Sundance (16 page)

Hightower brought him out to the middle of an empty, dark street that dead-ended behind them.

“You'll find your way from here.”

“How'd you get involved with him?”

“He pays.”

“I hope he pays well.”

“Better than Pinkerton. Good as Tammany, although Tammany was more regular.”

“You were a Pinkerton?”

“Strike buster. But the country's changing, going progressive. Never liked being on the wrong side of history.”

“
Mano Nera
's
the right side?”

“Crime has a future, tourist.”

Longbaugh thought about his own criminal past. Then he thought about the dime novel version. Crime ran through the future's filter and came out as romance.

“Interesting run, Hightower. Pinkerton, Tammany, Black Hand.”

“Tell me my next stop and you'll tell me my future.”

“Appreciate your help.”

“Didn't do it for you.”

“No. You didn't.”

“You got a funny way.” Hightower scratched under his armpit. “First you're the concerned husband, then you're nothing like it. I'd like to split you open, tourist, see what's inside. Although I'm starting to think you're no tourist. Like the opposite. What do they call that?”

“Irony.”

“I was thinking native. You've been somewhere that doesn't match those clothes and that hat.”

“Just looking for my wife.”

“Let me know if you find her.”

“That'll be the day.”

Hightower went through the doorway of a different building and was gone.

Longbaugh was alone. The street was dark without streetlamps, empty, quiet. He listened to the night. The city seemed far away until his ears were hit by the deep-throated blow of an ocean liner's horn, much closer than he might have expected. It moaned for an extended breath, cut off suddenly with an echo that boomed across New Jersey, and the rest of the world was hushed. His ears slowly retuned to the distant clopping of horseshoes and automobile engines and voices of people he could not see. The cross street ahead was well lit and busy, and he was about to walk to it, but his feet were reluctant, cemented to cobblestones.

When he didn't go, he wondered why. But he trusted the alarm inside his skull that told him he'd missed something. Moretti's arch words about being wrong may have been code, meaning Hightower may have
delivered him here under orders. An elevated train clattered a few blocks over. Once he reached the busy street ahead, he would be fine. Getting there was the issue. Unless he was imagining things. Unless there was no problem.

Something moved behind him and he started, turning toward the flick of a long, narrow tail. He kicked and it leapt sideways and stood to chitter insolently. He shook his head to ward off the tension, maybe the rat was what he had been sensing. He started toward the big street.

Then he knew. He had been dumped in an industrial area. No lights. No witnesses. Even in dodgy neighborhoods, people jammed the streets day and night, as their apartments were small, cramped, overcrowded. Only in the limestone mansions on Fifth Avenue did people go into their homes and stay. He walked slowly, because he knew it would come, now it was just a matter of when.

They came out early, too far away, a mistake, in single file from a doorway near the lit-up street at the far end, lining up to face him. He was blocked in the dead-end street, but their impatience gave him the edge. Now he had room to maneuver. They were backlit from the thoroughfare, the same five boys from the alley, including the
paisan
, Felice. What was it Hightower had dubbed him? Flexible. They hadn't thought to position someone behind him this time. Their second mistake.

“No one here to save you this time. So we
will
take both,” said the leader.

Maybe they thought he would try to run, or maybe they thought he would try to get out through the door Hightower had used, but Longbaugh wasn't interested in getting away. Only Flexible did not reach for his belt or shoulder bag. Each then brandished a pistol. Longbaugh remembered Hightower's explanation of the law. They had gone back for firepower, and were forced to carry their weapons somewhere other than their stitched-up pockets. But he did not recognize their guns, as they were flat, with a rectangular shape. The darkness hid details, but the gun silhouettes did not resemble a revolvers. There was no cylinder. He did not understand how they might work, but he also did not
underestimate their power. Another invention of the modern world sent to teach him a lesson. Flexible kept his hands by his sides and backed up a step. No surprise there.

“You going to make this easy or hard?” said the leader.

Longbaugh reached under his collar and pulled his bandanna up over his nose. He liked the feel of it on his face when he went into a situation.

“Now you have a choice,” he said.

He reached under his jacket and drew out his Peacemaker. He thumbed back the hammer to spin the cylinder with his opposite palm so they could hear it whir. He thought it only sporting to give them fair warning.

