What Gold Buys

by Ann Parker

  “Any possibility of foul play, Dr. Gregorvich?” It was definitely Reverend Sands.

  Inez inched closer. Two silhouetted figures knelt by a shape curled up against the wall of a lean-to. The taller thinner figure bent over the prone shadow, stovepipe hat bobbing. A slice of light appeared from a well-shuttered lantern. The narrow beam moved over the ground and the curled shape, finally pausing to illuminate a dead and open eye. “No sign of such.” The lantern light traveled down over a bare torso to linger on a ghost-white length of thigh, thin as a stick. “Look at his limbs: malnutrition was foremost. If I were to guess the story behind this corpse, I’d say it began with a lack of food and a surfeit of alcohol over an extended period of time. He most likely fell into unconsciousness much earlier, perhaps even days ago, sinking ever deeper into stupor and finally succumbing. Stripped of all clothing at some point. Tucked up behind a wall like this, he is well hidden.”

  Both men stood.

  “No papers, no name,” said Sands. “If he had family, they are unknown, and most likely will never learn his fate. However, he is part of the family of man, and we shall mourn his passing as such.”

  Dr. Gregorvich gave a nod. He tugged something from a bag slung around a shoulder. Inez squinted. A large bag? A shroud?

  He draped it over the form curled against the wall, rendering it invisible in the dark, then straightened. “I’ll arrange to have the body removed as soon as possible. I should examine it for cholera before offering up exposure as cause of death to the coroner. Cholera stalks these alleys like death itself. Once we know for certain, I will contact Mr. Alexander and we will proceed per the usual arrangements between your mission, Mr. Alexander, and myself.”

  “Agreed. If he is unknown to you and me as well as others who with all good intent take to these places to help, then most likely he will remain anonymous. If a simple newspaper notice turns up no kin, no one to claim his earthly remains, then we shall proceed, as you say, per usual. The church will cover the expenses of a simple coffin and arrange for a resting place in the cemetery.” Sands touched the brim of his hat, a simple show of respect. He added, “Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.”

  “I still find it odd that a man of God occasionally finds the need to quote the Bard instead of the Bible,” Gregorvich sounded almost amused.

  “Comfort and understanding of what lies beyond our last breath comes from many sources.”

  “Well, we have discussed this before, Reverend, often in much the same circumstances, standing over those expired and past hope. You know my position: That if it cannot be measured, cannot be seen, then most likely, it does not exist. Here again, Shakespeare is appropriate: ‘…to die, and go we know not where; to lie in cold obstruction and to rot.’ However, I remain open-minded. If there are realms beyond this one, show me the proof, and I will consider.”

  Inez stepped away from her hiding place, clutching her pistol in the folds of the cloak. “Reverend?” she whispered.

  Both men turned toward her. The physician’s face, ghost-pale, swiveled to the reverend.

  “I’ll leave you to tend to your lost lambs, Sands,” said Dr. Gregorvich abruptly. Without another word, he melted into the darkness.

  Reverend Sands stepped in her direction. “Inez?”

  She heard surprise and more in the utterance of her name: Hope? Longing? Despair?

  He closed the distance between them. At the familiar pressure of his hands, first upon her shoulders, then sliding down to her back, all her explanations, intentions, and resolve dissolved. Inez wrapped her arms around his waist, one hand still holding the revolver, and pulled him in tight, seeking the warmth of his mouth to quell her hunger.

  ***

  After being kicked out of the Silver Queen’s back door, Tony skittered aimlessly around town, trying to decide what to do next. Up to now, Mr. Brown’s gun had been a source of protection and comfort to her, the gentle tug of the lanyard a constant reminder of its presence. Now, it felt dangerous, as if it could turn and bite her like one of those deadly sidewinder-rattlers Ace had told the newsies about once. “They ain’t up here in Leadville. It’s too cold,” Ace had said after terrifying them with his yarn of ten-foot-long snakes with buzzing tails and dripping fangs that sprang over boulders to attack unwary travelers, leaving victims with swollen purple limbs, screaming their death agonies complete with blood spewing from every orifice.

