“Oh, what’s the harm?” he continued. “Claus will enjoy it. Hell, all the men will have a laugh.” Getting no response, he relaxed his voice and touched the back of her head. “You asked for my help with your reverend and that Fort Collins mess.”
“It wasn’t a mess. The college wants—”
“What’d I do? Laugh and fuss, or did I get Clarence on it?”
“You laughed and fussed, actually. But when you finally did get him to help, I was grateful. You know that.”
“Do this for me.”
“It’s not the same.” She pointed at the window with her fork. “Is that a junco?”
“Let’s say we each find the other’s interests … a bit ridiculous.”
Neva grimaced. “You’re comparing my faith with your dog? That’s insulting. And you’re having your dog made sheriff.”
“Deputy.”
She returned her eyes to him. “Oh, excuse me, deputy sheriff. That’s—” She couldn’t help but snicker.
He scrunched his nose and shoved his lips out to frame his front teeth. “Howdy, Ma’am. I’m Deputy Claus. At your service!”
“That’s awful, Bill,” she said between closed-lip giggles. “Stop.”
“Not till you agree.”
“Fine, you win, I’ll say something, but—”
“Good morning,” Winnie interrupted as she entering the room, still in her loosely tied, lilac dressing gown.
“Sister,” acknowledged Neva. Her rare moment of merriment with her husband halted midair, leaving only ticks from the nearby grandfather clock.
“Good morning, dear,” said Bill, standing.
“Bear,” Winnie said.
He embraced her, gave her a kiss on the lips, then drew her chair on his left. The house servant brought a plate of eggs and biscuits and set it before the young woman whose corn-blue eyes glimmered. A spasm shot through Neva’s cheek as she looked away.
***
The palliative smiles Winnie offered both Neva and Bill were genuine. Winnie loved them both. Neva was her only sibling—her only family still above ground. Of course she loved her. And Bill? She had grown to love him. In the first year of his advances, when she was twenty and had moved in to help Neva and the girls, she found Bill repulsive. Not just for their approximately twenty-year age difference, and not just because he was her sister’s husband; nor because he was whoring on his sick wife. If she was honest, what repulsed her most was that dreadful dead eye. Regardless of her private reasons, she rebuffed him at every turn, every hand around her was pulled away, every expensive gift ignored.
Then Winnie’s nieces, Henrietta and Vernie (Bill and Neva’s daughters), were sent to boarding school to protect them from Neva’s polio. That meant trips to visit them. Just she and Bill. (Neva wasn’t allowed to go. According to Bill, it was too risky for the girls.) Winnie began enjoying these trips. Bill would buy her special trinkets at Mays Department store, a block from the boarding school. Other times, Winnie felt uncomfortable: Bill would stop the carriage and crowd her, speaking to her about his needs. And there was the time he felt her breasts, and she let him, even enjoyed it a bit. But afterward, she had felt terrible for having even allowed it.
Then came Neva’s accident—the cut to her wrist. The result of a silly fall, Neva said. Winnie accepted that explanation, the alternative being too awful to consider. Yet its undertow pulled at Winnie. Was her behavior responsible for her sister’s melancholy? No, it was Bill’s doing. It was his fault for being fresh. And Bill’s fault for sending Neva’s girls away. Though, maybe that was best for the girls. Regardless, Neva seemed despondent. The important thing, Winnie assured herself, was that she, Winnie, had done nothing wrong. Yes, she enjoyed Bill’s presents … and began to enjoy her time with him … and perhaps his occasional touch. But she knew what would come next. Sex with the man would destroy her sister. Winnie couldn’t do that to Neva. She needed to stop imagining it. She might keep the trinkets, but— She could think of only one lasting solution: convince Neva to make Bill stop.
Finally, Winnie took the matter to Neva: Though she appreciated the gifts and living with them, Bill made her uncomfortable. Would Neva please talk to him? She didn’t want to cause trouble, just to put some distance there. Nothing more. What Winnie didn’t reveal was her own fears: that as a result of this, she and Neva might have to leave. She didn’t want that. By then, Neva was dependent on an invalid chair or crutches. It would be too much work for Winnie. And the gifts would stop too. And she wouldn’t see Bill anymore. No, the solution was for Bill’s advances to end. And yet, to Winnie’s astonishment, Neva kissed her cheek and whispered, “Give him a chance, Sissy. I need you both.”
