<><><>
The setting sun lit the castle-shaped butte rising over Castle Rock, Colorado. Far below it, Haywood’s Packard stood empty at a hitching rail on Perry Street. Posted on either side of the car, sluggish horses sniffed at the front wheels and lamps. The Federation guard filled a chair on a long, covered porch, over which the building’s gabled face boasted the word HOTEL in green paint. The guard minded one of horses that kept trying to nibble the car’s fender. “Shoo! Stop that,” he said in a soft voice. “That’s not for you.”
Inside, the local doctor sweat in a lobby chair, staring up at Haywood’s inflamed face while the giant poured humiliation down on him. Claus watched from a nearby leather couch; while at a small bar ten feet away, Captain Swain chomped an unlit cigar. At the hotel’s desk, a gaunt clerk screened himself behind an even skinnier flower arrangement.
Haywood clicked his tongue. “Captain Swain, have I been clear with this scum Englishman?”
“I’d say you have,” said Swain.
“Yes, Your Excellency,” begged the doctor, his London accent trembling. “All medical procedures for union men I am to bill to the Federation. I am fully informed now.”
“This is beyond that, doctor,” growled Haywood. “I love a good reason to automobile on such a brumal day. Hell, any day. But you were warned. You were telegraphed. You were told. And then I hear last month about a boy, the young son of a labor man”—he thumped the doctor in the chest—“one of my men. I hear his boy, nine years of age, lost a foot—crushed by a cart at your employer’s mine here. He carried his boy to you, and you refused him. Refused any of your services because the boy’s father is in my union. In your goddamned self-righteousness, you doomed his boy to an invalid life. You arrogant—” He grabbed the doctor by the throat and lifted him, then threw him against the wall. “Get up, goddamn you,” he shouted. Behind him, Claus growled.
As the doctor stood, he cut a plaintive glance at Captain Swain. “Sir, if your friend—”
“Yes, Captain,” barked Haywood. “Advise me. What should I do with this pissant, this lapdog of some Chicago trust? Most likely, he’s on the Pinkerton take as well. This sorry discharge of an infected whore. Leaves a young boy to suffer. A boy who shouldn’t have even been in that goddamned mine!” Again Haywood knocked the man down, only to watch him stagger to his feet again. “What say you, Captain?”
Swain was acutely aware this was a test of their new relationship—in fact it was the reason he’d been brought on this short trip. An insufficient answer would indicate feebleness, while too aggressive would signal carelessness. He removed the cigar from his teeth and shrugged.
Miffed, Haywood asked, “Do I look like a murderer?”
Swain saw Haywood’s red glower, his massive frame, his sleeves pushed up from balled fists, sweaty brow, dead eye looming over the frightened doctor. “Of course not,” lied Swain. “The boy is lame and can’t be mended. His leg could’ve been saved had this doctor been of good character, not the meater he is.”
“Right,” snarled Haywood. “The boy’s same age I lost my eye.”
“Then, I suppose …” Strolling toward the doctor, Swain reached under his coat and withdrew a small automatic pistol.
“Wait,” said Haywood, holding up a hand.
“Thank you,” cried the mortified doctor. “Indeed, that would not have been necessary.” He watched as Haywood picked up Claus, walked across the lobby, opened the main door, and placed the dog on the porch.
“He doesn’t like gunfire,” said Haywood, returning.
“No, no, wait now!” plead the Englishman.
Swain walked forward and, casual-as-you-please, blasted a hole in the doctor’s knee. The man screamed and collapsed to the large green-and-gold Persian rug, clasping his leg, blood coursing through his fingers as he scrambled to tie a tourniquet with his belt.
Haywood screwed his face into a satisfied grin. “Yes, that seems fitting.” He turned and held the front door for Claus. The dog scampered in and back to the couch while scrutinizing the man on the floor. Haywood approached the now-blanched and round-eyed desk clerk. “We’ll need two rooms. And you’ll invoice the—”
“The Western Federation, yes, good,” breathed the little man.
While the doctor’s moans echoed through the wood-paneled lobby, Haywood gave the hotelman a one-eyed wink. “And bill us the expense of that rug. And for a doctor to come for the—doctor.”
“Very well,” acknowledged the clerk, rotating the guest book for Haywood to sign. But Haywood stepped back, indicating Swain should sign it. Swain did so, signing a fictitious name.
“No, you, Captain Swain,” murmured Haywood.
Swain smudged the false name and signed: Thiel Agency.
“That’s not the same, exactly,” observed Haywood. “But it’ll do. That pistol of yours, may I see it?”
“Of course.” Swain drew the small, nickel, .25 caliber with the swirling letters FN engraved in the black grip plates. He laid it on the counter.
Haywood picked it up. “An automatic?”
“Yep,” replied Swain. “The FN. Belgian. There’s also a Colt automatic. Maybe a Browning too.”
“I’ve never …” Haywood marveled. “I’ve never seen one.”
The clerk was also interested, cautiously. “How does it work?”
Swain released the clip. “Bullets are stored in the handle. Feed from the top.” He snapped it back in.
“Truly?”
