Central City

June 28th, 1876

Bob Stockton always came back home by steamboat. He was wealthy enough now to afford a private coach or his own car on the train. But coming in by river was how he'd first arrived here nearly fifty years ago. Central City was a far cry from the little frontier town he remembered all those years ago. It was so new back then that several of the log cabins in town were built with green wood.

Stockton stood on the deck of the steamboat, cigar firm in his mouth, and watched the city appear around the river bend. The city in front of him now was a vast metropolis with buildings as high as six stories stretched out across its expanse. A thick layer of smog rose above those buildings. To some that was a sign of urban sprawl and decay and pollution, but to Bob it was the price for progress. Industry and the wealth that came for it led to more expansion and growth. That was what America was all about.

"Senator Stockton."

Stockton turned around and saw a Marshall Holm standing on the deck with notepad and pencil at the ready. Like Stockton, Holm was on the way back home to Central City after spending the winter and spring in Washington. Also like Stockton, Holm and his paper worked for the Combination. Stockton scowled and blew smoke from his mouth.

"I told you, Marshall, I'm not talking about the convention until it gets--"

Holm cut him off as he shoved a piece of paper into his hands.

"This was sent to me over the wire when we stopped to refuel in Jeff City. Words coming out of the frontier. There's been a big battle out near someplace called Little Big Horn. You're chairman of the Senate's Committee of Indian Affairs, Senator, and I wonder if you'd like to comment."

Stockton read the bulletin. His face grew redder and redder the more he read. When he was done, he ripped the paper in two and tossed the scraps out of his hands.

"Fucking Custer!"

Stockton spat his cigar stub out of his mouth and watched it fly overboard into the water. These next few weeks were crucial to furthering Stockton's political goals, there was no room for error. And now some goddamn long-haired moron had fucked him over! How hard was it to kill a bunch of Indians? They were almost as easy to kill as the fucking buffalo. As the chairman of that Senate committee he stood to come under fire for lack of oversight on Custer's activities.

"My statement is this, Marshall: This does nothing but delay the inevitable. Like when the unruly child tries to ward off punishment from their father. They do nothing but ensure the punishment will be twofold. The committee on Indian Affairs will do whatever it takes to see that 7th Cavalry and Colonel Custer are avenged, and their murderers are brought to justice."

"Dynamite stuff, Senator."

Holm hurried away while Stockton brooded over the news. The plan that he and A.J. laid out for the coming convention did not include Stockton having to defend the actions of the now deceased George Custer. If he wanted to emerge from the convention as the party's compromise candidate, a man who could carry the party standard and win the White House, he needed to be as far from controversy as possible. The task was still feasible, the convention taking place here in Central City meant that A.J. had the power to put anyone he wanted on the ticket, but they would have to play things very carefully from here on out.

"Five minutes," one of the sailors announced from the steamboat's top deck. "We'll be in Central City in five minutes."

Stockton found another cigar in his coat pocket and lit it up. His original plan was to go home and rest, but that was now amended in light of the recent news. He had to head into the city and find A.J. as soon as possible. If he knew A.J. like he thought he did, after thirty-six years as partners in law and politics Bob knew him pretty damn well, then he would have already heard the news and would be ready with a plan for how to proceed forward.

---

"Saloon City"
Central City

"This makes four, Dan."

Danny Shea looked down at the dead woman's body. She was slashed across the throat and left for dead in the muddy back alley behind Uncle Ace's Brothel. Standing behind him was Bobby Coughlin, Danny's partner on the beat. Danny squatted down beside the body and touched the dead woman's cheek. Cold to the touch. He didn't expect any less. It was a quarter past ten in the morning so it was likely she'd been dead for hours before she was found by someone who actually reported it to Bobby.

"You talk to Uncle Ace?" Danny asked as he stood back up.

"'I pay! I pay! I know no girl! I pay protection!' is all the fucker had to say."

Four dead women in the last two weeks. It wasn't unusual for Saloon City to have that many dead bodies in that short amount of time, but most of those were casualties from drunken fights and card games that went sideways. Four dead women had been found dumped in back alleys with their throats slashed by a blade that the coroner described as 'big as hell.' She was the second Oriental, the other two dead women were Negro and Jewish respectively. The girl in the mud was dressed like a whore, just like the previous three.

