The Cold Millions

by Jess Walter

  “Okay.” Chester was in Rye’s ear. “Last question: pockets.” He showed Rye the first jacket. “Patch pocket. Simple. So called because it’s sewn on the coat just like a patch. Opens at the top. Eyeglasses, house key. Versatile, smart.” He switched coats. “This is a flap pocket, same thing but with a flap on top of the patch. And this—” He gestured to the third coat. “This is style. The jetted pocket, sewn inside the coat so that all you see from the outside is this slit opening. Add a third pocket below it, here, a theater ticket pocket, a key pocket, and this says, ‘I am a gentleman, a morning-to-night, go-anywhere, do-anything gentleman.’ ”

  Rye could see it. The clean line. The slant to the pocket. He whispered to Chester, “How much do you think—”

  “Eighteen,” said the salesman, glancing at Chester, “but sixteen this week and . . .” He lowered his voice: “I could do twelve as long as—”

  Chester cleared his throat.

  “Fine. I could do ten,” the salesman conceded. “You’re a bastard, Chester.”

  Chester smiled, swept around, and lowered the coat onto Rye. It settled on his shoulders like the first snow on a hillside.

  “Of course, you can’t wear those boots,” the salesman said.

  “No, you’ll need shoes,” said Chester. “And that old hat will likely have to go.”

  Rye turned back to the mirror. He felt a rush, and then some shame, at just how badly he wanted to be the gentleman in the glass.

  33

  Rye sat on the streetcar, a long cloth bag draped over his lap, in it, his new suit and tie, white shirt, and calfskin dress shoes. The bag was, itself, nicer than most of his clothes. He ended up keeping the bowler, out of fondness, the salesman agreeing to spiff it up for him, running a de-linter over it, shining it with oil, and buffing out the grease stain. Rye bought the clothes on credit, five dollars down, the rest due over six months, though he wasn’t entirely sure how much the rest entailed.

  He got off the streetcar and walked the four blocks toward Mrs. Ricci’s house, the clothing bag slung over his shoulder like a sailor returning from duty. It was a cool, snowless afternoon, the street full of welcoming smoke from neighbors’ fireplaces.

  He was approaching Mrs. Ricci’s when Rye saw a figure through the window of the sleeping porch—Gig! Sitting on his bed in the dark. Rye ran around the side to the back door, and the silhouetted figure turned.

  But when he opened the back door, it was Early Reston sitting on his brother’s cot. “Hey, Little Brother.”

  Rye stared dumbly. Early looked different. He’d grown a close beard, streaked with gray, and was wearing a suit of his own, rough tweed, Rye thinking of the photo of the Pinkerton agent, Ennis Cooper, and all of those names he used.

  “What’ve you got there?” Early stood and took the clothing bag from Rye.

  “A suit,” Rye said.

  “A suit! Well.” Early unbuttoned the bag and felt the fabric. “Fancy! Look at Rye Dolan. You switching sides, Rye? Like a snake shedding his skin?”

  “I needed something to wear to court Monday. For Gurley’s verdict.”

  “Ah, right. Mrs. Jones’s verdict. You do recall that she’s married, right, Rye? And with child? And about to go to prison. Fancy a challenge, don’t you?”

  Rye blushed and took back the clothing bag.

  “Sorry,” Early said. “Was that mean?”

  “I’m supposed to give you something,” Rye said. “From Lem Brand.”

  “How is our old friend?” Early asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rye said. “I told him weeks ago I’d give you this message, and after that, I didn’t want anything to do with him.”

  “Did you grow unhappy with your position?”

  Rye flushed. “I didn’t have a position. It was a mistake. I didn’t know—”

  “You didn’t know, Rye?”

  Rye said nothing.

  “Come on—what didn’t you know?”

  Rye just shook his head.

  “You knew,” Early said. “We always know. Whatever happens, we know.”

