The Best Bad Things

by Katrina Carrasco

  “Don’t go easy,” Alma says. “I’d be disappointed.”

  She reaches up, slow, and traces the backs of her fingers along his nape. He is tight-locked. Breathing fast. Ropy muscle in his neck. The rise of his shoulders knotted and firm.

  She turns her hand over, opens her palm on his spine. Squeezes. The smallest reminder of danger, of her position in charge.

  He grunts. Stands, quick, shaking her off. The shovel hook he sends up into her rib cage is a bonecrusher. Alma catches at the table, clumsy. The liquor bottles jangle. One tips, shatters, filling the air with the sharp scent of gin. Wheeler glowers at her. Fists at his sides. Erection pressing against the seam of his trousers.

  Alma’s side is pain-bloomed and throbbing, her body is throbbing, and this is good. This is going to be good. She licks at the corner of her mouth. Sheds her gray coat.

  “Get ready for me,” she says.

  He lowers his chin, teeth bared in a feral smile, and that calls Alma forward. She feints, watches how he withdraws—quick on his feet, but those shiny shoes won’t help him keep his balance—dips back and lunges in again. Jab to the jaw, her left arm still waking so the strike is too short. He weaves sideways. Her cross connects with his cheekbone, thumb knuckle brushing the side of his mustache. He comes in anyway, growling. She slips his jab, his fist stinging her ear, and that would have been a bad one to take in the jaw, he’s not holding back. Just like she wanted. There’s weight behind his punches she can’t manage, and though she is faster, he is stronger, bigger. A challenge.

  Hook to his ribs. It knocks a grunt out of him, but he catches her with a low uppercut while she’s changing levels, a snap of pain in her teeth.

  “Is that the best you’ve got?” Wheeler says, and she moves in again before she’s ready, goaded by his sneer. Foolish. He hits her square in the diaphragm—so well aimed she’d admire it more if she could breathe, or see—and as she folds forward, he catches her by the collar, hauls her upright. Slams her against the blue-papered wall.

  “Looks like I’m going to fuck you, after all,” he says.

  She is still fighting for air, her stomach hollowed, her collar cutting into her throat. His hand moves between them, rough against the stinging flesh of her belly, her belt buckle clinking. Blood hot and salty on her lip. Sweet ache between her thighs. This fight’s not over. Then he palms her sex and she thinks maybe it is. His fingers pushing into her. Wheeler bites at her neck, growling, teeth and mustache scratching her skin. Thrusts hard against her thigh. A hitched groan sounds in her ears before she realizes it came from her own mouth.

  There’s a knock in the Clyde Imports office.

  Wheeler’s teeth, his fingers, go still.

  Two more knocks.

  “God damn it,” Alma says.

  It’s Dom Kopp. Here early for his big chance to buy into the trade. For their plan to work, for everything to be set in motion, they need him to come inside. He can’t be kept waiting and get spooked. He can’t walk away.

  “Tomorrow,” Wheeler says, twisting her face toward his. “Before you leave town.”

  His fingers still curling inside her. Eyes burning, cheek red from her knuckles. He is a beauty.

  Alma nods, as much as she can with his fist still at her throat. He pulls his hand from her trousers. Steps back. She is breathing hard, angry at the interruption, excited by the promise to pick up where they’re leaving off. She watches him smooth himself out, hoping for a glimpse of bare flesh. He adjusts his trousers, still buttoned; fixes his tie; tugs at his cuffs. Alma straightens her collar and belt, not bothering with the rest. Wheeler has to look the part of a gentleman. If she is rumpled and bloody, sharp-toothed, it will only help them get Kopp where they want.

  Wheeler leaves her at the liquor board, goes into the Clyde Imports office. The sound of his footsteps, another triple knock—Kopp’s getting nervous out there, the fool—and the clicking of the lock.

  “Mr. Kopp. Come in.”

  Alma tosses back the rest of the whiskey. It is tinted with juniper, the sides of the glass wet with liquor that slopped out when she fell against the table. Her body aches, in good and better ways, a twinge at the back of her jaw the only pain that she could do without. How is it going to be tomorrow? More sparring. Then falling onto Wheeler’s desk, or into his chair. She doesn’t want to wait. His eyes on hers as he touched her. Her scent on his fingers.

