by John Mead
“I hope he is having better luck than I,” Hank stated, sounding tired and down-hearted. “I would like to question the girl before the police find her.” Then in a more upbeat tone asked, “What can I do for you? I have not thanked you for your help and kind words of yesterday.”
“It seems so long ago,” Martha still hesitated, but unable to think of any other course of action took the plunge. “It seems a time of troubles as I am very worried about a friend of mine who has also gone missing.”
“Another woman missing?” Hank was perplexed by the thought.
“No, a man this time, you would have known him in the past,” Martha struggled to keep her tone neutral and her breathing easy as she spoke, “do you remember Minsky, the Russian that worked for Brandon?
“Yes, terrible fellow, I was glad when Brandon gave him the boot,” Hank had never been happy with the string of dancers and actresses that Minsky always seemed to find for Brandon whenever he tired of his latest conquest, it all seemed very disrespectful of Hank’s godmother. Though when Martha became Brandon’s mistress Minsky had all but disappeared from the scene. And, Martha had been a respectable widow, or so they all thought at the time, and she had a steadying affect on Brandon. Everyone respected the genteel widow and the respect Martha seemed to demand rubbed off causing Brandon to act the better gentleman for it; he had even started to treat his wife better as a result.
“Well, he has returned. I recently bumped into him and we began to talk of old times, he seemed down on his luck…”
“Ahh… I see,” Hank jumped to conclusions. “So, he borrowed a sum of money from you and has disappeared.’
“No,” Martha said, firmly but without rancour, “he refused my help but told me he had some dealings with Black Rube, Jack has mentioned the name and I believe he is an awful fellow.’
“Of the worst kind,” Hank muttered.
“To cut a long story short,” Martha continued, “I insisted Minsky meet with me after he had concluded his business as I wanted to know how he fared. He promised faithfully he would do so but I have not seen him nor had word from him.”
“He is hardly reliable nor a man of his word,” Hank could see Martha was plainly worried and tried to reassure her.
“No doubt you think me foolish,” Martha knew she sounded it, “but my instincts tells me his is in trouble and… well… he was part of our lives all those years ago. I would not want to see him hurt.”
“I will see what I can do,” Hank stated solemnly, no matter how wild the goose was he had to chase he owed Martha a debt and would run after a whole flock if it were demanded. “I’ll have someone run down to where the Black Hawks hang-out and see what they can pick up. A white face won’t be out of place at this time of day, though as it gets dark they will have to take care fortunately I have a man suitable to the task. If there is any word or sign of what has happened to Minsky he will sniff it out.”
“Thank you, Hank,” Martha smiled, gripping his hand in earnest relief and gratitude, “it will be a weight off my mind. And, please, be discreet; Brandon and Jack have enough to concern them without being troubled by my silliness.”
“It will be done as you ask and as quickly as I can manage, so have no more cares on this point,” Hank reassured her, as he got out of the carriage.
“I hope everything goes well for your wife,” Martha told him from the window as the cab set off to take her home. “My prayers are with her.”
Hank smiled as he watched the cab turn in the street to leave by its only exit, “The world,” he thought to himself, “needs more women like Martha Stevens; so loyal and caring of others.”
Jack sat in his usual seat in the corner of the River Bar, behind the door, where he could not be seen but could see all that were in the place. The small bar was full, as was normal at almost any time of day, with some two dozen patrons. Jack had arrived, having eaten a late dinner alone at the Gripmans, and had steadily downed a number of beers and a half a bottle of whiskey. A regular had produced a squeeze-box and began to play tunes in exchange for drinks, he was soon accompanied by two female songsters and an unknown man who played the harmonica passingly well. The remainder of the patrons, except Jack, joined in the choruses or took the lead in the songs as was their individual want or degree of inebriation.
