The Trials of Solomon Parker

by Eric Scott Fischl

  These days, the person Billy wants to talk to the most is his uncle, but the old man has been gone for years. Gone back to wherever it is he goes, just up and vanished again. From time to time Billy heads back up to that little cabin but it’s always empty. No one around the rez claims to have seen him, the same way no one has seen Bad Bird in all the years since he disappeared. Billy still expects the telegram, though, the one that will begin REGRET TO INFORM YOU. Someone will have found the old man; one of those old men anyway. Gone to his reward. Called home. Passed. With each new year it’s more and more unlikely that either Marked Face or his father are still alive. After all, they’re old, they’ve been old Billy’s whole life and he’s north of thirty now himself.

  A world without those old Indians seems somehow wrong, though. Lacking. They’ve always been there, those two, even when Billy barely saw them. Even when he hated them, feared them. Their very existence tethers him to his own. Their stories are twisted together with his. Without them he doesn’t have much. Dr Rideout, maybe, who is a colleague and a friend, but the doctor has his own family, his own anchors. The job? No. Maybe this shitty little bar and the cheap beer and his own fat belly hanging there over his belt. Is all that enough to hold him down to his life? Once, he’d had Sol as family but that was in that other life he didn’t like to think about, the one that never happened.

  Billy wonders how Sol will take the news about Elizabeth. Grief? Relief? Indifference? Never once has Sol come to Warm Springs to see his wife, not in all this time. Twenty-five miles, all it is, but not once. Now that Sol is such a big man, or so Billy understands, there have been a number of large cash gifts to the hospital endowment, money to pay for this or that. Money for Sol Parker to buy off his conscience, Billy thinks, stunted though it may be. You can’t buy your way out of family, though, whatever Sol might believe.

  He hasn’t seen Sol since their fight, years ago. Some days he thinks to go to Butte, to find him, but he never does.

  Afternoon becomes evening and one beer becomes many until he finally stumbles out of the bar and begins making his way back. As he weaves blearily down the road, he looks for signs of his father, looks for Marked Face, but Billy is alone.

  3.

  “A Bolshevik, is what he is.”

  Sol nods at Marcus Connor, looking up over his forkful of canard en sauce crémeuse, the duck fatty-sweet in his mouth. The Company security director is a big, bovine man, who makes Sol look svelte in comparison. A former Pinkerton, though, Connor is not one to be trifled with, as the scars across his knuckles attest, the flattened nose. Just another thug, done up in an expensive suit, Sol thinks, a hard man wrapped soft. Like me, feeling the tightness of his waistband against his expanded belly.

  “That a problem, is it?” Sol doesn’t really need to ask, but he has to play his part. He chews and swallows another buttery forkful. Philippe’s duck is over-rich, like most of the dishes at La Maison, that pretentious Gallic mainstay of Butte’s upper crust. Sol knows that, later, he’ll be shitting himself hollow from all of the cream and butter and fat, but, like the cigars, dining at the Maison is a part of his new station in life. Deals are started over steak au poivre and blanquette de veau, closed over raspberry charlotte and oversweet wine, with a tiny coffee in a cup the size of a thimble. Never mind that Philippe himself is a Québécois junkie with a taste for rough trade in men, has never once been to the Paris he claims as his home.

  “Everything is good, Mr Connor, Mr Parker?” He’s there now, hovering over their table like a moth at a light. Better be good, with the money he’s into Sol for.

  “Yeah, it’s great, Phil, like always,” Sol says. Too rich, too fatty, it’s great. With a fey clinch of his hands over his heart, Philippe flutters away to another table of worthies, his chef’s whites gleaming.

  “Can’t have those Wobbly types riling up the men, Sol. You know that.” Connor methodically scoops another mouthful in. He’s the type of eater that starts in one quadrant of the plate and devours outward, at a steady pace, one forkful after another, not bothering to savor or enjoy or maybe even taste. Food as fuel. Sol wonders if anyone enjoys Philippe’s food, actually, or if the place is just an elaborate joke pulled on them all.

  “Mm,” Sol nods, mouth full. Swallows. “Can’t have that.” Maybe a bit too wry, in tone, from the glance up from Mark Connor. Sol shakes his head, tries to be more serious. “Productivity, all that.”

