Neva looked at the food being delivered to three women at the next table, and then leaned to Winnie, mouthing, “Tongue sandwich. Disgusting.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Winnie said with a wink. “If it’s done right, the tongue sandwich can be quite nice.”
“Well then, good for them,” Neva whispered, snickering. Then her laugh grew and soon Winnie got the chortles and both sisters were covering their faces with their menus.
Having just recovered when the waiter returned, Winnie asked, “How’s your tongue sandwich?”
When he replied, “Oh, it’s quite nice, Miss,” they again fell into giggles and had to ask him to come back.
Eventually, they managed to order, and forty minutes later were finishing their meals: Neva had lamb stew with green peas. Winnie, the trout sandwich and string beans.
“Has Bill said more about the problem in Boise?” asked Neva.
“He and Mr. Darrow were talking about it some. Why?”
“I feel for him. So many want to bring him down.”
“I suppose that goes with leading the union,” said Winnie.
“Yes, but with the money matter, and the bombings, I’m just—”
“What money matter?”
Neva hesitated. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe it’s nothing.”
“George has you worried again.”
“Why do you say that?” Neva snapped. “Why do you immediately think George is—” She saw Winnie’s crooked-cheek expression of disbelief. “Fine. Yes, George said some money is missing.”
“Federation money?” asked Winne. “George is the treasurer. Isn’t he responsible for—”
“Not if he didn’t take it.”
“I thought a treasurer protects the treasure.”
Neva dabbed her lips with her napkin. “He can’t control what Bill does.”
“He said Bill took it?”
Neva nodded and took another bite.
Winnie stared at Neva. “Why would George say that?”
“Because, Sissy, he thinks it’s true.”
“But it’s not. Right?”
Neva shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me if he didn’t believe it.”
“Come now,” Winnie retorted. “We’re talking about George—the man who’s been trying to get you to leave Bill for, what, the last two years?”
“He loves me,” said Neva.
“He said that?”
“No, but … I know he does.”
“He wants you to run off with him.”
Neva snorted a chuckle. “We won’t be running anywhere.”
“I’m serious,” said Winnie. “He knows you won’t divorce. So, unless Bill is gone … or something. Maybe that’s why he’s accusing Bill of stealing so—”
“Embezzled. That’s what they call it.”
“They? Who else knows?”
“I don’t know. If it gets out, I’m worried for George. And Bill.”
They sat in their thoughts until Winnie asked, “So, he’s in love with you?”
“George? Yes, the dear man.”
“If he didn’t say so, how do you know?”
Neva sank her gaze into Winnie. “You say Bill loves you, so—”
“Un-huh.”
“So how do you know? He’s never told you, I’m certain.”
Winnie wobbled her head. “Well ...”
“What?” Neva studied Winnie. “Bill said he loves you?”
Winnie shrugged.
“And you believed him?” Neva’s voice was growing louder.
Winnie closed her eyes, then opened them toward the remnants on her plate. “He was probably drunk.”
Neva stared across the dining room, then flung her napkin on her plate. “I need to go.” She scooted her chair back noisily. “Hand me my crutches.”
“Sissy,” Winnie implored. “I’m sorry I said that.”
“I’m late. I need to go.”
“Don’t leave like this. I didn’t mean—”
The waiter appeared. “May I be of assistance?”
Neva turned to him and snarled, “Her lover will pay the check.”
<><><>
Though his hat was the same, Jack was otherwise dressed in Pinkertonian habiliments—white shirt and dark coat—as he stood inside the doors of the Idanha Hotel. He moved to a front window to better observe the street. He felt chilled by the irony: now that he was openly a Pinkerton, like the many men in the lobby behind him, his work was more clandestine than ever before. He was to follow Carla Capone, as he was doing presently, and allow himself to be recruited over to the Federation, allow them to draw him in, place their trust in him—a trust that, if broken, if discovered false, would lead to coyotes dragging his flesh through the snow-dusted sagebrush beyond town.