  Rye hated that we, as if they were the same kind of man. “Your letter is inside. Can I—”

  He wasn’t sure he needed permission, but Early nodded and Rye went through the kitchen to his bedroom. There was a bread knife out on the counter, and for a moment, Rye thought about grabbing it. In the bedroom, he hung his new clothes in the closet. He’d used Lem Brand’s envelope as a bookmark, and it was sticking out from a page early in the second volume of Constance Garnett’s translation of War and Peace, which Rye had recently checked out, after returning the first. He walked back with the book and handed the envelope to Early, who sat back down on Gig’s cot.

  “Aw, I didn’t get you anything,” Early said. He opened the envelope, and thumbed through the bills. “You believe this son of a bitch, acting like nothing happened, like he didn’t try to have me killed? I almost admire him.”

  “I borrowed some, but I paid it back,” Rye said.

  “Of course you did,” Early said. He unfolded Lem Brand’s note and read it, occasionally shaking his head. “He’d like to stick to our original agreement. I’ll bet he would. The original agreement where I don’t come find him, cut out his fucking liver, and feed it to his kids.” He held up the note. “Tell me, Rye, did he seem scared?”

  “Yeah,” Rye said. “He did.”

  “Good,” Early said. “Armed men?”

  Rye tried to remember. “Two at the gate. One above his carriage house. Another at the door. And his man, Willard.”

  Early read the note again.

  Rye watched Early’s face. “Who are you?” he asked quietly.

  Early looked up. His eyes were cold. “Who are you?”

  “No, I mean which side—” But Rye didn’t finish the thought, for he knew Early could turn that one on him, too.

  Early took a deep breath. “I’m on my side, Rye. Always have been. Like any man, if he’s being honest.”

  Early stood, folded the money, and shoved it into his pocket. Then he folded the note and put it in his small suit-coat pocket, the ticket pocket, Rye remembered, although that detail felt wrong now.

  Early looked around the sleeping porch. “Cold out here. I can’t believe this is where you boys lived.”

  “I sleep inside now,” Rye said.

  “Do you?” Early looked around the room and landed on Rye again. “And tell me, now that you’re a man of means, with his own suit and a good job and an indoor bedroom, what side are you on, Rye?”

  Rye said nothing.

  “Come on. What stuff are you made of?”

  Something about the question reminded him of a line he’d read in War and Peace the day before—Pierre contemplating his life. Rye opened to the page and handed the book over, pointing to a paragraph.

  Early cleared his throat and read, “ ‘Sometimes he consoled himself by the reflection that it did not count, that he was only temporarily leading this life. But later on, he was horrified by another reflection, that numbers of other men, with the same idea of being temporary, had entered that life with all their teeth and a thick head of hair, only to leave it when they were toothless and bald.’ ”

  Early looked up and smiled with what Rye thought might be amusement or condescension. “You surprise me, Rye,” he said. “Every time. You really are the smart one, you know that?” He flipped through the book, considered its spine. Then he held it to his chest. “And are you ready to stop being temporary?”

  Rye shrugged.

  “Because I need you to do something.”

  Rye opened his mouth to say no.

  “It’s for your brother and me,” Early said.

  “You’ve seen Gig?”

  “I have,” Early said.

  “How is he?”

  “He’s fine,” Early said. “He’s gotten his strength back.”

  “Is he here? Can I see him?”

  “After you do this favor for me.”

  “What is i
t?”

  “I need you to deliver a message back to Brand.”

  “What’s the message?” Rye asked.

  “Tell him I said yes. I will abide by our original agreement. But I want five thousand dollars, not five hundred. After that, he’ll never hear from me again.”

  Rye felt sick, pulled back into this.

  “Tell him to give you the money Monday morning. I’ll meet you in front of the courthouse at noon. You give me the money and I’ll give you all the evidence of my deal with Brand, the paperwork, his idiotic dossiers. But tell him that if anyone follows you, the deal is off. And he can spend the rest of his life waiting for a visit from me.”

  “And then I can see Gig?”

  “We’ll all go for a beer afterward.” Early smiled. “First round’s on me.”

  Rye could do nothing but nod.

  “Look at that.” Early handed War and Peace back. “The old gang rides again.”