  Now, the cord on her neck felt as if it was trying to strangle her.

  Her feet slowed, having brought her nearly to the front door of the offices of The Independent on East Third Street. Light poured out the front pane, indicating that the publisher and chief editor and inkslinger, Jed Elliston, was still there. Should she do as the Stannerts said, take the gun to The Independent office and give it to Mr. Elliston for safekeeping? She wavered in indecision.

  Finally, Tony sidestepped to the front door where the light was brightest but where she could still stand unobserved by Elliston or anyone else inside. With her back to the street, she furtively pulled out the gun and held the grip up to the light, slanting it this way and that to inspect the initials. It was like some kind of trick, some magical sleight of hand. When held one way, she saw clear as day the P in the middle. When she twisted it so the light slid crosswise, a wavy curly line, which looked like a fancy doodle just seconds before, touched the belly of the P to form an R. “Maybe so, maybe no,” she whispered to herself. “Pisspot or Rotten?”

  Tony reminded herself that Mrs. Stannert seemed to know the hoity-toity bunch. Maybe they were even her friends, so maybe she was giving Tony the blow-off.

  But still, she didn’t seem like she was trying to lay a con.

  Tony twisted the grip back and forth. R, P, R, P.

  Maybe Mrs. Stannert didn’t look closely enough. She just saw what she wanted to see. She could be wrong. The thought comforted Tony as she slid the gun back under the layer of oversized waistcoats and adjusted the leather string so it didn’t chafe her nape. The safest place for the gun was probably in the cabin, buried in Mr. Brown’s carpetbag and wrapped in the woolens Tony had deigned too itchy to wear.

  Tony finally headed back toward French Row and home. She approached the Bon Ton Billiard Hall where she liked to enter the front and exit through the back. The proprietor William Nye always had a friendly wink to spare for her if he was there, and sometimes bought her leftover papers, if she had any. “Gives the losers something to read while they sulk,” he joked with her once.

  A few steps away from the entrance, she saw a strange sight. A tall, pale woman, entirely dressed in black, her upswept hair coming loose and unpinned around her face, gripped the billiard room door with one hand while a man whom Tony assumed was her husband, held fast to her other arm while also clutching a fancy black hat, its long veil trailing onto the boardwalk. “Françoise,” he said desperately, “what are you doing?”

  With a start, Tony recognized her as the woman she had met earlier, who had paid Maman a hundred dollars to “speak true.” Who had seemed disappointed that Tony was a boy.

  The woman tried to tug her arm out of the man’s grasp. “I must make amends,” said the woman. There was a wild look on her face, her eyes blank and staring. “I must make amends. I was wrong. Terribly wrong. I must right that wrong.”

  “What’s done is done. There’s no going back. You’re lucky you weren’t attacked. The alleys are dangerous!” He sounded embarrassed and frightened. “The people who live in them are animals. They have no morals, no hesitation, it matters not who you are.”

  The woman stopped struggling. Her hand dropped from the door and Tony saw tears course down her cheeks. “It was a gift. I meant it as a gift,” she said. “Did I kill her with my kindness?” She put her face in her hands and began to weep. Her husband folded her into an embrace, glancing around as if more concerned about being se
en than his wife’s distress. “Come, we must go home. Now. You shouldn’t be seen here. We shouldn’t be seen here.” The last was said in an emphatic whisper, which Tony, loitering in the slot between the Bon Ton Billiard Hall and the Alhambra Hall saloon, heard quite clearly. They turned and walked right past Tony, the husband’s arm wrapped protectively around his wife’s waist.

  Tony slid into the hall and passed through its length, unseen through the haze of tobacco smoke and unnoticed among the click of billiard balls and whoops and chatter. No one took note of her as she went through the backdoor and into Stillborn Alley. Tony stopped and glanced left and right, before starting her zigzag journey through French Row.

  Even in the dark, she knew the tangle of shanties and crisscrossing paths like the back of her hand. She knew the bolt-holes and hidey-holes where one could hide when brawls spilled into the maze, knew which corners the hard-looking characters, men made gaunt by poverty and despair, lurked around, waiting for the unaware and unwitting to stumble their way. She moved cautiously, keeping a straggling line of poor dwellings between her and the rear walls of the larger buildings fronting State Street. Tony listened with all her power, prepared to dodge and disappear at the first sign of anything untoward.

