Sweet Thunder (35 page)

“First of all, because you're worth it, and secondly, I need you to do a couple of things for me that only you can do.”

His expression was still dubious. I tried to sound as guttural as Blind Heinie. “All is forgive, young friend.”

It worked, to the extent he twitched at the touch of those words. I persisted, “Do we have a deal?”

It seemed an eternity before he nodded, then stipulated: “Toss me the knuckie first.” Reading my face, he flashed me a challenging look. “For luck.”

This I had not counted on; Russian Famine's street boy tenet, hard learned, that life would have to prove it still wanted him. I gulped, making myself swallow any argument to the contrary. If he was willing to trust luck, I would need to, too.

“All right, then. The moment it leaves my hand, it's yours, Famine. You have to catch it or—” We both were aware of the mineshaft directly under us, where the article could fall nearly a mile into the ground. “Ready, are you?”

He tensed on the narrow girder, looping an arm around the upright strutwork and holding a hand out toward me for the toss. Good grief, it was his right hand he was going to catch with. Luck did not dare make a slip with him. “You bet,” his voice was high but determined. “Let 'er fly.”

The metal weapon spun in the air, the brass glistening, before the boy stretched to a heart-stopping length and snatched it.

“There now,” I burst out in relief. “With that on, you won't even need the left hook.”

His arm grip holding him safe, almost shyly he tried on the brass knuckles. With his other hand he stroked the knobs as if feeling their magic power to change a life, then gazed squarely up at me. “Hunky and dory, sir. You kept your end of the deal. What's the couple of things on mine?”

“Carry a message. And find someone for me. We have to get started.” Squirming toward the ladder to lower myself onto it, I caught a glimpse of the ground an awful distance below and my body refused to move. “Famine?” My voice worked, barely. “Make that three things. The truth of the matter is, I need help getting down.”

“Awright. I'm coming over. Gimme your hand.”

  23  

A
T THE END OF THAT
longest day, the restless city settling for the night as much as it ever did, I approached the darkened boardinghouse. Immediately I was filled with longing, remorse, regret, all the shades of emotion that come with loss. Be that as it may. The next challenge had to be faced, then and there.

Hearing me let myself in, Grace appeared at the top of the stairs in her rose-colored dressing gown, my favorite. Blinking against the light of the dining room chandelier I had switched on, she said as if my presence might bring on a fresh outbreak of hives: “That had to be you, nuisance. What now?”

My gaze up at her should have said it all, but just in case, I wreathed the words with all I could, spoken from the heart. “I am here to reclaim my beautiful bride.”

A flush to match her gown arose in Grace's cheeks as my intention registered on her. She scratched an arm nervously. “Morrie, we've been through this and through this. You can't just dance in here in the middle of the night and expect us to go back to being”—she faltered for the term—“lovebirds.”

“No, and we both know a prime reason for that, don't we.” I could hardly contain myself. Actually, I couldn't. “Where is the swine?”

“The which?”

I was as determined as I had ever been in my life. The Italian gigolo was about to get a taste of my brass knuckle if it came to that. Backing away from the stairwell to give myself sparring room, I roared, “Mazzini! Get down here now. We're going to have this out.”

In the ringing silence, nothing ensued at first except Grace peering down at me in astonishment. Then came the sound of shuffling footsteps in the upstairs hallway behind her. Braced for battle, I motioned for Grace to stand aside, which she mutely did, as I waited for the wife-stealing cur to show himself.

Only to be confronted by not one figure but two.

“Keeping kind of late hours, aren't you, Morrie?” said Griff.

“Not that we can't get back to sleep when you're done yelling at the top of your voice,” said Hoop.

It was Grace's turn. “And you'll have to shout even louder to reach Mr. Mazzini. He's in Genoa. His stay was up some time ago and he's gone home to his wife and five children.”

“Ah.” I cleared my throat in embarrassment. “Good place for him.” The pair at the top of the stairs in underwear tops and pajama bottoms shook their heads in unison and shuffled back to bed, while the third member concentrated her frown at me. “Grace,” I saw nothing to do but start over, “I have much to tell you.”