They opened fire immediately, all arms raised and blasting, and he marveled at their impatience, not to mention their rude lack of fair play. He did not move. The old sensation returned; when in battle or crisis, he was both exquisitely present while being a small step outside himself, watching. He had little fear, perhaps because he understood the moment. New weapon or not, these guns had no better range than his revolver, and right now they were too far away. He watched them leap and fire their pieces with manic incompetence, jerking off round after round, pointing without aiming, bullets zipping this way and that, ricocheting off buildings, breaking a window, one very lucky shot whining close to his ear. They moved toward him, but the shots were coming more slowly now, their fingers tiring from pinching off rounds. They were moving into his range while running out of ammunition. Flexible did not come, watching the other four pose and jump. They seemed unwilling to believe that their fancy new guns, facing the prehistoric revolver, had not decimated their target. The firing stopped and they stood stupidly, breathing hard, guns smoking, one of them still trying to fire, but some sort of odd sliding mechanism on top of each of the weapons had kicked back. The leader withdrew a flat, rectangular object that Longbaugh would later learn was a “magazine,” or clip. The others simply gaped at Longbaugh. They could not believe he was still on his feet.

“And now it's my turn,” said Longbaugh affably.

They looked at one another, confused. A sudden flurry of activity as each of them hurried to eject the used clip from the handle and reload. But now they were close enough. Longbaugh moved.

He dropped to a crouch, his weight on his bent right leg, stretching out his left to give himself a base. His pistol came up and he fired once, targeting the leader, because you always begin by cutting off the head. His heart was full with the noise and power of his weapon, his shot tearing through the leader's shoulder, the force of the projectile twisting him, and he went down in a clumsy pirouette. The leader howled in pain and his piece skittered across cobblestones behind him. Longbaugh's body was electric with thrill, the gunfighter unleashed, and all the old ecstasy rushed in with the muscle memory, his quickness, his accuracy, knowing in his fingers there was no one better. He fired his second shot, splitting the flesh of the next boy's side as that boy had turned to watch his leader go down. The second boy did a near somersault while his breath was knocked out of him, and for a moment he sat with his mouth open, gulping for air. Longbaugh savored the moment, no rush now. His third shot thumped smack into the exposed rump of the third boy, who was in reckless flight toward the big street. The bullet parted the lower muscles of his buttocks and drove that hip forward, while his other leg was still kicked up behind, and he did an awkward split that initially may have caused more pain than the bullet. The fourth boy, the pimpled one, was surprisingly courageous, still holding his ground, magazine in hand after fumbling to eject the empty clip. He was another tall, lanky creature, not unlike the sheriff's boy in Wyoming. Longbaugh admired his nerve to be standing there. His eyes were comically wide, staring at Longbaugh, then looking down, frantically trying to insert the clip, looking back, and Longbaugh grinned as he took careful aim. But he hesitated, again seeing the Wyoming boy, and instead sent one just over the pimpled one's hat. That was enough. The boy spun, heels rising, toes tapping in a dance of full retreat, running past the others, who were crawling, dragging, or limping away from the mad gunman.

Flexible did not run. Longbaugh rose to his full height and
considered the runt, who with both hands took hold of the lapels of his jacket and pulled them away from his body and kept them open that way, exposing to Longbaugh his shirt and belt to prove he was unarmed. There was a moment when the
paisan
considered the bandanna over Longbaugh's nose and mouth and his smile wavered, but he still marched toward him, his innocent smile wide, coming on while holding that jacket open. Longbaugh let his weapon hand fall to his side, amazed by Flexible's gumption, somewhat hypnotized as Flexible walked toward him, close now, steps away, closer, always smiling, jacket flared, four steps, three, too close—and Longbaugh saw it late, the glint of steel in Flexible's right hand, kept hidden under the lapel of his jacket as he held it out there. Longbaugh twisted away to protect himself, a late dodge, but Flexible was on him, running the knife into Longbaugh's flesh.

