“Must as you must,” muttered the regular, wet-gnawing a cigar.
Operative 21 walked through the lobby, nodded at the hotel’s crisp clerk, and continued down the back hall to a door marked GENTLEMEN. He entered, flipped the latch, and withdrew a small log book and pencil from his breast pocket. By the light of the curtained window he wrote with a scratching sound: ORCH PB 11AM TAXI. (ORCH for Orchard. PB for Pioneer Building.) Through the door, he heard the lobby telephone clang, then the clerk speak briefly and hang up. Operative 21 stuffed both the log and the pencil into his pocket. A knock brought his sharp attention.
“Irish,” came the voice of the clerk, followed by receding steps. Operative 21 waited a moment, then left the men’s room, turning away from the lobby. He exited the back of the hotel into a rancid alleyway, then entered another building through a door bearing the word “Ladies”—a portal to fleshly pleasures. He walked steadily through the curtained alcoves and latched doors to arrive in a front lobby attended by six women in various states of under-dress, all admiring him as he passed. He re-entered the sunlight on Lawrence Street and there jumped aboard a passing electric streetcar that would carry him three blocks to the Tabor Opera House at Sixteenth Street and Curtis Avenue. Midway, the tram passed the colossal granite Mine Exchange Building, home of the Mine Owner’s Association—the group who employed the Pinkertons (including him) to infiltrate, investigate, spy upon and confound the mine workers’ union, the Western Federation of Miners. Craning his neck to peer up at the building’s three-story clock tower (then tolling 11:00), Operative 21 could see the head of the twelve-foot copper statue of an “Old Prospector” far atop the tower—the highest honor for the lowest man.
Once in the Tabor, he came to a set of stairs and climbed to the floors above the dilapidated theater. On the fourth floor, he entered a hallway and was greeted by two gunhands who bore a mix of congeniality and glares. Operative 21 ignored them and proceeded, moving with the stride of a man who had trodden that path several times every day for three months without fail. Down the hall he entered a nondescript door and approached a woman sitting at a desk. “He called for me?” he asked.
“Yes, but he’s not available at this moment,” she replied. “Please sit.”
He found a chair. From behind the interior door came the sound of an angry Irishman: “Morris, you’ve been trusted! And this pulp nonsense is a violation of that trust. If you get a man of mine killed, a vast tonnage of shite will rain upon your head.”
Then came another voice carrying a thick Russian accent. “People should know, Sir. I’m reporting—”
“Goddamnit,” yelled the first voice, causing the woman in the outer office to wince. Then things grew quieter, and Operative 21 could only make out occasional words: something about a book, correspondences, secrets, Mr. Pinkerton, and loyalty.
When the office door flew open, a young, black-haired man exited, shutting the door behind himself. He donned his bowler as if it were the sum of his composure now put right, then adjusted his thick glasses before stopping at the desk to give a collection of papers to the woman. She accepted them, saying, “Thank you, Mr. Friedman. I’m sorry.”
“Me too, Margret. You should be careful,” admonished the Russian as he left.
The Irish voice yelled through the door: “Nine minutes!”
After the elapsed time, Margaret stood and held the interior door for Operative 21. The office within was well appointed with leather couches, side tables, and vases under tall windows that cast light across a massive green wool rug. Near the door hung a wood telephone box which Operative 21 noted, bemused, though he had seen it several times since its installation a month prior. Pipe smoke swirled under unlit chandeliers dangling from the vaulted ceiling. Before him was a series of tall-backed chairs. In one sat the source of the smoke, a white-haired, bespectacled man reading a newspaper. The man looked up. With a tone approaching reverence, Operative 21 said, “Good day, Chief. Mr. McParland.”
“You were four minutes late to your post this morning,” barked the man. “The reason for your tardiness?”
Operative 21 blanched, his mouth open to reply. He needed a moment to marshal his defenses. “I was … I’m not sure. But—”
Through round lenses, the draped, gray-blue eyes of Chief Detective James McParland, Director of the Western Division of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, watched his operative fumble for words. McParland set aside the newspaper and stood to address the young man directly. “I’ve observed you to be a steady man, but for you to assume leadership, you must maintain a seriousness of mind.” His Galway brogue was as bushy as his mustache. “I’ll tolerate no wavering of loyalty from any of my men.”
