What Gold Buys

by Ann Parker

  Tony shrugged. “Dunno. Didn’t eat them.”

  Ace stared. Tony realized that passing up available food was beyond his understanding, so hurried on. “S’okay. I wasn’t hungry. I had to light out in a hurry.”

  A way around her predicament popped into Tony’s head. She sat on the other side of Ace and said low, “Listen, I can’t hawk for a while, so why don’t you and Freddy take my share for now? Pair up and split the money. That way, you still get to keep your five dollars and, heck, you’ll even make more, ’cause I make eight a week.”

  “Yeah, rub it in, newsie,” grumbled Ace, but Tony thought he brightened at the prospect of additional coin in his pocket. Then a shadow of worry disturbed the cheer. “You skipping The Independent, Tony? You get a better offer from the Chronicle? Elliston won’t like that, skipping to the competition.”

  “I wouldn’t go work with those spit ’n polishers,” scoffed Tony. “All brass buttons and uniforms, plus I’d have to give up this cap I paid you too much for.” Realization dawned again. “Oh damn. I can’t wear the cap neither,” she blurted out, overwhelmed all over again with sadness. She felt the tears start to come. She swiped fiercely at them adding, “That smelter up on Chestnut sure sends up a stink. Makes my eyes hurt.” She took the cap off and handed it to Ace. “Can you keep this for me? Just don’t wear it or anything. And don’t give it to Freddy! If anyone asks about me, just play dumb, okay?” She ran a hand over her short greasy curls.

  Ace looked wary. “Why? You in trouble?”

  “I, I gotta find another job,” she stuttered. “Just for a while. Yeah, I’m in trouble, but not because of anything here. I just gotta lie low for a while.”

  Ace’s close examination continued. Tony shifted on the cold dirt floor, remembering what Mrs. Stannert said: Not everyone would see through your disguise, but we did.

  Was Ace starting to suspect that she wasn’t who he thought she was?

  “What about the Silver Queen?” Ace prodded. “You gonna keep working there?”

  “No. I gotta stay away from there too. For a while.” She looked away, watched the shadows and light from the candle leap up on the log walls of the shed, looking like they were trying to find cracks to crawl out of and escape into the night. “I made a right fool of myself,” she said miserably, “and now I’ve got a pack of really nasty foreigner swells I have to steer clear of. That’s all. But they’ll probably recognize the cap, so that’s why I’m saying don’t wear it. I don’t want you or anyone to get in a mess because of me.”

  Ace was silent for a moment, then cleared his throat, “You need work? Something where you’re not out on the streets and seen and such?”

  Tony nodded.

  “Well, I heard that someone’s lookin’ for a boy to help a bit. Sweep floors and clean up stuff. But,” he lowered his voice, “nobody’s raisin’ a hand or steppin’ forward. If you want the job, ain’t no one going to be jumping your claim, I guarantee.” He took a deep breath. “There’s lots of gab about ghosts and spirit lights, and there’s stiffs.”

  Tony thought of her mother’s interactions with the afterworld, her regular talk of spirits, and how the ones who paid would often look pale and shaken when her maman started talking in voices, like a ghost or spirit was something that could jump up and suck the life out of them. Tony always snickered at their frights. How scary could the “other side” be? Besides, her maman was there now.

  A vision of her maman rose up before Tony—her eyes alight from a fire within, her slender hands dancing through the air, weaving folks’ dreams and wishes into futures that seemed real. Tony could hear her say, as if she was right beside her: I have seen it.

  She swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat. “That don’t scare me. What’s the job? At the cemetery or something? They want help digging graves, maybe?”

  Ace shook his head. “Worse. It’s for Mr. Alexander’s coffin-shop on Harrison.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Realizing that shouting into the dark would gain her nothing but trouble in the alley, Inez stopped calling for Tony and focused on making her way out of the warren of sin and sorrow. She happened upon the spot where she’d first seen Sands and Dr. Gregorvich, recognizable not by the sorry framed hovels, which all looked the same to her, but by the unknown male corpse curled up by the wall. Inez realized she had to keep her eyes on the taller buildings and trust her feet to not skid on slicked-over mud or stumble into half-frozen puddles.