"I grabbed a kid and told him to run back to the station house and tell them we caught a dead body out on the beat," Bobby said. "Not like it's gonna do any fucking good. This girl is dead where it don't matter. Now if she were a white girl from the east side they'd have the fucking US Cavalry riding through--"

He kept talking about something, but Danny didn't hear him. His thoughts were on the dead girls he'd seen over the past few weeks. Bobby was spot on with his assessment. All four of the dead girls were whores, all four were ethnic, and all four of them were people nobody gave a shit about. Danny and Bobby gave report after report to Sergeant O'Riley and Captain Williams, but they would just shrug and file it away as an unsolved case. They never got the detectives from downtown involved and they couldn't really give a shit.

But Danny wasn't the average flatfoot. He was the rare beat cop that had political juice at his disposal if he wished. Captain Thomas Shea, commanding officer of the CCPD's Southern District, was his father. While Danny tried to stay as apolitical as possible, Tommy Shea was the very definition of a political animal. It was a testament to his ability to play the game that he was the highest ranking Irishman on the CCPD. By 1890, Danny's dad would be chief of police.

"You gonna be alright if I leave?" Danny asked his partner.

Bobby shrugged and grinned. "Got a hot date?"

"Not exactly. I'm going to see my old man. He might be interested in this, all I got to do is hear his mouth. The only thing he likes more than playing politics is giving me lectures."

Bobby laughed. "You sure you wouldn't rather trade places with mama-san down on the ground?"

Danny looked down at the dead girl one last time. Number 4. If Danny couldn't get his father to help, they might be finding Number 5 in a back alley soon.

"I'll survive."

City Hall

Bob Stockon sat in the mayor's chair with his feet hiked up on the mayor's desk. Francis Rhodes, Central City mayor, obliged the seeming affront to his office. The reason for the fealty was because Rhodes knew this office and desk was his only because Stockton and A.J. Patterson saw fit to bestow it on him.

But Rhodes wasn't on Stockton's mind at the moment. The man was off in chambers doing something with the city council. Stockton couldn't remember what exactly, he just knew it wasn't important. He made a beeline for City Hall as soon as he departed the boat. He couldn't visit the Social Club even if he went through the back door. During Stockton's first congressional run it was decided that he and A.J. could never be seen in a place that the public could see them together. That meant that Stockton hadn't visited the Combination's headquarters in nearly sixteen years. So instead, he sent word to A.J. that he was here in the mayor's office waiting.

"Sorry about that, senator," Rhodes said as he came into the office. "Just some minor municipal business that you don't need to concern yourself with."

"Oh but I do," Stockton said as he took his feet off the desk. "I need to concern myself with every facet of city life, Mr. Mayor. I represent this city as much as you do, sir. Whatever goes on here is as much my concern as it is yours."

"I figured you would be more concerned with the statehouse, Senator. Wood and the opposition are lining up rather quickly."

Stockton scowled. Michael Wood. Governor Michael Wood. The son of a bitch got elected four years earlier as a reform candidate, vowing to clean up the state's politics. So far it was easier said than done for him, but now he had a slate of reform candidates poised to try and take the statehouse away from the Combination. If Wood's party took the statehouse, that meant the end of Stockton's senatorial career. It was the Combination's legislators that put him in office and kept him there. While most politicians had to win one campaign for reelection, Stockton found that he had to manage and win several campaigns to stay in the Senate.

All that may be moot after the convention. Who cared about the statehouse if he was focused on a national race? What did it matter to him if Wood got the senator he wanted? A senator is just one of seventy-six. What Stockton was after would put him as first among equals. But still... he couldn't resist the urge to have a little fun.

"Wood's up for reelection," he said nonchalantly. "Rumor I hear is that his plan is to win re-election and then resign if his party wins the legislature back and have himself take my senate seat."

"Low down and dirty," Rhodes said with a shake of his head. "Is the Combination running someone against him yet?"

"We want to, but A.J. doesn't have a candidate in mind." He paused and looked at Rhodes. "But I do."

"What?... Me?"

Stockton stood up and walked around the desk, wrapping one arm around Rhodes' shoulder.

"Yes, Francis, you. You've been mayor for six years now. Six years experience running a city as big as this one trumps even Wood's two years as governor. He was just a state senator before that, he has no real experience. Not like you do. You have executive experience running the fourth biggest city this side of the Mississippi. After this town, the capital is easy. I want you as the Combination's man come election day. Governor Francis Rhodes. And think about where you could go from there? Ever since Lincoln, Washington is starting to think of the west as an emerging political base it needs to tap. A two-term governor running for president in '84 could be just what they need.Did I say Governor Francis Rhodes? How about President Francis Rhodes?"

