“Yes,” Carla said. “That would end the financial inquiries.”
Neva touched her own face, traced the bridge of her nose, and snorted a surrendering chuckle. “That seems silly. Bill will think it’s a reward.”
“But you wouldn’t object?” asked Carla. “They need to know.”
“Object? Why would I? Bill is a murdering ogre who’s lost his way. A cruel husband and an absent father. Plus, I suppose I could divorce him if he’s ... exiled. But he couldn’t come back.”
“He can’t.”
“Good.” Neva shook away some thoughts, nodded, and gave a resigned smile. “What do they need from me?”
Carla dipped her chin faintly—a feminine salute. “He’s living in the Pioneer Building suites, currently?”
“I’d imagine so. I live in my home near here.”
“Yes. They’d like you to invite him to that house, your house, at 11:00 tomorrow morning.”
“What reason do I give?”
“I don’t think it matters, as long as he comes.”
“All right, but how does that help?”
“They’re going to tell him and send him on his way. But Mr. Pennington doesn’t want it happening in the Federation’s building.”
Neva’s eyes narrowed. “What’s George’s role in this? Why isn’t he asking me this himself?”
“He’s is meeting with the Pinkertons right now. Along with Mr. Darrow. They thought you’d prefer to appear … disassociated. As least involved as possible.”
Neva gave Carla a conspiratorial nod. “They think we’re invisible. Send a woman to talk to a woman and no one will notice.”
Carla rolled her eyes. “I know. It’s ... well ...”
“Yeah,” said Neva. She looked at Carla squarely. “I appreciate you coming.” Seeing her girls bounding back loudly with half-eaten ice creams, Neva asked them, “Did you bring any change?” Henrietta handed her a few ice-cream-covered nickels. Neva glanced again at Carla. “I’ll do it. You can tell them.”
<><><>
George was pacing Jack’s new office. “Sure, the press would lap it up, but I say no. It should be kept quiet—the entirety of our plans for Bill. There’s no need for publicity. It’d probably unravel the whole ball of yarn.” His eyes met Jack’s. “Which wouldn’t serve either of our interests.”
“Agreed,” said Jack. He then noticed Darrow was studying him, setting off a flush of intimidation that tingled his spine. He turned into the wind. “Is there something you want to ask me, Mr. Darrow?”
Darrow smiled broadly and shook his head. “No, son. I’m simply impressed. You outflanked our man finding Adams. You buffaloed me with false information on jury selection. And you brought my once-assistant, Miss Capone, over to your cause. And now, here you sit, in McParland’s office. How old are you, son?”
“I’m thirty,” Jack lied, adding three and regretting it. He needn’t be intimidated. He was a few years older than McParland had been when McParland got his first posting—though McParland’s first posting wasn’t to lead a whole division. Albeit, this was temporary. Jack pressed down his doubts. He could manage this. He could. He kept his gaze on the lawyer. “Why do you ask?”
Darrow gave a surrendering gesture, palms out. “I’m impressed. That’s all. Especially if you can turn your agency from their criminalities.”
“That’s not what we—” George tried.
“Mmmph,” snorted Jack. “Criminalities? Ours? Is that right? Say again how you, on behalf of the Federation”—he glanced at George—“got to that killer to lie under oath.”
A knowing half-smile came to Darrow’s face, followed by a prolonged nod and a pivot. He clicked his tongue and looked at George. “So, what do you think, George, is the plan acceptable to the Federation?”
George looked at Jack and nodded. “So long as the Pinkertons—meaning their clients, the banks and anyone else—will hold to the bargain. If one or two don’t agree later, down the road, and make a public fuss about the money, it’ll cast a shadow over the union. And Bill won’t be around to answer the charges. That’ll leave the Federation bare to meet those financial obligations—something we simply cannot do.”
“Our clients will let this matter rest, in perpetuity,” said Jack. “Mr. Pinkerton asked me to give you that commitment.”
“And if Bill Haywood returns?” asked Darrow, his eyes lost between Jack’s and George’s chairs, making the intended recipient unclear. As a result, they answered simultaneously: one that Haywood would be arrested, the other that he’d be killed.
