Whatever Jack was doing, he didn’t appear to be on the dock. Rudy either—hanging out or shadowing him again. Perhaps that was the last of Mr. Becker. It gave Shoe a sense of pride to think he had intimidated him. How often was a journalist able to do that?
Shoe slipped into a narrow passageway between two of the newer warehouses—their barnwood sides still blond and unweathered—and watched Mackall working against the flow of the other workmen as he hauled a series of crates from his boat to a smaller warehouse two doors down.
It was hard to tell whether Hanner Mackall knew he was being surveilled. He stopped several times and leaned up against a lamppost to smoke for a while, but the moment was anything but one of relaxation. He was constantly alert, a wily and cautious one who completed every activity with a narrow-eyed sweep of his surroundings to see who might be watching. It was the wagon-in-the-street admonishment all over again. When Hanner Mackall’s focus swept in his direction and remained there, Shoe withdrew a little deeper into the alley until all he could see was Mackall’s elbow, and he stayed there until the elbow disappeared again.
Mackall crushed out his smoke underfoot, pulled his collar tighter against the cool breeze coming in off the water, and took off toward the shanties. Shoe gave him a lead and then stepped from the alley.
There was a sudden shuffling of feet behind him. “Rudy,” he said, turning. Hands yanked him backwards and down he went—no match for the two men who had jumped him. That’s all he saw before they threw a rough cloth bag over his head and dragged him by his arms to the rear of the alley. They seized his legs, hoisted him up in the air, and down again into a farm wagon; the stench of animals and dung was overpowering.
“Be still, Shoemaker, or I’ll slice you up nice and even,” whispered a voice in his ear.
He felt the pressure of a cold blade against his neck and quit struggling. The voice wasn’t Mackall’s, but the thought of Mackall sitting nearby with plans to carve him up like an apple was almost enough for him to lose urinary control. He should have followed Fannie’s advice and steered clear. He stayed quiet and listened to the muffled conversation going on around him. He got nothing.
The wagon didn’t travel far before the smooth ride turned bumpy. That was short too. As he tried to calculate how far out the Mackall farms might be from town, the wagon rolled to a halt. A swift kick of a well-placed boot brought him up quick. They manhandled him out of the wagon bed as if he were a featherbed pillow and tossed him onto the hard ground.
“Oof,” he said, feeling his back crack. But then they yanked the bag off his head and that snapped his spine back nicely. He stood up in the middle of a huge field, the furrows covered in dried cornstalks left from the summer’s harvest. In the distance, a flock of geese was systematically marching along the rows, gleaning any remaining corn kernels. His captors had chosen well. There wasn’t a farmhouse or barn in sight. Before him stood three strapping fellows, all dressed in overalls and scowls. None was Mackall. Who were these people?
The largest of the three—although that was irrelevant considering how big the smallest one was—patted him up and down. He pulled out Shoe’s wallet and rifled through it. Surprisingly, he moved past the piddling of cash and pulled out his Washington Post credentials.
“Tatum Shoemaker?” he asked, his eyes darting between the identification and Shoe’s face. “You got a nickname?”
“Everyone calls me Shoe.”
“Shoe?” The behemoth frowned and handed the wallet to the others. “Well, Shoe. Is it Rudy Tatum Shoemaker?”
“Ah,” Shoe said. He politely eased his credentials free from the smallest of the oafs and consulted them with a fresh eye. “I see the reason for your consternation. It’s a case of mistaken identity, my friends. You have me confused with someone else. Rudy S. Becker. That isn’t me.”
The brawny trio exchanged glances. “Related?”
“Of course not,” Shoe said, feeling bold enough now to take back his wallet. “I’m a Shoemaker. He’s a Becker, middle name beginning with S. See the difference?”
Behemoth’s eyes narrowed. “You know him, though. Where is he?”
Shoe stuffed his wallet back into his pocket. “Not the faintest. Now if you’d be so kind as to drop me off back in town, we can forget this whole unfortunate misunderstanding.” He made a move for the cart.