Rhodes stood ramrod straight and looked at Stockton with a wide smile.

"Senator... I'm honored by your words... do you think I could?"

"I know so," Stockton said with a wide smile. "Before we talk further, can you find out if A.J. ever arrived?"

"I sure can."

Stockton held back his laughter as he watched Rhodes bound out the office like a schoolboy. The odds of him beating Wood were unlikely, even with the Combination's full weight behind him. Wood had an iron-grip on the rural parts of the state where the Combination's reach couldn't quite be felt. Even if Rhodes took the city and the areas around it with the machine's usual 90% turnout, Wood's power base in the country would equal that and make it a deadlock. Then it would come down to the non-partisan voters. Comparing the two men, Wood would almost certainly win those votes.

It would be close, and that was all Stockton wanted to achieve. Hard for Wood to engineer a statehouse coup when he had his own tight race to run.He had no faith in a Governor Rhodes or even, god help us all, a President Rhodes. But a viable threat to Wood's job would make it all that much easier for Stockton and A.J. to get the Combination's state legislators back in office.

---

Central City Police Department Southern District

"What brings you to the jungle, lad?"

Sergeant Smith, the beefy Irish desk sergeant eyed Danny Shea from his elevated seat just inside the entrance of the station house. His gray eyebrows were arched in mild surprise at seeing Danny. He was used to seeing the Shea boys popping in every now and then to see their father, but Danny was a rarity.

"Here to see my dad."

"You know where to find him."

Danny walked past Smith and through the precinct. The place was a cluttered mess of desks, paperwork, and fellow officers gathered in and around those desks. The few civilians that were in the offices were black. The Southern covered Central City's negro neighborhood and dealt almost exclusively with negro criminals. That was the reason for Smith's jungle crack. The only white people who went across the Color Line were cops and white trash up to no good.

"Danny!"

Thomas Shea stood up from his desk and smiled widely. Thomas was in his mid-50's, but he was still every bit the imposing figure of Central City legend standing at six foot two and two hundred and fifty pounds. Most of that weight had begun to turn to fat, but he was still trim enough to wear the same cut of suit he always wore. Thomas wrapped Danny's hand in his and shook it.

"All the people I be expectin' to see today, you sure as shootin' weren't one of 'em."

He'd been in America for over fifty years but he still couldn't lose his thick Irish brogue. Danny and his brothers had a touch of it that came out when they said certain words, but Thomas still sounded like he was living on the old sod.

"Shouldn't you be on duty, son? Is something wrong?"

"Everything's fine, dad. Bobby's watching the post. It's just... we got another murder. The fourth one in the last two weeks."

"What's that to do with me?" Thomas asked cooly. "Last I checked, my jurisdiction is miles away."

"C'mon, dad, you know Williams doesn't give a damn about this."

Thomas grunted and flopped down in the chair behind his desk.

"And why exactly do you care, son? They're whores, nobody cares about 'em, nobody will miss 'em."

Danny gripped the chair facing his father's desk and leaned forward.

"It's my job to care, and it's Williams' job to care, and it's your job to care. Protect and serve, dad."

"This wouldn't be a problem if you got a bump to sergeant." Thomas stroked his thick mustache while he spoke. "You'd have enough clout to be heard by people other than me. All it'll cost you is five hundred."

"I've told you before dad I'm not going to pay to make rank. I don't want it that way."

Thomas let out a loud chuckle. "Ho ho ho. He's too good to play the game, is he? Son, how do you think I made rank? I paid the Combination three hundred dollars to get sergeant stripes and a thousand for my lieutenant bar six years later. Price has gone up since those days, but it's still how it works. I made captain on my own merit, like everyone above lieutenant does, but to get on that track you gotta pay. If it's money you need, I'll loan it to you."

"I want to make it on my own merits is what I want."

"Then good luck, boyo, and get some comfortable shoes; you'll be walking that foot patrol from now until the year 1900."

An uneasy silence between father and son filled the room. Danny wouldn't meet his father's eye. This was how almost every conversation between the two of them went if the topic was the job. They could talk about almost anything else and be fine. But once work and politics came into play, they always butted heads and always ended up on the verge of rowing.

