Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  “Thank you, Miss Laura, you are most gracious,” Mink said.

  “Yes, ma‘am. Good to have you back again,” Laura replied heading back to the door. “Now if you excuse me, that little bastard and his friends require another round.”

  “Jimmy, you are always good company,” Mink declared. “Do take this martini and join me.” James—the gruff Southside Chicago native and former champion boxer with penchant for Dickens novels and bawdy jokes—sat down with Mink and enjoyed his martini.

  “Jimmy,” Mink said, “Why does my husband find Marcus better company than me?”

  “Well, ma’am, Marcus is your husband’s most trusted accountant. He is a cold and calculatin’ man who just happens to be a horrible card player,” James replied.

  “Then why play with him? Where is the sport in that?” Mink asked.

  “Because when Marcus loses, Mr. Thomason wins back his own money,” James said.

  Mink laughed. “Now tell me this, Jimmy, what goes on at his lodge?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know, ma’am.”

  “Nonsense. You must drive him there at least two nights a week,” Mink countered.

  “He has me wait outside, or in the lobby when it’s cold. I only hear bits and pieces of his exploits. The Free Masons are . . . strange folk, ma’am. I’m inclined to think it is just an excuse for men to drink and boast. Still, they must have one hellova good view. The lodge itself is on the 22nd floor.”

  “Why must men congregate the way they do? How do they benefit by being so distant from their families?”

  “Not sure,” Jimmy replied. “Perhaps that Darwin fella’ might have a better explanation for you.”

  Mink took a small sip. “Oh please. The man who professes we come from monkeys? I hardly think so! Well, do tell me,” she changed the subject, “is there any uplifting news since my absence?”

  “A letter arrived from your sister yesterday. I am sure she is requesting another visit to meet her and her hopeful future husband. I will have the letter brought to your room before you retire this evening.”

  “Ah, a trip to New York City might be nice, indeed. I probably should meet this suitor of hers. Perhaps I could even have another . . . what was it called?”

  “A martini, ma’am.”

  “Yes, a martini. Perhaps I will have to stomach one with my dear sister. It must be four years since I last saw her. Tell me, Jimmy, what kind of sister am I? The only family I have in this world is coming into her own—finding love—and I am . . . here.”

  “No need to worry,” James said, after taking a gulp of his martini. “’Here’ isn’t so bad.”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  “Besides,” James said, “were you ever young and in love? When a young person is in love, they seldom think about anything else, even their own family. Did you ever know that feeling?”

  “Funny. I did have one love growing up, yes. And you are right. He is all I ever thought about. As a matter of fact, I saw him again on my recent trip to the South,” Mink said.

  “Ah, an old flame. Were there still sparks between you?”

  “You could say that,” Mink said. “We were very young. He was 17. I was 15 and madly in love. But on the day we were to elope something terrible happened, a tragedy. We were supposed to marry at our secret place, deep in the swamp, where Madame Sweetooth said she would bind our spirits together forever. It sounds so ridiculous now, but when I was on my way to meet him, I saw a crowd gathered around his house. I ran down to see what happened . . . and his mother was lying there in the grass, her neck contorted in the most impossible way, bleeding out her nostrils with her baby in her arms. The baby . . . it was white and cuddled in her arms . . . even in midair she refused to let go of him . . .” Tears ran down her cheek, and her mascara ran with it, dyeing her cheeks charcoal. But she was not embarrassed, not around Jimmy.

  “She jumped off the roof with her baby, Jimmy. I can never forget the sight. It haunts me to this day.” Mink downed the rest of her bourbon.

  “No one knows why really,” she continued. “She just jumped. I knew Wage would be devastated. He adored his mother dearly, and he cherished baby Wyatt. So I ran to the swamp, dreading to tell him, but I was too late; I never found him. I ran back to town as fast as I could. I thought it might be a dream, but my legs were swift and untiring, not heavy. I found him. I found him, Jimmy. He had run into town, apparently, got himself drunk and went to Ms. Lilly’s cathouse.” She paused to wipe her cheek and take a deep breath. “Ms. Lilly’s was a vile place, luring all those men away from their families.” Mink violently threw her bourbon glass over the veranda. A faint breaking of glass could be heard on the street below.