Depending on how you read a clock the hour was very late or very early when Kitty arrived, dressed as Kit, arm-in-arm with a Canadian sailor, at least Jack assumed him such from his rolling gait and accent. The night was a balmy one and the door stood open but most of the men still wore their jackets, the Canadian however wore only a tight shirt that showed off his muscular frame. As the pair entered, deep in laughing banter, most turned to watch them, the women smiling in the hope the handsome pair might be looking for company though quickly realising they would not attract such a pair they returned to their current escort or lonely drink.
Jack scowled unhappy at the laughing pair: seeing ‘Kit’ where he wanted ‘Kitty’, frustrated by the length of time he had waited to see Kitty and, most of all, infuriated by the incessant caterwauling of the other customers.
“Hello, Jack,” Kitty hailed him, working to keep her tone gruff and manly. “How are you, old man? This is my new friend Bartholomew, say ‘Hello’ to Jack, dearest Jackson, Barty my boy.” Whether it was Kitty’s attempts to sound the ‘Hail fellow and well met’ or her use of his full and formal first name, that was only ever used by his wife when she was angry with him, that grated most on his nerves but Jack’s scowl deepened and he clamped his jaws shut as he attempted to keep his rising anger inside himself.
“Good evening, Mr Jackson,” the Canadian comically bowed in acknowledgement to Jack, then began to pull Kit to the bar for a drink.
“Kit, a word,” Jack almost spat the command out, his frustration evident to everyone expect the pair at whom it was directed.
“Yes, yes, Jack my lad, a drink first,” Kitty and her friend hauled up to the bar, banging down some coins and ordering beers. The bartender, who ran the place on Jack’s behalf, glanced over at Jack who had stood, swaying, as he glared at the pair, wondering what he should do; if the barkeep was aware of Kit’s true identity he was keeping it a close secret as he wanted nothing to do with Jack’s private life. “Beers and quick about it,” Kitty insisted, laughing at her own bravado, drunk on the game she played.
“Come on man, we have a raging thirst to quench, two beers,” the Canadian, Barty, laughed, enjoying the ruckus they were creating. The shot from Jack’s gun crashed into the ceiling sending plaster and splinters to rain down on his table and the surrounding floor. The stampede that followed cleared the bar, knocked over tables, chairs and sent glasses crashing. Dust and gun smoke swirled round the small bar, Kit and Barty sprawled for cover on the floor unable to comprehend what had occurred, and the barkeeper had ducked out the small door to the rear.
“Another word or screeching cord and I would have killed someone,” Jack resumed his seat and placing his gun on the table in front of him, his head feeling clearer and calmer than it had for many days. Perhaps if Joseph Mannheim or Jaunty Tipwell had been present he might have shot them simply for the pleasure of it, though equally the presence of John Wesley Blackstaff could have tipped him over, but he would not suffer Kit’s insolence. Kitty’s game galled him too much and as for the idiot with her who had fallen for it, it was simply too much for him to bear. “If you pair of wallpapered deadbeats will join me, I’ll buy you both a beer.”
“God, Jack, you are in a foul mood,” Kitty said, making little effort to keep up her pretence, as Barty helped her from the floor. “You’ll have the coppers down on us.”
“Is it true that you introduced Beatrice Partkis to John Wesley Blackstaff?” Jack showed no concern about his actions, he was tired and fed-up by his apparent lack of progress on the cases he followed and, more than anything else, was angry that despite her disguise h
e still felt a pull of attraction for Kitty.
“What?” Kitty took a seat opposite Jack, waving her friend to join them and, though he seemed reluctant to do so, he took the seat next to hers. “Ohh… yes, Beatrice knew I support the Knights of Labour and recruit for them.”
“Knights?” the Canadian puzzled, though the other pair ignored him.
“What does that have to do with it?” Jack asked, replacing his pistol in his pocket as he noticed Barty eyeing it.