  It didn’t require a keen sense of hearing, though, for her to hear and identify the voices that snapped at each other from behind the Grand Central Theater.

  “Bloody stop telling me what to do,” slurred out Mr. Pisspot Brown. The small pinpoint of a lit cigarette winked bright, throwing a brief light on his angry pinched face with its little mustache.

  “Face it, you’ve made a damn mess of things, Percy,” said another voice, which Tony identified as belonging to the fair-haired sour-faced one with the straight-out pointy mustache. “You’ll be lucky to get out of this in one piece. You heard what they said in there. That old coot took you for a song and a dance, and no doubt that reader of tea leaves was in on it. You were conned.”

  “Aw, stuff it, Epperley. We’ll get to the truth. Blast that broken mirror in the hotel. I knew I should’ve held onto my rabbit’s foot. We’ll go back and pay a little visit after the dancers toss their garters into the crowd. I plan on being lucky in at least one venture tonight.”

  The ember end of the cigarette described a small arc of light as Pisspot Brown tossed it away. It made a sharp sizzle noise as it landed in a rain barrel. “Don’t forget, there’s that little tosser of a newsboy to deal with. That’s a loose end I intend to wrap up before we leave town. He won’t be hard to find, and when I do, there’ll be one less newsie in Leadville.” Pisspot Percy gave a nasty laugh. “He’ll never be missed.”

  The back door of the theater swung open. Bright light spilled out, nearly blinding Tony who crouched behind a crooked and very stinky outhouse. Tony caught a glimpse inside of women dressed in bright colored dresses sprinkled with feathers and sparkly bits. They fanned themselves and laughed with their red-painted mouths, heads thrown back and showing off their dead-white necks. Sour-faced Epperley and Pisspot Brown, both togged up in frock coats and top hats, entered. The door swung shut behind them, casting the world back into darkness.

  Tony retreated, a belated jolt of fear shaking her legs so she could hardly walk.

  Did they know where she lived? Had they come looking for her to slit her throat?

  Distress turned her feet toward home. She dodged around one corner, then another, then about four structures away, she heard: “Come back with me!”

  Mrs. Stannert? What’s she doing here? Taken by surprise, Tony dithered, uncertain what to do, hand sneaking toward her gun. She was flooded with ridiculous guilt that it was still about her person. Then, she heard another voice, lower, but filled with an urgency and despair matching Mrs. Stannert’s. “And where do you propose we go, Mrs. Stannert? To your rooms, across the hall from where your husband is entertaining out-of-town gamblers? To the rectory, which is as public as a hotel? What would you have me do?”

  Tony blinked, surprised twice. She knew that voice. It was Reverend Sands, one of the do-gooders who came into the rows wanting to “help.” What’s he got to do with Mrs. Stannert?

  “There must be a way.” Mrs. Stannert sounded almost frantic.

  “Inez,” the reverend’s voice was gentle. “Much has happened since you’ve been gone. There is a movement afoot to have me replaced.”

  “What??”

  “I had the blessings of all to accompany Grant on his tour through Colorado. And no one seemed to mind when I asked for and received permission to continue with him through Wyoming. It was only two more weeks, two added Sundays. But I returned to find talk that I was not tending my flock in a manner befitting the post.”

  “Who are they? Who is saying this?” Mrs. Stannert sounded as dangerous as those fops had when they were sliding out their knives to cut Tony’s throat at the saloon. Tony was glad that whoever “they” were, they weren’t here.

  “It doesn’t matter. We need to talk about the future, you and I. If it’s God’s will that I move on, then I accept that, as long as you come with me.”

  Oh…that’s it. Tony knew all about these things: women and men, promises, made and broken, bonds created and destroyed. Screwing up her face in disgust, Tony retraced her steps and took a different path home.