“Do you. Who will be doing the talking, Morgan Llewellyn or Morrie Morgan or some deceiver yet to be invented?”

“Can you please come down, so I don't have to do all this with a crick in my neck?”

She hesitated, our fate as a married couple in the balance, and something in the air between us tipped it. Wordlessly she descended the stairs, her dressing gown swishing. Mesmerized, I could not help hearing in my head Robert Herrick's yearning poem,
Whenas
in silks my Julia goes / Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows / That liquefaction of her clothes.
Thoughts of that sort ended abruptly when my vision of liquefaction planted herself a safe distance from me, arms crossed and eyes snapping. “Well, I'm here.”

With a pleading look, I ushered her to the dining room table, the electric chandelier overhead glowing gamely in the Butte night. Neither of us saying anything, we sat there as of old, she in her place nearest the kitchen, I in the star boarder's spot across from her, her Arthur watching eternally from the wedding photograph on the sideboard. I mustered myself. “There have been developments.”

“My, my. There generally are with you.”

If ever there was a guarded listener, it was Grace, but at least she was listening. Where to start? “It will be in the paper tomorrow,” I plunged in, “the
Thunder
is putting out an Extra. The lockout is over.”

•   •   •

Jared made the announcement, at my prompting after closeting himself in Armbrister's office for a significant phone call to the top floor of the Hennessy Building. The negotiation went on for some minutes, helped by the ammunition I had given him, and he emerged with the solemn look of a plenipotentiary who had settled for an armistice when victory was too costly for both sides. Dutifully he gave me a little salute and called the staff together.

“Folks, here's the size of it. Anaconda has agreed to end the lockout, at the start of first shift tomorrow.” At the first whoops and Armbrister's bray to the back shop to be ready for an Extra, he held up his hands. “That's the good part, and then there's this. To get the men back to work, the union had to take a pay cut.” The newsroom went quiet and tense as he mustered the rest. “Fifty cents an hour. I hate that like poison, but something had to be done to get the Hill working again. I promise you this,” he pledged as if taking an oath of office, “we'll fight like hell to get the full dollar back in the next go-round.”

He paused, the strain showing. “So we didn't get all we wanted, but neither did Anaconda.” In a corner of my mind, I could hear Rab, always wiser than her years, forecasting a draw. “They're gambling that they can defeat the tax commission measure,” Jared forced the words out, “and it's about fifty-fifty that they may be right. What they don't know,” his voice lifted, “is that if it goes down this time, the governor and I will tinker with it a little and get it back on the ballot at the regular election next year. We'll keep doing that over the long haul until we get something passed that reins in Anaconda, by damn.”

Looking around at the intent faces surrounding him, that most unsentimental man choked up. “I want to thank every one of you for working your hearts and guts out the way you have. Sometimes it's been a rough ride”—he managed to crack a thin grin in my direction—“but this is a different town because of you and the
Thunder
. And,” his voice rose and steadied, “we're not done yet. This newspaper started from nowhere, and we've got this far.” He made the same vowing fist Quin showed the world of corporate rulers. “We'll keep on, putting out the best damn paper Butte has ever seen.”

Armbrister clapped first, then the others, the entire newsroom in a thunder of ovation.

•   •   •

“That's good news, of course,” Grace allowed, still cautious. “But you're still up against that awful Cartwright.”

“Ah, him.”

•   •   •

Some hours before, the Purity was busying up with home-goers grabbing a quick bite at the end of the workday, the proprietor ringing up profits as if the cash register were a set of chimes, and watching worriedly when Cartwright made his appearance. The self-styled Cutlass sauntered to my table in his usual swanky manner, although I saw him cautiously eyeing the plate of spaghetti and meatballs in front of me; I was famished after the headframe experience. “So now you don't mind being seen with me in this joint?” he said with bravado but staying just out of range. “Change of heart, pal?”

“Let's restrict ourselves to the cranium, shall we?” He looked at me speculatively. “Sit down, Cutthroat.”

“Do I need to wear a bib?”

“Not unless you burp haphazardly.”

