Discount Pinkerton

“The bastard’s still sending letters to her you know? There’s one mail wagon that the town pays privately to go to Wichita and he’s using my money to make sure these letters, these insults to my character, these envelopes full of smut get to my daughter!” I found the mayor of Springfield Illinois to be a prideful man. His office had an artisan desk made from Canadian spruce, the chair was tanned with leather fresh from the Chicago meat packing plants, and brass rimmed portraits covered the walls.

               “How much money exactly did he take before leaving for the Arizona Territory? And how do you know he’s there now?”

               Furious, he slammed the letters across the desk in front of me, before slamming his heavy set down on the chair. “Almost $500. He swooned my poor Clarissa just to get to my office. She knew I never locked the safe and must’ve slipped the info to him, either to try and get a piece of the pie or in one of the drunken stupors he pushed her into. As for the second question,” He tapped on an envelope I didn’t pick up. “addresses are all through Wichita which only serves three settlements in the west, and all the letters are asking for her to come with to that town there, New Nicaea, and there’s nothing further west of that. Was founded by goddamned Mormons, I only pray he waited to get there to convert before trying to rope in my daughter.”

               Looking at the letters I couldn’t help but notice the guy was quite the poet. I’d be one to take kindly to those words if I was of the fairer sex, but I kept that to myself. “I see your predicament, but we typically aren’t in the business of bounty hunting. I can go to serve an injunction to have him brought back to trial for thievery but I’m just a lawyer. We just don’t do that.”

               “Your firm is well aware of the situation.” He handed me an envelope, thick and slightly heavier than a normal letter. “Inside is your fee of $150, $35 for you and the rest for your bosses. Go there, bring him back, quietly, and your guys get to represent me in everything from the trial he’s gonna be put in to the next worker’s strike.”

               I was upset at this to say the least. Firstly, it wasn’t my job, I was a lawyer, and second, I wasn’t consulted at all on the proposal. “Keep the situation as off the record as possible… are you up for election this year.”

               He nodded gravely. I was just happy he didn’t take offense to the observation. “I’ve done a good job leading the people of Springfield, I’m not letting some Indiana civil war vet take my seat without a fight, and if word gets out about Clarissa getting around, my campaign goes down without so much as a first salvo of debate.” He punctuated himself with a swig of bourbon and a slam of his glass against the desk. “The ’85 election isn’t going to be one for the history books if I have anything to say about it. But in order for that to be the case, you need to head for Wichita this evening and go straight for New Nicaea. The postal worker knows you’re coming and is holding off leaving for another five days, but he’ll leave as soon as you get there.”

               I shook his hand and left to pack. The postman told me it was a weeks trip just to get there, and that if the desert got as hot as one-fifteen during the day so he gave me another hour to buy some new desert clothes and a gun at the settler’s mart. The road was long and boring, not helped by the fact I neglected to bring a book, or instrument, or a canvas and try my hand at drawing like I’d always wanted, would’ve had plenty of time.

               We got there sometime in midday. There was nothing for miles in any direction outside New Nicaea except for cacti and desert hills. New Nicaea was surprisingly clean for having no paved roads. All the buildings were unpainted wood except for the occasional sign that hung from some of the shops. The fact they got a mailman to get this far out impressed me greatly. The postman said to head to the bar and ask for Catherine Birch as she might know the most about the guy I was looking for.

               “I though Mormons didn’t drink?” I asked the postman.

               He looked confused. “Mormons left sometime in ’79. Hookers run the place.”

               I walked into the saloon, dropping my Remington pistol in the strong box and taking off my hat to be polite. It seemed I was the only one with a knack for the art though, as the first thing I saw was a drinking contest between two large men in overalls, and when one won, he grabbed the girl he was sitting next to by the rear and kissed her so deep she tipped back. She slapped him after which caused the bar to erupt in a unified barking laugh. The saloon was two stories high with sleeping arrangements on the second floor, and the bar was wide and grand, probably the most decorated piece of architecture in the entire town. I walked up to the bar and got the bartender’s attention. He was a nicely dressed fellow about my age, maybe closer to his mid thirties than me, with a strong mustache and greased back hair.

               “What can I do you for stranger.”

               “Hello, I am looking for a woman named Catherin Birch. I have some legal questions regarding an incident in Springfield Illinois between an eighteen-year-old man and their mayor.”