  Gig

  I STEPPED off the train when it slowed outside Lind, in the gold rolling hills of the Palouse. It was midwinter and the wheat fields were stubble-cut, dusted by frost. The sun was out, though, lighting up old barns and wagons, an abandoned plow. I was alert and alive, and I walked into that town the king of all possibility.

  Do you remember, Rye-boy, that part of tramping? The track-side stroll into some new burg, nothing weighing you down but a pair of gloves, a shirt, extra socks, maybe a book bindled in your bedroll. On the lookout for smoke from a camp cook fire. Anything could happen with a town in front of you, maybe a Lind maiden takes you to bed, or you find some old pal from down the line, or, at the very least, strike it up with a barman who has read a thing or two in his life. The world feels open for business. I’m not sure what else you could even ask for.

  In Lind, there was a two-story redbrick bar and grill called Slim’s, and I went there with the ten dollars I’d gotten from Ursula. I saw they had Schade from Spokane, my favorite lager, and I said, “I’d favor one of them Shoddies,” and spun a dollar coin on the bar top. Beer-not-whiskey the closest I had to a plan.

  I inquired of the barman, aptly named Slim, about work and a room.

  “The room will be easier to find than the work,” he said. “Wheat’s all up. You are . . . let’s see.” He consulted his pocket watch. “Six months late.”

  “Or,” I said, “I am six months early.”

  Slim had a bed upstairs as long as I needed it—he looked at me—“or as long as you can pay twenty cents a night.”

  “I can pay fifteen,” I countered, and he said, “Why not,” no doubt figuring I’d spend the rest of my money on beer anyway. “I’ll take it for tonight,” I said.

  “What brings you to Lind,” he asked, “other than the rods of a freighter?”

  “Oh, I’m no rod man,” I said. “I don’t have the nerve for it, holding an undertruss for two hours with those rocks kicking up. I prefer flying on top, a flatcar if I can get it, though today I came nestled like a baby bird in a soft grainer.”

  “A discerning hobo.”

  “Only kind,” I said, and gave him the real reason I was in Lind. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know a man named Early Reston?”

  “No,” he said. “Don’t think so.”

  I started to describe him—and then realized it would be like describing a stalk of wheat, thin and pale and, well, that’s it. “I’m an old friend of his from up Spokane. He said to look him up if I was ever here.”

  “Well, you are here,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

  I finished my beer, then walked the town, which took only a few minutes, three blocks this way and three that. I returned to Slim’s, had a plate of liver, and took to that upstairs bed. With food and board, even easy on the beer, I’d spend Ursula’s ten dollars in less than two weeks. She’d offered more, but pride had kept me from taking it. I slept restless that night, agitating about the way she had washed and shaved and bedded me. I dreamed of buying new clothes and going back and taking her in my arms again.

  The next day, I tried a couple of farms around Lind, but nobody had heard of Early. The next town over was Ritzville, seventeen miles north. I walked half toward it, then caught on a hay wagon the rest. Ritzville was a Volga German town, and I ate a fine plate of sausage and potatoes in a café. I inquired about Early, but the cook there had never heard the name.

  At the next table, a man leaned over and asked if I was looking for work.

  “Almost always,” I said.

  He ran a scrap mill on a creek just outside town and had orders for raw boards and firewood. But his hired man had left for the week to bury his father down in Oregon. “It’s only five days, but I can give you six dollars,” he said.

  “And a room?” I asked.

  He said there was a wood boiler in the sawmill, and I could sleep there and he would bring me a meal in the morning and one at night. But, he said, if I went near his house or if I went into town to booze it up, I was finished.

  Not in top negotiating position, I accepted his offer.

  The man’s name was Schulte, and he struck me as dour and incurious. His sawmill was little more than a shop with a rusty boiler that powered an old steam drop saw, like something he’d brought with him from the old country.

  I tried to engage him in conversation, but he worked quiet. At night in that cold shop, I found myself thinking of you, Rye-boy, and wishing I’d taken that volume of Tolstoy you checked out. It was a thoughtful thing, bringing me that book, and I should’ve thanked you instead of going off drunk like I did.