  “He thought I stood him up, left him at the altar. I don’t know, I guess he decided to drown his sorrows. I saw him that night, Jimmy, through the windows, drinking and carousing with Miss Lilly’s girls. He still had no idea that his mother was dead. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him, but I was filled with all kinds of emotions. I ran for him, all night, but after seeing him there . . . I almost wanted him to suffer. I wanted him to suffer, Jimmy.” She tried to take another breath, but wheezed instead, just like the night she saw him at the cathouse. A minute later, she composed herself.

  “From what I understand, he found out the next morning. He wouldn’t talk to me at the funeral. As a matter fact, he didn’t talk to me until about three days ago. The last time I saw him was just a few months after that. He was at the train station with his father. It was raining something fierce, too. Wage was being sent to Paris to study, a benefit of being a Pascal, I guess. We never spoke, but I remember him waving at me as his train left the station. The sad little girl that I was, I thought maybe for a minute he might jump off that train and come back to me . . . tell me everything was going to be all right. That minute became hours. I near caught my death standing out there in the rain.” Mink’s Louisiana accent had come out, something she tried to hide ever since moving to Chicago’s most prestigious neighborhood.

  “If you don’t mind me sayin’, that is one hellova of a story, ma’am,” James said.

  “Yes. One I haven’t revisited in a while,” Mink replied. “But it was a long time ago and really should be of no concern now.”

  “The past is meant to give us strength, ma’am, not sadness,” James said.

  “It seems I am unable to be strong at the moment,” Mink said. “If you will excuse me, Jimmy, I should check in on Reginald.”

  “Wait,” Jimmy said. He used his towel to delicately wipe away the mascara streaks from her cheeks. “Wouldn’t want the bastard to see you like this.”

  Mink cradled his hand. “Sometimes, Jimmy, I think you are my only friend.”

  She gracefully walked down the stairs to the parlor near the front door. She rounded the corner to see two young men wrestling by the billiard table. They were grunting and breathing hard, one trying to submit the other. Three other men were watching them and cheering as they drank. All of them wore matching white fraternity sweaters with blue stripes on the arms.

  Reginald stood on the other side of the room, smiling and sipping his adopted father’s finest scotch. He was the true son of a railroad worker and school-aged girl. A school-aged girl whose station in life was uplifted by providence only after Reginald’s father went to prison and his mother was told she was too young to raise him. Ronald Thomason IV swooped in, gave the mother a large sum of money, and in adopting her son, made him the sole heir to a veritable fortune. He was a true bastard—the luckiest damn bastard on earth.

  Mink cleared her throat. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I thought I would pay you a visit before retiring for the evening.” Both wrestlers ceased and fell over, huffing. “And if it is not too much trouble, please mind the furniture and walls; they are costly to repair.”

  “Ah mother, you have returned!” He embraced his mother tightly, uncomfortably. He nuzzled her neck and squeezed her backside. “I have missed you terribly.”

&
nbsp; Mink stifled her reaction and pushed him away curtly. “Now, now, Reginald.”

  “Forgive me, mother. You remember my friends from school,” he said, slurring. “There are Tommy and Donny, the combatants. The first one to submit still loses five dollars, gents! And of course over here we have Kevin and Lance.” Kevin was well-fed while Lance was more dashing, with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes that reminded her of Wage. “We call ‘em Big K and Sir Lancelot.”

  Sir Lancelot approached her and kissed her hand, leaving a residue of alcohol, “Reggie, your mother grows more enchanting by the day.”

  Mink withdrew her hand, again reminded of Wage. “May I dare ask the occasion for such festivities?”

  “Ah,” Reginald replied, “Another birthday, I am 22 and one month today!” He leaned in clumsily and whispered, “Did you bring me a present?”

  “Dear Reginald, your father and I gave you your own motor car not a month ago. I am sure that shall suffice until you are 23.”

