by Ann Parker
“In scarlet?”
Epperley leaned in past Percy to rummage through the nearby items with a negligent hand. “In a range of scarlets, apparently. Must be a popular shade.”
Woods said with stilted courtesy, “Please, do not fondle the merchandise, sirs. Might this meet your approval?” He pulled up a confection of blood-red satin, embroidering skimming top and sides in a flourish of flowers and leaves. “I warn you, this comes dear, as it is imported from—”
“Yes yes,” said Percy impatiently. “Do you have two? I’ll take two. With the same color laces.”
“What the bloody hell do you need with two?” asked Tipton, giving the undergarments an approving squint through his monocle.
“Guess,” said Percy with a leer. He turned to the room at large and, on tiptoe, held his glass of absinthe high. The liquid, lit by the gaslight, shone translucent and ethereal, a green beacon. “Let it not be said…” he began in a loud voice. The room quieted. Faces betraying varying degrees of curiosity, weariness, or hostility, turned toward the swaying Englishman at the bar. Percy backed up and started over. “Never let it be said that Winslow Percival Brown is niggardly with his women.”
The clunk of a heavy object hitting the floor in the back of the saloon echoed through the floorboards, like the beat on a drum. An unnaturally high-pitched shout of “Worthless Pisspot Brown!” was closely followed by the crash of a pistol discharge. A metallic ting! indicated the bullet had missed its mark, entering the tin-plated ceiling instead.
Cards scattered, chairs overturned, and men dove under tables or crouched in place.
Percy ducked, clutching his tall hat to his head. Tipton’s monocle dropped from his widened eye to swing tick-tock metronome fashion from its chain. Epperley’s lip lifted in a snarl, his hand reaching inside his frockcoat for what Inez suspected was a concealed hip pocket holster. Quick—anything but—looked around, befuddled, with an “Od’s bobs!” Balcombe merely held tight to his hot rum and said, “Breakers ahead, Percy. Whose sister did you despoil this time?”
Shouts and curses quickly filled the room, threatening to erupt into chaos and confusion. At the first rumble of disorder, Inez started to move toward the shotgun beneath the bar, but Abe was closer and quicker. Up came the shotgun, its cold double-eyed stare directed at no one in particular but everyone in general.
“Freeze!” he said in a loud voice intended to stop everyone in their tracks.
Everyone did, except for a flurry of men near one of the back tables. Abe continued, “What’s going on back there? Someone, speak up!”
Inez pulled her Smoot Remington from her hidden pocket and hastened around the end of the counter. Mark did the same from the other end of the bar, and they converged on the melee.
“Young’un pulled a pistol!” someone yelled. “He was gunnin’ for loudmouth by the bar up there.”
A brass spittoon, rolling listlessly across the floorboards in an arc, dribbled its remaining contents onto a now-ruined scatter of playing cards before banging into a table leg. The brown puddle on the floor was being scuffled and smeared by the boots of three men struggling to hold a boy-sized tornado at the center. Inez recognized the red cap, firmly clamped down around the boy’s ears. Short arms and legs windmilled punches and kicks at the barricade of men. What grabbed Inez’s attention was the fancy pistol swinging free from a cord around his neck. The flash of gold and silver from the body of the gun, combined with what looked like a pearl or ivory grip, was wildly incongruous to the layers of raggedy jackets and waistcoats now twisted and pulled from around his shoulders.
One patron finally pinned Tony’s arms back while another gripped the back of the boy’s shirt, lifting him up on tiptoe, so he was forced to use his feet for balance, not weapons.
Tony’s squeaks and sputterings resolved into “Worthless…Pisspot…Brown! You, you worthless piece of…you…my maman.”
The Lads from London had peeled away from the bar, Abe’s shotgun notwithstanding, and were advancing with a united growl like a pack of wolves. They brushed past Inez, pocket pistols and a pearl-handled derringer appearing from hidden dandified pockets. Sir Daniel Tipton was pulling a thin gleaming length of sharp steel from the staff of his cane.
She quickened her step to interpose herself between the murderous Englishmen and the still thrashing youth, who didn’t appear the least intimidated by the top-hatted gang with blood in their eyes.
