by Ann Parker
Inez pointed a finger at him. “Mr. Stannert, you never bothered to correct that impression during your absence, as you damn well know.”
Mark rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Mrs. Stannert, since I’ve come back I’ve explained myself six ways to Sunday. In fact, we’ve trod that ground over and over until it’s nothing but a dusty rut.”
“And as I’ve pointed out, over and over, your specious explanations hold water no better than a leaky sieve.”
Reverend Sands stayed motionless through Inez and Mark’s exchange, listening, watching, his face growing darker, his jaw tighter.
Mark’s attention switched back to Sands. “As I’m sure you’ve learned by now, Mrs. Stannert’s a woman who makes up her own mind and follows her own path, sometimes contrary to all evidence and advice. That’s how she took to me, you know. Turned her back on her whole family for me, and not a day has gone by in our ten-plus years together that I haven’t thanked the Lord for her strong-willed ways. But I have to say, Reverend,” his tone hardened, “while Inez was struggling to deal with my disappearance, your behavior didn’t seem quite so befittin’ of a man of the cloth, offering succor by beddin’ my wife.”
Mark’s last words scarcely had a chance to meet the air before Reverend Sands moved. A lunge across the table, almost too fast to see, and Sands had the front of Mark’s spotless white silk shirt twisted tight in his black-gloved grasp.
Sands hauled Mark up and forward, pulling him half out of the chair, until the two men were nearly nose to nose.
The fury on the reverend’s face sent a waterfall of icy fear cascading over Inez.
She managed to gasp out. “Mark! How dare you!”
During his speech, Mark’s eyes had been half lidded, his voice drawn out with a more exaggerated drawl—mannerisms Inez associated with him maneuvering toward a desired end. All that had vanished when Sands had grabbed him. Mark’s eyes were now wide, his arms out, hands open. The gesture said as clear as words: I’m unarmed.
Inez didn’t trust that gesture for a moment. She knew Mark never entered a room unless he had something sharp and available up his sleeve, just in case.
She reached out and covered Reverend Sands’ knotted fist with her free hand. All his attention was focused on Mark, deep rage and loathing hardening his features and turning him into a stranger. Yet, something in the manifest darkness of him was familiar, something she’d glimpsed in the past, lurking below the surface of his soul, like a dark shadow gliding beneath the calm surface of a lake.
When the reverend finally spoke, his words were delivered with a cold deliberation more frightening than any shout. “You do your own wife a vast injustice by maligning her, Mr. Stannert. If I ever hear of you speaking about her or to her in such a manner again, you will regret it. Am I clear?”
Beneath her hand, she could feel Sands twist the fabric tighter around Mark’s neck. Mark didn’t lower his gaze, despite what must have been the near stranglehold, his face the unreadable expression of the inveterate poker player in a high stakes game. Yet, as close as she was, Inez saw her husband’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. She also sensed a gathering of energy, the approach of impending violence.
Fearing that the situation was on the verge of exploding in a way none of them would be able to control, Inez slid her hand from the reverend’s fist to his arm. Pleading. Warning. “Let him go, Justice. This is exactly what he wants you to do.”
Her words hung suspended, between them all. She held her breath. The tension stretched until it quivered at the breaking point. Then, the darkness in Sands shifted.
Sands released Mark, shoving him down into the chair. Mark grabbed for the edge of the table to keep from toppling over backwards.
Air crept back into the room and into Inez’s lungs.
The reverend stepped back, as if adding physical distance would keep him from doing something worse.
Mark said nothing, just kept both hands on the table rim in plain view, motionless, but his gaze sharpened in speculation as he took in the reverend’s retreat. Inez thought she saw respect…and is that fear?…flit over her husband’s face. Inez had rarely seen Mark afraid of anyone or anything, so she couldn’t, wouldn’t swear she’d read him right.
Finally, moving with slow, exaggeratedly careful gestures as if to display his harmlessness, Mark lifted his hands from the burnished walnut and proceeded to straighten and smooth his tie.