“Agent Garrett,” said Farrington flatly.
Jack turned with a start. “Yes, Forty-Two. I wasn’t expecting—”
“Agent Farrington,” he said. “Same as you.”
Jack noted Farrington’s clothes. “Yes, I heard—”
“Or maybe we’re still spies,” needled Farrington.
Jack clenched. “I’m not.” He saw Orchard’s bowler hat in Farrington’s hand. “Thank you for bringing that. I’ll get it to the chief.” In the same moment that he took the hat, Carla stepped from a carriage in front of the hotel, arriving just when Jack had expected her. From inside, both men took notice, yet pretended otherwise—a flicker of united uncertainty. “That’s the girl who told us about Harry Orchard,” Jack offered.
“Who is she?” asked Farrington, dissembling. “She’s a sight.”
Before Jack could answer, Carla was inside, floating up to the two Pinkertons. She was dressed in a somewhat manly style: a dark coat over a white, box-cut waistshirt with black bow tie. Long, narrow, tobacco-brown poplin skirt. Side-laced ankle boots. Broad-brimmed felt hat adorned with a wide black ribbon. Her focus was on Jack who was failing to blink—his mouth stricken dry. “Agent Garrett,” she began. “Good afternoon.”
Jack recovered. “Yes, Miss Capone. To you as well. Cold out.”
“At least, as you can see, I didn’t wear a straw hat.”
“As you wish,” he replied nonsensically. His mind was too allure-fissured to make use of her quip. He turned to Farrington, then back to Carla. “May I introduce Agent Farrington.”
Farrington nodded, replying, “Miss Capone. It’s a pleasure to meet you. What brings you to Boise in these troubling times?”
“She brought Harry Orchard to us,” said Jack.
“Yes, you told me that, just moments ago,” said Farrington, triggering Jack’s glare. “Only I had no clue the bearer was so extraordinary. Don’t you think, Agent Garrett?”
Jack didn’t reply.
“I assure you, Miss Capone,” continued Farrington, “in the retelling of your heroics, I wouldn’t have overlooked such an extraordinary detail.”
“Very kind of you, Mr. Famenton,” she said, her melody rippling the air, her eyes narrowing.
“It’s Farrington,” he corrected. “At your service.”
“She works at the Saratoga,” Jack interjected.
“No more, I’m afraid,” she said.
“You’re gone from there?” Farrington asked with as much alarm as question, failing to conceal his tonal shift.
She wrinkled her nose. “They’re not keen on serving girls blabbing about their guests.”
“They gave you the boot?” asked Jack, frowning. “Just for reporting Orchard?”
“Yes, I’m afraid someone let it be known—after his arrest. You knocked a door down, after all,” she said to Jack, a touch of admiration in her voice.
“Actually,” Farrington interjected, “I kicked that door down.”
Carla hummed a “Mmph” but
kept her attention on Jack.
“Will you be staying in town?” Jack asked her.
“Yes, if the Idanha will have me. I’ve come to inquire,” she said, unaware that it was Jack who had arranged her Idanha interview.
Farrington frowned. “Is that wise? With the commotion in town, and this place being a central hub, filled with gunhands, spies, and us Pinkertons, I’d caution—”
“I’ll be perfectly all right,” she retorted.
Jack smiled. “Miss Capone, if you’ll be dining this evening, I would be honored—”
“I do plan to eat, Agent Garrett.”
“Leave the lady be,” barked Farrington.
“If you tomcats are quite done,” she cooed, “this bird must fly.”
“My apologies,” offered Jack, though she was already ten steps toward the front desk.
For a moment, the two Pinkertons loitered in her wake, until Farrington went after her. Jack watched them exchange whispers, with one obvious glance back at him. He glared at Farrington, his mind sharpening knives.
By the time Carla had disappeared into an office, and Farrington had returned, Jack had steeled himself. “Let’s get a drink,” he said and began for the bar.