"Look," Thomas finally said with a sigh. "I want a quid pro quo. The chief put me on the security detail for the upcoming party convention. We need patrolmen and detectives to serve as protection for some of the men coming to town. They are big time movers and shakers inside the party, one of them more than likely will be the next president. I want you to volunteer for bodyguard duty. I'll see to it you get assigned. You play nice with your charges and everything goes well, you may end up actually making rank on your own accord."

"And in exchange for babysitting a couple of pols I get what?"

"My support in investigating these murders. I'll talk to Inspector Pope about the killings. He's the direct superior of me and your captain. Your name will be left out of it, but Williams will know where the ball got rolling and I can't help you if he gets mad. That's another reason why this detail works out for you. You come out of the convention with the ear of some powerful party man, you'll be untouchable."

Thomas stood and held out a beefy right hand.

"Do we have an agreement?"

Danny shook his father's hand warmly.

"Deal."

Little Mickey was wiping the bar clean while inside his saloon. People called him Little Mickey. There wasn’t too much of a reason for it. Someone had call that once, and the nickname stuck. At least his family, which would be his wife, his children, and his brothers and sisters, still called him Michael. No one else did, though.

Regarding this saloon, it was his, inherited from his father, and home to his family. It wasn’t the best place to raise children, but he had never had a choice on the matter. Right now, the saloon was as busy as ever. There were men coming through the door looking for a good time, and a different time from that which they got from the “disorderly houses” with the “ladies of the evening.” Here, they came for food and drink, and Little Mickey made sure that their wishes were sated. That was, after all, how he came about his money.

There were a little less than a dozen people who were working under Little Mickey. There were three waitress, each of them being spirited young women. Cleret, a Jewish girl, had been there the longest, as she had been hired a whole seven years ago, when she was only fifteen. Little Mickey didn’t tell his patrons she was a Jew and they were none the wiser. Then there was Edith, an Irishwoman who had been there only three years. Lastly there was Eva, an Italian girl who had only showed up a year ago.

Waitresses seemed to come and go, except for Cleret, who seemed to have no qualms about staying. It wasn’t exactly the greatest life, so they often saw themselves out as soon as that was a possibility. The waitresses were popular with the patrons, as Little Mickey always made sure that they were pretty. They were always good with warming up the patrons. Right now they were hard at work, serving the patrons food and drink with pretty smiles and a friendly personality.

Then there was the band. There was about five of them, each of them playing some instrument. Little Mickey didn’t know anything about music, and certainly not American music, but he did realize that the band seemed to do their job well. If they didn’t attract patrons, they certainly help keep them there. They helped keep the saloon even livelier, and Little Mickey saw that his patrons seemed to appreciate a little music.

Little Mickey walked towards one of the new customers. He had never seen him before, and Cleret confirmed that he was indeed a new man. In turned out that he was a Swede, and he could speak English. Little Mickey took a seat beside him. He put up the appearance of the kindly owner of the saloon, wanting to help a helpless man in a strange new world. The Swede had his free meal up in front of him. It was a smoked herring, pickled oysters, pretzels, and rye bread and sausage. It came free once you bought your first drink, and it was hoped you would buy many more drinks to make up for the costs. This free meal was one of the key elements of patronage in Little Mickey’s saloon, his own greatest contribution to the Combination.

“Why, hello there, sir,” Little Mickey said. “Having a good meal?”

“Yes, actually,” the Swede said. “It’s all so very kind. I could never get something like this for free back in the Old World.”

“Why, you’ll have to thank my friend for that,” Little Mickey said. “How have you been of late, sir.”

“Well, things could’ve gone better,” the Swede said. “I came to America, for higher wages, a better life for me and my family, you understand. But we didn’t like New York, and Harrisburg wasn’t much better, you see. So I thought that I might strike my luck here, yet I really don’t know. I’ve been feeling rather foolish, and maybe I would’ve been better just staying back at Sölvesborg.”

“Nonsense, my good sir,” Little Mickey said. “Now, I understand what it is when a man’s down on his luck, let me tell you. However, there’s this friend of mine, have a mentioned him before?”

“A bit,” the Swede said.

“Well, let me tell you a bit more,” Little Mickey said. “I’ve got friends, plenty of friends. They’ll get you a job and home faster than you could ever hope. Now, that meal you’ve got in front of you, it’s all because of them that you’ve got it.”

And Little Mickey told the Swede all he would need to know. The Swede would have a stable job, a home for him and his family, and he’d be a loyal member of the Combination. He pointed him in the right direction, and soon higher people in the machine would be working to make sure this Swede was taken care of. This was Little Mickey’s real job, the job he had to do. He hoped he never would see a day when he was on the Combination’s bad side.

