The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (24 page)

“Friends of low character? Is that what you’re getting at?”

“Friends who have taken part in rigged games. Do you know what a mitt joint is?”

All too aware, Queen thought. “Of course.”

“I figured so. We plan to start a few in Minneapolis. I’ve got men at some of the saloons and gambling houses who are keen to cooperate.”

“When do you plan to move on this?” Queen asked.

“Not right away,” Colonel Ames said quickly. “All eyes are on the new administration now. The press is scrutinizing every single movement at this early stage. We need to ease ourselves in. I think by summer we should be fully operational.”

“I thought you had the newspapers under your weight,” Queen said.

Ames eyeballed Queen carefully, as if to determine how much he should tell him. Finally, with a little shrug, he decided to persist. “There is currently a fair level of goodwill towards us. Everyone, except that damn
Minneapolis Times
, is going easy. We’re giving the rags plenty to write about and people are excited about the changes we’re making.” He smeared the remainder of his cigarette into the teacup. “It’s all completely superficial at this stage, of course, which is what I … we want.”

“Throw them a cookie, and while they’re eating it, push a wheelbarrow full of cake right past.”

“An ill-sounding analogy, but tepidly appropriate.”

Queen barely heard him. He was contemplating the money. Mitt games could be extremely lucrative if pulled off correctly. You needed lots of people, all skilled in their specific roles to make it work, but if the pieces were in place it was a money tree, no question. The general idea of a mitt game required a sympathetic saloon, called a mitt joint; and a steerer, a kicker, an inside cop and of course a dim-witted sucker. The steerer’s job was to locate out-of-towners unfamiliar with Minneapolis nightlife but looking for a good time. Businessmen with money were ideal for the role of sucker, and once the steerer found one, he’d befriend him, offer to take him around the city, and ultimately direct him into the mitt joint. The steerer would introduce the sucker into a game, usually stud poker or three-card monte. Everyone at the table was part of the con of course, and the dealer used a trick to ensure the man lost his money. It was called “cold-decking”—switching to a new deck to ensure the appropriate cards were dealt. If the sucker didn’t suspect cheating, he’d simply lose his money and leave the joint, and no one would be the wiser. However, if his hackles were raised, the kick would be set into motion. Once the sucker questioned the game’s honesty, the dealer would raise his hat. That signaled a man called the kicker, outside the game, to call the local police station. Then this man would take the sucker to meet the cop who was part of the business. Though kindly and concerned, the officer would still ask the sucker if he had a license to gamble. The chances of that? None.

“Well then,” the cop would say. “You’d best be out of town.”

“What about my money?” a particularly stubborn sucker might query.

“You gambled without a license. Your money is gone. Get out of Minneapolis now before you’re in real trouble and have to be taken to jail.”

The cop would then take him to the train station and send him off, with any luck never to see him again. That was the racket. It had the potential, under the right guidance of course, to make its players comfortably wealthy within months. This is why Harm Queen had stuck by Doc Ames so long: a payoff to end all payoffs. This was the nearest thing to a jackpot he could conceive of, and he wanted in.

“So, you have steerers lined up?” Queen asked Gardner.

“I know some fellows, but I don’t know if they can handle something this big,” Gardner replied.

He felt himself soften a little at the sight of Colonel Ames. Whatever slights he’d experienced began to melt away as he realized how important this mitt game was to him. Queen knew, without hesitation, that he was the best man for the job. He had the best connections of anyone in the city and could make a killing for himself and the Ames brothers and anyone else lucky to hang on for the ride.

“I know the best confidence men in the country,” Queen said, replying to Gardner’s statement, but staring hard into Colonel Ames’ eyes. “You let me take care of this, sir,” he said, to Ames this time.

This is like selling my soul to the devil.

Ames slipped him that thin-lipped smile, and Queen knew at that moment Ames understood their new relationship. He’d wanted Queen under his command, and now he had him. In any other time or place, Queen would have been revolted at the idea, but now, to his surprise and shame, he was giddily excited.

CHAPTER 8

T
HE FRONT OF
C
ITY
H
ALL LOOMED
before Anderson like a monolith. Not in a physical sense—plenty of buildings in Minneapolis were more impressive—but it stood as a symbol. It represented the law. He respected the law, and rules. They hadn’t let him down yet. Life certainly had, and it was punching him in the gut with relentless force again, but he knew the law would prevail in the end. He would find out what happened to Maisy and if there were anything—anything—that pointed to foul play, he would find out. And the law would prevail.

He also found himself thinking about tobacco. Martha had forbidden it years ago, and he’d lost his taste for it God knows when. It had been a long, long while. The desire for a pipe or a plug of chew suddenly overwhelmed him. Something about being here, even under these terrible circumstances, stirred the embers in his belly. Senses he hadn’t felt since he was a salaried, working lawman. It was the thrill of the hunt, and it made him feel a step younger. His lawman sensibilities were bubbling to the surface once again, and he admitted to himself, grudgingly, that he enjoyed the feeling, even as it battled with his grief.

A brilliant burst of sunshine lit the morning sky, and the streets were already sticky with wet snow melting in what appeared would be an unnaturally warm day. Anderson walked across Nicollet from the Columbia Hotel, where he had rented a room, towards City Hall, where Nicollet and Hennepin avenues converged. He stared for a moment at Bridge Square, a broad, wedge-shaped intersection, thickly bordered by shops and the Mississippi. The Steel Arch Bridge continued across to the opposite bank, just over Nicollet Island, to the flour-milling district beyond. A streetcar track on the Hennepin Avenue side competed for the road with cabs and wagons.