Reverend Sands turned to Inez, the rage gone.
Speaking to her as if they were the only two people in the room, he said, “I’m glad to see you are returned and hope your visit with your sister and son went well. We need to talk, in private, but I can see this isn’t a good time. We’ll do so later.” His tone was as intimate as a caress, a brush of his hand down her cheek and neck.
Inez started toward him. “Justice, wait. I’ll walk down with you. I’m done here.”
Mark interjected, speaking to Reverend Sands as if nothing more than words had been exchanged between the two of them a moment ago. “Now, Reverend, Inez and I, well, we’re a pair of black sheep. I know her weaknesses, she knows mine. We’re two of a kind, and a pair of any suit beats a high card in any game I’ve ever played. I understand you used to turn a hand to cards now and again, Reverend?”
Already at the door, Sands turned around to regard Mark. “You seem to have gone through a lot of trouble to unearth my past,” he said, not without irony.
Mark picked up the scattered cards, riffling them, tapping them into an orderly pile. “Well now, I figure it’s always a good idea to know who my opponent is. And make no mistake, Reverend. We are opponents. Way I see it, we can handle this like gentlemen, without resorting to fisticuffs or guns.”
“Or knives,” said Sands. “Which I understand you favor, Mr. Stannert.”
Mark half smiled, his equanimity returning. “Sounds like you’ve been doin’ your homework too. In any case, the law’s on my side, being that Inez’s married to me still. But Mrs. Stannert’s made it plain she’s intent on divorce, just as I’ve made it clear I’m intent on keepin’ the matrimonial bond intact. Now, you and me, seems we’re both gamblers in life and love, so why don’t we let the cards decide? That way one or the other of us doesn’t end up bleedin’ out in Tiger Alley some moonless night.”
He placed the neatened deck of cards in the center of the table. “High-card draw, with Mrs. Stannert the stakes. Loser steps aside and winner gives it his best shot to win her affections. If six months hence, she spurns him, then winner retreats like a gentleman, no harm done and no offense taken.”
Incensed, Inez backtracked to the table and slammed her hand on the deck, covering it. “You will not do this. I will not be placed up for bid like a, a side of beef!”
Mark didn’t even look at her. “Aces high.” He slid his hand beneath Inez’s, extracted the deck from her grip, and flipped over the top card: nine of clubs.
Mark leaned back. “Go ahead, Reverend. By my reckonin’, you’ve got a decent chance of comin’ out as the man on top.”
The reverend’s coldly polite expression transformed into one of disgust. “I won’t demean her or myself.”
He turned and left.
His footsteps retreated down the hallway until they were washed out by the sounds drifting up from below. She started to follow him but couldn’t restrain her anger.
She turned and pointed at Mark, her arm shaking. “That was completely uncalled for,” she snapped. “I know what you were trying to do. Try something like that again, odds are, your son will grow up fatherless.”
Mark shifted in his chair. “He got the drop on me that time. Won’t happen again. But what makes you think he’d go to the wall for you or that I’d just sit back and take whatever whipping he’s got in mind to deliver?” Mark eyed her, curious.
She opened her mouth to argue, to say that Mark had no idea what
the reverend was capable of, to demand Mark explain himself and his despicable behavior…and stopped. This is exactly what Mark wants, to hold me here, trading words with him. I will not play into his hands.
Without another word, she left, slamming the door hard behind her.
Chapter Thirteen
Inez would have run down the stairs from the second floor if her narrow skirts had permitted. She cursed herself for taking the time to engage Mark even for those few moments. What use was it to yell, accuse, reproach, and remind? He just looked at her, those clear blue eyes patient and attentive, waiting for the torrent of words to cease, waiting for her to wind down so that he could take advantage of her exhaustion and defeat. Well, not this time. This time she had turned away.
Inez stopped at the Harrison Street end of the bar, where Sol was assiduously washing a troop of shot glasses in a small tin tub, dipping them in the soapy water and then again in rinse water, drying each one with a quick twist of a clean bar towel. “Sol, did you see Reverend Sands come down just now?”