  As soon as Inez emerged onto the boardwalk, she could feel the tension in her shoulders and neck ease. These were crowds she understood and could defend herself against, if needed.

  Lights from saloons, gaming halls, and dance halls spilled out, flickering over those hurrying or lingering on the walkways. Men pushed past with hats pulled low over brows, coat collars turned up, breath misting, the occasional face lit with liquor, lust, or both.

  Pocketing her pistol and wrapping her arms tight within her cloak, she crossed the rutted road, and walked up to the corner, passing the State Street entrance to the Silver Queen and proceeding to the corner abutting Harrison. Here she stopped, anonymous in her hooded shroud of wool, undecided. She could go inside. The warmth of the saloon, and her rooms upstairs called and pulled with invisible strings, strong as the cords that cut off Drina Gizzi’s last breath. Inez shook off the longing with a determined shrug, and turned to stare down the length of State to where the mountain peaks lay shrouded in the dark.

  Which way?

  She’d be more likely to find the reverend on Harrison, where the nightwatch kept an eye on the shuttered businesses so they would remain untouched during the early Saturday morning revelry that regularly bedeviled State. Or possibly on West Chestnut, which would be replete with a better quality of foot traffic than State Street, with many coming and going from the saloons, restaurants, and billiard halls that lined this east–west thoroughfare. Chestnut once held the shining title of “business district,” a crown that had been snatched by the usurper of Harrison Avenue.

  If she didn’t find the reverend, she could return to the saloon, or perhaps the rectory, and explain to him what happened. Or look for a policeman herself.

  She hated the thought of leading a weary, impatient night watchman to the Gizzis’ shack, when he’d probably rather be gathering a hot toddy “on the house” from Pop Wyman’s or her own Silver Queen. Too, locating the shanty again would be by guess and by golly. Weary, Inez turned and, head bowed against a wintery gust of wind, began to cross the rutted road again, determined to try Chestnut first.

  A sudden clatter of hooves accompanied by a drunken shout alerted her. She glanced up in time to see a figure on horseback careening around the corner, on course to knock her down. As the rider hauled on the reins in an attempt to stop his mount, she leapt forward to avoid the collision.

  Her galoshes slammed onto a patch of uneven mud-ice and she skidded, off balance. A hand grasped her windmilling arm and pulled her hard out of harm’s way. The yank sent her flying into the torso of her savior, where she instinctively gripped the lapels of a heavy overcoat. Horse and rider danced by, the rider showering epithets down on her head as he whipped his mount back into a full-tilt gallop and disappeared down the center of State Street.

  “Mrs. Stannert, is that you?”

  She recognized the deep voice of Sands’ compatriot, Dr. Gregorvich. He still gripped her arm hard with one hand, hard enough, she suspected, to leave a bruise the next morning. Looking up from his lapels she saw that he held the end of a canvas bag, cinched closed by a leather strap. A large lump filled the bag slung over his back. A shiver sharp as a shard of ice scratched down her back, and she flashed on the curled-up naked body of the unknown in Stillborn Alley. She pulled away from his grasp, and said, voice still trembling from the close brush with death on the streets, “Thank you, Dr. Gregorvich. I’m certain that you saved me from becoming one of yo
ur clients just now.”

  He peered down from his considerable height. “That would be a great tragedy. It is fortunate that I was crossing the street from the opposite direction and reached you in time.”

  Mind still upon his appearance and profession, Inez said faintly, “I suspect your services, or that of your colleague, Mr. Alexander, will be required for another poor unfortunate from Stillborn Alley. A fortuneteller, Mrs. Gizzi, has been brutally murdered.”

  His eyes glinted in the reflected lights from the Silver Queen behind her as he shifted his burden and said, “Come, let us leave the middle of the road before we both are trampled by another out-of-control horse and rider.” Without preamble, he gripped her again. Inez winced as he unerringly closed around the same spot on her arm as he did before. He steered her to the sidewalk in front of the Silver Queen. “Now, tell me about this unfortunate, as you call this person,” he said.

  “She has a small shack in the alley. I’m not certain I could find it again, but it has a sign that reads FUTURES AND FORTUNES TOLD.”

  “How did you come by this sad state of affairs?”