Operative 21 glanced down, his breath slight as if to not disrupt the air. Once McParland turned away, the operative returned his gaze to the man. As was his custom, McParland wore as nice a wool suit as he could afford: three-buttoned, single-breasted, with steam-creased, cuffed and pleated trousers. Across his modestly round middle draped a woven-gold chain (a gift from his wife, Mary) leading to a vest pocket holding a gold pocket-watch (a gift from Mr. Pinkerton). Above the vest, the knot of his black silk tie formed a tight shield winged by the crisp tabs of his shirt collar—Pinkerton white (meaning unforgivingly free of blemishes). His polished shoes never varied from cap-toed Florsheims with Goodyear welting. When outside, he wore a gray homburg with an unassuming band. And when walking more than twenty feet or so, he relied lightly on a brass-knobbed, walnut cane (pressed into service a decade prior by the kick of a horse). In truth the cane was as much strut as support, as much countenance as cudgel.
“You hear me, Twenty-One?” resumed the detective. “Absolute loyalty. Otherwise, none at all.”
“Yes, Chief,” said Jack Garrett, otherwise known as Operative 21. He was anxious for McParland to call him Agent Garrett, not the unaccredited, replaceable blankness of Operative. Though agent came next, even then it wouldn’t be good enough. Not for Jack. He had his sights higher: detective—what Old Man Pinkerton called the seasoned men in the agency. Someday he would be Detective Jack Garrett, a seasoned man. Even better, he’d have an office like this one. Maybe better than this one. But, right now, in this moment, the warmth of that bright future was fading under McParland’s scrutiny and squint. Jack scanned his memory for something he might’ve done to deserve this rebuke. “Have I—”
“Intoxicated?” asked McParland, watch in hand.
“This morning?” Jack gave a chuckle. “No, just smokin oap.” Smirking came naturally to Jack, but he quickly suppressed it now.
McParland’s stare burned: Jack’s opium humor was unwelcome.
“No, Sir,” Jack corrected.
“When was your last drink?”
Jack shook his head slightly. “Not since I swore my oath. But as an operative, I understood we—”
McParland nodded. “I’d hate to find you tarred and feathered by those Wobblies, or hanging from a tree ... like Baxter met his end in Boulder.”
“He’s alive, Sir.”
***
McParland peaked his eyebrows and squeezed his lips, as if Baxter’s state of being alive or dead was in question. “Not to the agency. To me, when Baxter let himself be discovered, he met his end.” He knew it was a cruel business hurling such a thing in the face of a friend of Baxter, the Pinkerton operative whom the Federation nearly killed. But discipline is not discipline without discipline, and he could ill afford William Haywood discovering yet another Pinkerton spy within Federation ranks. (Chief Detective McParland would never refer to that murderer with such insouciance as to call him ‘Big Bill’.) Though it was true that the other operative would likely live, the young man would carry scars from his tarring and be of no further service to the Pinkerton Detective Agency—at least not west of the Mississippi, the territory McParland commanded from this Denver office.
So, McParland was loath to also los
e Operative 21. And the next Pinkerton operative to be exposed would receive a more “conclusive” beating by the Federation, making matters all the more difficult for the Pinkertons’ campaign against them. Besides, these mountain and range recruits were a whisker’s breadth from being Federation gunhands themselves. The only thing holding many of them from switching horses was the extra pay from Chicago’s Ward Building (Pinkerton headquarters): a dollar a day more than was given from Denver’s Pioneer Building (Federation headquarters). In fact, some operatives had been with the Federation for months, if not years, before taking the Pinkerton oath. Thus, word of yet another vicious beating, tarring, or even killing by the Federation of a Pinkerton operative, and McParland could see a wholesale bolt of thirty men across that disguised divide, over to the Federation. If that happened, the turncoats would not only expose Pinkerton secrets—like that son-of-a-bitch Russian Yid, Morris Friedman, had done—but they could destroy McParland’s reputation: his most-prized lore.