He snickered and took a seat across from me. “I have to hand it to you, you've got more moves than a weather vane, Morgan.” Lazily he let drop what I knew was coming. “If you don't mind my using your first name.”

“So you are capable of legwork when you're not pandering in print for Anaconda. I suppose that's in your favor.”

“I must be slipping, though,” he shook his head at himself. “It took longer to click than it should have, who you reminded me of. But when it finally did, it was plain as day—you're the ghost of your brother. Same build plus a little, same phiz somewhere under that beard, same way of putting up your dukes.” Confidently he leaned toward me, grinning in triumph. “Same razzmatazz. In certain circles back in civilization”—he meant Chicago—“they still talk about that fixed fight the Llewellyn brothers pulled off. And you know what?” He raised an index finger as though inspiration had just hit. “I've heard rumors, back there, of a pretty big bet somebody out in this direction snagged from the big boys, on the Sox World Series. Somebody who knows a fix when he sees one, would be my guess. Boy oh boy, Llewellyn,” he laughed, “you like to live dangerously, don't you.”

“Actually, no.”

“Well, you sure give a good imitation of it.” He slapped the flat of his hand on the table. “Let's get down to business. That scarecrow of a kid said you're ready to make a deal. It's about time. What's your price for putting Pluvius to rest for good?”

“Nothing.”

Genuinely taken aback, Cartwright stared at me as though I were betraying the hired-gun brotherhood. “Don't be a chump. Take the long green and go buy yourself a new life. Anaconda expects to pay, plenty.”

I speared a meatball and dabbed it in spaghetti sauce, just to further unnerve him, then set aside the morsel and fork on my plate. “You misinterpret. I have no payoff coming because I'm not going anywhere. It's Cutlass who is. Yet tonight.”

“Have you gone nuts?” His voice rising in register, he slapped the table harder this time. “I'm calling the shots here. Sure, I can't order up a funeral for you myself because of that damned Evans bunch. But if I drop word to the right people who got burned on the Sox Series, they'll be happy to do it for me. Get hold of yourself, wise guy, before—”

“I wonder, Cartwright,” I interrupted, “whether you know the story of the Laconians, from whom we get the word
laconic.
It goes like this. During the Peloponnesian War, the Macedonians threatened Laconia with an ultimatum to surrender. ‘If we prevail in battle, we will kill every man, woman, and child.' The Laconians sent back a one-word message. ‘If.'”

“That's cute,” he sneered. “But what makes you think you can get away with that answer?”

“Because, if you were to tip off my whereabouts to certain gambling interests in Chicago, I will provide documentation from a number of Rough Riders that your San Juan Hill dispatch was an utter fraud.”

To my satisfaction, I have to admit, the pencil-thin mustache twitched like cat whiskers finding danger.

“As you with me, there was something I couldn't quite figure out,” I kept right on before he could say anything. “Why you shied away from the Rough Riders angle in the parade coverage. You didn't dare make a peep while they were in town, did you, for fear they'd remember you and your famous dispatch all too well.” I watched to make sure this was having its effect on the suddenly less sleek figure across the table, and it was, every word.

“Roosevelt's men won the battle on foot,” I went on remorselessly, “not galloping up the slope under an azure sky like horsemen of the Apocalypse,
tsk.
Which indicates, wouldn't you say, that you weren't even there. The only high ground you were on during the charge up San Juan Hill was the height of deceit.”

If looks could kill, he would have done me in then and there. “What happened, I wonder,” I went on. “A bit too much Cuban rum the night before, perhaps? It was easier to hang around the cable office and send in your supposed scoop when word that the Rough Riders had won trickled in? Am I getting the story right? Close enough, I see.”

Cartwright managed to find his voice. “You're bluffing.”

“Care to try me?”

I saw him waver, then concede. “Casper was the best counterpuncher I ever saw,” he said thinly. “You must have picked it up from him.” He paused, by the look of him still tempted to remind me of my brother's fate.

“Just in case,” I headed that off, “I have left instructions, should anything happen to me, that all the proof needed to ruin your career will be—”