He’d been here many times, mostly passing through. A few of those times he remembered fondly. There had been nothing but little clapboard houses when he’d first ridden across the old suspension bridge as a young lad with the United States Cavalry. Fifteen years ago, after fetching Maisy from Chicago, he and Martha had stopped in Minneapolis for a few days. The three of them had walked on these very streets, window-shopping and eating in cafes. The emotions they had felt—sadness at losing their daughter, and excitement and relief over rescuing Maisy from being lost to an orphanage—came back now in a dimmed but still palpable memory. Anderson could remember how they’d bought Maisy some licorice from a candy store, still in business, catty-corner from where he stood. They had also gawked at a massive mast that stood close to where he was now, at the crux of the avenues and a dozen feet from City Hall’s door. It had towered almost 300 feet and was topped by eight enormous electric arc lamps in an attempt to illuminate the gateway to Minneapolis. They had marveled at it, but now it was gone. For a moment he considered asking someone walking by what had happened, but he knew he had more important things to do.

At the cake-slice-shaped City Hall’s blunted tip, he entered through the narrow front door. He stood in a large open room, filled with desks, ringing telephones, and intense-looking men in vests and rolled up sleeves, smoking and clicking away on noisy typewriters. A slight fellow with a big toothy smile sauntered up to Anderson.

“What in God’s name are you supposed to be?”

“Pardon me?” Anderson’s cragged face surveyed the speaker coolly.

“Is there a new dime museum in town? A circus theater? A Wild West show?” He sputtered laughter and took a long draw from a cigarette. “I’m only kidding, you know,” the man said. His eyes sparkled with merriment. “The name’s Freddie Bonge, crack rag reporter.”

“I’m Sheriff Dix Anderson. Retired.” He put his hand out, and the man took it with a sweaty, limp little squeeze.

“What brings you to the hallowed offices of the
Minneapolis Tribune
?” Bonge asked.

“I thought these were city offices. I’m here for a meeting with a police detective.”

“You don’t say,” Bonge said with a chuckle. “The right building, but the wrong door. You can find who you’re looking for by taking that door to the lobby. Turn right; go outside and then to the door on your right. Someone there can help you.” He pointed past the cluttered desks to an interior door. His mouth moved into a slightly mischievous grin. “May I ask which detective you are here to see?”

“Lieutenant Harmon Queen.”

“Is that so?” Bonge twisted at a little pencil shoved behind his ear and gave a whistle that sounded like a plunging artillery round. “Must be important.”

“It is. Excuse me, but I have to go, young man. Nice to meet you.” Anderson tipped his hat and started for the door, past the staring, grinning newspapermen.

“Wait a moment, please!”

Bonge jogged up to his side. “We’ve got an ‘Out and About’ section and I’m supposed to write it this week. We report on the comings and goings of interesting and important people in Minneapolis. My editor ordered me to the West Hotel to cover some British fellow named Winston Spencer Churchill, who’s in town to lecture about ‘The Boer War As I Saw It.’ The
bore
war is more like it, if you ask me,” he snorted. “But,
you
, sir, intrigue me. You’re wearing quite an outfit and you must have a good story to tell. Will you have time to talk to me during your visit?” He thrust out a business card.

“I don’t think so. Not the chatting sort.”

“Well, just take this anyway. If you ever want a free lunch, I’d be happy to buy, in exchange for a little of your time.”

“I’ll keep you in mind, if I ever get the mind to gab,” Anderson said, and took the card.

“Remember me!” Bonge cried. His echo followed Anderson as he walked away, and the old sheriff shook his head, slightly embarrassed at the outburst.

“Wait, wait!”

Anderson turned, as Bonge huffed up to him. “Perhaps the mayor’s office would be faster. Just through the mayor’s reception area is the police assembly room, and beyond that, the detectives’ desk. Your Detective Queen will be there. Here, let me show you.”

“Fine,” Anderson said. Bonge led him through the lobby and out of the building.

As they walked, a shrill honk made them both twist their heads towards Hennepin Avenue. It came from a black-painted open-air vehicle, shaped like a small sleigh, suspended high atop what resembled four thick bicycle wheels. Two men sat crammed together in the seat, trying to appear as regal as possible. The one wearing goggles pushed a tiller to steer, and they veered and weaved around horses and carriages with daring speed. Anderson thought it about the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen. Hissing and sputtering, the contraption finally slid to clanking halt.

“A horseless carriage, eh? I’ve read about those, but never seen one,” Anderson remarked.

“A
horseless carriage
? They’re called
automobiles
! My, you are fresh out from nowhere,” Bonge replied excitedly. “Mark my words, Minneapolis is bound to be a hot ‘mobile town! There are a good dozen here already. We even have Republic Motor Vehicle Company, which makes the electric type. That one is a steam powered two-seat.”

“A damn nuisance, if you ask me,” Anderson said with a critical eye.

“Electric, gasoline and steam, and we’ve got a few of each,” the reporter continued, ignoring Anderson’s scorn. “An electric brougham, an electric Stanhope, a steam Locomobile, a gasoline two-seat, an electric runabout.” He was crossing them off in his head, while gazing at the parked auto like a caged bird at blue sky.