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– 27 –
TUESDAY
February 26, 1907
In a San Francisco market near the Ingleside Racetrack, Steve Adams was next in line. He fidgeted, adjusted his cap, asked the time from the man behind him, and examined the bottle of Coca Cola in his hand. The woman ahead of him was in a protracted conversation with the clerk, causing agitation in the queue. Adams listened to their discussion. In the aftermath of the city’s devastation, an explosion of rats and other vermin had caused a run on strychnine. In fact, this store was almost out. When it was his turn, Adams set the bottle of Coca Cola on the counter and said, “This and one them last bottles of strychnine you were gabbing about. Rat problems.”
***
Three weeks earlier, after fully shaking the Pinkertons from his tail, Adams found what remained of the intersection of Franklin and Grove Streets. The home of the brother of James Branson (the one-handed superintendent of the Bunker Hill Mine) had indeed burned down. The next day, Adams made his way into the temporary government building on Washington Street, just past Nob Hill. There he stood in line for two hours before getting an opportunity to flip through the public records regarding the earthquake and fires: ledgers of damage claims, of recovery, of debris removal; a book that listed thousands of names of the dead (or in many cases just descriptions of remains along with any unique features) along with the location where each body or body part had been found; and another book that cataloged the names and destinations of the living who had been displaced.
Thirty minutes later, he walked to a home on Faxon Street—which was between Lake View Avenue and Holloway Avenue as best as he understood from a city map he stole from a street vendor. For the next two weeks, he pretended to be a hobo, and, from across Faxon, he observed the comings and goings at the house—a woman and two children mostly. Never a man. In fact, Adams began to think Branson might have stashed his family in the house before he left San Francisco himself. Then, two days before Adams was going to move on, he spotted Branson entering the home. The time had come. The next day, Adams went to a gambling den outside the gates to a nearby racetrack, won thirty-five cents, and took his winnings to a nearby market for another Coca Cola. It was there that he bought the strychnine.
***
Before sunrise the next day, Adams slipped out of his boarding house and returned to hide in his observation nest on Faxon. At 7:10 that morning, he heard the approaching clip-clop and steel-banded wheels-on-brick he was anticipating. Then he watched a big, bay horse turning a four-wheeled milk wagon from Holloway onto Faxon and draw to a stop. After unloading wood crates (each containing twelve white bottles) onto a hand cart, the driver proceeded door to door, placing one or two bottles of milk on most of the porches along Faxon, including two on the Branson porch. After the wagon left, it took only twenty seconds for Adams to cross the street, empty the contents of the strychnine bottle into one of the milk bottles on the Branson’s porch, and walk away, guzzling from the other bottle, excess milk dripping from his chin.
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Late in the afternoon of the same day, Carla and Jack exited a train in Caldwell, twenty-seven miles west of the Boise depot. There they hired a coach to take them out to a cold, sagebrush expanse where a lone wood sign read:
COLLEGE OF IDAHO
Suspended beneath it and creaking in the breeze, a smaller sign announced:
Sterry Hall
Opening This Fall
The campus consisted of two large buildings and their companion multi-stall outhouses. From one, Sterry Hall, almost hidden behind its construction scaffolding, came muffled voices, hammer blows, and the grinding growls of handsaws. As the two approached the other building, Finney Hall, young men began exiting the central, column-flanked door. Jack and Carla stood aside, observing the college boys.
***
Three hundred yards away, a palomino’s breath fogged as it snorted and pawed at the near-frozen ground. From astride it, Agent Farrington took aim with an M1903 Springfield rifle with a makeshift scope, his cloudy breath swirling around his finger as it hovered over the trigger. Giving up on the scope, he tried the iron sights, leveling on Jack and Carla as they entered Finney Hall.
***
Inside, Jack inquired at the front office. Then he and Carla were ushered to meet the dean, a diminutive fellow in a striped suit and loose tie. After shaking Jack’s hand, the terrier of a man was off: “Yes, yes, I spoke with Mr. McParland on the telephone. Did you know? Yes, I imagine you did. Did you? We are excited to help.”
“Thank you, Sir,” offered Jack. The three were standing—Jack and Carla still coated and scarved. “Yes, I arranged for Chief McParland to telephone you.”
“Whatever I can do to assist the State in this sickening matter.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything the College of Idaho may do to come in aid of the State,” the dean said again. If he’d had a tail, it would’ve been swishing in a blur.
“Just the chalkboard,” said Jack.
“An awful thing,” sputtered the dean. “Holy crow, what a thing.”
“Yes.”
“We heard the bomb here. You know, we are only a half mile away. It rattled our windows. Scared us under our desks.”
Jack squinted. “You had classes that night, over the holidays?”
The dean stopped. “Well, no. It is just an idiom. But we heard it at our homes.”
Carla spoke from the doorway: “Where could we—”
“To think, a bomb,” said the diminutive dean, interrupting Carla. “Such a horrible way to be assassinated.”
Frowning at the dismissal, Carla pressed a new point. “Would being stabbed or shot have been preferable?”
“Miss Capone,” Jack snapped under his breath.