“Return to your post, Twenty-One,” McParland said, smoothing his mustache. “Stay on the Pioneer.”
“Like skunk on a birddog.”
McParland grunted, adding a rueful smile. “Be careful.”
With a “Yes, Sir,” Jack turned and left.
<><><>
– 5 –
While Jack was in his boss’s office, a few blocks away, Harry Orchard was alone on the second floor of the Pioneer Building, about to face his own boss, William Haywood. He remained standing, alone in Haywood’s office, among a scattering of mismatched wooden and upholstered chairs. He fidgeted, wandered, glanced at the main door and then at the one leading to the inner vestibule. He was in his only suit: a two-piece sandy sack over a dull shirt and brown tie worn loose. Muffled, raucous voices rose through the floor from the Gassell Saloon below. He stopped pacing. Pulling a deep breath, he attempted calm, picturing the Trivoli-Union beer he would have down there, just after this meeting.
He moved to the window, rubbed his thinly forested head, then turned again to the room, giving passing mind to the feminine furnishings cluttered among the matters of men: a vase sporting pink silk flowers; three floral-upholstered, cherrywood chairs; a mahogany humidor; two deep-tufted brown settees; a black candlestick telephone; a mediocre painting of a Russian Orlov Trotter; fourteen crates of ammunition; a Venetian red Bunco table concealed by maps, papers, and an electric brass lamp; and an array of shotguns and rifles leaning in one corner. He approached the room’s most prominent feature: a bulky, ornate Italian desk. On it he saw a number of papers askew, an English-to-Russian dictionary, a Russian language book, protest flyers, a bottle of ink, a cup of pens, and a rectangular porcelain ashtray.
Then he saw it, the only thing that mattered in the seconds before Haywood would return: a piece of paper—Crane’s linen with a distinctive yellowish hue. It was conspicuous, as if meant to be found, to be read. By him. On it, written in a hand he recognized as Haywood’s, was a list of names. But not just a list. Names on that specific type of paper, scrawled in that handwriting, made it a kill list. And the fourth name was his, Harry Orchard.
An icicle slid down his back. He moved the ashtray and spun the paper to reconfirm his horror. Of the other nine, he or Addis had killed seven. That left two: Martin Baxter (a Pinkerton spy who hadn’t yet died from being tarred), and Steve Adams (a name Orchard didn’t recognize). He stared again at his own name, willing the letters to disassemble and reform into another, into any other name—for Harry Orchard to become someone else. His cheeks burned. His brows widened. His breath transformed into a faint moan of deflation, then a whisper of “My God.”
In that moment, William “Big Bill” Haywood burst into the room, march-striding straight for his desk, giving Orchard little time to react other than to step aside, retreating backwards, plopping into a settee before popping up again to attention. Behind Haywood came a dense bulldog, nails clicking on the wood floor as it sniffed. Then it jumped on the settee, circled twice, and lay its drooping chin on its stubby front legs.
Orchard watched Haywood. The enormous stature with a round pate the size of a gold pan was searching for something on the desk. For a moment Orchard convinced himself that Haywood had not seen him at all—as if his boss was unaware that a sweaty pale man was no more than eight feet away. The rummaging stopped, and Haywood gave an “Ah,” holding up the kill list. He then placed it carefully on the corner of the desk nearest Orchard, smoothing its buttery fibers as if it were a winning trifecta ticket on display. Orchard watched this formality without breathing. Then, looking up, his gaze was met by Haywood’s dead orb of an eye. The other eye scorched a hole in Orchard’s forehead.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” asked Haywood, his subterranean voice rumbling through puffy jowls. He clapped a thick hand on Orchard’s shoulder, pressing his thumb into the hollow of Orchard’s collarbone. “You failed.”