Longbaugh barely reacted, although he knew the steel was deep in the meat of his side. Had he not dodged, it would have found his belly. He kept his expression flat, and doubt flashed in Flexible's eyes when he seemed not to be hurt. He swung his gun and the butt end cut across Flexible's face and broke his nose and wrecked his smile, taking teeth. Flexible dropped and Longbaugh pulled the knife from his side. Pain stabbed him and he knew it was bad, bleeding heavily under his jacket. Roaring with rage and frustration, he jammed the knife into a space between mortar and bricks, and snapped the handle off. Flexible was motionless on the ground, not conscious of Longbaugh's actions. Longbaugh didn't want the runt to know he was hurt, so he placed the bladeless handle in Flexible's palm. He yanked off his bandanna, wiped the blood off the ground, then held the bandanna tight against his side to keep from leaving a bloody trail and got away from there.

He wanted the moment back. It had been satisfying to open fire, to release his aggression on a gang of rude predators. He had lost himself in it, and the
paisan
runt had taken advantage of his joy, as if he had known that violence was his one true vulnerability. He had stood there like a flat-footed, punch-drunk, dull-witted mule and let it happen. Any self-respecting gunman would have pressed the barrel smartly against Flexible's temple and run a bullet into his brain.

He stopped under a streetlight and let go of his side and lifted his coat and shirt and examined the wound. Not good. He was hurt, and even if the blade had missed organs, the danger of infection was real. He could go back to his hotel, but as he looked at the fresh flow of blood, he knew he could not stitch it himself. He didn't know how much time he had before the adrenaline wore off, making him unable to maneuver.

He closed his jacket over the spot and saw he still held his revolver, his own blood dripping off the end of the barrel. He looked around, and two or three people stared. He tucked the revolver in his belt, noticed he was on his knees, came to his feet, and walked. He found street signs at a corner and considered where to go. Abigail came to mind, but Siringo was onto that location, and Levi was a wild card.

He walked the streets, legs shaky, and for entire blocks he did not know how he stayed upright. He eventually reached a street he knew and banged on a door. He fell then, with a vague recollection of the door opening to a familiar woman's face, but things were blurry and he could not stop the slide into a blissful sleep, where he started to
dream.

H
e lay in a soft bed and did not care to move. He was warm but found the sensation of sweat drying on his forehead to be soothing. He had been in and out of sleep for days, or so he thought, and during that time, his side had tendered him significant pain. Today he had discovered a good position on his back with his palms facing up and his feet lightly tented by the sheet. It was all right, lying like this, and he stayed still, just quiet, unmoving, and still. He adjusted to the pain, and with that, the pain shifted, as if it took a small step outside of him. It did not quite leave, it remained within reach, but it did not grip him so tightly. The sensation of the absence of pain was tranquilizing, and he drifted in its spell, in a dream state where he floated over mattress and pillows, comforted in warm air, body weightless. He was immersed in a loud, pervasive hum he could not identify, something generated by a machine, likely from outdoors. He accepted the sound, gliding on its rumble. People were speaking, but the hum absorbed all deep bass notes, as if it were a heavy low fog and the tinny voices were ejected spouts of cloud through the fog's roof, quickly blown away.

Gradually words filtered in. He did not, however, open his eyes to identify speakers. Once he thought he heard Lillian Wald. She was
explaining something about sacrifice, the words strange without context, until she said, “When everyone sacrifices, there's no incentive to fight,” which sounded both odd and curiously reasonable. He slept again until his head lifted up to stretch against the thin veil of waking, taut against it but not breaking through, hearing Queenie's sister, Mary, in the room with him as she spoke to another girl. Her words took physical shape, so that the spoken name J. P. Morgan transformed into the young J. P. Morgan in person, standing beside Longbaugh's bed. This did not seem unusual to him, and he somehow understood it was fifty years earlier, part of the Civil War past, as Morgan was taking the first step in building his empire. Longbaugh watched the infamous moment where Morgan bought defective rifles from the government on the cheap, then sold them right back to the government on the following day, unaltered, for an obscene profit. The figure of Lillian Wald then appeared, pointing acidly at Morgan, cursing him for his deeds. They both faded back into the hum as Mary's words labeled Lillian a leader of the anti-preparedness movement. He did not know that word, and he pushed through the veil and opened his eyes. The room was different than what he had imagined, smaller and more blue, with sun on the street and reflected light streaming in the windows. Even when she looked at him, Mary did not notice him awake and went on whispering to her companion. He closed his eyes again and shifted in the bed, and pain came back into his side. He must have made a noise, because Mary stopped talking and came over to arrange a pillow. He did not speak to her but fell back again underneath the veil.