The smallest abductor dumped him on his caboose. “He insulted our sister. You’re obviously acquainted. Help us track him down.”
“Hey, no need to get violent,” Shoe said. He started to get up and then reconsidered the three serious faces staring at him. He stayed put. There would obviously need to be some sort of barter here. “Where did this alleged . . .er, insult occur?”
“Clinton.”
“Ah, yes. Never been there myself, but Rudy was speaking of it just the other day. He was very upset, and very sorry for any misunderstanding. I think you can catch him at—”
Shoe put the skids on his blathering and looked at the three brawny farmhands. He detested Rudy, but could he really throw him to these wolves? Yes. Er, no. “Boys, unfortunately, he couldn’t stick around to discuss things. Pressing business, you see. He’s booked passage on the 8:45 a.m. train with connections to New York.” He checked his watch. “It’s 8:30 now. If you hurry, you might be able to catch him.”
The three exchanged glances and sprinted for the wagon. Before Shoe could dust off his backside, they were rumbling down the field road. In seconds more, they were gone.
Shoe looked at his desolate surroundings. He’d been in worse. He set off in the same direction and hoped he’d get to the main road before the farm boys realized he had duped them. He wasn’t going to worry about Rudy. A good beatdown might be just the thing to send him packing on the next Chessie Belle out.
Rudy slunk along the boardwalk, window-shopping as if he had an unlimited supply of money and insatiable desires. As a matter of fact, everything he owned was in his right-front pants pocket, and the only thing he coveted was revenge. Tatum Shoemaker was dead ahead, creeping along just like him—a gifted snoop but lousy at shaking a tail. The pause-and-check-over-your-shoulder routine was worthless. Had his pronouncement that they were brothers rattled him that much? Actually, Rudy wasn’t so much following him as trying to get around him. It didn’t matter if Shoe knew Emerson had hired him. Other than sending him for a nasty tumble into the bay, there wasn’t much he could do about Rudy working the case. Right now, Rudy was more worried about the rest of his work enterprises. They were strictly off limits; he couldn’t afford to lose them.
Emerson might believe Shoe killed Mena, but a far as Rudy was concerned, Shoe was innocent. When Emerson had dropped that little nugget on him, he had jumped all over it in the heat of passion. But after replaying it dozens of times in his head, he realized it wasn’t possible. He was the only one sneaking around with her. He was the one who had foolishly forged Shoe’s name at their rendezvous. Why had Emerson hired them both? Was he Shoe’s chief murder suspect? He wondered.
He watched Shoe duck into an alleyway. It looked like he wasn’t through with the cliffs, the Captain, or Mackall. Maybe all three. Shoe needed to take a hike. Rudy cast about, hoping for some sort of diversion even if he had to initiate it.
He immediately regretted it. A hot flash of fear ran through him, and he watched with horror as a tall, hefty man in overalls disappeared into the alleyway halfway between him and Shoe. He’d never forget a build like that. The Clinton boys had made their way to Nevis.
He began backing up, jiggling doorknobs as he passed each business. They were all closed. He kept going. When he came to the cannery, the last of the group, he edged his way around the corner to the alley between the two buildings.
His legs were quaking, his mind racing. He inhaled deeply and let it out in little puffs of air. There would be no dashing or panicking. That only drew attention. Option A: calmly reenter foot traffic on the boardwalk and walk away. Option B: chance the back alley. The multitude of
witnesses on the boardwalk would deter any violent acts if the boys saw him, but he couldn’t camp out there forever. He went with the hopefully deserted alley. He eased his head out into the space and took a peek.
They were there—three of them, and they were otherwise occupied with throwing a struggling body into the back of a wagon. What the hay? Had Arlene entertained all of Nevis? Rudy nixed the alley and took off like a shot down the boardwalk. What had he done to deserve such karma?
