Chapter 24

James “Snuffy” Warren is sleeping when the guard opens the cell door. He sits up and wipes his eyes. “You came back,” he says.

On this day for Walt Whitman, seeing one of the men who tried to kill him is like seeing an old friend. If anyone can tell him how to approach his meeting with Samuel Clement, it is he.

Snuffy continues. “Frankie told you something?”

Walt nods, puts his finger to his lips.

Whitman sits down. “I’m afraid the situation has gotten much worse,” he says, once the guard has left them. Walt recounts recent events, the news article, Henry Saunders’s abduction, and Frankie Clement’s strange visit to the college.

“He’ll kill you.” Warren runs his fingers through his hair.

“If I don’t go, he’ll kill Mr. Saunders.” Whitman pauses.

Snuffy shakes his head. “With all due respect, sir, if you show up, you and your friend will both be dead.”

Walt says, “If I don’t go, you’ll be dead too.”

At this, Snuffy falls silent.

“That’s why I’m here,” Whitman says. “You know the workings of his mind better than anyone. You can help me surprise him.”

Snuffy swings his legs onto the stone floor. The skin on his face and hands is splotchy from the cold.

“The way someone like Samuel stays alive is to do what normal folks won’t,” Snuffy says. “He knows you’ll show up because you still imagine a world in which good people find justice and bad people get what they deserve. You want to catch him off guard? Shoot him in the head before he says a word, and then use his sister to find your friend. You’ll get one chance.”

“Shoot him?”

“Samuel Clement’s strategy is based on the notion that you don’t have the stomach to pull the trigger.”

“But I don’t even own a gun.”

“Then buy one.”

“Where?”

“Jesus Christ.” Snuffy shakes his head. “It’s a wonder you’re still alive.”

Whitman shrugs.

“Find the little shop on Catherine Street that sells tobacco, newspapers, that sort of thing. Use my name, and the man there will sell you a gun.”

“Thank you.” Whitman writes down Catherine Street, then looks up. The cell is freezing, and apart from the small blanket wrapped around Snuffy’s waist, he has nothing. “How are they treating you here?”

“How do you think?” Snuffy says. “They pay me little attention except to throw a piece of bread my way now and then, or to tell me how the gallows are coming along in Washington Square.” He stops, gathers himself. “Do you still have the letter to my mother?”

Walt pats his coat pocket. “She’ll get it.”

“Remember, one shot is all you’ll get. If you don’t kill him, he will kill you.”

The thought of killing someone seems abstract even as Snuffy explains how. The thought of Henry, conversely, is concrete, and a rage Walt has never known before has taken root deep in his gut, and it is spreading—

Can he kill Samuel Clement to save Henry Saunders?

Yes, Whitman thinks. He can do anything.

Catherine Street is only a few blocks away, but to get there, Walt has to pass through three different neighborhoods, the residents of which all speak different languages. German, Italian, and another he doesn’t recognize. Even in winter, laundry hangs on lines strung from one side of the building to the other. Carts and wagons and carriages speed in both directions, and Walt darts in and out of them. He has almost crossed the street when he gets stuck between a carriage and a cart.

“Out of the way,” someone yells.

He turns and faces an oncoming freight wagon, and it barrels down on him until someone grabs him by the coat and pulls him out of the way. He tumbles to the ground. A watchman reaches down for him. “Jesus, son, watch where you’re going.”

Whitman gathers himself. “Thank you.”

The man hesitates. “Aren’t you that reporter?”

“No, no, no, but thank you!” Walt skips away.

Two blocks down, he finds it. A small, one-story building sandwiched between two three-story tenements. The door squeaks as it opens, releasing a musty tobacco smell. Inside, stacks of newspapers lie against one wall, and opposite that stands a short man with rail-thin arms and a black mustache. “Can I help you, mister?”

“I want to buy a gun.”

“Well, then, I’m sorry to tell you that I don’t sell ’em here.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“You heard incorrectly.”

Whitman pauses before he says, “James Warren said to use his name, and you would sell me one.”

He hears the click of a gun from behind the counter. “Put your hands where I can see them.”

Walt does.

“Move.” The man comes around the counter and pushes him. “Into the back.”

They go through the back door past stacks of newspapers and books to another, smaller room. “Stand against that wall and start talking. What the hell do you have to do with James Warren?”

“He’s in prison.”

“I know he’s locked up,” he says, “but you haven’t answered the question. How do you know my son?”

“I’m sorry,” Whitman says. “Your son?”

“Are you deaf, mister?”

“I met with him today and that’s when he said you’d sell me a gun.”

The man’s face changes. The hard edges turn soft and his eyes wide. “Is he okay? How does he look?”

“He’s doing fine, given all that’s happened to him.”

“You know I haven’t seen him for three years? Had a big fight.” The man pauses. “I don’t know, mister. I tried to be a good father. I work hard; that’s what he don’t get, how hard I worked for him and the rest of ’em. Then I hear about his name in the newspaper for murder and I figure I’ll probably never see him again. Next thing I know, he sends you along looking for a gun. Don’t know what to make of it. No, sir, don’t make a lick of sense. What’s happened to my boy?”

Walt steps closer.

“Not so fast, mister. Stay right there.”

“Look, your son didn’t kill anyone, and I’m trying to prove it. But first I need a gun.”

“The newspapers say he’ll hang for sure.”

Whitman remains still.

“Goddammit, say something.”

“The man your son worked for, the man who turned on James, also kidnapped my friend. If I’m going to help either of them, I need a gun.”

The man considers what he’s said. He sets his gun down, then pulls a suitcase from behind the counter. He struggles to get the latches open, but when he does, he slides the case toward Walt. Inside, Whitman sees at least ten pistols of various makes and sizes.

“What’s your pleasure?”

Walt scans the guns, but one looks just as good as another. “I have five dollars. What do you recommend?”

“Hmmm.” The man turns over the pistols and pulls out a smaller model. “This is a Colt pocket pistol. Here, see how it feels.”

“Is it loaded?”

The man shakes his head.

Whitman holds the gun out in front of him by its handle. “How do you load it?”

The man takes the gun from him, folds the barrel back, and shows Walt the empty chambers. “Slide ’em in here,” he says. “Lock it into place. Nothing to it.”

When Walt puts the gun in his pocket, his fingers brush the letter he has written for Warren’s mother. It would be nice for his father to read it. He thinks of how his own parents would feel if he were in jail awaiting execution.

Whitman holds the letter out for the man to see.

“What’s this?” The man’s face lights up when he understands. He holds it in his hands like a vase, or statue, as if it might break with the slightest bit of carelessness.

“It’s from James.”

“My boy wrote me a letter?” He unfolds it.

But like his son, the man can’t read. So Walt takes it from him and reads it as if James Warren wrote it to his father. He reads it word for word, substituting father for mother until the end when he adds something:

I’m sorry we haven’t been closer and I hope, God willing, that we should have the chance to put the past behind us.

“Oh, my son.” Whitman gives the man the letter. “Do you have a father?” he asks, staring at the handwriting.

Walt nods. He pictures Walter Senior, his white hair sticking up, his eyes red from being out all night, and he can hear his straggly voice, hoarse from yelling—

“I hope you appreciate him.” The man turns emotional but doesn’t cry. “Help me get my boy back, mister. Please.”