The next day or maybe an hour later, he woke to find Lillian Wald sitting in a chair, reading documents. She looked up when she saw his eyes were open. She said nothing, and after a few moments, he closed his eyes again. He imagined her there for the rest of the time he slept, reading her papers, occasionally looking over to see if he would ever open his eyes again.

He came fully awake some time after that and was alone in the room. The hum was gone. He saw his things in a corner. Someone had fetched them from his hotel. He did not know how that was possible, as
he alone kept the secret of where he was living. He was thirsty. The room was small, the door was closed. It was uncluttered, with a nightstand and chair by the bed, curtains on the windows, and a framed child's painting on the wall. This did not seem to be prison, although he had no experience with how New Yorkers incarcerated their own. He tried to sit up in the bed but felt a pull in his side, and slowed way down. He cautiously brought himself to a near-seated position, managing the pain. The pain was less than it had been.

Mary came in, and her face lit up to see him awake and she told him the fever had broken and how worried they had been and how Miss Wald herself had gotten her old nurse's bag and cleaned his wound herself. Longbaugh was happy to hear all those things, but he wanted her to stop talking and bring him a glass of water, as he really was very thirsty.

•   •   •

“
W
HERE ARE WE?”

“Settlement house. Not the building you were in the first time, down the block.”

“How long have I . . . ?”

“No one will find you here. You're in a back room on the third floor, where we house women,” said Lillian Wald.

“How did I get here?” said Longbaugh. He was different somehow, as if he didn't quite know himself. Unsure.

“You knocked a couple of weeks ago,” she said from her chair by his bed. “We let you in.”

“Have I thanked you?”

“Many times, especially that night. You didn't want to be a bother.”

“You haven't asked about it.”

“I have an idea. Something to do with Joe, I suspect.”

“I can't prove it was Joe. Giuseppe Moretti.” Saying the man's name aloud made his heart race. That surprised him.

She nodded. “I'm not surprised you can't prove it, as I imagine he is Caesar's wife.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“‘Caesar's wife must be above suspicion.' Did you learn any more about Etta?” said Lillian.

“No.”

“I understand. By now, you only know where she is not.”

“How did my things get here?”

“Your Chinese friend.”

“Han Fei? How did he know where—no, never mind, I can guess.” Han Fei had been with him the night he left the boardinghouse, so he knew about the hotel. How he knew Longbaugh had come to the Settlement was a question for another day. A good friend to have. And Longbaugh did not have many friends. He looked at Lillian in the room and thought of Mary's attentive nursing. Perhaps more than he knew.

“Has he been by?”

“With clocklike regularity.”

“I'd like to see him.”

They were quiet together. He looked for something safe to discuss. He remembered the low hum.

“Was there some sort of noise?”

“You mean the irritating rumble under all our activities, yes, the trucks were parked along the sidewalk as they delivered extra lights and decorations for the pageant. I asked them to turn off their motors. I don't think they could hear me.”

“People were whispering.”

“People were trying to let you rest.”

“Something about war and preparation. Did a war start while I was out?”

She shrugged. “The Balkans are on fire again, but no, technically we are not at war, not yet. And about the rest, you wouldn't be interested.”

“I think I would.”

“Mr. Longbaugh, I am the last human being on the face of the earth to shy from discussing politics, but you need to heal.”

“And conversation delays healing.”

She was less than amused. “Very well. They were discussing ‘anti-preparedness.'”

“I see.” He did not. He waited for her to explain, but she was more adept at waiting than he was.

“All right, what is anti-preparedness?” He wondered if he would have been the first to speak back in the old days. He caught himself—in the days before he had been knifed.

“I am among those who believe wars no longer need to be fought.”

“Optimistic.”

“So say our critics.”

“So anti-preparedness is essentially what it sounds like, don't be ready.”

“So say our critics. Now you must rest.”

“What do
you
say?”

“Mr. Longbaugh, after an injury like yours, I've seen patients struggle with depression and anxiety.”

“What do you say to your critics?”