“Oh sure,” said Sol. “He came downstairs and headed out through the kitchen.”
“The kitchen?” That door only led in one direction. “He went into Tiger Alley?” Disbelief colored her question.
“Oh yeah.” Sol stopped mid-rinse. “After he came back, a month or so ago, most nights, he’d stop by and ask about, ah, whether we had any news of your return.” Sol looked extremely uncomfortable, as if he sensed he was skating onto thin ice with this topic. He hurried forward.
“Bridgette told me that he travels Tiger and Stillborn alleys and the rows late at night, looking for orphans, folks who need doctoring, a hot meal, or a bunk at the mission. Leastways, that’s what Bridgette told me. It’s not like I’ve been of a mind to follow him out and see if it’s true.” Sol glanced around nervously, as if hoping that his remark would not put notions in Inez’s head to order him out there.
Apparently chivalry got the better of him because he added, “Uh, do you want to take my place back here and I’ll go out and look for him?”
“No! No. I’ll take care of this.” Inez started toward the kitchen door, grim determination marching alongside and prodding her forward. A pair of galoshes and a worn winter cloak hung by the backdoor, surety against any need to momentarily plunge out into the alley on a cold evening. Only this wasn’t evening, but the darkest hour before midnight. It was most likely going to take more than a moment to track the reverend down in the nightmare dark of the alleys and their precincts of desperate and lost souls.
Gritting her teeth, Inez pulled the vulcanized boots on over her burgundy satin shoes and snugged the ankle-length cloak about her bare neck and shoulders. She cursed herself for leaving her silver skirt lifters upstairs. She had not expected to have to venture outside when the evening began. With much muttering and fussing with ribbons and bows, Inez hitched up her long skirts until the dress hems cleared the tops of her galoshes. A quick pace across the kitchen and back assured her she could lengthen her stride and protect the delicate fabric from the mud and offal that lurked on and off the alleys and the tiny crooked footpaths. She extracted her Smoot revolver from its hidden pocket, inadvertently dragging out the tangled silver and gold laces given to her by the drummer.
Emitting a huff of frustration, Inez stuffed the laces back into the satin-lined pocket of the dress. She checked that her weapon was fully loaded. With her free hand, she pulled the hood of the cloak up and over her bare head, making sure she could see to either side and still keep her face within its soft, anonymous folds.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the saloon’s back door, plunged out into the biting October night air, and headed down the dark alley, her senses stretching out into the blackness, determined to find Reverend Sands before dawn stained the mountaintops.
***
A quick pass through Tiger Alley produced no sign of the reverend. Inez crossed State Street and pushed her way through the milling throng of carousers and curiosity-seekers toward the upper end of the block and French Row. Just short of the corner of Harrison and State, she steeled herself and turned into a dank passage between the Grand Central Theater and a law office, entering Stillborn Alley.
The warren of small, irregular and shapeless shanties were set in no regular order, the passages and footpaths between them a twisting labyrinth. Dim lights and shadows flickered behind curtains of thin muslin and ragged stained lace. Aware of shadows pulsing around corners of buildings, Inez pulled her small revolver out of her pocket, picked a path that looked as if it would lead to the center of the community, and moved forward cautiously. She tried to ignore the odd crunch and squish beneath her boots, tuning her hearing for any soft footstep from the sides or behind her and praying to catch the smooth, low tones of Reverend Sands’ voice.
Instead, her ears were assaulted with a discordant orchestra of raucous laughter, angry shouts and cursing punctuated by a woman’s shriek, followed by sobbing. A crash followed as if someone were thrown against the loose planks of a wall, or perhaps a floor. Inez controlled a shudder and reminded herself that, with the black cloak covering her from head to ankle, she was as invisible as the other shapes that flitted at the limit of her vision.
A group of men, voices tumbling in slurred anger, spilled out of a nearby hovel. “Let’s go!” shouted one, “This way!”
