The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 48
There was a third bum, but the information was thin, nothing but a name, Early Reston. He’d taken a few punches at a Spokane cop. With this one I was to use caution because he was dangerous. I nearly laughed at the idea of a dangerous bum. So he’d decked a cop? There were raccoons I’d take in a fight with a Spokane cop.
That left the labor woman. The only one I knew. At least I knew of her. Every detective in the west knew Elizabeth Gurley Flynn. Saucebox spent the last two years riling up camps from Seattle to Minneapolis. Labor cunny roused more rabble than jaws twice her age. I’d had my boy Paul in St. Paul tail her back when she was working the Minnesota mining region, and he all but fell in love with her. After that I’d heard some miner married her and knapped her up. Good for all involved. Best way to turn a nineteen-year-old problem like that was put her in a kitchen with a babe on her tit. But now she was back on the road?
“What do you think?”
I looked up. Brand was smiling. “The bums won’t be a problem.”
“The older brother is still in jail.”
“It will be easier when he gets out. Fewer people involved.”
“I see. And what about this Early Reston? He beat up a cop pretty bad. When it comes to it, I would advise taking him down first.”
When it comes to the bouillabaisse, I’d stew the lobster with tomatoes first. “Like I said, the bums won’t be a problem.” I held up the page and pointed to Gurley Flynn’s name, not wanting to say it aloud. “This one’s a problem.”
He nodded. “The job you did for my friend—”
“I don’t mean because she’s a woman. I mean the attention. It would be four times the price.” I held up four fingers. “Plus expenses.”
His eyes widened. “I see.” It was more than he’d planned, and I worried I’d started too high. “Well.” He took a swallow of his drink. “Maybe it won’t come to that. For now I just want them located, followed, and—”
“Hindered,” I said.
“Hindered,” he said, “although, should the opportunity present itself—”
I cleared my throat. Should the opportunity—I was the opportunity, opportunity and chance and fate, that’s why you called Del. Dirt bath. Eternity box. That’s the opportunity I provided.
“There is one other thing you should know,” Brand said. “Last week I made an entreaty to the younger brother.”
“You did what—”
“An entreaty? An offer—”
“I know what an entreaty is.”
Brand shifted in his chair. “Last week I brought Ryan Dolan here and I floated the idea of hiring him, having him on retainer. For information.”
“Information?”
“Specifically, I wanted to know if Early Reston had rejoined their party.”
I stared.
“I . . . I had Ursula bring Ryan to me. You see, I was seeking information—”
I held up the file. “You had one of these people . . . brought here?”
He cleared his throat at the depth of his mistake. “Ursula wanted me to get the older brother released, and . . . it seemed like an opportunity to—”
“What if he told someone? What if Ursula told someone?”
I could see this hadn’t occurred to him. Christ, this euphemistic stupid scaramouch. I closed the dossiers. They weren’t half bad. That’s what made them so bad. I looked up at Willard, standing with his hands crossed in the corner. “A minute with your boss?”
He looked at Brand, who nodded. The lug left the room.
I closed the file and ran my finger over the label. Dalveaux.
Brand saw me looking at his handiwork. “I imagine you’ll be hiring other men for this operation? Perhaps I could be your—”
“Shut your bone box.”
His breath went short.
I walked to the fireplace and pitched the dossiers into the fire. “No more paper. No more dossiers. No more fake drivers and no more trying to hire the men you want me to plant. Right?”
He nodded weakly.
“I will hinder. Follow the girl and plan the robbery. Meantime, you go back to your consortium, and if it’s dirt baths you want: It’s a thousand per bum and three for the girl. Nonnegotiable. From now on, you and I speak only by telephone. Twice a week. I ring you on Monday and Friday. I tell the girl on the line my name is Grant.
“If it’s just the robbery, you don’t take the call. If it’s a dirt bath you want, you come on the line and propose lunch. If it’s the labor cunny, you say, ‘Can we have lunch Monday, Mr. Grant?’ If it’s the dangerous tramp Reston, you say, ‘Lunch Tuesday?’ The entreaty brother, ‘Lunch Wednesday?’ If it’s the whole party, you ask for dinner—”
“Dinner,” he said breathlessly, his trousers no doubt tightening.
“Say you want just the girl and the dangerous tramp, you say—”
“ ‘Mr. Grant, can we have lunch Monday or Tuesday?’ ”
“Right. And the younger brother and Reston?”
“ ‘Mr. Grant, can we have lunch Tuesday or Wednesday?’ ”
“And if you want all of them done, you say?”
“ ‘Mr. Grant, can we schedule a dinner?’ ”
“Good.” It was over the top, pointless secret agent business, but he ate it up. That’s what he was hiring—a story. Any mining goon could plant three tramps and a knapped-up labor girl. This rust-guts wanted a play. So, Del played, and hoped this lunch-on-Tuesday gullyfluff would keep him occupied and out of my way.
“Any questions?”
“What if I actually want to have lunch?”
I cleared my throat. “We will not be having lunch. Anything else I should know?”
He hesitated a moment, and the