  “Productivity, Sol. War’s on. This needs to be an example.”

  “War’s on.” Who gives a shit about the war. “So...” He leaves it hanging.

  “Man’s a problem.”

  “That, I gathered.” Sol sets down his fork with a quiet clink. “So?” He repeats it. It’s not necessary, he knows what Connor is after, but he likes to make the man say it. Or at least hedge close. “Just what is it that you want, Mark?”

  Connor doesn’t say anything, which is something of a disappointment, just raises a hand and makes a gesture like something blowing away. A piece of fluff on the wind, poof, gone. Sol sighs. “You say the man’s name was again?” Already knowing.

  “Frank Little.”

  Sol hadn’t gone to the funeral. Why would he, really, he hadn’t seen his nominal wife in years upon years. No need to stir up any of those feelings. The telegram had done enough of that, forced him to remember in daylight hours those things best pushed to night. Elizabeth Parker, née McDaniel, gone to her grave, at last. Overdue, really. She’d been in that hospital for years, after all, and what kind of life was that. From time to time Sol would send a donation to Warm Springs, call it good, and that, even, was more than he needed to do. Above and beyond. He was a taxpayer – mostly – and it was a state hospital so there you go.

  More than thoughts of his once-wife, pushed so far to the back of his mind they rarely peeked out, it was seeing the name Billy that gave him pause. Billy, from that other life he never considered, or did so as little as he could. Billy, his friend, almost-son once, who he’d done his damnedest to kill this time around. Fucking stabbed with a piece of glass. More than once, over the years, he’d meant to go find the boy, make things right. Billy was the only other person in this world who could understand him.

  Somehow it had never happened, though, and Sol was honestly surprised to hear that Billy was even still alive, as if because he, Sol, had ceased thinking of him, the man had ceased to be. But there he was, now, right at the end of that telegram and not twenty-five miles away. Living a life, whatever it was. How does he do it, Sol wonders. Does Billy consider the man he once was, and try to live up to that ideal? Or, like Sol, had he just taken this next chance around, grabbed it by the fucking throat for once and squeezed? Sol is seized with a sudden desire to call for Mickey, get him to bring around the new Knox that Sol’s had shipped all the way out from Massachusetts, fire the contraption up and drive them to Warm Springs. Mickey may be mostly a plaything, any more, but his one actual use is as a chauffeur; the man has something of a way with mechanical things. It’s maybe the only skill left to him, or maybe just the thing he clings to. Machines are predictable, after all, Sol supposes.

  But no, he won’t do it. Won’t call for Mickey and go. Wouldn’t be right. Maybe right wasn’t the word, but what would Sol say, seeing Billy, after all this time? Hey Bill, sorry about the shoulder and how’s things? Part of Sol worries about judgment and part of him worries that he’s been forgotten. Not forgotten-forgotten, but flushed away by whatever Billy has now. If Sol doesn’t ever think of Billy Morgan, the idea that he’s still there, but maybe has washed his hands of Sol, is strangely upsetting. Sol doesn’t want anything of that before life, not a goddamn thing but, knowing that there’s a link to it, still, tenuous though it might be, is an odd comfort. Why hadn’t Billy ever come to see him? Never once, not in all these years.

  ELIZABETH PASSED. SERVICE TUESDAY. COME WARM SPRINGS. – BILLY

  Well, he hadn’t, and that’s it, isn’t it.

  Usually, he doesn’t involve hi
mself in these things, not any more but, somehow, he feels he owes it to Frank. Whatever that even means now. Sol doesn’t know why, exactly, he feels this way, unless it’s that he’s been thinking overmuch about the time before, since Billy’s telegram. Stupid, really.

  His hat is shucked down low and itches against his brow; the bandanna pulled to his nose stifles his breathing, sucked in and blown out with every breath. Again, he wonders, as he has for the last several minutes, just why he’s here. He doesn’t need to be. He doesn’t owe anyone anything. Not a goddamn soul.

