The Lightning Lord

by Anthony Faircloth

  Sitting across from each other sipping the bright liqueur, Persi asked, “Did you find anything in the dead bandit’s wallet?”

  “Nothing significant.” He reached across to his jacket hanging on a hook and took it from a pocket. “But you may check for yourself,” he said, tossing it on the table.

  “But my love,” she said, her hand inching toward the wallet, “I believe it is against the law to steal a man’s personal property, and then you doubled down and removed it from the scene of a crime, tsk, tsk. You are a regular cad!”

  “Oh, my dear, you wound me. Never say that again,” Boots smiled, “I hope I never become a ‘regular’ anything.”

  “I misspoke, Boots. Of course you are only the highest order cad,” she said spreading the contents out in front of her, then reaching beneath her, she retrieved a second similar wallet.

  “Uhm, lover,” Boots said, watching her spread the contents of this second wallet across another area of the table, “may I ask where you acquired that piece of personal property?”

  “Yes you may,” Persi said quickly, never lifting her head. “After all, no secrets in a marriage, you know,”

  When Boots had waited several seconds and she had not explained, the slightest hint of smile formed on his lips. “Anything there?” he asked.

  “There are many similarities,” she said. “It is clear these men travelled together and much of it was not open range, and small farming towns. For instance,” she placed a receipt from one pile of items onto the pile from the other wallet and slid it across the table. “This receipt is for five nights at The Cookstone in KC. As I am from that glorious town I can tell you that while it is not a hotel one would find a prince or president, it is also not the lodgings one would expect a cowhand to stay.”

  She placed another set of papers together and slid them across the table. They were receipts for the land cruiser, Explorer from Springfield, Missouri to Atlanta, Georgia three months ago. “I rather wished we had taken the time to abscond with the wallet from the man in the wagon. I’ll bet he would have similar papers,” she said.

  “I suspect you’re right, but what of it? Three men travel together, they run short of money and decide something easier than manual labor,” Boots said.

  Persi looked up. “You think stopping and robbing a landliner easier than honest work?”

  “Dear one, the jails are full of those who have thought just that.”

  “Touché,” she said, “but this speaks to me of something else. These men aren’t robbers, they are,” her face pinched, “businessmen?” She shook her head, disagreeing with herself. “Well, I don’t know what they are but not robbers.”

  They sat in silence for a minute, in truth, Boots’ energy was beginning to drain, his eyelids stayed closed longer, and longer each time he closed them. He jumped when Persi spoke suddenly. “Are we sure the men were attempting to actually rob the train for the strong box?”

  A thought crept its way back into Boots’ head. A package, they were looking for a package. His eyes opened and looked at Persi. “You are correct, my love, this was not a simple train robbery. They came to steal something and were making it look like a train robbery.”

  She smiled, “You are a very smart cad, after all.”

  “Their accents, the one in the wagon was from the deep south, Mississippi, or Alabama, and the other one, the leader Mel, definitely upper or mid-New England, maybe Massachusetts or Rhode Island.”

  “Perhaps we should ask around tomorrow, maybe we can discover the item for which the men were looking.”

  “A brilliant idea, as usual, my love,” Boots said.

  “Am I, your love?” Persi asked, a hint of passion in her voice.

  Boots smiled, raised his arm to the gas lamp above the table and turned it low. They retired to their bed for the remainder of the night, and sometime later, rested.

  Interlude One - Just Good Business

  The belt made a loud cracking sound as Maggie’s father snapped it across her back. Five more, she thought, only five more. Five more cracks of the belt and just as many tiny whimpers of pain and it was over. Her father stepped back and threaded his belt back through his well-worn trousers.

  “See what you made me do?” he said, red-faced and breaking a sweat. “I don’t want to hurt ya, girl, but you force me when you talk back like that. When I tell you to fetch Papa his bottle, you do it.” He thrust his puffy face a few inches from hers and smiled. “You’re just like your mama, good for nothing whore. Never did what I told her unless I laid the strap across her.”