“Top slides.” He half-demonstrated, then released it. “Pulls up a new one. Then another. Like a repeater. This top action does it. One pull of the trigger makes it—”
“Automatic,” whispered the wide-eyed clerk.
“That’s marvelous,” gushed Haywood. The doctor’s moans had faded. “Where did you come by such a wonder?”
“One of my brothers,” replied Swain. “He’s a seafarer.” Glancing up, he added, “ISU,” indicating his brother was in the International Seaman’s Union of America, to which Haywood gave an approving nod. Swain continued, “Gave it to me last fall, in San Francisco.”
“Could he get more?” Haywood scrutinized the detective.
Swain chuckled. “Well, I’d be lying if I said so. Reckon he lifted this one from a passenger. You wanna buy one?”
“One? No, I want a thousand,” laughed the big man. “But I’ll begin with this one. How much to part with it?”
Swain glanced at the clerk who was riveted by the men’s conversation. Behind Haywood and Swain, the doctor had passed out. A pensive, obligatory smile came to Swain’s face, his eyebrows rising. “You must have it, Mr. Haywood. It’d be my honor.”
“Are you certain?” beamed Haywood, taking the pistol in his large hands, ignoring Swain’s anguish at giving up the treasure. “You’re most generous.” He lifted the gun to inspect it, opening the slide, the barrel pointed toward Swain.
“There’s a bullet chambered there, already,” said Swain nervously. “There in the top part.”
“Yes, I see that.”
<><><>
– 19 –
MONDAY
January 14, 1907
Harry Orchard was pliant, naked, sprawled sideways on his back, on his Saratoga Hotel bed, his broad, sweaty white belly quivering, a glistening pig down which ran a line of hair from man-breasted chest to small cock—though at this time it didn’t reach that far, but merged into the nodding brown hair of the prostitute slurping away. She looked up, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand while receiving a groan from Orchard.
“Ten cents extra, honey, if ya don’t warn me first.”
“That’s fine,” he groused. “Godsakes woman, don’t stop.”
She resumed, and he touched her hair, imagining it belonged to Carla, his Italian beauty downstairs. With that image, his toes curled, and he began a nasally, high-pitche
d dog whimper before falling pantingly silent. She stood, both indolent breasts slumped over her corset, then spit into the porcelain basin on the washstand.
“There’s two extra nickels … right there,” he said, flopping a hand toward the washstand. “Leave the others.”
“Thank you, honey,” she said. Seeing five silver nickels on the stand, she scooped up two of them. After confirming Orchard’s eyes were closed, she considered stealing the other three—her hand hovering over them. But then she noticed a white substance covering the nickels, stuck to them in places. She compared them to the two she’d already paid herself. All were covered in a powdery substance that was also scattered around the back of the basin. She was about to rinse the five coins in the basin’s water but changed her mind, considering what she had just spit there. Instead, she placed them all in her bag, dressed herself, and left as Orchard’s snore settled in.
<><><>
Two blocks east, at the Idanha Hotel, McParland dined at his claimed table on the mezzanine above the back of the dining room. He had chosen the location and positioned both the table and his chair strategically. While eating, he could observe who moved through the hotel, who ate below him, and who entered the hallway leading to his office and adjoining bedroom. In addition, he set the other chairs such that whoever sat with him could only focus on him or the papered wall behind him, not the comings and goings of others. To further seal it, he had two gunhands on duty while he was at the table: one stationed in a chair at the foot of the stairs, and one at the top—their purpose being less for protection than for providing a barrier to anyone seeking to intrude upon his conversations or thoughts. The gunman at the top of the stairs massaged a black rosary, the beads clicking against the wood arms of his chair.
McParland had just finished his cherry pie when Jack Garrett, the disheveled Operative 21, burst into the hotel, Carla Capone in tow, then headed toward the hall for McParland’s office. Jack was in his average-man attire, and she was in her ruddy, Saratoga waitress uniform.
“I’m up here!” boomed McParland.
“Yes, Sir,” replied Jack, removing his hat and heading to the stairs. When Jack and Carla arrived at the table, McParland stood.
“Miss Capone,” said McParland, his hand extended. “I’m Chief Detective McParland.”
“Yes, I know, of course,” she demurred, smiling, providing her hand. “The famous detective and friend of Sherlock Holmes. I’m flattered you know my name.”
Don’t be, thought Jack. He would have been surprised had McParland not already known the name of this waitress from another hotel. But he couldn’t fault her for not realizing the scope of McParland’s knowledge—she being a neophyte in this man’s world of spies, detectives, and investigations. What did she know of it? Nothing, of course.
Jack had met Carla two days prior on Main Street when she had come to him, saying she had something to share, if only he was a Pinkerton. They had talked on the other side of the street, but she had said little—only that she’d seen some shifty characters in the Saratoga. That was it. Who hadn’t seen shifty characters in Boise? They were everywhere. Then she walked away, and that was that.