Farrington moved behind him, chuckling. “A drink? Only two types of Pinkertons could drink alcohol openly: undercover operatives and Chief Detective McParland, and the chief’s imbibing was rare.
At the bar, Jack ordered, “Two sarsaparillas, if you will.” He flipped the bowler and examined its inner band, then the lining, but found nothing. “Damn.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Orchard put something in here.”
“Yeah?” said Farrington, his voice rising. “Don’t know anything about that.”
Jack heard the pitch change and looked him in the eyes. Two glasses of root beer were delivered. Jack took a sip. “Funny thing, the chief’s sure it was in there—that night. That’s why Orchard was so distressed, not wanting us to think it was his. Remember? But if the chief’s right, then where did it go?” Jack saw Farrington’s face redden, his eyes blink and lower until Jack asked, “Did it just fall out?”
“I never saw a note in it, and nothing fell out.”
“A note? Why do you think it was a note?”
“You said—”
“No, I didn’t—”
“What else would be in there?”
“A greenback?” retorted Jack. “Maybe a ticket to the opera?”
Farrington jabbed a finger in Jack’s chest. “Best step back, if—”
Jack leaned closer and whispered, “You read it, didn’t you? Then you destroyed it. What was on it?”
“I don’t know—”
“You’re working for Haywood now? Is that it?”
“You’re a goddamn liar,” Farrington barked, standing.
“Gonna take a swing at me, Agent Farrington?” asked Jack, also standing, squaring himself with the slightly shorter man. “Do it. Confirm what I’m saying’s true. But make it count, because then it’ll be my turn—and that’ll be the last thing you’ll remember.”
Farrington snorted, then spit on the floor. His shoes began a shuffling retreat that seemed as unconscious as deliberate—an untethered boat washing out to sea.
Jack sneered. “I’m not paying for your sarsaparilla.”
Farrington removed a coin from his pocket and tossed it on the bar where it went into a tight spin. When it stopped, Farrington was gone. Jack looked at his empty glass, then at Farrington’s full one, and then at the coin: a silver V nickel. Then he saw white specks on the dark oak bar where the coin had been spinning. He wet his finger and dabbed at the faint residue, feeling it and touching it to his tongue. “Bitter. Physician’s plaster. I’ll be damned.”
<><><>
On that day’s wintry night, on a hill immediately beyond the Idaho State Penitentiary, a lone man dismounted from his horse. His breath steamed in the moonlight, his gloved hands chambering a round into an M1903 Springfield rifle that had a thin scope elevated over its iron sights. He braced its barrel in the crook of tree limbs, aiming it across the high stone walls, across the hanging yard, and through the dark windows of the three-story cellhouse. He waited. Soon a bright light appeared on the first floor—a guard within carrying two lit kerosene lanterns, both suspended beneath one hand. They swayed with the guard’s pace as he strolled the rows. After the light vanished, it soon reappeared on the second floor, where it again moved along the rows of cells. Beginning to shiver, the gunman set down the gun to rub his hands together, and then resumed his aim. The light moved along the third row. The gunman’s breathing slowed.
***
Inside, Harry Orchard was not asleep, though his eyes were closed. He could hear distant snoring, and then dull footsteps as the night guard slowly approached, moving along death row, checking the cells. Orchard opened his eyes when the guard’s boots stopped at his door, the amber light of two lanterns flooding his cell.
“Detective McParland said you might want a book.”
Orchard sat up, seeing the guard unlocking the cell door. A book slid in, and the guard placed one of the lanterns on the interior floor, before retreating and clanging the door locked again.
“You leavin that lantern?”
“The detective figured you’d need it to read,” replied the guard as he turned to walk away. Over his shoulder he snarked, “Set a fire—you’ll be first to burn.”
Orchard placed the lamp on the chair and leaned close, grumbling at the low level of kerosene in the glass reservoir. He then picked up the worn book, its spine frayed and cracked, and read the gold letters embossed on its red cloth cover: The Hound of the Baskervilles, by Conan Doyle.