               “Illinois? You’ve come far sir! And I have a tinkerin that she might know everything about this fellow you’re looking for.”

               “Excellent. May I speak with her now?”

               He laughed to himself. “She’s busy with another client such as yourself. Real business woman that one! Give it, let’s see she left with him about three minutes ago… give it another two minutes.”

               I heard a knocking coming from the stairs above him, and as they started he looked up and I followed his gaze. Down came a man in front, covered in dust with a face that looked like it hadn’t been shaved in years, and a woman in a bright red dress wearing matching red heels that made her at least four inches taller. She walked with more dignity than him, as he stumbled about halfway down and fell the rest drawing another overzealous laugh from the other patrons.

               “Sorry,” the barkeep said, “gave the guy more credit than he deserved. Catherine!”

               “Yes Mr. Chagrin?” She said, a voice turned seductive smooth after years of practice with a thick southern accent.

               “Got another fellow from Illinois.”

               “Oh! With what do I owe the pleasure.” She said, holding out a hand for me to shake.

               “My name is Mr. Kirk,” I shook her hand. “and I’m from a law firm in Springfield coming to bring back a man accused of stealing almost half a grand from a client of ours.”

               “Well come with me and I’ll see what we can do, you may call me Ms. Birch.” She led me upstairs drawing jeers from the patrons.

               Expecting a bedroom, she instead took me to a makeshift office that looked like it’d be better suited as a closet. Her desk was made of the same wood the saloon was and the only decorations inside were the green drapes on the window.

               “Who exactly are you looking for?” She had brown hair tied in a tight bun and high cheekbones, with bright blue eyes and a noticeable amount of blush on every part of her exposed skin, including her neck and bust.

               “Erin Moore, eighteen years old, estimate about five foot ten, clean face when we last saw him.”

               “Hmm…” She was thinking to herself, making sure to be dramatic about it. “I just can’t recall! Ha! There aren’t a lot of foreigners who come this far out, least since the Mormons were kicked out, so I think I’d remember one.”

               I brough out one of the letters. “These letters have been coming to Wichita since he’d have arrived here. The postman says they all came through here. I know he was here for at least two months now, I just need to know if he’s still here.”

               She shrugged, “Can’t say.”

               “If I may talk to someone who might know? Maybe your town administrator?”

               “You’re speakin to her.” She said with a toothy grin that said, “I’m not surprised but I am offended.”

               I paused, trying to think of what to say. Part of me wanted to be apologetic, the other part strong. “The person he stole from has more than enough money to pay $150 to bring him back. Enough more to send actual bounty hunters from the Pinkertons. If he’s given to me, we can avoid some kind of standoff.”

               She nodded, but clearly didn’t care much. “Do you know what our biggest industries are?”

               “What?”

               “The same as most towns like this, prostitutes and bribes. We’ve made our money going without the law and we’re gonna continue to do the same. If you want to try and bring the law here, of this town’s seventy-two people, thirty are veterans of the Confederacy’s Texas second infantry. They won’t take kindly to more union troops ‘round here.”

               “Where are you from, might I ask?”

               “Memphis, don’t worry, we’re not a refuge for the confederacy, we just happened to get a few fleein’ west a few years back. You don’t gotta worry your little Yankee head.” She said, endearingly.

               She seemed completely uninterested in helping me, which made sense, but what didn’t was why I was still there if she really had no intention to help. “I believe you said ‘bribes’ were your biggest industry.”

               “That’s one of ‘em.” She said leaning back and crossing her legs.

               “So, how much to tell me where Moore is?”

               “Why I do declare!” She said with an exaggerated accent. “That would be unbecomin’ to speak of a client like that. That being said, I’m on sale to take care of all your needs for the night.”

               “I thought you were an administrator, not a prostitute.”

               “The prostitutes here do both, do you want me for a night or not?”

               “Fine, for how much?”

               “Normally I’d say $1 an hour a minimum of $1, but let’s say $5 for the extra services you’re lookin’ for, and we’ll just say $5 an hour for nine hours which makes $45 for the night.”

               “I’m being paid $35 to do all this shit! And I only need your services for a few minutes. I’ll do $10 and you can keep your schedule free.”

               “There’s also the fee of potentially taking away one of my clients. He’s already given me $5, so let’s add $8 and call it an even $18.”