“Or squashing him with a paver?” she muttered, enjoying that she’d stolen the little man’s attention after he’d refused to politely give it to her.
The dean’s eyes tightened. “Who might you be, young lady?”
“My apologies for not …” said Jack. “This is Miss Capone.”
Though Carla offered her hand, the dean turned as if he’d not seen it. “Capone?” he asked. “I knew a Capone. Italian man, of course.” He looked at her squarely. “He arrived in Colorado back in eighty-five, as I recall. Was he a relation of yours?”
“No—no, Sir.” Her tone was dampened, her features blanched.
“I knew him in Fort Collins. He and his family had come west. Sheep, I think it was. Good man. Nice family. He had a son and young daughter.”
“I don’t know him!” Carla blurted, her words a whip’s crack.
“I apologize, Miss.” The dean gave a disingenuous nod.
“Please excuse me.” She withdrew to the foyer.
The dean looked at Jack. “What was the nature of that?”
Jack shook his head, his temperature rising at the man’s frigidity.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” continued the dean. “She must’ve known the family.”
“Maybe so,” said Jack, glancing into the foyer, finding it empty. When his attention returned to the dean, any remnants of supplication had been stripped away. “I need to get the chalkboard to the depot in time for the 6:30 to Boise.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“You seem like a bright fellow. Agent Garrett, you said?”
“That’s correct,” he replied with a touch of asperity.
“I assume you completed all your advanced schooling,” continued the dean. “I’d be happy to receive your application to this college—were you so inclined. Would you like to seek a profession? You’re beyond the usual age, of course, but we—”
“I just need a chalkboard, and a wagon to carry it to the depot.”
“Then you’re in luck, young man. I have six boards in storage
. They’re over in Sterry, the building being constructed. And, you may use one of the contractor’s rigs to transport them.”
“Thank you, Sir.” He shook the dean’s hand and turned to leave.
“The boards are in storage until that hall opens next term.”
“Not a problem,” said Jack. “This will be done in a month.”
“You may take one, or two if you need, for the State’s business.”
Jack was out the door now. “Thank you.”
The dean lifted his voice to be heard out in the foyer. “Anything I can do for the cause of justice!”
***
The low sun stretched gold carpeting across the alkaline prairie and up the western walls of the buildings. The Sterry scaffolding was quiet now—carpenters, masons, and electricians were coming out in ones and twos, heading for their horses and wagons. Carla hadn’t spoken since the dean’s office, and Jack didn’t know what to say, so an uncomfortable stillness existed between them as they watched two carpenters load the disassembled parts of a large, rolling chalkboard onto a nearby wagon. Jack thanked and tipped the men and turned, assuming he and Carla would also climb aboard the wagon. But, once again, she was gone. Walking under the scaffolding, he entered the skeletal building, feeling a nip of wind moving through. “Carla?” he asked the emptiness.
***
Behind the outhouse that accompanied Finney Hall, Farrington’s palomino stood idle and alone, its flaxen tail drooping, its saddle bearing the rifle, its reins loose-tied to a post.
***
Jack found Carla standing on the third floor of Sterry Hall, among its barren-framed walls and stairways. “We should go,” he suggested, approaching her, seeing her look away, out to the chilly, burning sunset. He touched the center of her back and whispered, “I’m sorry for whatever is troubling you.”
“You’re kind,” she said, turning, flashing a tearful smile.
“If I am, it’s because of you, I guess,” he managed to say, presenting his handkerchief and admiring as she dabbed her wet eyes, blushing cheeks and perky nose, before returning it to him.
“Thank you,” she said.
He pocketed the cloth. “Anytime.” She closed the distance between them until her head was resting on his chest. Above her, the corners of his mouth flickered to a small grin. He felt her warmth, her lightness against him. He could smell the fragrance of her hair. He wrapped his arms slowly around her.
“The man the dean asked about,” she began in a strangled voice. “He was my father.” Jack pulled back to see her face. She continued, “He and my brother were killed in Colorado. Did you hear about the Stratton Mine?”
“Yes,” he replied gently. “The lift collapsed.”
She moved to a bare window casing and sat, her booted feet dangling in the air. As he joined her, she said, “I never saw them again.”
He frowned. “Were they never recovered?”
“The company wouldn’t bring them up for proper burial on account they were union. But the Federation did. Mr. Haywood insisted. But I didn’t get there in time—not for their funerals.” She blinked slowly and took an even-longer breath. “I tried,” she said, her voice so slight he had to reach for it.
He put his arm around shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”
“You being a Pinkerton, I should tell you: I joined the Federation after that. I’ve been doing what I can to help the cause.”
Jack nodded. “I would’ve done the same, I imagine.”
***
On the far side of that third floor, across the stands, subflooring, and studding, Farrington was sitting—bit, scowl and strain—watching the forms of Jack and Carla against the distant purple oranges of day’s end. Too far to hear more than occasional sounds, he whiskey-imagined their words to be cruelly passionate—and all about him—laughing at what a fool he was to think she might desire him. The longer he scrutinized them, the graver his fixation became, the stronger an invisible bond seemed to form between him and them, stretching the distance of that unfinished floor. The more their lips moved, the more he drank from his bottle. The tighter their silhouettes merged, the tighter he gripped his revolver.