  “Her child discovered the body.” Inez’s mind whirled to find a reason for Inez’s being in that disreputable section of town at such a disreputable hour. She opted for simple. “The child came rushing to find help and then, took off.” Inez shook her head in frustration. “Reverend Sands offered to go look for the police.”

  “Well then,” his solemn voice smoothed into a comforting note, “it sounds as if all proceeds as it should. I must get this unnamed soul back to my offices, or rather to Mr. Alexander, since there is no hope of revival.” He lifted one massive shoulder. The bag jiggled limply, as if it held a figure no heavier than a child. “None care about the lost and unknown dead,” he said, almost as if to himself. His dark eyes turned back to Inez, sharpening. “The child, however, lives and should be the concern of all. If the child reappears, contact me or Mr. Alexander. We have, by virtue of our work, many interactions with orphans. In conjunction with Reverend Sands, I’m certain we can offer succor and shelter until a more permanent solution can be found.”

  “Thank you,” she said faintly.

  Dr. Gregorvich’s penetrating gaze seemed to give her a sharp onceover, stripping her bare without lust or desire, a quick medical evaluation. “You should return inside. You are trembling, pale, and your teeth are chattering. You are exhibiting many of the symptoms of extreme exposure.”

  Not until I know that Mrs. Gizzi has been taken care of. Rather than argue, Inez turned to the State Street door of the Silver Queen and made as if to prepare to enter. “That I will do. Thank you again, Doctor, for the quick response that saved my life.”

  He tipped his hat and turned his back, vanishing around the corner to Harrison.

  Inez’s hand dropped from the engraved wood panel of the door, and with a quick glance to left and right, she re-crossed the street and began to head down Harrison again. No sooner had she turned the corner onto Chestnut than she spied the welcome form of Reverend Sands, accompanied by three other men, hurrying in her direction. One of the men was a policeman, his cap and the badge on his thick wool uniform jacket a dead giveaway. The second was Doc Cramer, quickly identified by his limp, his silver-headed cane, and the top hat perching atop his lumbering form. He tipped his hat back, and Inez’s heart warmed at the sight of his kind, lined visage. The third man, hurrying alongside, had his hat pulled low. Inez identified him not by his lanky, bundled form, but by the pencil tapping impatiently upon a notebook: Jed Elliston—publisher, primary inkslinger, and occasional typesetter of The Independent newspaper.

  “Reverend! Mr. Elliston! Doc!” She hurried toward them, pushing through a clutch of inebriated merrymakers, one of who stumbled off the boardwalk and swore as his boot cracked through a smear of ice and plunged into the ankle-high muck below.

  Inez came up to the four men and clutched Doc’s sleeve.

  “Mrs. Stannert? What are you doing here?” Doc sounded alarmed and concerned.

  “Where is the boy?” asked Reverend Sands.

  It took Inez a moment to realize he was referring to Tony. He doesn’t know about Tony’s disguise. “It all happened so fast,” she said. “Shortly after you left, he bolted. I tried to follow, but it proved impossible. I was hoping to find you, Reverend. I’m worried about the child.” She added, “And I knew I couldn’t find my way back to Mrs. Gizzi’s shack.”

  The impatient tapping on the notebook increased. “Mrs. Gizzi? The fortuneteller?” The newspaperman turned to the reverend. “You didn’t say that this involved her. I’ve heard some claim she has ‘the sight.’ She has a child?” Jed’s sharp-faced features shone with eagerness. “I can see the headline—Murder in French Row leaves Second-Sight Child Homeless.”

  “Jed, you are impossible!” snapped Inez.

  “Enough,” Sands said. “I know the way. Once Doc and Officer Kilkenny here perform their legal duties, we can decide on the next steps.”

  “Which should involve a shot of something warm and potent,” grumbled Officer Kilkenny as he gave his muffler an extra tug to tighten it about his neck.

  “I’m coming,” said Inez. “If the boy returns, a woman’s presence may be calming.” It seemed a weak enough reason, but between the cold and the late hour, she figured none would protest. None did.

  As the reverend led the way toward French Row, Jed Elliston picked up what had apparently been an ongoing argument between him and Doc Cramer. “But Doc, you’ve heard the stories. The Chronicle printed up that piece just a few weeks ago.”