  At that point she knew she was forgotten, and true to form her father picked his bottle of whiskey back up and wandered aimlessly around the damp, musty room as the brown liquid sloshed against the glass.

  “She was a slut, ya know. A real and true one. A prostitute like they calls ‘em in the city, and a good one. She could make a beggar feel like a king. I followed her back to her room after a high-stakes game in Kansas City when I still had my luck. Prettiest dark eyes I’ve ever seen. Nothing like yours. Damn woman, that’s when all my bad luck started, with those pretty dark eyes.” He sat down hard in the wooden chair, then his head lolled back and he stared off into the peeling floral wallpaper filled with something between nostalgia and regret.

  Maggie knew once these memories, encouraged by drink, took hold, they wouldn’t let him go anytime soon. At these times she imagined her mother standing beside the disheveled hotel bed. Though she had never met her, she imagined a beautiful woman standing there in pure white, her dark hair falling softly around her shoulders and those mystical eyes looking down on her kindly.

  Her father began weeping softly and the apparition of her mother disappeared. Maggie padded over to the chair placing a tiny cold hand on his shoulder.

  “This is all your fault you know,” He said, looking up at her. “You’re just like her.” The words muttered through tears carried less venom than usual. “You changed my luck when she left you on my doorstep.” He sniffled, and looked into her small face. “You’re prolly not even mine. The whore.” He wiped the snot from his nose onto his sleeve.

  Maggie had never known a time when her father’s gambling had paid off big. Most of her memories so far, were of being locked in closets and cloak rooms with only her father’s dirty great coat to sit on, while he gambled away money for food, clothes and shelter. After the poker games, she was drug to dilapidated hotel rooms where she watched her father get drunk or roll around under the sheets with women he found, depending on his success at the tables that night.

  A sudden knock at the door sent the bottle slipping through numb fingers straight to the floor. It rolled away and bled out slowly creating a dark stain next to the others on a worn deep green rug. The wood in the door creaked and burst open, splinters of wood flipped into the room and slid across the floor. A short, stocky man nearly fell into the room, followed by a tall man dressed in a fine black suit and top hat.

  “Mr. Brewster, I believe you owe me some money,” the man in the tall hate said. His voice was smooth and calm, but his eyes were not. Maggie slipped behind the hotel bed and pressed herself against the wall, pulling her bony knees to her chest and the thin fabric of her favorite pink dress over all the way to her ankles. She did not like this man.

  Words tumbled out from her father’s mouth. “I know, Mr. Sturgess, and I’m real sorry, I just need a little more time. I’ll make it all back, I promise. My luck is just about to turn, I can feel it. If you’ll only give me more time and maybe just a little more mone …” A bludgeon appeared in the stocky man’s hand and he slammed it into her father’s gut before he could finish. He doubled over and Maggie scrambled up from the floor and ran to his side.

  “Mr. Brewster, not only have I waited patiently for the sum you owe me, but now you have the gall to ask for more? To phrase it as gently as I can, you are a miserable drunk, and a foolish gambler.” His cold eyes looked, not at her father, but at Maggie herself, pulling an involuntary
shudder from her. “Now, I am not without pity,” He gestured widely. “I allow you to stay in these rooms in my very own establishment, but my patience has run out.”

  “I’ll give you all I have. It isn’t much, but I swear if you allow me just a little more time. Thomas is dealing me in to a game tonight. I …” He never finished his sentence as the short man’s bat connected with his face in a sickening crunch. Blood gushed from his nose which now rested at a crooked angle.

  Maggie yelped and jumped back. Sturgess’ intense focus snapped back to her and his gaze darkened. The corners of his mouth tipped up and something in that almost smile made her want to run, but when she tried she couldn’t move.

  “Now see here, sir. I am nothing if I am not a reasonable man. I think an arrangement can be made. As you may know, this gambling house and saloon is not my only investment,” Sturgess said conversationally. “I also keep establishments for men with more . . . carnal desires shall we say. He dropped into the chair recently occupied by Maggie’s father, who now crouched on the floor near Sturgess feet. “I have a customer with very particular tastes and I believe you can assist me in meeting his … need.”