<><><>
– 73 –
FRIDAY
August 9, 1907
On Denver’s Bellaire Street, a motorized taxi rumbled to a stop behind a Packard Model S that was parked in front of the Haywood’s Park Hill Heights home. From the backseat of the taxi, Haywood studied the Packard. It was his, yet he didn’t recall it being there. Of specific curiosity was the steamer trunk tied to the back of it. He then noted other automobiles parked in front of the house, and focused on a man, dressed like a Pinkerton, leaning against a red Runabout just ahead of the Packard.
***
Having heard the vehicle approach, Jack adjusted his broad-brimmed black hat, stepped away from his Runabout, and turned to squarely face the taxi.
***
The taxi driver came around and opened the passenger door. Haywood froze while stepping out, his back arched, one polished shoe hovering midair, his eye staring at the house. Two men whom he recognized as Federation were on the wide porch steps, flanking the door, each bearing a sawed-off shotgun. “Wait here,” Haywood grumbled at the driver, then finished standing.
Jack moved slightly toward Haywood, and for a moment they considered each other. Haywood stopped walking. He looked at the porch, then back at Jack. He was as perplexed by the Federation men on his porch as he was by the lone Pinkerton in his yard. He vacillated for a moment, almost swaying between the two threats. Like a grizzly surprised by mountain lions to one side and a wolf to the other, he calculated whether to charge or run. After five seconds, he recovered, reassuming his veneer of coarse indignation, and strolled quickly toward the house. As he neared the porch, the guards came down from the steps and stood in front of him.
“Mr. Haywood,” said one guard.
“How’s your day?” asked Haywood, feigning interest.
“We can’t let you enter,” said the other guard.
Haywood stopped. The dead eye glared. “What the hell—”
“Sir,” one raised his shotgun. “We’ve got orders to not—”
“Orders? Whose? George Pennington’s? That sorry sack of shit.” He pulled a Colt .45 revolver from under his coat and held it toward the ground. “Tick tock, time to move,” he growled. When they didn’t, he stepped back and yelled at the windows. “Neva! Come tell these whores’ sons, Tweedledee and Dum, that I’m about to shoot them if they don’t move.” He looked behind him. “And why is a goddamned Pink on my lawn?”
“Bill!” said George, hurrying out the front door while putting on his Stetson.
“This is my house, George! Get off my porch. And tell—”
“No, Bill,” snapped George. “That’s not right anymore.”
“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Haywood fumed, raising the pistol, flashing a glare back at Jack, then forward again at George. The guards leveled their double-barrels, clicking the hammers back. “What is this?” Haywood asked, his voice wobbling ever so slightly.
George lifted a hand. “Stop, Bill. Put it down. Otherwise everything will end for you—right now. I don’t want that, and you don’t either.”
Haywood spun, pointing his pistol at Jack, unnerved by Jack’s continued advance from his rear. “Get off my property, you shit-eating Pink!”
Jack didn’t flinch.
“Put it down, Bill,” said George again.
“Yes, put it down, Bill,” echoed Jack.
Haywood boiled, turning, snorted a chuckle, and re-holstered his pistol. “Fine. I’ll play your game, Georgy. What’s all this?”
George whistled over his shoulder, and a tall Federation guard came out onto the porch. All the men, including Haywood, watched the tall guard trot past George, go around Haywood, nod at Jack, and go to the taxi where he paid the driver and told him to scoot. After the vehicle left, the tall guard took up a position behind Haywood, near Jack.
Haywood nodded at the trunk on his Packard. “What’s that?”
“All you’re allowed to take,” replied George.
Haywood pivoted. “What?”
“You stole eighty-five thousand, six hundred and twenty-three dollars and thirty-five cents from the Western Federation of Miners. You received a letter from Mr. Darrow to that effect. As of the date of that letter—today’s date—you, William Haywood, are no longer associated with the Federation. You no longer have access to any Federation property, including the offices or the suites in the Pioneer Building. The locks have been changed. That includes that automobile and this house.”