  Frank’s eyes are wide and he’s gasping for breath from the punch to his belly. Must be a lousy way to wake up, that. Faraday punches him again and Kelly, the Pinkerton on loan from Connor, stuffs a rag in Frank’s mouth, holding it down while he and Faraday go to work on Mr Little. An example, Mark Connor had said. Shame, really, but needs must and all that. Faraday leans back, opening a space over Frank and raising an eyebrow inquisitively. Sol shakes his head. It’s not that he’s against beating a helpless man, as a general rule, but still.

  This whole fucking thing isn’t sitting right with him. He knows Frank Little, after all, had known him – before, anyway – admired him. And it’s not as if the man hadn’t been given fair warning, too, ample reason to back off, just go, and yet here they were. Bravery or foolishness or some hybrid of the two, but, whatever the reason, Frank had made this bed. Just a shame that Sol has to be the one to tuck him into it, and it makes him mad, raises feelings he tries to keep stunted and mute.

  Outside of the boarding house, now, Frank humpled over, gagging around the cloth in his mouth, dragged between Faraday and Connor’s man, Kelly. Into the back of the automobile, another punch or two to keep him docile. Mickey behind the wheel and, in a few quick minutes, they’re at the rail trestle outside of the Penn.

  The Pennsylvania had burned, again, a year or so ago. No one dead, oddly enough, this time around. All the miners up and out safely. The quick investigation, after, and then the mine back open, the report’s ink still wet. Just an accident, was the Company’s verdict. Regrettable, but there had been no loss of life, after all. Promises were made for future improvements, but the miners had seen that for what it was and, again, they’d struck and rioted, bitching about safety and hours and the rest of it. Regardless of the validity of their complaints, a riot is a riot, though, and Sol’s men had had to crack some skulls that day. Another shame, really, but best not think about that. Well paid for their troubles, at least.

  But, goddamn it, Frank had shown up shortly after that, the idiot, to organize, then ignored all the warnings and, now, here they were.

  Out of the car, Frank held up by Kelly while Faraday commences to pound on him southpaw again. Left, left, left, right, left, left. Frank’s strong chin broken and bleeding now, thin hair hanging down into his eyes, lips split, eyes swollen shut.

  “OK, that’s enough, Nick. Nick! Enough.” Sol grabs Faraday’s arms. Man gets like this, so het up he can’t stop himself. Not that it really matters now.

  “Shouldn’t say my name,” Faraday gasps, heaving some wind back in, massaging the knuckles of his left hand with the palm of his right. “Don’t say my name.”

  What does he think is going to happen here?

  “Fine, whatever,” Sol says, not wanting to engage with a fool, stepping past him and pulling down his mask. No need for it now. “Set him down.” Kelly drops Frank to the floor of the trestle, props him back against one of the struts. Sol doesn’t want it to be like this. He wants it quick, if it has to be, but orders are orders and this is what he’s been paid to do. Again, though, he thinks why am I here? He wants to just turn around and walk away, leave Frank to the others to finish things but, because Sol is here, there are appearances to maintain. Checking a sigh, he levers himself into a squat and faces the bashed-up remnant of Frank Little.

  Frank is mumbling something, over and over. Sol leans closer, concentrates until he can make it out. “Give me a minute, boys,” he says. Doubtful looks. “You think I can’t fucking handle this?” Sol snaps. “I said give me a fucking minute, so go to the fucking car.” He turns around, knowing that he’ll be obeyed, and leans closer to Frank.

  “That you said, Frank?”

  “Thought it would be different, this time.” Frank says it slower, trying to make the words cleaner around his broken teeth. “Thought it would be different, this time.”

  “Made the wrong choice, is all, Frank. And I am sorry for that. Really I am.”

  A laugh, a dying, broken thing coughed out from that cracked jaw. “Never was a choice. Sometimes you just gotta do the right thing.”

  Ah, Frank. “There’s always a choice, son,” Sol says. “Might just be between lousy options, but it’s always there. Thing is, though, thing is that it just don’t matter which one you pick, most times, so you can’t let it get to you. That’s the only way to get through this fucked-up world, Frank. Only way.”

  “You really believe that, don’t you?” Frank’s head lolls back against the trestle strut. “You really believe that.”

