The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 89
Early explained that the bombs would be small and portable, each contained in a satchel, to be delivered to two locations at the same time—the police station and the Spokane Club. The cases would be packed with four sticks each, about two pounds, enough to kill but not so heavy as to raise suspicion, like, say, a twenty-pound case would. “It needs to feel like someone’s work satchel,” Early said. Because of that, they were carving out any extra weight from the cases—metal frames, hinges, even thinning the leather.
In the tops of the satchels would be loose papers, and beneath, sticks of dynamite strapped to the bottom of the case with blasting caps pressed into them, the caps covered with cotton soaked in a cyanide of potassium and sugar. A small medicine bottle of sulfuric acid would be secured above the blasting caps, sealed with a cork. When the valise was opened, a wire attached to the latch would pull the cork out, leaking acid and soaking the cotton, causing the caps to detonate and the dynamite to explode.
“Two pounds won’t take down a building,” Early said, “but I would not want to be in the room where it’s opened.”
Early said the packages would be delivered by Everett, who had saved his porter’s outfit just for this. They would be left at the police station and the Spokane Club when the recipient wasn’t there but was expected soon. We would be well on our way out of town when the valises were opened and then—
“Boom,” said Miller.
Early watched me to make sure I was up for it. Was I? He said there was one thing they needed from me. Miller wanted sharp metal to pack around the dynamite, to make the small bombs more lethal.
“We could use nails, of course,” Miller said. “But something even lighter would be better. Metal shavings.”
“I told them you know someone who works in a machine shop,” Early said.
I looked down at my shoes. “I’ll take care of it,” I said.
I had once tried to get a day job at a tin shop east of downtown, where they did pressing and metal shearing, and that night I took a bucket and walked the hobo highway until I got to their warehouse along the river. They had a slag and scrap pile behind the shop, and I picked through it for the thinnest, lightest pieces. I nicked up my hands pretty good on those sharp metal bits. The thought of those pieces flying around into mens’ bodies made me feel sick. But I knew what Early was asking—someone who works in a machine shop—and there was no way I was going to let him involve you, Rye.
Miller picked through the bucket and said the pieces were perfect, and he packed them in the sides of the valises, underneath the compartment with the fake paper. He was careful not to get them near the wire or the stopper holding in the acid. “Accidentally cut that stopper and—”
“Boom,” said Everett.
Finished, the two valises looked harmless: thin leather upright carpetbags with two straps and a locking latch on top. There was a small key for each.
The plan was simple. Everett would deliver the first satchel to the police department, for Sergeant Hub Clegg. He would deliver the case at eleven, three hours before Clegg’s night shift started, and would tell the cop at the desk that it was from one of the saloons where Clegg made his usual pickups.
“And how do we get the other one to Brand?” I asked.
“I had an idea about that,” Early said. “I was thinking maybe your friend the lion tamer—”
“No,” I said, “no way. I’m not going to involve her. I’ll take it myself if I have to, and open it in front of him.”
“Okay. That’s fine.” Early patted me on the arm.
“And it’s a cougar,” I said.
“We’ll come up with something else,” Early said.
It was quiet. We sat around drinking and playing cards, and Early came and went a few times in the Ford in the ensuing days. I wasn’t sure what we were waiting for or what he was doing on those trips. Miller said he was likely out stealing, that Early was a master thief. Finally, on the last Sunday night, he returned with a bottle of whiskey. “Tomorrow,” he said. The verdict was being read in the big IWW case. It would be the perfect day.
He shook our hands and patted us on the shoulders. He gave each man thirty dollars to make his escape.
“Where’s this from?” Everett asked, fanning the money.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Early said.
We poured a glass of whiskey and toasted each other, talking about what we’d do next. Early said not to get too specific in sharing our plans, for if one of us was picked up, he didn’t want that man to be able to implicate the others.
Everett said he was headed south. “Too cold up here. I’m gonna get me a girl and winter her up.” Miller, too, said he would head for warmer parts.
“And what about you?” Everett asked me.
“He’s coming with me,” Early said. “We’re gonna outlaw a little.” He winked at me and I thought it sounded fine, the two of us flying around the west in that Ford, the world quivering at our approach.
But that night I couldn’t sleep. As a kid, I had thought for a while that I might become an actor, travel the country doing monologues and playing characters. Was that what I was doing now—acting? Playing outlaw? Anarchist? Or was I becoming the