So the courtship continued. The flowers stayed in their vases. The dresses hung in the wardrobe—dresses Neva joined Winnie in selecting, the fabrics and styles. Bill stopped his whore house forays—stopped checking his traps, as Neva called it. Instead he stayed home in the evenings. Even sat for pinochle once. The three moved into the Pioneer Building suites; then Bill bought this house. A month later, when Winnie was twenty-one, she let Bill come to her bed. But, of course, he had to wear an eye patch—something he still did, including the night before this breakfast.
***
When the Denver Post was brought for Haywood, he snapped the fold open. Across the top it read:
ASSASSIN SOUGHT!
Governor’s murder investigation intensifies
President Roosevelt alarmed
He read with the same consumptive vigor he’d employed on his breakfast: his lips moving a little with only an occasional “Mmmph,” or the suck of air through his teeth.
Both women took to discussing the junco on the feeder, questioning whether it was male or female. Then their talk turned to two cardinals which had alighted there. Months prior, Neva had named the pair Cardinal and Lady Dedlock, which made Winnie laugh. Winnie hadn’t read Charles Dickens’ Bleak House, so the reference was lost on her, but still she found it funny. Haywood popped the Post wide to read inside. After a moment, he let the paper sag and stared at the wall. The women noticed and exchanged a questioning look.
“What’s troubling you?” asked Neva.
Haywood addressed Winnie. “Have Clarence in my office tomorrow at nine. You be there too.”
Winnie gave a modest acknowledgment and watched Haywood rise. He dabbed his napkin to his lips, excused himself and left.
Neva touched Winnie’s arm. “Tell me later—whatever this is.”
“Ok.”
“And if this is something bad, tell me right away.”
Winnie gave a barely visible nod. “I will, Sissy.”
<><><>
– 15 –
THURSDAY
January 10, 1907
“Clarence, have you read the new Russian constitution?” asked Haywood, pacing his own office. “Have you? It’s brilliant. Power in the hands of workers, the people.”
Clarence Darrow, in an olive coat with a round-collar shirt, peered over his glasses. “I think we invented: We the People.”
“No, it’s not the same!” boomed Haywood. “Ours is not truly We the People, and you know it. It’s we the corporations. It’s we the wealthy few. It’ll take a bloody revolution here, just as they—”
“They still have a czar.”
“We’ll see. We’ll see. If the czar can respect the new Russian constitution and the Duma, then he can stay.”
“Is that what you told him?” Darrow asked, chancing sarcasm.
Haywood wheeled around. “I’m the standard bearer for the working man of this nation. Must I be theirs as well?”
Darrow nodded, unsure of his client’s sincerity. “All right, Bill. All right.” He watched as Haywood’s pacing slowed. Finally, Haywood took a seat in a winged-back chair at the end of the settee where Darrow waited. Behind them both, Wi
nnie observed from a chair against the wall, her peacock-feathered hat in her lap.
“You’re the legal genius,” Haywood began, “though I probably know more about the law of the working man.”
“Perhaps.”
“So,” Haywood pressed, “what do we do?”
“Regarding what?” Darrow asked. “The Steunenberg thing?” He saw Haywood nod before continuing. “Of what concern is it to you? A radical, unevolved anarchist killed the poor man. You and the Federation should keep to ground. Say nothing. Do nothing. Don’t offer your opinion. I know that’s a tall order for you, but you need to refrain. Even a congratulatory inference could be wildly unpopular. Could direct their arrows right here.”
“Unpopular with whom?” Haywood asked. “Unionists are happy the man received his just deserts … for his treason.”
Darrow raised his hand. “I don’t want to hear that. I truly don’t. That elected official was blown to shreds in front of his children. Save all that for … for your rallies. Better yet, as I said, don’t talk about it at all. Don’t share your opinion, and you should discourage others from doing so. The Federation has nothing but sympathy for the family, for the people of Idaho, and so forth.”