  “What do you mean?” There’s no reply so Sol gives him a little slap, harder until he’s regained some attention again. “What do you mean?”

  “Thought it could be different.” Frank trails off again, head slumping to the side. He mumbles something else, one short, squared-off word, then he passes out. Sol leans back on his heels, wondering if he’d heard right. What it meant. Best not think on it, maybe. Words he says often, so often he should put it on his fucking crest: best not think on it. He stands up, feeling the sharp cracking in his knees – I’m too goddamn fat – and walks back to the car, telling the boys to finish things up. He gets in the back and shuts the door. Sol turns his head away, towards town, picking at a rough patch of skin on his palm. Trying to ignore the commotion.

  The next day, Frank Little’s body is found hanging from the trestle, a note pinned to his thigh. First and Last Warning, it reads.

  First and last warning. It was what Connor had required, so they’d done it. The whole sorry shit of it, they’d done it. First and last warning.

  In his office, door shut, Sol thinks back to that last thing that Frank had said to him. That look of understanding in the one, bloodied eye, the one that could still open. Understanding and pity and something that couldn’t quite be read. Damned, was the word, although Sol doesn’t know which of them Frank had meant.

  Damned.

  First and last warning.

  4.

  The room is too warm. There’s a sparkly berg of a chandelier overhead, too big for the place, hanging down low and clinking from above, so much that Billy wanted to duck when he walked under it. Like it’s going to drop down on him, bury him alive in crystal shards. The rugs are thick and walking on them was like plodding through sand, each step an effort to push past. The leather chair he’s been sat in is oversoft like the carpet, drawing him in unpleasantly. But it’s quality, right, this is the kind of discomfort that the rich buy for themselves, because they can.

  It stinks in here, smells like burning trash, or cigars, both of which smell more or less the same to him. He lights up a cigarette mostly to give himself something to do and, if the smell of it masks that leafy reek of cigar, so much the better. He looks around, at the huge desk, the color-coordinated – unread, for sure – books that line the shelves, the brassy mass of a spittoon. He shakes his head at the excess of it all. It’s a room that says look at me, that lacks any notion of subtlety. A room that says I’m rich, I’m important, I’m somebody. He’s surprised that Sol hasn’t had the whole goddamn place gilded, a shining monument to his own magnificence.

  Billy wasn’t surprised, not really, that Sol hadn’t made Elizabeth’s service. It had been a rosy conceit that he would come, that, finally, the two of them could maybe, somehow, use the opportunity to reconcile their differences, reconnect maybe. But they weren’t even differences, any more. More just a kind of neglect. Not indifference, but a studied distance o
f sorts. They were perhaps the only two real people in this world, after all, the only two could see it for what it really was. Or were they? Billy doesn’t know, doesn’t like to think those kinds of thoughts, the ones that tend to spin him away into places he’d rather not go. He no longer knows just what he believes about much of anything.

  One cigarette smoked, he lights another. Petty, really, goddamn petty for Sol to keep him – him – waiting like this. Sat here in this low, spongy chair – Billy swears that the legs have been sawed down to leave the occupant staring up at that railcar-sized desk – sat here to smoke and fret and wait on the pleasure of his betters. Making folks wait is the prerogative of the powerful and insecure, really. Fine, Billy can wait. He has plenty of cigarettes.

  “Billy!” Sol says as he comes into the room. Bluff, glib, hand extended like a politician. Is Billy expected to kiss a ring? Fortunately just a handshake. “Good to see you, Bill.”

  Yeah, I’ll bet. Spent damn near a week trying to get an audience with Your Majesty.

  The first thing Billy thinks: Sol’s fat. No other word for it. Sol is a fat bastard, stretching out what looks to be – at least to Billy’s uneducated eye – a very expensive suit. Tortoiseshell buttons and the like. Sol’s crammed into it like a sausage in its casing though, pushing at the seams. The heavy, ornate gold watch-chain across his belly looks like it’s pulled tight to bursting. Sol. He was never a small man: short but broad, is how Billy remembers him, but the broad of muscle, strength. This man, with his blousy, jowly face and rolling, tubby gait seems less than he once was, even though, technically, he’s more. Whole lot more, really.