He then turned, took a seat in his tall-backed, bison-hide chair and pulled at his shirt cuffs, bringing them visible from under his suit sleeves. Though he claimed his attire was Bolshevik (common colors, fabrics, shoes), as if he were but a working man, it was a crafted ruse. A theater of persuasion. In truth, he was enthused about clothing—knew its power and use. For the masses, from afar, from eulogies to rallies, from platforms to stages, from balconies to union halls, he was one of them. But for those sitting or standing near, small groups and individuals, politicians and patricians, lawyers and women, minions and enemies alike, it was unmistakably clear: no common miner wore a suit tailored at Daniels & Fisher’s department store. Adjusting his silver star cuff links, he asked, “Do you know how you failed at Bunker Hill?”
Orchard swallowed, surprised that the act had been acknowledged aloud, much less the name of the place. Considering the kill list, he began what he estimated to be his life’s final plea. “Mr. Haywood, Sir, if I’ve disappointed you …” He paused, gauging the big man’s response. But it was useless—nothing was forthcoming but that damnable stare. “I beg your pardon,” he almost quivered, “but was me and that Addis fella not put to that task?”
“What task was that, Harry?”
Orchard hesitated. Task orders were never stated aloud—there were too many Pinkerton spies within Federation ranks. And none of those Pinks should be afforded the opportunity to testify without perjuring himself—perjury being a corruption in the Pinkerton’s single, unblinking, “private eye” ethos. Thus, the most serious operational tasks for the Federation were relayed in writing, to be read silently with only the writer and reader present. Then the paper was burned while the two men were still alone, still quiet. It was a simple and efficient rule that Orchard knew well. Just as he knew the only man not obliged to the rule was the mass of righteous vengeance glaring at him from across the desk.
“Your task?” Haywood growled again.
Orchard continued to pause, his eyes flitting about. Was this a test? Might a witness suddenly materialize, like some apparition? “I ain’t sure of your meaning, Mr. Haywood.”
“It’s all right.” Haywood gave a wry smile. “No protocol. Tell me: what was your understanding of the task put to you?”
In a near whisper, Orchard began, “To bring the mine down. Concentrator too. And its super. Its managers and scabs. To the ground. To ruin.”
Haywood snorted a laugh. “To ruin? You certainly accomplished ruin.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
***
“Take a seat,” Haywood instructed, waving at the chair behind Orchard, then watching the man do as he was told. Yes, thought Haywood, according to newspaper accounts “to ruin” would seem an appropriate description of what had occurred in northern Idaho. Not only was he proud of the outcome, the leveling of the buildings of the Bunker Hill Mine, he was delighted the bombing set a new record for non-war destruction. He might even say that publicly. But pride in the killing? He’d keep that to himself.
To Haywood, there was something glorious about a good explosion. He didn’t just like them, or simply enjoy them, as one might a firework. No, he loved the power of a blast. Craved it like the squint-eyes did their opium. A well-planned, executed, and effective bomb was a feat of divine beauty: terminal art manifest in a fraction of a second. He didn’t know when that admiration had first arisen. Perhaps it was at the age of nine when, while hauling water to his father and other men deep in Idaho’s Silver City Mine, a fierce explosion became the last thing he remembered. He woke to find his sight halved, his face scarred, and his fate set before him.
The blast meant he never had to go into a mine again—something he had begun at the age of five. His father believed: “If you’s old enough for solid food, you’s old enough to mine.” So, for four years of his early youth he’d pushed carts bigger than him, carried supplies, shoveled and dug—whatever his father and the other men decided his little hands could muster. But then the blast came, and little Billy Haywood was saved. In that instant he became half blind but fully free.
Now, thirty years later, the intensity of a detonation was erotic. The unrivaled nature of each explosion, like perfect snowflakes, each masterfully unique unto itself. The variables were too vast for recurrence. Perhaps the fuse was faster. The dynamite placed just this way or that. The time of day. The nearby material that would become killing projectiles. Even the barometric pressure mattered. It was a killing method far superior to a gun—which was tedious and repeatable. Though the wind might differ one day to the next, pulling a bullet this way or that, that paled compared to the matchless, unpredictable beauty of a bomb: divine destruction and creation in one exquisite instant.
American Red Page 5