  On getting to the shack, her sigh of relief was cut short when she saw the lantern was still on over the sign. Had Maman decided to stay open late? After midnight, the only men who came to have their fortunes told were too drunk to hear and too broke to pay. Any women who came at this hour were all, every single one, crying and reeling from the latest beating or broken heart.

  Tony pulled Mr. Brown’s pistol out from her clothing, and after a moment’s thought, removed the string from her neck so if it was grabbed from her, like in the saloon, she wouldn’t strangle. The ivory pistol grip, warm from her own skin, poured courage into her heart.

  She grasped the crude door handle, whispered, “Maman? It’s me,” and pulled the scraping plank open.

  Inside was pitch-black. Tony, uncertain now, hovered, then entered, one step at a time, the gun pointed forward. “Maman?” The fortunetelling table was empty; its candle snuffed.

  Tony headed toward the threadbare curtain that separated the sleeping area from the rest of the room. “Maman? I’m sorry about today. Are you awake?” Eyes readjusted to the dark within, Tony pulled back the muslin.

  Drina Gizzi lay on her back, eyes staring toward Tony and the door, face dusky and still. One arm hung over the edge of the straw mattress, knuckles brushing the floor.

  With a cry wrenched from the depths of her being, Tony dropped to her knees and dropped the gun. She clutched the still warm but lifeless fingers with both of her own small hands to her eyes, as if to shut out reality and the bleak future that now filled the shack and her soul.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Come with you.” Inez repeated the reverend’s words. She squeezed her eyes shut. Behind her eyelids, it was just as dark as it was outside, just as dark as the anger and agony in her soul. “Damn him for coming back!” she whispered fiercely. “Damn him to hell!”

  “This is not about your husband,” said Sands. “This is about you and me.” His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Leave him. Let the divorce you put into motion run its course. The grounds still stand: He was absent, without word, for over eighteen months.”

  “You heard him. He said he’d fight it. Mark will drag it out, as long as possible, use every trick in the book if he must. He’ll goad you. He’ll push and push until…” Her breath caught.

  “Yes. I know.” Sands sounded grim. “Next time, if there is a next time, I’ll not let him drag me down to his level. And you need to do the same. Rise above it.”

  Inez bent her neck to rest her forehead against his shoulder, trying to pull strength from his words, his touch, his presence. He gathered her closer as if by molding
her body to his he could shut out the rest of the world with its complications and sorrows. She turned her face so her cheek lay against the curve of his collarbone. Everything narrowed down to what she could feel and hear. The roughness of his overcoat against her cheek, the certainty of his arms about her, the steadiness of his breathing in tune with the rise and fall of his chest. She set both hands on his chest, feeling the cadence of inhalation and exhalation along with the pulse of his heartbeat. The warm scent of his sweat, intimate, musky, reminded her of tangled sheets, skin sliding on skin, and whispered words of urgency. A foreign, but oddly familiar, smoky overtone puzzled her until, with horror, she realized it was the scent of Mark’s cigar, clinging to the reverend’s clothes.

  She almost pushed him away, but instead, grasped the lapels of his overcoat and kissed him again, with rising urgency. He responded in kind, the desperation of congress denied driving them both to disregard surroundings. The immediate world—with its filth, stink, and poverty—paled, becoming but a ghost banished by the reality they held fast between them. Inez reluctantly pulled away, breathless and dizzy, still gripping his overcoat tight, feeling the heat rush through her body. “Tonight,” she said. She couldn’t say more, but she didn’t need to.

  “The rectory.” His voice was low, intense, driven. “In an hour. I need to finish here, but it won’t take long. I’ll give you the key.” He reached inside his coat.

  Her gloved hand followed his, traveling beneath his overcoat to his waistcoat pocket, stopping him there. “No. I’m staying with you.”

  “Inez.” He spoke gently, as if seeking to restore reason in one stricken by madness. “This is no place for you, and especially not at this time of night. I’ll walk you to the street. Wait for me in the rectory.”

  “Stillborn Alley holds no horrors I haven’t seen before.” She wound her fingers through his. “Don’t underestimate me, Justice. I’m not one to faint when beholding the terrors of the night. I’m staying with you.”