The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 58
“I have it. I decided—”
“You decided?”
“I decided I’m keeping half for my trouble.”
I laughed. “Those boys in Taft have your money, Al. Go get it from them. My money was for the job you didn’t do.”
“Well, I’m keeping two hundred.”
I laughed again.
“Okay, one hundred. I have to get out of town, Del.”
“I’ll get you out of town for nothing. Out of every town.”
“I’m keeping a hundred, Del.”
I looked up. The apes were staring. Barman, too. And one at the door. So that was at least four. Christ, Bolin was spooked. But in a place like this, more wasn’t necessarily better. Give me one good man over four rattled mettle fetchers any day. Especially for close work. The bark of the Savage would be to my advantage, the question was order: which first. Dwang. Taller ape. Do that one and everyone stops to watch that man curl around his guts and then Snool, and that’s when I turn and do Al, slow, no rush or panic, then see if any other man makes a move, although in my experience, those three will be plenty—
Al interrupted my thinking. “There were surprises, too. You didn’t tell me the girl was pregnant. And you could’ve told me Brand had another man inside.”
I turned and looked straight into Al’s mangled face. I did feel compassion for him, carrying that mug around. And it was true, I hadn’t told him Gurley Flynn was pregnant. Had I thought Al wouldn’t follow through if he knew that? Or was it some kind of guilt over the other Spokane job I’d done? I also hadn’t told him about the younger Dolan. I was slipping. “I should’ve told you about the kid.”
“What kid?”
“Ryan Dolan. He tell you that Brand has him on retainer?”
“What are you talking about?” Bolin asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the Pinkerton.”
“The what?”
“The Pinkerton. Reston. The guy playing a bum. What if we’d done him in? The shit they’d rain down on us? Even in Taft you can’t just go kill a Pinkerton. You should have told me, Del.”
I was quiet.
“You didn’t know,” he said.
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure. He slipped out and followed me. Knocked me down in the snow. Asked a bunch of questions about who paid me. Said he’d been on the job almost a month, that Lem Brand hired him to go deep.”
Jesus. How many men did Brand have on this job? I thought back to the dossiers. Was it possible he didn’t know Reston was the man he’d hired? Back when I went deep, I used fake names. Or was it darker than that? Had Brand wanted me to take out a man he’d hired? Was possible with him. Christ, planting a Pinkerton could’ve ended me. You can plant a dozen mutton-shunter cops, but you start killing Pinkertons, they will hound you to your last day.
And even if Brand hadn’t known Reston was his man inside, he would’ve known he had a man inside. And he didn’t tell me that. I had asked him, “Is there anything else?” and he had stalled. Told me about the kid but not another detective inside.
“You look like a man with troubles, Del.”
I shrugged. “Put my money on the table, Al.”
He sniffed. Then, thinking he had the upper hand, he put a small stack of cash on the table. I swept it into my pocket without counting it. “Now the other half.”
“Like I said, I’m keeping—”
I grabbed the metal piece that held his jaws together and yanked it like a kid on a carousel. I pulled his face down to the table and, with my other hand, pulled the .32 Savage from my waist and leveled it below the table at the two men by the bar railing. They came up straight, but their hands were up and out, as if calming an angry animal. I held Al’s face down by the ring in his cheek. “Where’s my money, Al?”
He fiddled in his coat and set the rest of my money on the table.
A dozen years I’d known Al Bolin, since I worked him inside the WFM, back during the silver wars. I liked him. He had courage. Easy to turn a coward, but a coward’s work left much to be desired. A man like Bolin, you only had a small shot of turning him, but if you did, he was gold. He was inside for me when an anarchist blew up a safe house—Al the only survivor. In the hospital, his wounds bubbled and seeped, but when he came to, I was there to whisper in the hole where his ear used to be: You’re gonna come out of this, and when you do, come and find me. He did and I took care of him. Gave him money and opium, and when he could move again, I got him work. Paid him to watch meetings and stoke a riot in Havre so my employer there could convince the police to crack down on the union.
Still, I should’ve known better than leave a job like this to him.
I held my finger in the ring through his cheek like the trigger guard of a pistol, his head on the table between us, money in front of his nose. He looked up at me with his good eye. I spoke quietly. “Now. To show that I am not a vindictive man, take twenty back.”
He did.
“That’s for a train ticket out of here and a hotel somewhere. Now take another twenty for your troubles.”
He did.
“And another ten to buy your apes a beer and a meal.”
He did.
I took fifty dollars from the stack, pressed them into his hand. “And that’s from me, Al. For old times.”
The rest went in my pocket. I had given him the hundred he’d asked for, but I’d done it. I did