  “You broke my damn nose! I can’t believe you broke my nose!” Her father whined gripping his bloody face.

  The short man swung half-heartedly at her father but the club glanced off the side of his head. Sturgess smiled and nodded thanks to the short man, then shifted his gaze back to Maggie’s father.

  “Try to pay attention, Mr. Brewster. I’m offering you a way out, but my patience is wearing thin.” He stood and walked to Maggie until he loomed over her. “She isn’t much to look at, but they don’t always make it anyway.” He removed his hat and knelt till they were eye to eye. “Green eyes, stringy dark hair, skin and bones, but I could fix that.” He tugged on her hair and she flinched. “Judging by this black eye and bruised arm you don’t care much for her. I’ll take her off your hands,” he grinned wolfishly, “and even throw in a little extra for your trouble.”

  “But sir, her mama left her for me to care for, I could never …” Her father said in a half-hearted whine.

  “One hundred.” Sturgess said.

  “What amount could tempt a father to abandon his only child?” Her father said, the insincerity in his voice made her stomach turn. He used that trick voice when he had been drinking. He would tell her she was a good girl and everything would be all right, then when she came to him he would reach out and slap her, usually hard enough to knock her to the ground.

  “One hundred and twenty-five and not a penny more, she’s a walking skeleton. Even that is practically robbery! Why there is a house in a certain part of this city where I could purchase a child for half the price. If I acquire this one, however, it saves me the trouble.”

  Maggie didn’t know where the strange man wanted to take her, but she didn’t want to go anywhere with him or his angry friend.

  “It grieves my father’s heart, but what kind of life am I giving her here.” Her father said, using that voice again. “She would be better off with a fine gentleman like yourself, so I’ll do it for her, for my little Maggie.” He stumbled to his feet, stretched out his hand and two men completed the deal.

  Maggie’s heart dropped. Her ten years of life hadn’t made her well versed in the complexities of business affairs, but she was fairly certain she had just been sold.

  Chapter 4 – Questioning Skills Are Demonstrated

  The next morning, Persi and Boots rose, dressed, and moved to the dining car for coffee and breakfast. Halfway through their meal, a man in a Senior Conductor’s uniform entered the car and spoke.

  “Excuse me, may I have your attention?” the tall dark skin man asked. “My name is Senior Conductor Washington- no relationship to the former president.”

  The joke encouraged several chuckles. Though it was fairly common for a Negro to be in position of this importance, Boots smiled at seeing it in person. Since the end of the war fourteen years prior, there continued to be huge strides towards racial equality and social absorption of the newly freed slaves. There was a well-funded second, Black Robed Regiment, led by the acclaimed preacher, D.L. Moody to abolish the term, “race,” within the context of skin color. Lincoln signed several pieces of legislation inspired by the abolitionist movement into law only a week before the failed assassination attempt by John Wilkes Booth in April of 1865.

  “You may have heard of last night’s failed robbery,” the conductor stated. “Let me assure you that the emphasis is on the word, ‘failed.’ The robbers failed to remove anything from the train, nor were any passengers severely injured thanks to the swift actions of our young mailroom attendant, John Moonshadow. Another bandit was waylaid in a forward short-ride coach by an unknown passenger whom we are still attempting to locate so that we may show our gratitude.”

  Persi glanced at Boots, who kept his gaze firmly on the Conductor.

  “In total, three robbers were shot and killed by young Moonshadow, and the forth is locked in one of our holding cells. So rest assured, the Journey will continue toward its destination on time and in the comfort for which Morgan Landliners are known. Thank you.”

  A polite handclap arose and the Senior Conductor acknowledged it with a tip of his cap as he left the car, assumedly to repeat the message to passengers in other cars. Boots returned to his coffee, taking a sip and replacing the cup in the saucer. “Well, my love, it seems we have two directions we must go.”