She looked aside as if deciding whether or not to answer. She looked back. “That those who profit by manufacturing the tools of war incite both sides. A buildup has been in progress for some time. A certain gentleman, an armaments manufacturer, Mr. Spense of Great Britain, insists to my face that he would never ever do such a thing.” She paused. “He would, of course, and does. Without it, perhaps war would be less . . . inevitable.”

Longbaugh remembered the man in the hotel café who had said Miller's Wild West Show had had their horses and stagecoaches confiscated by the British.

“What does that have to do with sacrifice?”

She stared at him.

“I heard you say it to one of your people.”

She graced him with a tart smile. “When you were with fever, no doubt. I will speak to the girls about all of us remaining more circumspect.” She sighed as she looked about, choosing a way to make light of
herself while bringing the discussion to a rapid close. “The idea, to be perfectly pedantic, is if we all step away from politics and sacrifice for a change, particularly if our men of business choose to
not
profit on war, then, to flog a dead horse, perhaps,
perhaps
it would be less inevitable.”

“And your critics call that naïve?”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Very subtle, Mr. Longbaugh. But we won't know unless we try.”

“And if they stockpile and we don't?”

“The providers of the raw materials of ordnance are often the same for both sides, like Mr. Spense. If he chose to join the sacrifice, then at least part of the buildup comes to a sudden and fortuitous end.” She stood and made a small bow. “This discussion is now over, and you shall get some rest.”

“I've been unappreciative.”

She self-consciously forced herself to settle down. “And I'm a little touchy. I recently discovered that I dislike the humiliation, the presumption of naïveté, and the general laughter at my expense. Although I suspect I was no more fond of it when I was young.”

“Will there be war?”

“Almost certainly.”

His spirits sank a notch. He was glad the discussion was at an end. She, however, had something more.

“But if I am naïve, if there is no way to stop it, I will use all my political might to fight the J. P. Morgans and keep the Spenses from adding to their fortunes, for at the very least our boys should have weapons that perform. That is a business sacrifice of which I must insist.”

“Very sensible,” he said, his eyes starting to close.

•   •   •

H
E WAS NOT
a good patient and was up and walking around sooner than the nurses would have liked. But a nurse named Jennifer took pity on him and decided, if he was determined to walk around, let him walk around in his own clothes. She brought them to him, cleaned and
folded. He noticed immediately that his bandanna wasn't there and began to go through his pockets. Jennifer watched him.

“Something missing?” she said.

“Bandanna.”

“You had a bandanna?”

“It was green, olive.”

“Oh. I'm afraid I thought it was a rag.”

“It's not here.”

She knew that her news wasn't good. “I tried to get the blood out of it, but it wouldn't come clean, so I scrubbed it and, well, it came apart in my hands.”

“And you put what was left of it where?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Longbaugh, but I'm afraid I threw it out. I never would have if I had known it had sentimental value.”

Longbaugh sat on the side of the bed. She saw the expression on his face.

“I've done a terrible thing.”

“No, Jennifer, it's fine, please, don't give it a second thought.”

She sat on the chair opposite him. “I am truly sorry, Mr. Longbaugh. I did notice it, it was such an unusual color. But wait, I know I've seen bandannas at the department store, very nice red ones.”

“You've done so much for me, I cannot thank you enough. It was just a rag.”

Losing the bandanna caused Longbaugh to think about the ribbons Etta had left for him. The ones he had found along the way were still in the pocket of his trousers. He wondered if Etta might have left one here. But as he thought about it more, he realized she would not have. Between Abigail explaining that she had left in a hurry and Hightower's story about her confrontation with Moretti, he knew she wouldn't have taken the time to come back here. Just enough time to leave one in the boardinghouse privy and another in her rented room. Nonetheless, as the days passed and he grew stronger and expanded his walks through the Settlement, he caught himself looking for anything that shade of olive.

•   •   •

H
AN
F
EI FIDGETED.
He and Longbaugh sat on a back porch so that Longbaugh would not be seen from the street. Significant activity was taking place on the street, out of their sight, as the city brought in bleachers for the pageant. The heavy hum he had thought he imagined when he was with fever was back with the large delivery trucks.

They spent long, quiet stretches listening to the noise. Longbaugh wanted to let the young man know how much he appreciated his help, but it seemed as if Han Fei was uncomfortable being thanked.