  “Complete balderdash,” grumbled Doc. His swinging cane just missed banging Elliston in the shins. ‘‘That so-called reporter Orth Stein has a fevered imagination.”

  “Who?” asked Inez, from Doc’s other side, far from the irritated cane.

  “Orth Stein,” supplied Elliston. “New Chronicle reporter. While you were gone, he blew into town, and interviewed all the local sawbones about these supposed underground anatomy classes. One of the medicos he interviewed as good as said that it was de rigueur to snatch cadavers from the Evergreen Cemetery for illegal dissecting purposes.”

  “I told you before, Jed, and I’ll say it again. This fable is complete balderdash and is causing unnecessary panic amongst those who are most vulnerable,” said Doc. “When your young Mr. Stein came to talk to me, I sniffed out a ruse right away. He said he’d graduated from The Rush in Chicago, so I quizzed him as to his anatomical knowledge. When asked how he’d reduce a dislocation of the clavicle, he completly caved and admitted that he wouldn’t know a spinal vertebrae from a soda cocktail. No one with an ounce of sense would believe a word printed under his name.”

  “But that man back there,” Jed jabbed his pencil toward Chestnut, “the one spilling his blood in the Odeon Dance Hall. He begged you to be sure, if he dies, that his corpse is sent back home to his family. He averred that he’d not want his corporeal body snatched and laid open for a carving class.”

  “Mr. Elliston!” barked Doc. “Please, we have a lady amongst us.” Doc offered Inez his arm as they entered the narrow passage to the alley. “Mrs. Stannert, I apologize for Mr. Elliston’s fourth-estate zeal in pursuing this most unnatural and immodest subject. He has been dogging my nightly rounds for weeks now, hoping to find a shred of truth to this preposterous tale.”

  “I have no knowledge of this particular development,” said Inez, taking Doc’s arm. At the other end of the passage, Sands and the officer waited for the three to catch up.

  “It all occurred while you were down in the Springs,” said Jed from behind them. “Stein dropped the topic quick enough, and is now more interested in pursuing the proliferation of bogus medical diplomas in town. But I feel the dead deserve as much respect as the living. It’s a subject that I’m not about to lay to rest, until I know what’s what.”

  And you can’t stand to hav
e not been the first to uncover the story. Inez knew Jed well. They had worked together as well as at cross-purposes in the past, and he was one of her regulars at the Saturday night high-stakes poker game at the Silver Queen. Luckily, his fortunes had improved over the summer, so he was once again throwing money onto the table with a free and easy air of bonhomie, as if The Independent were spinning straw into gold. That thought led to the next: Tony is a newsie for Jed’s paper. I wonder…

  As they emerged from the narrow egress into Stillborn Alley, Inez inquired, “Jed, you have a newsie named Tony working for you, yes?”

  Now that there was room for three abreast, Jed pulled up next to her on the other side, far away from Doc’s swinging cane. “Oh yeah, Tony, sure. He’s one of my best. Can sell a newspaper to a blind man. Natural born newsie.”

  She took a deep breath and twisted so she could view Jed more clearly. “The murdered woman, Drina Gizzi, is Tony’s mother.”

  Jed halted mid-step. Inez hauled on Doc’s arm to stop him in his forward progression. Even in the murky half-light spilling from the second-story windows, Inez could see the shock on Jed’s face. “You’re kidding! I didn’t know Tony had any kin at all. Thought he was one of those kids that was on his own.”

  “Well, he is now,” said Inez. “He was the one who found Mrs. Gizzi, his mother.”

  “Poor kid,” said Jed grimly.

  The three moved forward again as Sands and the officer disappeared around the corner of a dilapidated abode.

  “Do you have any idea where Tony might run to ground? I was with him in the shack, but then he bolted.” No need to explain why.

  There was a pregnant pause, then Jed said, “Sorry to say, I don’t. Those kids, they have bolt-holes all over town. Lots of them don’t want anything to do with the law or the establishment once they’re done selling for the day. Some go under the boardwalks, I know that. No idea where else they might hide.”

  Inez had known Jed long enough, across the poker table and the bar, to tell simply from the pauses and tone of voice when he was lying or prevaricating. She resolved to wring the truth from him next time she could talk to him alone.