  “Yes?” Persi asked.

  He held up his index finger. “We must speak with Master Moonshadow about the existence of, ‘the package’ our deceased friend, Mel, spoke about,”

  Persi nodded.

  He held up his second finger. “And we must devise a way to interrogate the gentleman I ... interrupted, last night.”

  “I will, of course, take the villain ...” Boots said, but was interrupted.

  “No, my love, I shall speak with the rogue and you shall speak with young master Moonshadow.”

  Boots shook his head and leaned forward.

  “Mr. Beacon,” Persi said, before Boots could object, “he has seen you and might identify you to the Conductors and that would just complicate matters.”

  Boots frowned.

  “I will be discrete and ...” Persi began.

  “Ha!” Boots exclaimed, rather too loudly, causing several diners to turn their direction.

  Persi pursed her lips, then whispered, “Yes, okay, discretion is not my strongest virtue but ...”

  Boots caught her eye.

  “Alright,” she said, irritation in her tone, “it is not even something I have striven to make a virtue, but regardless, I believe I can extract more information through honey than you inevitably will doling out your painful vinegar.”

  Boots opened his mouth. “Mrs. Beacon, I have no idea to what you are speaking. You describe me as a common brute.”

  “Sir, I believe we’ve establish you are never ‘common.’” Persi said.

  “True,” he said, smiling.

  She dabbed her napkin to her lips, then laid it across the plate and stood. Taking the watch from her waist pocket, she opened it. “It is now 10:52. I shall meet you for lunch at 12:00 in Dining Car C. Please have a lemon water, and a whiskey waiting for me.”

  Boots reached up and took her white gloved hand. “You get my blood up when you speak so authoritatively.”

  She smiled, threw him a kiss and walked forward towards the holding cells.

  ****

  John Moonshadow was not in the mailroom when Boots arrived. He had been promoted overnight to Junior Conductor. The mailroom clerk, a knot and bruise standing out on his forehead, directed Boots to a second floor reading room, where Moonshadow was studying the rules and regulations of his new employment.

  The young man stood quickly, recognizing Boots as he entered.

  Boots motioned for him to sit so as not to draw attention. An older man perusing a week old New York Times, glanced up initially then i
gnored Boots and settled back into his reading. Boots sat in the chair across from the young man, who was now dressed in a used but neat and clean conductor’s uniform.

  “Master Moonshadow, how good to see you again.” Boots held out his hand.

  The teenager reached to take it then stopped mid-motion and dropped it back to the table. “Mister, I don’t have any idea what I’m doing here,” he whispered and moving his hands down his pressed jacket, “I don’t deserve any of this, and when they find out I didn’t ...”

  Boots held out his hands. “Calm down, son, you are simply taking advantage of a situation. You hurt no one, and you left no one with any expectation that you are more than you are.”

  Moonstone looked at him in confusion.

  “You have not professed to be a sharp shooter or trained gunman, have you?”

  “Oh, no sir. I told them as you said, I saw the robber set the gun down, I grabbed it up, and pulled the trigger several times. I just got lucky.”

  “So you see, you have not promoted yourself as something you are not, nor, I suspect, did you ask for the promotion.” Boots said, raising an eyebrow in question.

  The boy nodded vigorously, “Oh no, sir. They offered it to me right after the Pinkerton men left.”

  Boots tilted his head. “The Pinkerton men, there were Pinkerton’s?”

  “Yes sir. They were the ones that busted through the door.”

  “Interesting, did they say anything, did they do anything other than break the door?”

  “Yes sir, a lot. It was like I read about in the penny novels,” Moonshadow said. “They looked over everything, even had me open the safe. I even think one of his men had a magnifying glass.”

  “And did they by chance look at the gun, the one you had in your hand?”

  “I don’t know sir, maybe. It was all so ...” the young man looked at the floor, “and I was just seconds away from soiling myself most of the time. I don’t remember everything. Why?”