Since then, Jack had tried to produce the resolve to saunter into the Saratoga and speak to Carla again. He hadn’t quite managed before the exquisite girl once again found him, this time telling him the most extraordinary thing. So he hurried her to the chief—who might scold him later, saying he had unnecessarily compromised his operative cover by escorting her in there—but Jack didn’t care. The information she had was worth it. In fact, maybe it’d get Jack out of clandestine work. Maybe he’d be a full agent, even on his way to becoming a detective—all because of Carla and her information. So, he took the chance. Yes, he could’ve just pointed her into the Idanha—let her go tell Chief McParland on her own. But once in, she would’ve been scooped up by every man in the room—they’d be appropriating not only this significant break in the case, but her as well. He risked losing her to an assemblage of salivating men, any one of whom she might find attractive in their Pinkerton crispness, recent baths, and shaved chins. And, of course, Jack wanted the glory of introducing her to the Great Detective.
“May we sit, Sir?” Jack asked.
“Please do,” said McParland.
<><><>
Back at the Saratoga Hotel, Orchard remained on his bed, snoring, naked, his penis shriveled, the room’s lace curtain allowing in the evening gloom.
Outside Orchard’s door, which bore the brass numbers 312, and down the hall, the passenger elevator rattled to a stop. The middle-aged black driver levered open the iron door, nodding to his fare who stepped through. As the lift rose behind him, the Pinkerton, Wade Farrington, took a breath, noting the empty hallway. He then drew his Colt .32 revolver and walked cautiously to room 312. There he listened to the sonorous gurgles within and found the door locked. After holstering his pistol, he withdrew a locksmith’s set of skeleton keys on a round fob, holding them close to prevent jingling. In that moment, the elevator’s bell tinged. Then came a clank, and out stepped the prostitute who had been with Orchard. She turned down the hall in Farrington’s direction, but stopped short upon seeing him. He put away his picking keys and walked to the elevator, passing her with a tip of the hat.
Before pressing the summoning buzzer, he glanced back and saw her place something at the foot of door 312. She then hurried away, disappearing through the far stairwell door. Farrington returned to the 312 door and picked up three silver nickels from the floor. All three were covered in a white, granular, almost pasty material. Unable to make sense of them, he started to replace them, but then changed his mind and pocketed them.
<><><>
On the mezzanine at the Idanha, Carla knew precisely what she was doing. These men, these paper dolls, were but toys for folding, painting, clothing, unclothing, setting afire. And that included Chief Detective McParland. He was just another man, wasn’t he?
Before leaving Denver, Carla had gone to Winnie to get the specifics of what Mr. Haywood wished Carla to do in Boise. Though she and Winnie weren’t close, they nevertheless began that meeting with a few laughs over school-day remembrances and other trivialities. But Carla had felt the nippy chill, the impenetrable wall Winnie had erected around herself and her relationship with Mr. Haywood. It was an openly hidden, screamingly silent secret—her serious devotion not only to the man, but to the worker’s cause. When the subject turned to Boise, Winnie assumed an air of superior rank which Carla found aggravating. But it didn’t take long before the thrill of the assignment abated that annoyance, and the young women ended their conversation as they began it: feigning to be the best of friends.
Carla had three tasks in Boise: First, she was to keep an eye on Harry Orchard—to always know his general whereabouts, including to report if he left town. Second, when requested, she was to secrete some “things” into Orchard’s hotel room—the “things” would be delivered to her with instructions attached. And third, she was to attempt to persuade two Pinkertons to spy for the Federation. Carla was comfortable with the first and second of the three assignments—they seemed easy enough. But the last one worried her, though she wasn’t sure why. After all, she knew men. She could handle them. But she’d never deceived a man, at least not so blatantly. Yet, she was asking them to be deceptive, not her. Still, it muddled her mind and scared her. And it was out of that fear, she later reasoned, that she had panicked and done the silly paper-baby thing on the train.
It didn’t take long, though, before she was happy it had happened. The foolishness of it, the near loss of the entire, exciting mission injected cold resolve in her veins, firmed her spine, and narrowed her vision to only the things she could do, what she could control. Not what might ensue. Not what others may think of her. Not what was right or wrong or the damage it might cause. Moreover, she affirmed herself to embrace her sexuality, to employ it, to use it for the cause o
f the Federation, for any retribution she might bring for the killing of her father and brother.
Within two days of her arrival in October of the previous year, she began her dance with Orchard. And within two weeks, she began sleeping with a Pinkerton operative named Wade Farrington, known as Operative 42 by the Pinks. By Christmas, she had Wade converted. Now the double agent was working covertly for the Federation. She then handed him over to direct communication with Mr. Haywood and thought that was the end of it. But Wade expected their sex to continue, something she was managing, she told herself. At least he was fun, always looking for chancy places for them to meet. But what Carla hadn’t considered, much less knew how to control, was his growing fixation on her—fast becoming possession with menacing undertones.
Then came the bombing of the governor. Following that, the cryptic PARIS IN SPRING telegram from Winnie which put Carla into predetermined action. As part of that action, she was to bring Harry Orchard to the attention of McParland at a time to be triggered by a telephone call. As she waited for that call, an idea came to her: she still had another Pinkerton to recruit, something she looked forward to accomplishing, hoping it might give her an acceptable excuse for distancing herself from Wade Farrington. Surely Wade wouldn’t argue with an order that seemed to come from Mr. Haywood. She began looking for her second conquest.
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