spectacular, all-encompassing pain. The man tried to pull away but Gottschalk kept hold of his wreck of a wrist, tightening it like a light bulb as he stood up, drawing a bloodcurdling shriek from the little man that echoed through the river valley.

“Let it go, please, I beg you,” he now pled, teary-eyed and appropriately regretful at his folly in striking the Heir to the Sage.

The wolves will devour the sun and the moon.

Gottschalk laid the man’s broken hand against the well’s stone edge. He admired its purplish color. The fingernails appeared translucent in the moonlight. He reached into his bag for his claw hammer, and extracted it with pleasure.

“Where is it?”

The little man’s throat choked, and he couldn’t answer. Gottschalk repeated the question, this time using the hammer to smash the man’s thumb into pulp. He waited for the scream to subside, and then raised the hammer again.

“Wh-wh-where is what?”

“The thing called Ollie. The thing you came to rescue.”

“I-I don’t know. I c-couldn’t find him. I looked everywhere. I went into the house –”

Another solid strike from his hammer ended the man’s index finger. More sobbing, more groaning, more gnashing of teeth.

“You contaminated my sanctuary,” Gottschalk said. His blood boiled at the thought of his sweet little thing breathing foul air.

“I-I-I didn’t realize. I’m telling you I don’t know where Ollie is. I came to free him, but he must have already escaped.” His eyes dropped to the mouth of the black well. “Th-this is where you put him?”

Gottschalk bent his fleshy, fishy face into a smile, and nodded. “I’m sad to say, my friend, that his departure is now your misfortune.” With that, he hauled the man up, to make ready for the sacred transfiguration.

CHAPTER 14

Q
UEEN WAS WILDLY OUT OF HIS ELEMENT
in this city. He felt not just like a fish out of water, but one that had already been skinned, filleted and fried.

Saint Paul was the enemy, and he thoroughly hated the place. Police Chief John O’Connor ruled the city like a tyrant, ran his police force like an army, and his detective squad was composed of pucker-lipped thumpers who thought much too highly of their own mediocre sleuthing abilities. He knew he would find no friendly faces in the crowds of people hustling home from their long work days. No sympathetic patrolmen would help if he were to try to get away. Better just to see it through, Queen told himself. Perhaps Jiggs had some kind of deal he wanted to propose. Queen would listen, agree like a simpleton, and then depart as quickly as he could for Hastings. He’d probably meet Milwaukee Jim sleeping on a bench at the station and they could be on their way.

Peach nudged him forward. They walked under the massive glass and iron train shed, which spanned nine busy tracks. The Union Depot was, without question, a grand piece of architecture, but Peach was in too much of a hurry for sightseeing, so they sped through the building and into the Saint Paul dusk.

There were no stars; just swollen gray clouds ready to unleash a blast of snow from their bellies, and softly shining streetlights ready to illuminate its descent. A few fat snowflakes fluttered from the sky, creating a tranquil scene as they settled on the shop awnings, despite the hurried pedestrians packing the sidewalks underneath. Queen and his escort made their way to the broad pavement in front of the station, tangled with hacks of all shapes and sizes, angling for a spot near the doors. After weaving through the wheels and horses, Peach marched him up to a buggy with black curtains hanging from the windows.

“Is this the undertaker’s wagon?” Queen asked under his breath.

Peach laughed. “Just get in, Queen. The sooner we get to Mr. Kilbane, the sooner we can just get this over with.”

“Are we heading to his gambling house?”

“Where else?”

Where else indeed, Queen thought, as the rig lurched forward. It was dark inside, except for the little light that shone in the cracks around the curtains. Peach had one leg folded over the other, and his arm up on the seat, appearing disinterested. They said nothing to each other, and the ride was uncomfortable as they turned onto Wabasha Street and toward their destination.

“It’s too dark,” Queen complained, and he pulled back the curtain, letting the soft electric streetlamp light dapple the cabin. He half expected Peach to protest, but the man’s eyes just glittered with humor.

The heart of Saint Paul’s business district was along Wabasha, and it was busy with shoppers and commuters scurrying in and out of shops, trying to keep their balance on icy sidewalks. A slumped-shouldered sales girl with a tired face trudged past a pack of bright-eyed newsies, who screamed their headlines from a corner.