The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 76

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The cop watching the house was leaning on a porch pillar when Rye came out. “What were you doing in there, kid?” He was tall and thin, with a scar running over his forehead and right eye.

“I’m her friend,” Rye said. “I just came to see her.”

The cop said, “Take off your coat,” and Rye did, handing it to the cop, who went through the pockets and sleeves.

“She’s under house arrest,” the cop said. “She’s not allowed visitors except her lawyer. Turn out your pants pockets.”

Rye did, and a confetti of lint and crumbs came out. “You were asleep when I came up earlier,” he said.

The cop shot him a look. “I wasn’t asleep. I wanted you to think I was.”

“Why would you want me to think you were asleep?” Rye asked.

The cop couldn’t seem to think of a reason. “Lift your shirt.”

Gurley had told him the cop would probably search him this way. They were desperately trying to keep her from publishing her story about what she had seen during her night in the Spokane jail. “It’s outrageous,” she said. “They arrest these girls for not paying off the police, and if they can’t pay the fines, they force them to work it off in jail. They’re essentially running a brothel in there, which is why the chief won’t hire jail matrons. It’s the worst-kept secret in the city and yet no one will touch it.” She had tried to give the story to local reporters, but none would print it or even characterize Gurley’s allegations. “There are some things you just can’t say in a newspaper,” a Press editor had told her. When she tried to publish a piece in the Industrial Worker detailing what she’d seen, police had confiscated and burned thousands of copies and charged the printer with conspiracy, lewd conduct, and libel. Even Fred Moore was leery of handling the story for fear of being held in contempt or involved in a libel suit.

The cop poked Rye with his nightstick and had him lower his pants. He patted him down and, when he was satisfied Rye wasn’t smuggling any papers out, told him to fix his clothes and move on. “Okay. Go on, get out of here.”

Rye took the streetcar back to Mrs. Ricci’s house. Gig still wasn’t there. Out on the sleeping porch, Rye reached under his cot and pulled out the envelope Lem Brand had given him for Early. It was a plain off-white envelope, no writing on it. He’d never even looked inside. But the envelope was unsealed. Rye took a deep breath and opened it. There was a typed note addressed to “Ennis Cooper,” apologizing for “events that got out of hand” and offering to “abide by our original agreement.” The note suggested Cooper “communicate through the boy what we might do to further keep our arrangement confidential and beneficial to us both.”

Clipped to the note were ten fifty-dollar bills. Rye thumbed them. A fifty was even fancier than the twenty-dollar note he’d carried in his sock for two weeks. Rye wondered if Marco would reconsider selling his mother’s orchard for this much money. He took the top bill and put the others back. He turned it over in his hands. It was issued by the Seaboard National Bank of San Francisco, stamped in blue, with a photo of Secretary of State John Sherman in the upper-left corner.

Rye found a pen and paper among his brother’s things. He tore the paper in two and on one half wrote, “Gig, I’ll be back Sunday. Rye.” On the other half, he wrote, “IOU. $50. Ryan J. Dolan.” He put that note in the envelope with the other bills. Then he tucked it back between his cot and blankets. He shoved the fifty-dollar bill in his pocket, grabbed his hat and coat and his gloves off the bed, and started out.

He walked through the orchard, even though it wasn’t on his way, the icy ground crunching beneath his boots. He stood in the cold trees a moment, imagining a house among them. Finally, he started walking, catching the old hobo highway to downtown. He thought about looking for Gig in his usual saloons, but even if he found him, he’d be long past drunk now and probably just tell Rye to leave him alone. So he went straight to the train station, arriving in plenty of time to catch the overnight. The Great Northern station was nearly deserted, just three other passengers waiting.

At the window, Rye bought a nine-dollar ticket for the Cascadian. It was cheaper than the Empire Builder because it made more stops.

He was too nervous to sleep on the train, so he sat up in his seat as the train lurched off. They built up speed, and out the window he sensed more than saw the dark wooded terrain fall away amid the faint shadows of crags and ledges of central Washington. Each station they pulled into seemed ghostlier than the last, gaslight shadows of water and coal stops, rail signal switches and lonely figures on platforms, the electric lamps of rail agents in the windows. Rye had the sense of moving not just across the land but in and out of time, and at one point he fell asleep and dreamed he was old and looking back on his life.

It was morning when he jolted awake just outside of Seattle.

He stepped off the train into a wet, drizzly Puget Sound day. His second time in Seattle this month. He had bacon, eggs, and coffee in the King Street Station diner and, when he was done, asked the waiter if he knew how to find the offices of the Agitator newspaper.

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