“That’s my car! And this house isn’t Federation property, you half-witted, cuckolding, son of a bitch!” Haywood’s face had ripened to shades of panicked red over sweaty white.
“That’s correct, this house is not the Federation’s,” George said calmly. “But I’m barring your entrance all the same—on behalf of Neva and the court. The sheriff offered to come today, but I assured him that these fine union men would uphold the court order.”
“What goddamned court? What order?”
“As you know—this morning Neva sued you for divorce.” George pulled a piece a paper from his coat pocket. “Here’s the court’s order restraining you from entering. Signed by none other than the chief justice of the Colorado Supreme Court, Justice Goddard. Imagine that.”
“On what grounds? Nevada, goddamnit, roll your ass out here!”
George nodded at the tall guard behind Haywood. Haywood turned and watched the man crank the Packard to start it.
Haywood spun back. “Goddamn you all. I’ll kill every one of you!” Just then he saw Vernie rolling Neva onto the porch. Henrietta was just behind. Trailing after them was Claus, Haywood’s bulldog. Neva and the girls came to a stop beside George. Claus walked near the top of the steps and plopped down. All stared at Haywood, expressionless. Haywood’s eyes filled with angry tears. “Nevada. Neva. Girls. What is this? You can’t—”
Neva handed an envelope up to George.
Haywood shouted, “I got your goddamned divorce papers.”
George gave the envelope to a guard, who then stepped from the porch and handed it to Haywood. With the tall guard now behind the wheel, the Packard was gurgling and purring. George flashed a sad yet reassuring smile at Neva. Neva touched Vernie’s hand and whispered to her. Vernie took Henrietta, and both girls disappeared inside the house. Claus remained where he was—jowls splayed on the porch planks. As Haywood was busy tearing into the envelope and assessing the documents, he hadn’t noticed his girls going back in the house. He looked up at the porch, then back at the papers, struggling to make sense of what he had read. “What the hell is this? A steamer to St. Petersburg?”
“That’s right,” said Jack, coming around Haywood to stand between him and the porch. “Third Class on the SS Finland. Red Star Line. New York to a place called Antwerp, then on to St. Petersburg. In Russia.”
“I know it’s in Russia, you ass.”
“Of course you do,” said Jack.
“It leaves New York a little over a week from now, on the twentieth,” said George. “That’s all the Federation will give you.”
“As for getting from here to New York,” said Jack, “that’s a parting gift from the Union Pacific and us Pinks.” He nodded toward the papers in Haywood’s hands. “There’s a letter there to that effect, signed by General Dodge and Mr. Pinkerton.”
Haywood looked back to George and Neva. “I’m not going to New York. And I’m sure the hell not going to Russia.”
“These men,” said George, indicating the guards closest to the porch, “will accompany you until you’re on board the SS Finland.”
“The hell they will.”
“It’s very generous,” said Jack. “Some of us wanted to take you out and shoot you, like a useless horse.”
“That’s correct,” added George. “In fact, Mr. Darrow suggested we throw you down the Stratton Mine shaft.”
“Did he?” snarked Jack. “I like that.”
“What … are … what?” Haywood stuttered, struggling to grasp the tiers of duplicity packed in their words. “The Pinkertons and my attorney are— What?” He fixed on George. “This is madness.”
George persisted. “Every one of our local Federation presidents voted for this—voted for you being packed off to Russia. Every single local. It was unanimous. And yes, the Pinks are on board too.” He motioned toward Jack and received Jack’s nod. “So this is what you get, Bill. This is all you get.”
Haywood pivoted to Jack, then back to George, then to Jack again, and then to Neva on the porch. “Neva, my darling. Talk some sense into your man George here. You can’t want me to go, to leave our daughters and you, and Wi—” He stopped just shy of saying, “Winnie.”
She looked away.
His voice tightened. “Is that right, Nevada? You still won’t speak to me? Still? Even now?”
“She’s pledged not to,” said George. “As you know.”
Haywood reeled until his gaze settled on the disinterested dog. “You’re keeping Claus?” he asked, his voice almost shrill.
“Your deputy sheriff?” quipped George as everyone glanced at Claus. “Take him.” Claus wrenched around to lick himself.