Little Mickey’s oldest youngest brother Otto then came in, holding a newspaper in his hand. He grabbed Little Mickey’s shoulder, indicating that he need his attention. Little Mickey got up and excused himself, telling the Swede to enjoy and finish his meal. He and his brother went in the back to the bar, where Edith was bartending.

“Michael, have you heard?” Otto said.

“Heard what?” Little Mickey said.

“About the murders,” Otto said.

“What murders?” Little Mickey said.

“There’s been a collection of murders, Michael,” Otto said. “It was…Ladies of the Evening…”

“What, whores’ have been murdering folks?” Little Mickey said.

“No, they’re the ones being murdered,” Otto said.

“What, and it isn’t even Friday yet,” Little Mickey said.

Otto sighed, “Listen, Michael. Gerold was with one of them-”

“I’ll have to give him a stern what-with then,” Little Mickey said. “It’s no good to be doing that. It’s immoral.”

“While true, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Otto said. “He was with the prostitute not long before she died, maybe just hours. Now it’s all he can talk about, saying he could’ve done something about it, that he could’ve saved her.”

“Ah hell,” Little Mickey said. “Well, that’s just youthful sentimentality talking. I’ll take care of it, and I’ll talk to Gerold.”

“Right,” Otto said. “Good. Listen, I’ve got something else to do, so I’ll see you later.

And, just as sure as he had said, Otto left then and there. Otto had never been very close to Little Mickey. He resented the fact that he was a loyal member of the Combination. Otto, on the other hand, acted like a Hecker partisan, intent on overthrowing the old order in favor of whatever it was that the socialists had wanted. He was still his brother, though, and they loved each other all the same. Best of all, he knew how to read in English.

“Cleret,” Little Mickey said.

“Yes sir?” Cleret said.

“Take care of the place,” Little Mickey said. “I’m going to step out for a moment.”

“Yessir,’ Cleret said.

Joseph Harjo sat alone in the dark at the desk. In his hand was a blade that looked decades old. He was carving a symbol into the desk when the door opened and Barnes stepped through it. He was tall, standing at six feet one, and his shock of brown-red hair stood out against his pale white skin. The light from Central City illuminated the dark office and he spotted the Native man sat at the desk. There was a flicker of shock in his eye but he attempted to steel his nerves and shut the door to his office behind him. He flicked a lamp on and the warmth of the lamp chased the shadows away into the corners of the room.

“Who are you?”

Harjo lifted his knife from the desk, wiped it clean of some wood scrapings, and then slid the knife into the inside of his suit jacket.

“My name is Joseph Harjo.”

“I was told I would be meeting with Mr. Peterson personally.”

Harjo shook his head.

“Mr. Peterson is otherwise indisposed. I have been given leave to speak on his behalf in this instance, Councilman.”

Barnes let out a disappointed sigh as he took to the seat opposite the Native. Harjo’s eyes lit up like a predator eyeing his prey and the light of the lamp bounced along them threateningly.

“Is something the matter? You seem disappointed.”

A titter left the Councilman-Elect’s lips.

“I only agreed to this meeting so that I could tell Peterson he could shove his money up his behind.”

“Then your disappointment is understandable.”

Barnes leant forwards, prodding his finger into his desk as he spoke, as if to hammer home the seriousness of the point that was to come.

“You tell Peterson that I am not for sale, Mr. Harjo. You tell him that I will not besmirch my father’s good name, all that he achieved for this city, by allowing Peterson the whip hand over me. I intend to vote in the interest of the people of Central City – not to further another man’s political ambitions. Have I made myself clear enough?”

Harjo smiled insouciantly at the young man’s fervor.

“You have, Councilman, but it would appear you have been misinformed some. Perhaps you were too young to understand. Mr. Peterson considered your father a close friend and an ally in transforming this city of ours from a small, squalid saloon town into something more, something better than it is. They worked together often, in fact.”

The Councilman-Elect’s cheeks grew red with ire.

“You would have me believe that my father was Mr. Peterson’s thrall? You go too far this time, mongrel.”

The last word hung in the air for several seconds after it left Richard’s mouth. It was a word Harjo had heard many times over the years, from simpleton and educated man alike, though more often than not the man known as “Injun Joe” to the denizens of Central City punished the slight with extreme prejudice. In the Councilman-Elect’s case, it wasn’t an option. Instead he glowered in his direction.