  “No, actually, I wrecked it last week. Damn road tends to snake about when you drive it after a few drinks, wouldn’t you say, boys?”

  “Reginald,” Mink replied, “I am sure the university does not think highly of such actions. You would be wise to be more cautious so close to graduation.”

  “Oh mother, it’s a shame such good looks aren’t accompanied by intelligence. Have you not heard? My father will be donating the new building for the business school at our soon-to-be alma mater.” He turned toward his friends with his hands outstretched. “The Thomason School of Business at Northwestern University!” His friends clapped aristocratically. “Be not worried though, dearest mother, I intend to escort you to the ribbon cutting next year.” His friends laughed and cheered.

  “You are bordering on inappropriate, son. Please show more respect for your dearest mother,” Mink said.

  “What do you think, boys?” Reginald yelled, putting his arm around his mother. “If one didn’t know better, we could be husband and wife. What separates us, anyhow—seven, eight years?”

  “Reginald, I do believe you have had too much to drink. If you will excuse me, I am going to retire for the evening. Please behave yourselves and have Jimmy drive you back to campus at a decent hour, if you don’t mind,” Mink said.

  “Yes, mother,” Reginald answered.

  Mink walked back up the stairs, hearing the jeers and taunts behind her, her grace barely overcoming her mortification. She went to her room. Miss Laura illuminated her vanity and left a wash basin for her. Mink plucked a jar of petroleum jelly from the drawer to help remove her makeup. She began a familiar nightly ritual. It was cathartic to remove her colorful shell and stare at her true self in the mirror. Deep down, she understood Reginald’s behavior. Providence, too, had uplifted her station in life. She only spent three months at the orphanage in Baton Rouge. On her eighteenth birthday, the nuns rounded up enough money to send her to New York. She was going to be reunited with her younger sister, who, after the death of her father, went to live with her Aunt Margery and Uncle Danny. Mink elected to stay in Baton Rouge in order to finish her schooling and tend to her father’s affairs and bankrupted estate. As it turns out, the nuns’ charity only got her to Chicago.

  She continued to study herself in the mirror, and that’s when her green eyes turned an ice blue. She was now looking at Wage Pascal, a grown man, still handsome, still bold. The reflection of Wage began crying. She rushed to the mirror to comfort him before realizing it was herself that had begun to cry again. She shook her head and noticed an envelope on her pillow in the reflection. It was addressed to her in her sister’s handwriting. She changed into her sleeping robe and crawled beneath the covers. She opened the letter and began reading the news of her sister’s exploits and new engagement.

  Detective Simon Porter

  June 9, 1914

  The House of Black Curtains

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  The House of Black Curtains was alive with patrons, whores, and a piano player furiously playing ragtime music. There was even a line for the kinetoscope. The detective sipped tonic water at the crowded, wood-paneled bar. He eyed an old Chinaman, fat about the midsection, in an obsidian robe and slippers, who waddled in from the street. Long, ghost-white hair flowed from his small Mandarin cap. His mustache curved at ninety degrees toward his impressively long and equally white goatee. He took a seat at an empty table by the tall divided windows facing the street. Another gentleman, rotund and gruff with a curly black beard, emerged from a gaggle of gentlemen and hastily walked across the room to join the Chinaman. He sat down across from him. And then, he walked in. A gentleman with a reflective white smile and a brown slouch hat strutted into the establishment. His sleeves were rolled and his white shirt was tucked into his brown slacks held up by a slanting bullet belt. The off-white handle of his Peacemaker curved out of his holster.

  He winked and waved at every waitress and drunkard, most of whom could almost remember his name, but never forget his face. The detective knew it was him; it was Wage Pascal. He let them get settled. Wage sat next to the Chinaman, diagonally from his partner, and tipped his hat. The rotund man reached inside his coat, pulled out a small pouch, and laid it on the table in front of him while Wage signaled a waitress. He slung the beauty with matted black hair into his lap, put his hat on the table, and placed his order. The Chinaman reached under his robe and placed a black bag on the table. It was curious how the old man could have discretely carried in such a bag. They all began to talk. Wage put one hand on his gun handle and signaled his partner to slide the pouch across the table. Detective Porter left his tonic water and approached the party.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. May I join you?” Without permission, the detective slowly pulled out the chair across from Wage. He sat down and stolidly adjusted his black suit coat and tipped his bowler cap. “My name is Detective Simon Porter. I am licensed agent in the employ of Pinkerton, and I have come to retrieve property wrongfully taken from my client.”