They started in Inez’s direction.
Catching her breath, she lurched down a barely discernable side trail, pitch-dark, squeezed between two buildings, and crashed directly into a solid form coming the opposite way.
Twin yips of surprise erupted in harmony—one from Inez, the other from the unknown party. Someone lit a candle within a nearby window and lifted the scrim to peek out at the shouts that rattled through the main pathway. In the dim light, Inez saw with shock that it was the “unmentionables drummer” standing before her. Hatless, face sweaty despite the cold rank air, shirt buttons askew, jacket hanging from one arm, he swayed, looking equally horrified to see her.
“Woods?” said Inez, not quite believing her eyes.
With a desperate shush, he grabbed her shoulder, then snatched his hand away when she involuntarily raised her pistol. “Madam, I’m not going to ask or even guess why you might be here,” he hissed. “And I ask that you do the same for me. Let’s just pretend we did not see each other under these sorry circumstances.”
He glanced over his shoulder. The drunken voices seemed to be receding. He shifted past her and darted into the dark.
She stood still for a moment, readjusting, regaining her composure and slowing her speeding heart. Straining her ears, she tried to determine if immediate danger lurked from any particular compass point. All the sounds seemed to be returning to normal, if there was such a thing for that part of town. Among the many voices, high and low, she could not detect Reverend Sands’. With an internal sigh, she proceeded in the direction that the drummer had come from, moving inward and south.
Turning a corner, she found herself facing a dirty pool of light from a lantern hanging from the eves of a shack. The lantern illuminated a carefully lettered sign nailed above the door. Inez read the words on the board, feeling her skin crawl with an unnamable trepidation: FUTURES AND FORTUNES TOLD.
Somehow or other, she’d taken paths that returned her to the fortuneteller’s abode where she had spotted the newsie Tony earlier in the day. Inez was certain she would not be able to retrace the path she’d taken to here, even with all her wits about her.
A diminutive rag-draped form faced the door. Small, but not Tony.
Inez shrank into the shadows, placing her back against a protective wall such that she could still observe the shanty. The thin wall at her back flexed in time with feminine cries of what sounded like patently manufactured passion. These moans were punctuated by the periodic baritone grunts of some gentleman caller working hard at the business at hand. She tried to ignore the
sounds on the other side of the thin planks as the rhythm quickened in time to the groans and squeaks within.
The figure by the fortuneteller’s shanty bent down, fiddled with something by the door, then still crouched, lifted a rock overhead and brought it down. Inez flinched, imagining some small animal crushed beneath the stone.
The pile of rags then stood, and Inez was close enough to see a wad of spit splat against the plank door and immediately soak into the thirsty warped wood. Apparently satisfied, the tattered shape turned. Inez stifled a gasp. Madam Labasilier stared out at the darkness, her face lifted in fierce triumph. Bathed in the dim lantern light, standing straight and tall, not bent and hobbling as she’d appeared at the Jacksons’ home, the woman seemed to have magically shed decades from her slight frame.
Her dark gaze wandered the shadows, then stopped, lingering in Inez’s direction. Inez’s heart thumped in syncopation with the accelerated tap-tap-tap that shook her from behind the wall. A sudden duet of howls and yowls erupted. Madam Labasilier, with a dismissive shake of her shoulders, pulled a muted purple shawl over her head, and departed, blending into the night.
Inez itched to see what was beneath the rock sitting by the front door of Mrs. Gizzi’s place of business, but was also loath to step into the revealing light. Reminding herself of the night’s primary mission, she turned and chose a path that wound away from Madam Labasilier. Inez moved slowly to give her eyes time to adjust back to the gloom. A few more turns around dilapidated dwellings yielded a faint glimmer ahead, warning of an open door or a half-shuttered lantern. With a sudden surge of hope she detected a man’s quiet murmur. Something in the tenor and flow of tone convinced her it was probably Reverend Sands.
Another voice, deeper, sonorous, responded. “He’s dead. There’s no doubt. No pulse, no breath.”