  Focus.

  It’s time to get to work.

  32

  JANUARY 24, 1887

  “I’ve kept quiet, like you wanted,” Kopp says.

  “Did you bring the money?”

  Alma comes into the office as Kopp is pulling a fat envelope out of his jacket pocket. He flinches when he sees her. She stares at him flatly, nodding a mute greeting.

  “Anyone else going to come sneaking up on us?” Kopp says to Wheeler, not letting go of the envelope.

  “No,” Wheeler says. “How much do you have?”

  “Five thousand,” Kopp says. “I only had three, but I borrowed more from my railroad contact. He doesn’t know why, of course. I understand discretion.”

  Alma tongues her sore back molars. This is better than she’d hoped. A huge sum of money, yes. But more than that, Kopp just received yet another cash infusion from the railroad. If he were going to skip town and steal the railroad’s money, getting away with as much as he could carry, this would be the time to do it.

  Wheeler holds out his hand. Kopp hesitates, bobbing the envelope like a fishing lure.

  “What does this get me, exactly?” he says.

  “A fifth of our trade,” Wheeler tells him. “We need a new cutter, and this is going to finance it. You can expect to recoup your investment in six months’ time and make money from there. Does that math suit you?”

  “Add it up for me, man.” Kopp waves a hand dismissively. “In terms of profit.”

  “Ten thousand a year, once you’ve bought in,” Wheeler says.

  Alma is glad Kopp is ignoring her, facing away, so she can roll her eyes at this number. Wheeler’s coming in a little high—it verges on farce—but he knows Kopp’s illusions about the trade. And there is sense in promising so much so soon. If Wheeler told Kopp it would take three years to make his money back, the greedy bastard might take his envelope of cash and leave before they’re ready.

  “And what else must I do?”

  “Nothing,” Wheeler says. “That’s the beauty of being an investor.”

  Kopp hands him the envelope. Wheeler doesn’t even look at it, only tosses it to Alma as though it’s stuffed with garbage. She cracks the seal. United States Notes, not local-bank bills—the good stuff. Kopp may be a fool, but he knows how things work in the world of under-the-table dealings. She sifts through the notes, pulls one out and holds it up against the single lamp’s hazy light. Sniffs its bank freshness, crisp paper and hot ink.

  “Clean money.” She counts it twice. “All here.”

  “Excellent,” Wheeler says.

  He shakes Kopp’s hand. It’s Alma’s turn to speak up.

  “He wanted to see some product, sir,” she says. “I told him you might allow it.”

  “Don’t trust our quality?” Wheeler says, his tone sharp.

  “I’m curious.” Kopp taps his walking stick on the carpet, imperious once again now that he’s paid to play. “Never seen the stuff.”

  “All right, Mr. Kopp,” Wheeler says, leaning against a desk and folding his arms over his chest. “I’m going to give you very clear instructions. Go into the Union Hotel’s bar across the street. Get one drink. Enjoy it. Then come back along Quincy. There’s a recessed doorway between a tailor’s and a paint shop. A little back way to storage space. I’ll meet you there. Try to be inconspicuous.”

  Kopp nods, sees himself out. Alma and Wheeler are left alone again. She gives Wheeler the envelope, but now that things are in motion, he doesn’t let his eyes stay on hers for more than a moment.

  “Five thousand,” he says, th
umbing through the notes.

  “And there’s Kopp,” she says. “Wandering around Sailor Town with it burning a hole in his pocket.”

  “Put out the lamp.”

  Wheeler locks the front door. She snuffs the flame, so the room is lit only by the hearth glow spilling from the back office. In the dark she is intensely aware of his body moving before hers. The muted shine of his eyes, the weight in his footsteps. They walk into the inner room. Wheeler locks that door, too. When he turns around and catches sight of the gin-spattered sideboard, his face flickers.

  “There’s time enough before he comes back,” Alma says, close beside him.

  “No. You clean that up.” He nods at the cracked decanter, the dripping marble. “I’m going to speak to Conaway.”

  “You don’t like how I clean.”

  “I don’t like how you do most things.” Wheeler throws the money on his desk. “This was your plan. Stick to it, why don’t you.”

  “Your plan, too,” she says, ambling to the liquor board and righting the broken glass. “It’s possible to work and have fun at the same time, you know.”