Chapter Seventeen
Coping
Opposable or otherwise, thumbs were marvelous creations. As soon as he hit the main road back to Nevis, Shoe used his to hitch back to town. After the rough morning he’d had, he might be a bedraggled sight, but the T driver didn’t ask any questions, and Shoe resolutely decided it was in his best interest not to fabricate an explanation. When they hit town, he flipped the guy a nickel and went right back to the steamboat landing. Tempus fidgeted, and so far, he had nothing for Emerson.
His guardian angel was doing double-time. Not five minutes back on the boardwalk and he found Jack hanging out at a snack shack near the bathhouses just off First Street. Tony’s Funnel Cakes was one of a surprising number of attractions still open around the amusement park. Once the cold January winds started, they’d all be shuttered until spring. If Barnum could find a sucker every minute, Tony’s was picking up all the spares on a breakfast special of funnel cakes with a generous heap of bananas on top. There was already a line of chatty tourists trying to get their daily filling of grease out of the way early.
At first glance, Shoe almost missed his young protege. Where was the street urchin that had tried to hustle him at their first meeting? Gone, long gone. Shoe found instead a tall and athletically built youth—almost but not yet a man—studying him from his perch on a nearby picnic table. How had Jack sprouted several inches overnight?
“I know that look,” Shoe said to him as Jack sauntered over. “How much is it going to cost me? And don’t forget, I’ve been paying your way for the last six months, so go easy on me.”
“Not one red cent.”
Shoe’s eyes widened. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Tsk,” Jack said, eyes traveling skyward. “Nothing wrong with me. Been snooping around, that’s all. The murdered kid is probably Charlie Koenig. A year behind me in school . . . when we both weren’t skipping. He had a job as a bicycle messenger for Western Union.”
Shoe studied his serious expression. “Sorry. Did you know him?”
“Not well, but I knew who he ran with. He wasn’t a bad kid. Certainly didn’t deserve to get sliced up on a dock. He’s got a brother, Butch, but nobody’s seen ’em since the murder. His mother said he’s out of town visiting relatives.”
“Do you know him well enough to go pay respects?”
“Butch was in my class and we skipped a few times. Besides, it’s a small town, remember? I wouldn’t be hanging around downtown ten minutes before someone was asking why I wasn’t in school. Too many parents.”
“And you still didn’t listen, did you?”
“God only gives you one set of parents,” Jack said, “and I got shortchanged at that.”
In all the time they’d been acquainted, it was only the second time Jack had ever alluded to his deceased father, Patrick Byrne. This Charlie Koenig death was hitting him hard, probably resurrecting all kinds of unresolved feelings. What young kid could handle the brutal murder of an acquaintance? Shoe vowed to keep a closer eye on him.
“It’s all a cover-up, Shoe. Who is Donaldson?”
“Shh. Not so loud.” Shoe ushered him away from Tony’s. “The politician? Where’d you get that name?”
Jack rolled his eyes and waited expectantly.
“Okay, I don’t need to know, but it’d better be a good source. There are two Donaldsons: Carlton and his son Theodore. Donaldson Senior is an industrialist who can buy and sell the town, and could pretty much have any political office he sets his heart on. Junior was once engaged to Wilhelmina Weathersby. Are you suggesting one of them committed the murders and the police have offered protection?”
“Maybe not the killing part. They were talking about Chief McCall being Donaldson’s man and how he’s keeping the rest of the police quiet about the murders because it isn’t good for business.”
“Who is they? What business?”
“The police,” Jack said, becoming impatient. “I eavesdropped down at the precinct, okay? You don’t get any more than that, so drop it. They never said what business—just Donaldson, the murder, and land speculation.”
“What about land speculation?”
That’s all I got. Jeesh! You think I’m making this up? Cause if you do, I got better things to do.” He started to huff off.
“No, wait, Jack!” Shoe said, plucking at the boy’s jacket. “You’ve done great. It’s just—this is all hitting me new, and I’m not sure how to process it.”