“What did you call me, boy?” said Lord Percy with a menacing drawl.
“You! You’re a worthless, no-good, lying—”
“Enough!” said Inez.
Tony looked up at her, eyes shrouded behind a curtain of black curly hair. “Brown’s a liar!”
She stepped closer, crouched to look him straight in the face, almost nose to nose. “Enough.” The word was whisper soft but the threat behind it was heavy as a hammer on an anvil. She turned to the Lads, with Lord Percy in the fore. “We’ll handle this, gentlemen,” she said and repocketed her revolver. “Drinks on the house, for those who were offended and for those who stepped up to help. As for the rest,” she looked around the room, calculating. Sol slid in the Harrison Street door, taking in the scene with a confused air. “House whiskey is half-price per shot, for the next five minutes, starting NOW.”
Eager imbibers hit the bar like an avalanche driven by a deep winter blizzard. Inez gestured for Sol to get behind the bar and get busy. She turned to Tony’s restrainers, who appeared torn between letting loose of the newsie and claiming their reward and staying put to help. “Thank you, gentlemen,” Inez said. She stepped carefully through the slippery ooze of sputum and tobacco juice. “Mr. Stannert and I will take over in a moment. You needn’t worry about the saloon running out of your favorite brand of spirits. There will be plenty for you.”
Slowly, she untangled the leather thong that encircled Tony’s neck, lifting the pistol and its lanyard free. She broke the cylinder, and emptied it of ammunition.
“I will keep this,” she told Tony, holding up the gun, “and these,” she palmed the cartridges, “until we have a full accounting from you.”
Mark stopped beside her and eyed the newsie. “Probably ought to keep this as well.” He lifted the cap off Tony, whose eyes widened then narrowed.
“Could tell you put a lot of stock in that cap, given how tight it held to your head,” he said. “Gentlemen, to the kitchen with the captive and we’ll take it from there.”
Chapter Ten
Once the captive was deposited on one of the wood chairs in the kitchen, the captors departed, eager to claim their bonus for their work. Tony sat sullenly, arms crossed protectively over the two jackets and three waistcoats wound around the thin frame. Those unsettling eyes darted from Inez, who was guarding the door to the saloon proper, to Mark, who was standing in front of the door that led out the back to the alley.
Cap in hand, Mark regarded Tony thoughtfully, stroking his mustache in a meditative gesture. Inez’s arms were crossed in unconscious imitation of Tony, the offending gun held securely in one hand. She had wound the thong around her wrist, a precaution in case Tony contemplated making a quick snatch and escape with the weapon…not that it would do much good, since all of those present in the saloon had been aware of the fracas. The newsie wouldn’t get far.
Too, given the look on the faces of the remittance men, Inez thought Tony was far safer in the kitchen than out where they could get their hands on him.
Tony must have been aware of that, because the small figure slouched further in the chair with a lowered head, refusing to look at either Stannert.
Inez brought the revolver closer to the guttering coal-oil lamp hanging by the kitchen door for a detailed examination. “This is a fine piece. Very fine indeed. My first question to you, Tony, is, how did you come by it?” She turned to face the newsie. “And my second question is, just what did you intend to do with it?�
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Tony glared at her, tightlipped, with an expression that clearly said that was the stupidest question ever asked.
Inez waited, undeterred. She was curious to see how Tony decided to respond. Would it be a mumbled unintelligible apology accompanied by a shifty visage? Or a whimpered, insincere “I didn’t mean it!” reinforced with a sad-eyed, I’m-only-a-child hangdog face? Or, a wordless spit on the floor? Or…would it be the truth?
“Well?” Inez nudged.
The silence stretched out, broken only by a single sniff from Tony, who used a sleeve to scrub a dripping nose.
“Now, son,” said Mark kindly, “we aren’t the enemy here. If anything, we’re just tryin’ to save your hide. You tangled with a crowd that, well, they may look like Johnny-come-latelies and easy touches, but they’d slit your throat in a heartbeat. Especially once they get all liquored up, which I’d say they nearly are. We aren’t going to be tellin’ your stories to anyone. As for Mrs. Stannert, she’s not likely to give you back your piece until she knows what’s what.”