“It was an act of revolution, inspired by our Russian brothers—”
“No, Bill,” barked Darrow. “Now, as I said, I won’t hear that.”
Haywood glared at his attorney, giving him the full front of his face, dead eye included, but Darrow didn’t flinch. “When the Pinks start looking here in Denver,” Haywood said, “—and they will, mind you, you need to have a plan.”
“You were here. The assassin was in Boise. You don’t know who he is or where he is now.”
Haywood shrugged. “How would I know such a thing?”
“That’s correct and shouldn’t change. Understand?” Darrow waited until Haywood nodded before continuing, “The state of Idaho has no jurisdiction in Colorado. The federal government either—least none to involve you. You had no knowledge of the events prior to their occurrence. And if the terrorist—”
“He’s not a terrorist. A fanatic perhaps, but terrorist is not—”
“Bill. My God.”
“All right.”
Darrow took a breath. “The killer is likely to be a Federation member. We know that. The press will call him a terrorist. Certainly the government will. Senator Borah cannot restrain himself from the abuse of that word. Unless you denounce the killer—whoever he turns out to be—and his actions, the moniker terrorist will be attached to the union as well, including to you.”
Haywood moved to the window. “Been called it many times.”
Darrow rose and came to Haywood’s side, whispering so Winnie couldn’t hear. “I trust there’s nothing written, no witness or other evidence, that could in any way be misconstrued as to somehow implicate the Federation or yourself.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Then let the chips fall where they may. There. Up in Boise. But here, say nothing. Do nothing.”
Haywood nodded, but otherwise remained stoic at the window.
“I wish you a good day. I must return to my office.” At the door, Darrow gathered his hat and coat and nodded at Winnie. “Ma’am.”
“Mr. Darrow,” she replied.
Walking from the office, Darrow’s thoughts whirled. He knew now what, truly, he’d already known: his client ordered the assassination of the governor of Idaho. He’d contained his anxiety in Haywood’s office, but now it began to gurgle up, getting away from him. On the first floor, he entered the Gassell Saloon and ordered a whiskey. His nerves settled. After ordering another, he began to open his mind’s windows, letting its curtains blow. What was done to Governor Steunenberg was grotesque. Horrid, certainly. No, of course it was. It was a reprehensible crime. A beastly murder. But … He became still and closed his eyes, letting the skittish demon come to him. He could feel its chill before seeing its form, feel its breath before hearing its whisper. Then the forbidden thought was full upon him: Might this be the one matter, the one case, that he had dreamed of? If Bill was arrested, was charged, if it all blew up (he snorted at the word), then yes, perhaps—it may be precisely what he’d hoped for, waited for, the reason he’d tolerated Bill for so long. Besides, the demon assured him, Darrow was just the lawyer. So, as his client’s actions justified his patience, so now may his own actions be justified. A little curl came to one end of Darrow’s mouth. Yes, this assassination was horrendous, but it just might take him all the way to the United States Supreme Court.
***
Up in Haywood’s office, the big man strolled to Winnie, and she rose. “My dear, the time’s come. Telephone Miss Capone.”
“All right,” began Winnie. “Do you want me to go too?”
He wrapped his arms around her. “No, stay.”
“Are you worried?”
“Why should I be? I’m here in Colorado. All of that mess will stay up in Idaho.” After a kiss, he continued, “To think on it, message her by telegraph. No one can eavesdrop.”
“Eavesdrop? I wouldn’t say anything that might—”
“No, of course not, but she might. Send the message.” He gave her a perfunctory smile. “Use the code words you told her.”
Sensing his tension, she pulled close. “You are worried.”
“Not if you leave now,” he said, glancing away.
***
Thirty minutes later, Winnie was in the telegraph office, standing before a raised desk, behind which stood a young male attendant, wide-eying the beauty penciling a message in front of him. “Yes, the Saratoga Hotel, in Boise,” she said, replying to his question. She knew he was watching her as all men did, whether they were her age, like this man, or much older, like Bill. When men unknown to her leered, she wasn’t sure if it was because they were imagining bedding her, imagining introducing her to their mother, or just flummoxed knowing she was both Big Bill’s mistress and his wife’s sister. Regardless, the look carried a consistency, as did her practiced instinct to ignore it. Or not ignore it. The choice was hers. This was her power. Once they locked on her, she had them. She could then pretend to not see them, thus frustrating their approach. Or she could flit her eyes, touch her hair, and ensnare them. This young man’s eyes were too sweet. He was too serious in his stare. Clearly, he was sizing her up for his mother. So, she handed him the completed paper without meeting his gaze.