  On the second day, I asked if Schulte had anything to read in the house. He said they were strict Anabaptists. “Only the Good Book.”

  “I have never found that to be a particularly good book,” I said, and if I’ve ever gotten a colder response from a joke, I don’t recall it.

  Three days I sawed and edged and treated boards, split logs and loaded up the wagon, but Schulte insisted on doing the deliveries himself. Each time he set off for town, his admonition about staying away from the house got harsher. If I went near the house, he would have the sheriff run me off the property. If I went near the house, he would get his shotgun and shovel and bury me upstream. If I went near the house— “Yeah, I get it, Schulte,” I said.

  The fifth or sixth time someone tells you not to do something, it becomes the only thing you’ve ever wanted to do, and when he left in the wagon, I lit a smoke and walked halfway up the drive. I glanced at the simple wood-framed house and wondered what manner of woman he was protecting in there. But something about the gray house felt oppressive, too, and I kept my distance. Finally, on the fourth day, Schulte came back from town and said his hired man had returned early, but as I had done a fine job and minded his admonitions, he would pay me all six dollars. He had one more delivery to make and would take me back to Ritzville on the way.

  We loaded the wagon with cut tamarack and butt ends, and I grabbed my bindle and climbed on the seat next to him. We approached the house, and I glanced over without turning my head. Like a lot of lumbermen’s houses, his was doomed to go unfinished and unpainted, windows and doors not even properly framed. As we passed, a young woman came onto the back porch, thin and lank-haired and, I assumed, his wife. She was carrying a massive boy child, arms under his butt, his head over her shoulder. The kid was eight or nine, far too old to be carried like a baby. He was in a diaper so big it might have been a tablecloth, and his long legs hung like loose skin. He made a flat sound like a lamb.

  “Cornmeal and lard,” the woman said simply, and Mr. Schulte said, “Yes, Sarah,” and clicked at his team, the horses lurched, and she said, “Goodbye, sir,” and I nodded, and then she carried that huge baby back into the house. I felt for Schulte then, and even found myself regretting my joke about his Bible, for I suspected he made good use of that faith.

  In town, Schulte stopped his wagon in front of a hotel on Main Street, took off a glove, and offered me a worn hand. “God bless,” he said. “I am going to p
ray for you, Gregory.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and normally, I would have made some joke, Ask him for an extra pint, but I did not. I just watched him ride that loaded wagon through town. A squalling sleet was moving in, so I went inside that Ritzville hotel to bunk up for the night.

  I had a meal and two beers and then one more, and the barkeep said they had whiskey downstairs, and who should show up but my old pal Thirst, Get in here, you son of a bitch, and he talked me into four of those dirty glasses, and I woke the next day sick and already down half my pay from the Anabaptist lumberman with the giant baby. If I didn’t leave Ritzville, I would be busted fast. At the café, another farmhand agreed to run me partway down the Lind road, and I walked the rest, over wet rolling hills, into needles of driving icy rain.

  I dropped happily from the upper road down into the draw where that little farm town lay like eggs in a nest. Walked through that brick downtown and stepped happy into Slim’s toasty bar and grill. I called out, “Heaven!”

  “You again,” Slim said. “What happened to you?”

  “Worst thing possible,” I said, “work.” I pulled off my soaked coat, hat, and gloves and laid them next to the boiler, spun another dollar on the bar top, and said, “The usual, Slim.”

  “Can a man have a usual if it’s only his second time in my bar?” He pulled me a glass of Schade.

  “Well, as we’re about to get engaged, that beer and me, I would say yes.”

  I sneaked in a cup of bean soup amid two more drafts, and the bar grew more crowded, two hands coming in, and then a couple of old farmers with their sons, younger men debating the upcoming boxing match between Jeffries and the champ Johnson. I was in the mood for a book or at least a smart conversation, but I just nodded in agreement when the more evolved of the boys said the champ was likely to kill Jeffries and that the old alfalfa farmer should’ve stayed on his farm.

  “Not a chance,” the other boy said. “Jeffries lost a hundred pounds to come out of retirement and fight for the white race.”