  “I am afraid we know nothing of wrongful property, friend,” Wage replied. “Now if you don’t mind, my colleagues and I were discussing business. Feel free to excuse yourself and have a drink on my tab.” Wage signaled the black-haired waitress again. “Agnes, dear, be the sapphire that you are and escort Detective Porter here to the bar for a drink on my tab.”

  “I must insist, Captain Pascal. It is a matter of great importance that I stay and conclude my business with you.” The detective folded his hands in his lap while Agnes tugged at his shoulder.

  “I ain’t got no business with you, friend. And the fact that you know my name and I don’t know you makes me a little more than apprehensive. Now kindly leave,” Wage replied.

  “Allow me to assess the situation, if you will—you are Captain Wage Pascal, formerly of the 1st Volunteer Cavalry. Given the slight horizontal nystagmus in your eyes, I gauge you have already had a fair share of alcohol.” The detective turned the other party members. “You are Black Vomit Bill, another veteran of San Juan Hill, where you suffered Yellow fever. Given your military bearing and scarred knuckles, my guess is you were a sergeant with an affinity for inflicting corporal punishment.”

  “Sergeant 1st Class!” Bill yelled back.

  “And you are the infamous Mr. Jade, opium peddler and the man who hired Captain Pascal here to pilfer the unique round stone in that satchel, which you are exchanging for the large sum of money in that bag there.”

  “Impressive trick. Your keen powers of observation no doubt serve you well in your profession,” Wage said. “But I am afraid the only property you will attempt to retrieve is rightfully mine.”

  “Perhaps I should clarify,” Detective Porter asserted. “Mr. Hamilton’s curious stone, which you so ungratefully relieved him of, has immense sentimental value, and I will be taking it. And once I do, I will take my leave. It is my hope that I will not find you, or your colleagues, disagreeable.”

  “And if you find me disagreeable?” Wage aske
d, as he leaned back and crossed his arms.

  “Then I’m afraid you will cause a great deal of commotion, which I will handle expediently and then take my leave. With the rightful property in tow, of course.”

  “Well then, I am afraid we are at an impasse. ‘Cause I can’t let you take said property,” Wage replied.

  “Captain Pascal, you are welcoming a great deal of discomfort, and I would prefer not to be the purveyor of such unpleasantries.”

  “Do you play chess, friend?” Wage asked the detective.

  “I do,” he answered.

  “Then you know an impasse ends in a draw between opponents.”

  “That is my understanding of the game, yes.”

  Wage drew his ivory-handled revolver. He pointed the six-inch barrel at the detective’s nose and pulled back the hammer. “I don’t mind a draw. Now, kindly take your leave and let us get on with our business.” Agnes backed away, her face pale.

  “Captain Pascal, you are being unreasonable,” Detective Porter said, as he opened his jacket pocket to reveal his own ebony-handled revolver on his belt. “In addition to chess, I am also familiar with this game.”

  Wage gritted his teeth. “I am tired of games. Go have a drink with Agnes there, or have a drink with the devil when you see him shortly. Your choice. Mr. Jade, please take the satchel with your rightfully purchased property and be on your way.” Wage looked to Bill. “William, please take our payment and proceed with plan B.” Now it was the detective’s turn to draw his gun. Wage looked back at the detective, only to see the four-inch barrel of his gun pointing at his forehead.

  “I believe this is a true impasse, Captain Pascal.” the detective said.

  Agnes screamed, alerting everyone to what was going on at the gentlemen’s table. The piano music stopped abruptly. Wage and Detective Porter didn’t seem to notice the ensuing calamity; they were focused only on each other, speaking a secret—but strangely natural—language with their eyes.