  “I rarely find that to be true.”

  He goes out into the hall. Alma shakes her head, laughing quietly. He’s as cranky as a mule now that they’ve gotten started. Maybe he’s nervous.

  There’s nowhere to put the broken decanter but into the hearth. The bottle is mostly empty, all that bitter juniper leaking out through seamed cracks in the sides. She throws it against the chimney bricks, liking the smash of the glass, the way the flames leap and flare under the spattering of liquor. Little shards of glass tick down through the firewood, snapping in the heat.

  Once the broken bottle is cleaned up, Alma shrugs at the board—still dripping, a few other bottles askew—and leaves it to sit at Wheeler’s desk. She draws the envelope of cash toward her. Takes out six hundred-dollar bills. Most of Kopp’s money is going to Delphine, to cover the loss of the four stolen batches of tar. But Alma needs six hundred dollars to cover Sloan’s King Tye purchase, since he’s not paying for it and she doesn’t want Wheeler to know why: how she had to leave McManus to die and give Sloan the tar for free, to buy time. Sloan has not yet brought out McManus’s body. That means there might still be a way to keep Wheeler from finding out how Alma abandoned him.

  She folds the notes into a tight square. Tucks it into her inner vest pocket and leans back into the rich creak of leather, propping her boots up. Pulling a coiled length of cord from her pocket, she spools it around her fingers, lets her head fall back. She’s never looked at the ceiling in this room. It is plastered neatly, but smoke stains crawl up the walls and onto the molding over each bracketed lamp. The cord slithers around her knuckles. She dips her thoughts into the future, that deep, icy unknown, a place she does not like to tread, though at this moment it seems almost inviting. The picture of another evening like this, except the office is in Tacoma. Wheeler might visit. In his gray coat, with a new gold tiepin she can pluck out, toss to the carpet. Or Delphine. Draped in a blue velvet cloak. Wearing a gown, like she used to. Saffron silk, or bloodred. She might sit by the fire. There might be diamonds in her hair. And Alma might offer her a drink. Didn’t I tell you I’d make you happy, Rosales? she might say. Yeah. You did.

  Footsteps in the hall. Voices. Alma unknots her hands from the cord, puts it in her pocket as she stands out of the chair. And here are Wheeler and Kopp. That was a fast drink. Kopp’s face is sharp and eager. He has no idea.

  “I thought I told you to clean that up,” Wheeler says to Alma.

  “It’s clean.” She walks toward them. “Mostly.”

  “Unfortunately, you have another mess to deal with,” he says.

  Wheeler shoves Kopp at her and she is ready, catching the startled man by the shoulders and driving her knee into his gut. He sags, wheezing. She grabs him by the hair, twisting his flashy jacket to trap his arms and letting him drop to his knees. Once he’s down, she’s on him, a boot in his back sending him face-first to the carpet. He squirms but there’s no strength in him, all slack muscles and flopping, no breath deep enough even to scream. She sits atop his pinned shoulders. Loops the cord around his neck. Whining. Twitching arms. The cord bites into her hands and she bears down, glad she can’t see his eyes, and soon it’s over, piss stink rising from under the body.

  “Hardly seems fair when they don’t put up a fight,” she says, flexing life back into her fingers.

  “Roll him over.” Wheeler’s face is stony. “He’ll ruin my carpet.”

  “Oh, my apologies,” Alma says, sharp. “Jesus Christ. Come help me, don’t just stand there.”

  She tugs at the body, not lingering on the purple face, the jut of swollen tongue. She picks apart the knot of Kopp’s tie. There’s a bit of blood at his throat, where cord cut into skin.

  Wheeler crouches on the other side of Kopp. He twists the man’s vest buttons free as Alma pulls open his tie. There is no talking now. They barely look at each other. Alma’s handled bodies before and she’s sure Wheeler has, too, but this stripping of the corpse bothers her more than it did to strangle him—that was force, a necessity, while this feels invasive, perversely intimate. She glances up at Wheeler and he is pale, scowling, working open Kopp’s shirt with grim determination.

  There’s a rap at the door. Alma pauses, the still-warm weight of Kopp’s arm heavy in her hands as she tugs off his sleeve.

  From the hall: “It’s Nell.”