Jack studied his shoes and nodded. “They’re bringing Butch Koenig into the station today to make sure he stays quiet.” He looked up at Shoe and there was fear in his young eyes. “Does that mean they’re going to beat him up?”
Shoe recalled his own beatdown by Chief McCall, who was no stranger to the art of physical intimidation. “Nah,” he said, trying to sound positive. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you. That’s just stories to keep young’uns in line. Everybody will be polite and agreeable. Any idea where Butch is?”
“They didn’t say, but I think I know,” Jack said, his eyes now flashing and defiant. He walked over to the bicycle propped against the side of the shack and mounted it. He shoved off without waiting for an answer.
Shoe looked at the second Schwinn. If he took it, he’d never have the nerve to show his face around here again. He glanced up the hill. Jack was already halfway up and pedaling hard from a standing position. Shoe uttered an oath, took a quick look around, and stole the other bike.
By the time Shoe caught up with him, they were at Third Street. He was out of breath and Jack was in a reflective mood, so they pedaled along in silence. As businesses dropped away and the town homes began to thin, backyard garden plots turned into expansive fields. Small white shotgun sharecropper houses began popping up next to the roadway. They were indistinguishable from one another except for the color of the horses corralled in the side yard and the clothes flapping in the breeze on the clotheslines.
The population here was still considerably German, but the enclave was not as insular as it once had been. When Shoe had first come to Nevis, the old boys at the Evening Star had clued him in on getting along with some of the older residents. He would get little from the Germans: a terse request to be left alone, or if he was lucky, a nod and a simple comment pointing him in a more fruitful direction.
Jack stopped in front of the house with two brown horses and an empty clothesline. At the rear of the house, laborers were carrying household goods out the back door and stowing them in a wagon. It looked like the Koenig family was pulling up stakes. It was understandable. The memories must be crushing.
Jack approached the door without hesitation and knocked hard. A matronly woman answered. The dead look in her sad brown eyes spoke of unimaginable grief.
“Jack Byrne, ma’am,” he said, removing his hat. “I’ve—my associate, Mr. Shoemaker—we’ve come to pay our respects. Charlie was a classmate of mine.”
Her eyes widened slightly and then began to well up, tears trickling down her cheeks. Her hands clutched at the floral apron that tied tight in the middle and made her look like two floral sacks of potatoes stacked one on another. She opened the door wider and ushered them in.
The front parlor was all but empty— a straight-back chair and lamp table along the back wall and a footstool before the fireplace. The room smelled of wet ash. Mrs. Koenig sat on the chair. Jack and Shoe remained standing near the door.
“H-h-how did you know?”
“Kids at school. I’m sorry. Charlie was a good man.”
Mrs. Koenig nodded. “I can’t talk about it.” She pulled a lace handkerchief from her housedress pocket and dabbed at her eyes.
“Butch around?”
She burst into loud blubbering and buried her face in her hands.
Jack seemed stuck in the moment. “We understand,” Shoe said, gently elbowing him. “We won’t keep you. We’re very sorry for your loss, and if we can do anything for you . . .”
She waved the kerchief at them, too overwhelmed to speak. They let her go a minute and when her heaving stopped, she took a deep, shuddering breath and said, “The police. They won’t let me. Chief McCall said it will ruin the investigation. He’ll let me know when I can discuss it.”
There were footsteps in the next room and a workman in dark denim stopped into the doorway. He cleared his throat but said nothing, waiting respectfully.
Shoe elbowed Jack a little harder. “Yes, ma’am. We see you’re busy. We’ll be going now.”
Tears began to flow again. They let themselves out. When they were back on the street, Jack took one more look at the house. “Top window,” he whispered, tugging on Shoe’s sleeve.
Shoe looked up in time to see a moon face disappear and the curtains fall back into place. “Butch?”
“Yep. And he didn’t look too happy.”
Shoe checked the wagon again. They were lashing a ladderback chair and a footstool against two bedframes. That would be the last of it. When the beds went . . .
The Dame on the Dock Page 11