He read it and looked up, puzzled.
She asked, “Can you not make out my writing?”
“No, Ma’am. I mean, yes, I can, Miss Minor. You want this to go to Miss Carlotta Capone at the Saratoga Hotel in Boise?”
“Yes.”
“And the message is: PARIS IN THE SPRING. Correct?”
“Precisely.”
“Are you sure Miss Capone will understand the—”
“I’m certain,” she replied, now meeting his eyes. “Can you not send such a short message?”
“Oh yes, you’re fine. I mean, that’s fine. This is fine. We can send just one word, if you wish. Even one letter. Like just an A. Or just a B.” He chuckled at himself. “I heard someone did that once—just sent one letter. I think it was an M.”
“All right,” Winnie tried.
“If you’re concerned for the cost, it’s the same for ten words as for one letter. Even an M. But for Mr. Haywood, there’s no—”
“It’s not for Mr. Haywood,” she snapped. “You should mind yourself and not assume.”
“I apologize.” His face fell. “I didn’t intend—”
“Just tell me the fee.”
The young man adjusted his glasses while consulting the pricing book. “Yes, of course. To Boise. That’s nine hundred miles. Five bits, please, Miss.”
“Five bits?”
“Yes.”
“Five,” she repeated. She glanced
outside, then back to the cheerful attendant. “Fine, charge it to the Federation.”
“Certainly. Whatever you—”
“Thank you,” Winnie said, wheeling about. But before she reached the door, she turned back. “When will it arrive?”
“A few minutes after it’s sent. I think.”
“Good,” she said, and left.
<><><>
– 16 –
FRIDAY
January 11, 1907
By 1907, Denver’s Broadway Theater had not only driven the nearby Tabor Opera House out of business, but it had become the most prestigious theater between St. Louis and San Francisco. Outside, its Romanesque masonry bulged in viscous proportions, adorned with animal and floral motifs. Inside, in one of twenty-five onion-domed boxes, a pair of green crutches were leaning against an ornate metal rack bearing an assortment of furs, muffs, woolen coats, and men’s silk top hats. In that box’s first row, on the far-left seat, Neva sat smiling, her golden curls massed in the Gibson Girl style around her glittering drop-earrings; her long, pale neck bearing a sterling silver necklace supporting a brooch consisting of a rhombus of emeralds and diamonds, surrounded by her smooth skin, the beginning of her cleavage, and the white-lace and apple-green trim of her gown—a shade of green chosen for how it matched her eyes.
Below her, hundreds of Denver’s well dressed were finding their seats in front of the enormous curtain painted with an exotic, East Indian panorama. She scrutinized the women down there, many popinjays wearing extravagantly ribboned feathered hats—to the theater! Could they not imagine how they were obstructing the view of others? Or did they know, but simply didn’t care? Who were they? Were they more likely aligned with the Federation—perhaps wives, sisters, girlfriends of sub-bosses or the merchants that supplied the labor union? Or more likely associated with fat capitalists, like mine owners? Though she knew a few by sight, most were either unknown, or she couldn’t see their faces due to the monstrosities on their heads. So, she devised a method to study the question: sooner or later the women below would nonchalantly survey the room—as Neva was doing. Who was there? Wearing what? With whom? Eventually they would look up at the boxes, and, when their gazes fell on Neva, she would produce the affect of congeniality for them. Those who responded in kind were Federation women, or at least sympathetic to the workers’ cause. Those whose eyes slung abuse at her were otherwise. The orchestra pit was still coming to life, tuning in fits and starts, when Neva had her answer. Most of the thoughtless ones—those wearing garish hats in a theater—had glowered at her. No great wonder, she grumbled silently—greed, judgmentalism, and inconsiderateness being the best friends that they are.
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