  Wheeler stands, looking eager enough to get his fingers away from Kopp’s belt buckle, and wipes his hands on his trousers.

  “Come in,” he says.

  Nell steps through the door, a paper-wrapped bundle under one arm. She inhales sharply when her eyes catch on the body on the floor, on Alma’s dogged yanks to remove the arm from the sleeve. But she recovers just as quick. Alma admires that.

  “I brought the dress,” Nell says. “Though now I don’t know if I’m going to get it back.”

  “You’re too damn smart, Nell,” Alma tells her, as Kopp’s bare arm flops to the carpet. “And I hope you’re not squeamish—Wheeler might need some help getting those trousers off him.”

  “Jack. Marshal Forrester wasn’t at the dance hall.”

  Alma lets go of Kopp’s undershirt. Sits back on her haunches, her chest tight. Wheeler is frowning.

  “Wasn’t he supposed to be?” Alma says. “What about last night?”

  “Not then, either. He might still show, but I don’t know when.”

  “Damn it.”

  There’s no plan if Forrester’s not brought in. He has to play his part at the police station tomorrow, so he has to be briefed by Nell tonight.

  “I’ll go back,” Nell says. “What should I do if he doesn’t come by?”

  “Go to his house,” Wheeler says, at the sideboard, taking his time pouring a whiskey. “It’s not far from yours. Just up the hill on Tyler.”

  “I don’t want her to do that,” Alma says. Nell is not supposed to be in any trouble, not doing anything out of the ordinary.

  “He doesn’t have a wife,” Wheeler says, straightening his shirt cuffs. “He won’t mind.”

  “Fuck you,” Alma says. “She’s not going to go whore herself to the marshal.”

  “I’ll pay him a call,” Nell says to Wheeler. And to Alma, icy: “I’ve been there before. And I don’t appreciate you speaking about me as if I’m not standing right here.”

  “Fine,” Alma says.

  She pulls out her knife, frustrated by the struggle to peel off Kopp’s layers of clothing, frustrated by the hitch in the plan. She grips a handful of trouser over Kopp’s meager thigh and sticks the knife in, cutting open the cloth from pubic bone to ankle. Nell shouldn’t have to go to the marshal. And it stings that she’s siding with Wheeler. For weeks, Alma has been thinking about the three of them in the office, but it’s never been good in real time: first she was bleeding out and puking, now a piss-drenched corpse is on the floor. Nell agreeing with Wheeler and
snapping at Alma, to boot. It’s a letdown.

  “Good luck to you,” Alma mutters.

  She doesn’t look up when Nell leaves, too busy cutting and ripping cloth. The tearing sounds set her teeth on edge. Kopp’s pale body is covered in faint downy hair. When this brushes her skin, she grimaces.

  “This is going to take all night unless you lend a hand,” she tells Wheeler. “Where’s your razor?”

  He sets down his whiskey. Takes a leather bag from the armoire.

  “Remind me why I thought this was a good plan,” he says.

  “It is a good plan.” She cuts free the last bit of trousers, so Kopp lies there in a tattered nest of cloth, bare except his for damp smallclothes, socks, and left boot. “As long as Forrester doesn’t fall through.”

  “We both know Nell’s powers of persuasion.”

  Alma glares at Wheeler. He kneels at Kopp’s head, one swipe of his razor taking off half the dead man’s yellowish mustache. They finish preparing the body in silence.

  * * *

  Hoop & Barrow’s woodshed lets in knifing wind. No sleet yet but the air tastes of it, metallic and frosty. Alma waits atop two crates of opium: the second transfer to Sloan. It had better be a smooth one. The night has only just begun.

  Just before the hour, two men come slouching up to the shed. Alma recognizes one of them from last week; the other is new, young, with a scarred forehead and nervous fingers.

  “Where’s the tar?” the first man says.

  “It’s all yours,” she says, standing from the boxes.

  She takes out a cigarette case, matches. Offers the case to the young man first, then his glowering companion. Only the young man takes one, match flare catching in the scar across his forehead as he leans forward to draw life into the tobacco. Wind kicking hair into his eyes. The first patter of hail sounding on the pier boards.

  “Can I borrow you for a minute?” Alma says to the young man. “I need to move some gear to the head of the wharf.”