“And I want the truth,” Inez added. “I’ll know if you’re lying. Through necessity, I’ve become adept at telling when someone is trying to pull the wool over my eyes, as I suspect that you, despite your obvious youth, are also quite proficient at doing.”
Tony glared up through straggling locks of hair. Inez was taken aback by the depth of rage in the childlike face.
“I was gonna shoot him,” Tony spat. “That…Worthless Pisspot Brown!”
Inez’s brow furrowed. “Worthless?” She held the revolver up to the light again, squinting to bring the letters into focus. “I see. The initials. What did you call him?”
“WPB. Worthless Pisspot Brown.”
Inez gave out a “Ha!” of discovery, then said, “I’m going to show you something, Tony. But first, you must sit on your hands.”
Tony didn’t move, apparently bewildered by Inez’s laughter and odd request.
“I just don’t want you to try to make a grab and run,” Inez explained. “That would be most unwise, and I don’t want you tempted.”
Tony cautiously shifted, sliding balled hands under trousered thighs.
Inez approached. “Now, as to these initials.” She gripped the barrel, lanyard still wound around her wrist, so Tony could see the ivory grip clearly. The light from the gas lamp threw the engraved letters into sharp relief. Inez continued, “There are a lot of added flourishes and curlicues, which probably contributed to your confusion. Look.” She traced the letters slowly with a finger. “W, R, B. Do you see? R, not P.”
Tony frowned.
So,” Inez continued in a conversational tone, straightening up, “the gentleman you are so eager to ventilate is not Winslow Percival Brown.” She turned to Mark. “I had no idea that was Lord Percy’s moniker, did you?”
Mark shook his head.
Inez turned back to Tony. “So, you’ll need to come up with a word that starts with R to replace the P for pisspot. Rotten, perhaps? Worthless Rotten Brown?”
Tony looked suspicious.
“Don’t believe me?” Inez said conversationally. “Well, we could ask Mr. Stannert, but you might not believe him either, think we’re in collusion, perhaps? How about Mr. Jackson? Hmmm. Who else might you trust?” Her brow furrowed then smoothed out again. “You are a newsie for The Independent, yes? Well, if you hurry, you might still catch Mr. Elliston at the office. He often stays late, then stops by here for a libation afterwards, but I don’t think you should tarry here this evening. It’s not safe for you. Now, how came you by Mr. Brown’s weapon and why are you so determined to turn it on him?”
“He gave it to Maman!” Tony’s fists shot up and slammed the table. “He told her he’d come back for us. He didn’t, and he won’t! We wait and wait and she says she’s seen him coming back, and she still thinks he will, but he won’t! He won’t ever!”
Inez retreated a step, taken aback by the venom and agony in the tone. The small-framed figure shivered with uncontained hatred. “And I’ll kill him if he does!”
Inez had a sudden overwhelming desire to go to the newsie, now on the verge of tears, and envelope that shaking bundle of filthy rags in a hug. She reined in the impulse and gentled her tone to buffer any sharpness in the words, “Well, if Mr. Brown doesn’t come back, you might find it hard to use this against him.” She offered the pistol to Tony, grip first. “Put this away, somewhere safe. Others saw it, and I can’t guarantee that they might not try to wrestle it from you in the alley some night. I have to say, I’d lay odds on you getting the better of most of them, through wits if nothing else.” She smiled.
Tony wiped leaking eyes with a sleeve, embarrassed, took the gun, and lowered the lanyard overhead before tucking the weapon away inside several layers of waistcoats.
Mark moved forward and set the cap on Tony’s head with a firm twist, then yanked it low so Tony had to peer up through tangled bangs. “Mrs. Stannert’s no fool, so best listen to her advice. Find a secure place to leave Mr. Brown’s fancy firearm, maybe with Mr. Elliston, or you could leave it here with us and we’ll put it in the safe for you. Find something a little less flashy to protect yourself with. Best you make yourself scarce around State Street for the next few days. Those fellas are only here through Monday or Tuesday, then they return from whence they came. By the time they return next month, they won’t recollect any of this.”