***
Seeing the bright, interior light had split into two softer ones—one moving again, the other stationary—the gunman trained his scope on the unmoving lantern. It was not a clear image, but a fuzzy glow in the scope’s narrow glass. Once his breath calmed, he slid the crosshairs to the right, onto what he thought was Orchard’s illuminated, round face. A difficult shot in daytime. Pure luck at night.
***
Orchard had just flipped the book’s front pages of when the lantern exploded, fuel splattering, glass shattering, fire erupting against the back wall, running across the floor. He screamed, leaping clear of the conflagration, and grabbed a shoe, walloping the blaze uselessly. Then he tried to use the book but dropped it as it too began to burn. Next, he pitched his wool blanket over the flames, and grabbed his brown coat—the one with the bullet hole in the back—and threw it and swore. Finally, he hurled his bucket of piss and shit onto the smoldering coat while coughing and shouting, his wild shadow flailing across the orange-lit, steel-latticed door.
<><><>
– 25 –
WEDNESDAY
February 13, 1907
Carla carried a tray of dishes toward the back of the Idanha Hotel’s restaurant. The only real difference between Idanha work from Saratoga work was that her uniform here was blue instead of red. Of course, she was surrounded by Pinkertons here—Pinks, thugs of the mine owners, enemies of the workers—yet they didn’t seem malevolent to her. In fact, the Pinkertons were pleasant enough. All in all polite, as she saw it, especially compared to the ruffians and strays who wandered into the Saratoga. Pinkerton temperance went a long way, even if it hurt her tips.
As she arrived in the rear galley, she saw Wade Farrington leaning against a wash basin, positioned so as to not be seen by others. “Hello,” she offered, a chill coursing her spine. He was an exception to Pinkerton gentlemanliness.
“Why are you working here?” he snapped.
“Why are you here?” She looked at the cooks and porters busy in the adjacent kitchen. “You must go.”
“No. I’m a Pinkerton. We run this hotel now. Didn’t you know?”
/>
“Come,” she demanded, pulling him into the dry-storage closet thick with the aroma of spices and cleaning supplies. She shut the door and switched on the electric light bulb hanging from the ceiling. “What do you want?”
“Brought my girl a Valentine,” he said, presenting a red card bearing pink, printed flowers.
She swatted it away. “I can’t take that, Wade,” she exclaimed, though she kept her voice hushed. “I can’t have something from you. What are you trying to do?”
“Don’t be like that. Tomorrow’s Valentine’s. I just wanted—”
“I know what day it is.”
“I want you to know how I feel. I—”
“Stop this nonsense. We had some fun, but … But that’s it.”
His jaw flexed. With his right hand, he grabbed her by her crotch and held her hard, almost lifting her. “You like public places, so how about you get to your knees here and give me my Valentine?”
She grabbed his wrist, digging her fingernails into his skin, and pulled his hand away. “Don’t touch me! I’m not your doll to fuck.”
“Well, what if I say you are? What’ll you do? Hmm? Scream? Do it. I’ll tell McParland who you really are. Think I won’t? I bet you think I won’t.” He drew close to her face. “No, no, you’re a lying, Federation spy. You’ll be in prison with—”
“I’m a Federation spy?” She pushed him back. “But you’re not?” She could see this was taking a moment to register. “Go on, Wade—tell McParland. Let’s see how fast he figures you in this.”
Farrington shook his head, then picked the card up from the floor. “I’m sorry. Read it, please,” he said, attempting to give it to her again. She crossed her arms in refusal. “I started this wrong,” he continued. “Listen to me, darling. You and I are meant to be together. You know that. And you know I … I care about—”
She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, do you?”
“Yeah,” he grinned, misreading her completely. “I’m gonna lift that dress and remind you all about it.”
She grabbed a cleaver and brandished it. “Just try. Just try.”
American Red Page 21