Haywood scowled and commanded, “Come, Claus!” The bulldog slowly rose and ambled off the steps toward Haywood. Everyone was silent, watching the dog’s short legs moseying toward the glowering man. As Haywood scooped the dog with his left hand, his right bore a finger at George. “You’re swine of the lowest order, George Pennington! All this. You’re weak—a weak man hiding behind my lame wife.” A menacing laugh burrowed out of him as he began to nod. “Yes, yes, isn’t this rosy. You’re making your move. I see it. I see it all now. Scheming, using her, an unfaithful excuse of a woman. And you both conspired with the goddamned Pinks.” He wheeled on Jack and was met by a blank stare. “Enemies of the worker—of this nation.” Again he drew his revolver and again pointed it at Jack.
Jack methodically drew the FN automatic pistol (the one McParland took off Haywood during the Denver arrest) and aimed at Haywood’s face.
Silence—save bird chirps and the chitter of red squirrels.
Haywood squinted at the FN gun. “Is that my automatic?”
Jack might have feigned sarcastic surprise, were he not disgusted beyond mockery. “It’s mine. Now.”
Haywood began shaking his head, then growled, “I should’ve bombed the Pinkerton offices. Should’ve killed all of you and your families. You’re all—”
“Shut your mouth!” roared Jack, rage hitting the back of his throat, filling his nose and eyes, the heat finding his ears. He moved within feet of Haywood. “You’re a two-bit mangy dog, reeking of death. A murderer who escaped the noose only on account of your tricky lawyer. And it’s only because of the law, the law you spit on, that we don’t gun you down right here. Hell, we should get your daughters back out here and kill you in front of them. Eye for an eye—for what you did to Steunenberg—killin him in front of his kids.” He huffed. “And then you had Adams kill a whole family in San Francisco. The man, his wife, and his two children. And he killed a good agent, a man named Pete who—”
“I had no doing in that,” tried Haywood.
In a flash, Jack smacked the big man’s jaw with the pistol, sending Haywood stumbling but not down. Claus came loose, hit the ground and ran off. “I said shut your goddamn mouth,” shouted Jack. “I was there! Best for everyone: we shove a stick of dynamite up your ass and light it.”
Haywood stepped toward the street, cocking his revolver as he resumed aiming at Jack.
Jack continued, the automatic still leveled at Haywood’s face. “But we won’t do that. Not because we can’t. Hell, no one would flinch at us killing you here. But we’re not your scum sort. And we won’t let you escape justice again by corruption of the law. So we’re gonna feed you to the Russians.” Jack stepped forward, further corralling Haywood toward the idling Packard. “But it’s not justice—letting you leave. Far from it. So, by God, please—don’t lower your gun, Billy-boy. Make me think you might pull that trigger. With this fancy automatic, I’ll have two rounds through your good eye before you hit the ground.”
Haywood staggered slightly, as if some of Jack’s words had shrapnelled within him, shredding organs—the ruptured bleeding of long-buried despair. His countenance became distorted—first to blankness, then to a frown, and then softening to a stare, followed by slow reformation until his eye closed, chin dipping as if in prayer. The cards had been dealt. His fortune had been told. He murmured, “Russia,” and lowered his gun.
“Damn you,” said Jack, stepping forward to yank the revolver from Haywood’s hand.
“Yes, Russia,” said George who had now moved into the yard behind Jack. “I wrote a letter of introduction to Mr. Trotsky. High recommendations and all that. Lies, but we’ll let that revolutionary do as he wishes with you. Of course, I have no idea if he’ll receive it before you get there, or if he ever will.”
Haywood gave a snort. “At least I’ll be appreciated.”
“Piece of advice,” said George, “don’t steal from the Bolsheviks.”
“You’re done in America,” said Jack. “Bulletin already dispatched today: any union man sees you after August twentieth, you’ll have a high bounty on your head, dead or alive. The Federation”—he nodded toward George—“and we the Pinkertons, have agreed to pay half that reward, whatever it’s up to at that time. It starts at fifteen-thousand dollars today.”
American Red Page 56