               “Deal. Where is he?”

               “Straight to the point! I also hate waitin’.” I handed her the eighteen and she stuffed it in her corset. “There’s a shack just west of town, real run down, can’t miss it. He’s been stayin’ there for a while.”

               “Thank you.” I stormed out of her office and down the stairs, hearing jeers for, ‘lasting only two minutes’, and I grabbed my pistol, hat, and went west.

               It was just over a small sand dune that I could make out the shack in the distance, it wasn’t far, maybe one hundred yards. The shack was the same wood as the rest of New Nicaea but more chipped and with broken windows. I was about twenty yards from the house before calling out to him.

               “Mr. Moore? Are you there?” I yelled. If he were there, I knew he’d hear through the broken windows. He didn’t respond. “I’m an attorney from Springfield, sent here to bring you back to our side of the Mississippi. Now, I’d appreciate it…”

               “BANG” He eventually responded. He missed by maybe two feet to my left kicking up a bit of sand. I turned and dove behind me, being narrowly missed by another shot sending sand in my eyes and nose. I panicked and crawled behind a small dune, just large enough to give me cover if I didn’t sit up. I drew my pistol, shaking, knowing my aim could never get him from the distance I was at, maybe twenty five yards at the dune.

               “I ain’t coming back with you!” He yelled out the window before firing another shot. “You best head back!”

               “I came half a continent away to bring you back, and I will!” I wanted it to sound threatening, but it came out as shaky as my aim. When I peeked, he laid down suppressing fire. I felt the air of one of the bullets. “Fine! I’ll be back with a Kansas marshal. You will be brought back to Springfield if the army has to drag you back!”

               He kept firing, and I started making my way back to the town, still in the sand. I laid with my back to the ground and my head pointing to New Nicaea so that I could aim in the direction he was while I pushed with my legs back to town. I made it back by sundown, and didn’t stand up until I passed the first buildings on the town’s edge.

               With severe rub burn on my neck, I spent the rest of the evening at the bar, trying to figure out what to say when I got home in between the fits of shame induced rage from my failure. I wasn’t very tipsy by the time Ms. Birch sat beside me ordering herself a whiskey.

               “I take it the feller didn’t wanna come back home?” She asked, with a much less condescending tone than I would’ve thought.

               “Stole $500, it’s not like he’d live long if he did.”

               She nodded and sipped her drink. “Listen, you paid me $18, and, my new client ain’t goin’ away. The way I sees it, you’ve paid enough for more than just directions. Tomorrow mornin’ I’ll have a death certificate written up for him, you can hand that to whoever sent ya. We’ll back it up here if anyone ever comes a-knockin but I don’t think anyone will. He’ll be as good as dead as far as they’re concerned.”

               “They won’t take a certificate from you. And the guy who hired me will send a battalion of Pinkertons if he isn’t brought back. He’s coming home, or he’s rotting in the sun. His choice.”

               She thought for a moment. “For another $2 I can get a piece of scalp from him. Just a small chunk to bring back. Say you had to shoot him, I doubt your guy would much mind, probably pay you double for it, and now you got your proof.”

               I laughed to myself. “You really are a businesswoman. I like it. Not many women can spread their wings like you have back east.”

               “Wouldn’t say spread my wings so much as my legs. Closest things these animals will pay for taxes. We just happen to come out on top, at least ‘til the feds make their way out here. Me and my girls made this town. I don’t want to see those feds come here and take it any sooner than they already will. And I’d kick him out, but we make a killin’ on repeat business, so I’d appreciate it if he could stay?”

               “You’ve got good manners when you bother to show them. Sure, it’s the best I’m getting.” I paid her the $2 and she handed one to the bartender who slid us another round. I sipped it, feeling better about returning back to the firm.

               “You’ve paid me for twenty hours now. You’re headin’ out with the postman tomorrow, right?”

               “Yeah. When does he leave?”

               “After I tell him to. I’ll get a chunk of his flesh and make sure it goes with you before you leave. But you gotta stay for the night, and you’ve paid for twenty free hours. You’ll leave in about fourteen, but you might as well make it worth your time.” She tossed back the rest of her drink, and let her hand drape around my shoulders and back while she walked past me and up the stairs.

               I decided to spend the rest of the night with her.