“Blackstaff is considered a model employer,” Kitty sounded exasperated at such an obvious answer and was clearly annoyed at Jack’s mood. “He is a keen supporter himself and has brought other employers over to his way of thinking, to treat a worker well is to get the most from them and the better profit. Unfortunately he is in the minority and none of the bigger employers support his methods, naturally I do all I can and have asked that, where possible, his good works are supported by the Dead Hands so that his business does not suffer.”
“What’s all this talk of a black staff, dead hands and knights?” the Canadian laughed, thinking the other pair spoke in gibberish, rolling up his sleeves as he did so as if preparing for a fight.
“What’s that on your arm?” Jack asked, noticing a crudely drawn tattoo of what looked like a compass on the other’s forearm, it reminded Jack of one of the picture cards framed on Blackstaff’s wall.
“It brings good fortune,” the Canadian told him, his head swimming by the ever changing direction of the conversation.
“It is the Wheel of Fortune,” Kitty explained, “from the tarot cards.”
“Tarot cards, how do you know of them?”
“One of the O’Shea’s colored maids, an old woman, would read the cards and tell my fortune,” Kitty revealed. “It was quite a thing to behold and had taken her a lifetime to learn, she said she had it from her mother who was a slave, brought over as a girl from darkest Africa.”
“I’ll lock up then, now you have driven the customers away,” the barkeep emerged from the rear, having judged that it was now safe to return.
“Good idea,” Jack told him, “then bring a couple of bottles over and and a pack of cards, we will have a party of our own. You two young men are up for a drink or two and a game, aren’t you?” Jack smiled, winking at Kit to say, “You are not the only one who can play games.”
8
Confidences
Day Ten – Thursday April 24th 1886
Jack awoke, having slept the sleep of the dead with his head cushioned on his arms and sprawled across the table top. He was stiff and his left knee still ached, though not as badly as his head, which both hurt and swam at the same time. His mouth was dry, strange tasting with a fur-covered tongue. He found it an effort to sit up, eventually realising he was still in the River Bar, though alone except for empty glasses and bottles which littered the place. There also seemed to be a pack of cards strewn about but nothing that gave him a clue to a memory of the previous evening, the last thing he had in mind was eating alone at the Gripmans.
The barkeep, who lived in the attic with his latest paramour, as the floor between was used for stock and various items of broken furniture from the bar below, was happy to provide Jack, whose appetite increased as his nausea declined, with coffee and breakfast. As the hot black cups of Arbuckle percolated through his soul, so Jack’s memory returned. Barty’s confusion had increased as the night had worn on and Jack had drunkly called ‘Kit’, Kitty. Although the Canadian seemed less disturbed than he should when Jack and Kit exchanged kisses as payment for losing a hand of cards. Jack had eventually fallen into a stupor mid-game and had not seen the going of Kit and Barty.
Feeling better for the coffee and food Jack left the barkeeper to tidy the place, in readiness for a new batch of customers, and headed for the small, private apartment he kept for his liaisons with Kitty; where he could also get a change of clothes and a clean shave. He then intended to hunt out Cage in order to swap notes on how they both progressed.
Martha, on the other hand, had spent the previous evening alone and worried, had slept badly, risen early and had eaten virtually nothing once again. She had hired a cab for the day and they were slowly patrolling around the north side river front, just how this helped to find Minsky she did not know but she had to do something and could not remain inactive at home. She was surprised to catch sight of Jack, walking unsteadily and leaning heavily on his cane, going north. Her first thought was to hail him, assuming he was heading home, but as she thought to do so he turned west and, on impulse, she told the driver to, “Follow the gentlemen with the stick.” The streets were already busy: men on business hurrying along the sidewalks, women walking with their friends, carriages, cabs, horse riders, men pushing carts all filled the thoroughfare with noise and bustle. The chilly, damp laden breeze doing little to clear the smoky air; instead it only added to the discomfort of both animals and humans.