“What?” Barnes said with a smile. “Do you intend to do me harm? Go ahead, be true to your savage nature, and resort to violence when faced with a truth too pure for your simple mind.”

The glower passed and Harjo gestured towards the entrance.

“You may take your leave, Councilman.”


Barnes muttered profanities under his breath as he replayed his conversation with the Native in his head. The implication that his father had been in cahoots with Peterson still made his blood boil. “Duckie” Barnes had hated Peterson’s guts. He’d spent every waking moment trying to undo the damage that charlatan had done to Central City and here was some savage rubbishing his father’s legacy – it would not do. Had he not feared for his safety in that room he might have been minded to lay hands on the man.

The Councilman-Elect took a turn down a pathway and heard footsteps hastening behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see a young boy, no older than thirteen, stood behind him with a blade in hand. Another climbed over a small fence and stood in front of him.

“Hand over the watch, mister.”

An incredulous look appeared on Barnes’ face.

“What?”

The boy brandished the blade in Richard’s direction with a smile. His teeth were yellow in parts, black in others, and there was dirt along his cheek.

“You heard me.”

Barnes backed away from the boys, his hands extended in front of him to keep them at a safe distance, as he looked from one to the other with a scowl.

“Did Harjo send you?”

The boy shook his head.

“I won’t ask again. Hand over the watch before you get hurt.”

A flash of courage ran through the Councilman-Elect’s heart. His impotence at the prospect of violence with the Native had gnawed at him ever since he’d left the office. Now faced with the prospect of correcting that wrong and proving his worth as a man, Barnes chose to stand his ground. They were only children after all and he was Councilman-Elect Richard Barnes, son of Duckie Barnes, and his family’s hard work had helped to build this city up from the ground. They could not harm him. There was nowhere they could lay their head if they were to lay a finger on him. They had to know that.

“I will do no such thing, I am a C-”

One of the boys lunged forward and plunged their blade into Richard’s stomach and he staggered backwards against a wall. His hand pressed against the wound that bled freely down his front. He gurgled in disbelief as he began to slide down the wall and the second boy plunged his knife between Richard’s collarbone and neck.

Richard’s pale white skin turned paler still as the boys rifled through his pockets and reached for the watch on his wrist. He felt his limbs go heavy and his blood run cold as the giggling adolescents cantered away from him.

His thoughts drifted to his young wife at home, the infant son that desperately awaited his return, and slowly the life drifted out of the Councilman-Elect’s eyes. His lifeless body slumped over and his face fell into the bloodstained dirt beneath him.

Duckie Barnes had given Central City his blood, sweat, and tears. All his son had managed to give it was his blood.

Saloon City

“My husband ain't no muttonhead, sir. I swear to the purity of Christ that he was at the wrong place at the wrong time.” the woman pleaded as she stood bellow Donovan's chair. Seated atop a raised platform, in a seat as raised as it, the boarish master of 45th Street loomed over his second story saloon courtroom like a prince with cobwebs and dangling lanterns as his tapestries. Leaning over the scratched, cracked, and tall table he dug a fork and knife into fried chunks of ham and eggs.

It was early morning still and Donovan Adams was met continuously with the pleas and bargains he was expected to fulfill. A tall pint of cider and a hearty breakfast tempered his angry indifference towards the heralds of bullshit that rocked the apartments and alleys of the heart of Saloon City.

He was by no means a handsome man. Wide and muscle built, he towered like a bear but sauntered with the distinct lack of grace as a moody bull. His cheeks were swollen, nose bulbous and drooping. There was a deep angry, studious glare in his deep gray eyes that he held affixed to his plate.

Of today's interest was a plump middle-aged woman, a net of wild messy hair was kept back in a tight bun that wrapped her head in a halo of gray and black. Sorrowful blue eyes peered up at her would-be savior of fortune. “He wasn't raising no sand, he's a humble person Mr. Adams. Your a man of respect, ain't ya? Couldn't you speak to the police? They're the ones that are holding him.”

Donovan Adams nodded as he scooped a hearty fork full of ham into his mouth. Leaning back in his makeshift throne he ran a heavy scarred and bent hand through his mustache. “Beguile for me the circumstances your husband got arrested again.” he demanded in a low thunderous voice. He rose his heavy gaze up beyond the woman's head as the sound of the saloon doors peeled his attention away from her briefly, catching a pair of men enter the tavern.