***
“At first I worked for Clarence Darrow, Mr. Haywood’s attorney,” Carla was saying. “He’d tried to get justice for the men who died in the Stratton, but nothing came of it. Not a cent.”
“That’s awful,” Jack whispered.
“It wasn’t Mr. Darrow’s fault,” she said. “He’s brilliant.”
“That’s what they say.”
“Have you met him?”
“No. I’ve read about him. I’d like to meet him someday.”
“I’d be happy to introduce you.”
“Thank you,” he said, unsure if she was sincere.
The last of the day dissolved through deep mauve and into black. Far below their boots, a horse stood patiently harnessed to the wagon bearing the chalkboard. Carla took Jack’s hand. “You seem like a good man.”
His eyebrows peaked, his mind sloshing in the feel of her fingertips. “I’m glad you think so,” he muttered.
She pivoted to face him. “But I don’t understand any man who’d turn his back on his brother—on decent, working men. Good Americans. I could never love a man like that.” She studied his eyes. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong about you. Say you agree, Jack. You must. You can’t think the mine owners are right—that they should have everything, every advantage, including the courts and the law, all the politicians, while workers and their families suffer and starve. It’s just not right. You see that, don’t you?”
“I do,” he offered. “It’s not fair.”
Her eyes smiled and her nose wrinkled. Her dimples drew him in further. She began anew, “You could help make things better.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“All over.”
“You know open country,” she said. “You’re not from a city.”
“How do you figure?” He saw her glance up at his hat—his black, broad-brimmed range hat with dingy silver stars on each side. “Fair enough,” he said with a slight chuckle.
“The hat is one thing, but … It’s more about how you go about things—what you say.” She sucked her bottom lip under her teeth, then let it go. “How you treat people … like me.”
“I appreciate that.” He scratched one of his eyebrows though it didn’t itch. “Of course I agree about the injustice—what reasonable fella wouldn’t? Nobody should have to die to make a poor man’s living. But I’m a Pinkerton—always wanted to be.” He paused. “Alright, maybe not always, but I’m proud to be one now. And I want to stay one. I plan to be a detective as soon as I can. And you can say what you will, but the Pinkertons do a lot of good. A few bad apples, sure. Of course there’s some in the Federation too, I imagine. Actually, there’s some real rotten ones in the Federation. I know that for certain. And so do you.”
She ignored that and pushed on. “It’s the cause that matters, Jack. Something has to be done to change things. So I do what I can, what they ask of me. But not for any one person. And if the cause could better use my help elsewhere, I’d move on. Truth is, I don’t like what they sent me here to do. But … I’ll not say any more about that.” She saw his nod of understanding. “Let me ask you: Can you be a Pinkerton and still help workers?”
“What do you mean?”
“Can you, being a Pinkerton,” she began with a plaintive smile, “protect one man? One poor family? Not just the owners of mines or banks? Or trains?”
“Of course,” he replied.
“Then I say, be a Pinkerton. Do what you think is best for them. Become a detective or whatever you wish. But help me at the same time. Help me. Help me fight for men like my father and brother. Why can’t you do both?”
J
ack pulled in a deep, cold breath. The chief had instructed him to go along with this, to let her believe he was flipping sides. But now, sitting with her, listening to her, feeling his heart pounding in his neck, he wanted to say yes—yes, he would help her—but for his reasons, not because of McParland’s plan. He knew she was right—not just about her cause, but about him. He didn’t think the companies who hired the Pinkertons were always right—far from it. He knew what it was to be poor, to be desperate—far better than she could guess. So her question loomed: Could he do good for workers and still be a loyal Pinkerton? At what point would the ruse become real? At what point might the illusion take form? How should he proceed? In which direction? He felt as if he was stuck in the scrub briar of a foreign land—his compass points spinning—thorns ripping at his legs. He had to go with his gut. His heart. So he took a breath, looked at her directly and said, “Alright.”
“Alright?” she repeated.
“Yes. I’ll help you.” He saw a glistening in her eye and, for a flash second, thought he just might love her.
She turned on her hundred-candle smile, leaned and kissed him. He slipped his hand under her hair and pulled her close, feeling her warm nape in his palm, her lips accepting his, the taste of her tongue, the rub of her nose against his own, her tears on his cheekbones. Overcome, they crumpled back to the subfloor, prone, mouths together, breaths mixed in that blissful throe.
“Goddamn whore!” Farrington shouted, twenty feet away, his pistol aimed unsteadily.
They both leapt to their feet. “Wade!” she shouted.
“Agent Farrington!” yelled Jack. It faintly registered on him that she’d called the man by his first name.
Farrington approached, gun up. “I should’ve known.”
“Agent ...” Jack began, his thoughts spinning: Is he undercover? No, the man’s a traitor, but—
“Backstabbing bitch,” Farrington said, whiskey swaying him.
“That’s enough!” barked Jack.
“And you—” Farrington turned his aim. “Think you’re so smart.”
American Red Page 24