Mark moved to the stove, grabbed a nearby tin plate, and piled some of Bridgette’s biscuits onto it and brought it back to Tony. “Now, take this along to your mama. Don’t eat them all at once, got it, sport? Return the tin when you can.”
Bypassing the plate itself, the newsie stuffed the biscuits into inner and outer pockets. Finally, jacket bulging, Tony glanced covertly at Inez. “C’n I have my cartridges?”
Inez frowned and looked at Mark.
Mark said, “Promise no shootin’ at someone unless they shoot first?”
Tony nodded.
After a moment’s close scrutiny, Mark said, “Might as well, Mrs. Stannert. No doubt there’s more where they came from.”
Inez pulled the rounds out of her pocket and reached to tuck them into the newsie’s breast pocket. Tony shied away from her touch and held out an open hand. Inez dropped the shells into the dirty palm. Tony muttered, “Thanks.”
Mark held open the back door, and Tony stepped into the alley.
Inez moved next to Mark to observe Tony disappear into the murky darkness.
She turned to her husband. “Well, Mr. Stannert. Shall we place bets? Tony’s real name: Antonia, or Antoinette, or…?”
Chapter Eleven
Mark turned to Inez. “I’d wager that her name isn’t even close to ‘Tony.’ If she’s as smart as she seems, she’d choose a moniker far afield from the original. She could be a Caterina, Soledad, Mary, Sarah, Eliza.”
“I’d wager not,” countered Inez. “If she has family with her here in Leadville—and it sounds like there is at least a mother, so perhaps younger siblings, what-have-you—I’m guessing whatever she chooses to call herself is close enough to her real name to lessen confusion. She’s young. Not some well-traveled confidence trickster.”
Mark shrugged and followed Inez to the swinging kitchen door. “Ask her yourself sometime. Better yet, ask Abe, since he’s the one who hired her. Maybe he knows her story.”
Inez paused, hand on the door. “In fact, I believe I met her mother, earlier today. Did you notice Tony’s eyes just now? One brown, the other more a green?”
Mark nodded. Unusual. Keeps that cap pulled down low when she sells papers and is working in the saloon, so they aren’t obvious.”
“Well, I saw a woman with a similar odd pairing today, only she had one brown eye and the other was of a blueish hue.”
At the staircase, they parted ways, Mark heading up to ready himself and the card room fo
r the evening’s visitors, and Inez to the bar to talk to Abe and check on the drummer.
Woods was comfortably settled on the State Street end of the bar. One elbow rested atop his shut trunk, and he appeared to be lingering over another sherry and egg. “Mrs. Stannert,” he said jovially, “thank you for allowing me to set up shop in your establishment this evening.” He lowered his voice. “I almost sold out of what I had. If you would permit me to return tomorrow evening, once I’ve restocked my case with what I have in the hotel, I believe it would be profitable for us all.”
He slid a large pile of receipts across the top of the bar to her. “All in all, I sold two hundred fifty-five dollars’ worth of ladies’ unmentionables. You are welcome to check my numbers and I’ll pick up the receipts tomorrow at your convenience.” He floated two five-dollar bills and a pair of well-used one-dollar notes atop the receipts and added six bits. “Five percent of total sales. As agreed upon, yes?”
Inez eyed the pile of scribbled bills of sale. Two hundred fifty-five dollars. In less than an hour.
“Thank you, Mr. Woods.” She took the receipts and thumbed through them, curious at the chicken scratches that accompanied each numerical total. “You take notes?”
“Every place I go,” he said. “I have my own system. I get the name and what they bought. That way, when I come back to the Silver Queen and Mr. Smith pops up again, I’m more likely to remember and say, ‘So, how did Mrs. Smith like the silk stockings you bought last time?’” He looked a little chagrined. “Sometimes, the stockings aren’t for Mrs. Smith at all. So if he doesn’t say ‘for the missus’ or what have you, I keep it simple.”
Inez took the receipts and the money, and placed them in the lockbox. “Of course, this venture is more profitable for you. I lose the space along the bar for those with a thirst for liquor and lose the attention of those who might partake of a game of chance.”