From the second floor he could see the near whole of the Yellow Belly Inn. The establishment was bare and empty for the morning with a handful of staffers mopping away the events of the prior evening, the piss, vomit, and blood of a raucous night. The smell of vinegar hung heavy in the dusty air as young maids and servers re-arranged the saloon from the first floor to the second level floors.

Dressed in clean suit clothes, the two figures cut an uninterrupted beeline across the sagging wooden floor. They walked with a confident grace through Donovan's field of view. One behind the other they never strayed or wove far off their desired path. With their black outfits, they were almost like mourners.

“The police told me only that he was robbing some blind fool's house. But he was only nearby when some damned coons ran passed with handfuls of lifted finery!” she protested, “But I know he was only a victim of circumstance, he only picked up what they must have dropped and he was found with some of it! He's a good Christian man and wouldn't steal from anyone, I know this in my heart.” she plead woefully.

Donovan nodded, “He's down at the second precinct on a fifty dollar bail then, am I right?” he asked.

“Yes sir.” confirmed the woman.

“I'll go down after I eat and see about your man.” he grumbled dryly, raising his mug and taking a long drink. He watched the two men stomp up to his level from behind the pleading woman's back. They gave pause as they brushed the road dust from their black town coats as they stepped to the side.

“Oh thank you. And God bless you.” she beamed, on the verge of tears. She sat herself up and shuffled for the stairs.

“Her man up the spout?” asked the taller of the two. A young man, his waxed mustache hugged his upper lip as he gave a wine devilish grin. He ran a hand through his long oiley black hair as he removed his hat. Sharp green eyes shone as he followed her path with his eyes.

“And I'm to levee the ransom.” Donovan sneered, “What are you two up to, Howard?”

Howard laughed and turned those green eyes of his back up to Donovan. “A lick of no good.” he cackled. “We saloon boys never change!” he beamed. “We just figured we would stop by since we were in the neighborhood.”

“And how about you, Morrison?” Donovan asked, turning his attention to the quiet tall man leaning on a wooden cane along the handrails. A long wiry beard graced his chest. His eyes buried under heavy brows as much as they were the brim of his hat, he could have been nearly blind. And more so with the swollen nose on his face.

“Nothin'.” Morrison answered.

“We were in any event on the hunt for the family of the tail-waggers who were slain these past couple of nights, offer some condolences to whatever next of kin we can find. Or acquaintances. I'm sure you understand the principle.”

“I do, but what I don't particularly understand is giving the time of day to a celestial, a nigger, and a kike.”

Howard smiled knowingly, “Well I'm sure with a world-view as complex as that you're up to some good deep-thinking. Maybe you know who killed the poor girls.” he remarked sarcastically, “But all the same Donny, they're tax payers all the same. To us, and to you. It's their money that keeps righteous American born men and women out of the cage at night and in the street doing the work.”

“I quiet well understand how money goes.” Donovan remarked sharply.

“I'm sure.” said Howard, “We already spoke to Beatrice and Gabby on the account of the negro and the chink, perhaps if you can find time in the day and you can on your own behalf talk to the Jew's pimp, a fine lad named Seamus Cutter.”

“He sounds like a right good man with a name like Seamus.”

“Rest assured he's a true American as any of us can quantify and his blood goes back damn far in Central City's saloon scene. He fought in the War, so he no doubts fits your qualifications.”

“I'll see to him then.”

“Excellent!” Howard beamed with a jovial clap of his hands. He rubbed his palms together, “I like it when things come together.” he hissed orgasmically through clenched teeth. “He lives just north of Jacob's street, or the corner of that and Newark. Ask about at the saloon, you'll find him.”

“Jacob's and Newark, isn't that out of my jurisdiction?”

Howard shook his head, “Orders from James himself, as far as he cares it's yours for the time-being. He actually expects you to figure this out and wrap it all up before the police bother.”

“How I wonder why.” Donovan growled, rubbing greasy fingers across his heavy bushy brows. The taste of cider met his lips bitter and strong as he took another heavy swig and the froth bathed his horsehair brush of a mustache.

“His business is his own, make of it as you will. I'm sure there's favors in it for next time you meet.” Howard explained. He motioned over for Morrison who sulked back to his partner's side.

“If you understand now, we will be off on our own matters.” Howard bowed, seeing himself off with Morrison in tow, like a panther of quiet death.