Jack, despite his limp, ploughed on and made better time than most through the throng. The cab driver kept his distance and occasionally lost sight of Jack as he cut down some back alley too narrow for the cab but always picking him up a few blocks away. On the whole they moved north and away from the busier thoroughfares and into a quieter, residential neighbourhood. An area where prosperous and skilled craftsmen lived in dwellings subdivided into family apartments. Without hesitation, obviously on familiar ground, Jack turned and went into a building. After a few minutes wait outside, asking herself why she should be spying on her husband, Martha told the driver to wait and followed Jack into the building. A central stairs, with a family apartment on each side, led up two flights to the third floor and a door with the name ‘Stevens’ tacked to it.
Jack’s response of, “Who is it?” was more cautious than Martha had expected when she knocked at the door and the pause at her response, “It is your wife,” was considerably longer than she thought appropriate.
“Hello,” Jack greeted her, opening the door a crack, standing in his shirtsleeves. “So, it really is you.”
“Perhaps you thought it another of your wives?” Martha asked.
“Now why should you say that?” Jack scowled, the door remaining a barrier between them.
“If you let me in and offered me a seat we can discuss it,” she motioned with a fluttering wave of her hand that the door should be fully opened to allow her entrance. Jack, obviously uncomfortable and annoyed, complied and quickly closed the door behind her. The place was smaller than Martha had anticipated, consisting of a parlour combined with a dining room and two small bedrooms behind. The apartments would all share a kitchen and laundry room at the rear of the house with a yard and privies out back, requiring the families in each building to find a common accord to avoid any conflict over the shared arrangements.
“Hmm… nice,” Martha commented, glancing around at the sparsely furnished room: a sofa, table, two chairs, coal for the grate in a large scuttle, a small carpet. “Through there is your bedroom I take it?” Jack nodded, following her gaze and becoming increasingly annoyed at his wife’s intrusion, “Quite the bachelor’s home from home.”
“It does, when I am out on business and the hour too late to return home,” Jack stated, knowing that if Martha asked to see the other rooms she would see Kitty’s things.
“And so convenient, being just ten minutes by cab from where we live,” Martha blandly observed, making no effort to move and seemingly engrossed in looking at the small, plain brown mat.
“What does that mean?” Jack snapped. “I slept here last night and was dressing before returning home.”
“Was that after your morning constitutional along the river?” she asked, looking up at him, a smile on her lips tinged with disdain for his lie.
“What business is that of yours?” he demanded, his voice rising in anger, as he swept up his stick, which was laying across the table. “Well? It is you I think who should explain why y
ou are here.” For a moment they glared at each other, the pause allowing Jack’s temper to cool so it did not boil over into words or actions he would regret but long enough for Martha to remember past grievances and the many times she had backed down to save them both from angry words.
“As you ask,” she told him, her voice even though resolved to have it out, “I was out looking for my lover when I chanced to see you entering this building.”
“What?” the word coming out sharp like a small dagger thrown between them.
“I was looking for a man, a close and intimate friend whom I love, who has gone missing…”
“You dare come here, accusing me…” Jack had no idea what he was saying and resorted to throwing his stick against the wall, the clatter it made did little to satisfy the rage that now gripped him, he instinctively pulled his colt out of his shoulder holster. Martha did not flinch, did not murmur, but waited serenely for her husband to put a bullet between her eyes. She was surprised to watch him reach back and hurl the gun with all the force he could muster at the wall behind her, the crash was loud and followed by a further crash as a portion of plaster followed the gun to the floor. Jack stormed into the bedroom that overlooked the street, kicking the door shut behind him with force enough to almost start it from its hinges.
Martha waited a few moments, wondering if he would return with his second gun the one he habitually carried in his jacket pocket, but deciding from the silence that he was not she got up to follow him; for better or worse she intended to complete what she had begun. Jack was laid on the bed his hands behind his head staring at the ceiling, his face hard and angry. A glance told her that a woman had, at times, shared his bed. She went to the chair at the foot of the bed, lifted the dress and female undergarments that would have fitted a tall, slim woman, held them pointedly for a second, then dropped them on the end of the bed and sat down.
