CARSON CITY WAS BUSY, with lots of people on the sidewalks and about two dozen tents in the Plaza, that big four-acre vacant lot in the center of town.
I pushed open the door of Rosenstock & Price’s Clothing Store on Carson Street.
A little bell tinkled.
“We don’t serve your kind in here!” yelled the bald storekeeper before the door had even shut behind me. He grabbed my shoulders & turned me round & planted his foot on my backside & gave me an almighty shove. I was propelled at a high velocity out of the tinkling door & onto the boardwalk & smack dab into a youth of about 14.
The youth & I tumbled off the boardwalk onto the street at Cheeya’s feet.
“What are you doing?” yelled the boy. I had knocked two hats from his head and a notebook from his arms.
As I got to my feet, I picked up his notebook. I could not help but notice it was covered with strange squiggly writing, as if someone had scattered a fistful of black threadworms onto the page.
“I am sorry,” I said. “The proprietor put me out of his store.”
He put on a little black skullcap and also a stovepipe hat. Then he pointed at a sign in the window of the store door. It read NO INDIANS.
“Can’t you read?” he asked with a scowl.
“I can read,” I said. “I just did not notice that sign. Anyway, I am only half Indian, but a hundred percent Methodist. Plus, I can pay.”
“You got money?” he said. He had dark eyes & hair like me, though his skin was lighter.
“Yes, sir.” I fished in my pocket and brought out a couple of gold Eagles.
His eyes opened wide into Expression No. 4—Surprise. “Well, come with me,” he said. “My father owns a clothing store a block down and we will be happy to serve you. Don’t mind Old Man Rosenstock,” he added as he set off north along the boardwalk. “A lot of people around here lost relatives in the Pyramid Lake Wars two years ago.” He tilted his head. “You only look Indian in a certain light and wearing those buckskins. You should wear something else if you want to stay out of trouble.”
I said, “My woolen trowsers got muddy on the journey over. My shirt & long underwear, too. That is why I put on my buckskins.”
He said, “Give me your dirty clothes and I will get them cleaned for you. Luckily my pa does not object to your type,” he added. “He reckons Indians are one of the lost tribes of Israel.”
He led the way through a nondescript door and up narrow stairs and we emerged into a store. A sky window made it bright and showed colorful bales of cloth & shoes & hats.
“Hey, Pa!” called the youth. “I got me a customer. If he buys something, do I get to keep the commission?”
“Of course,” came an accented voice from the other side of a pile of calico. A man with oval spectacles and a gray billy goat beard rose up and peeped over at me.
“Shalom!” he said.
“Shalom,” I replied. I knew that was Bible talk for “howdy.”
“What do you need?” the youth asked me.
I said, “I need some clothes for my poor, widowed ma.”
He said, “We don’t sell a lot of women’s attire as most women make their own clothes. But I think we have a black bombazine widow’s dress if your ma does not mind wearing a dead lady’s clothes.”
I said, “She will not mind.”
He said, “I will need your ma’s measurements so my ma can take it in or let it out.”
“Use me as your model,” I said.
He raised his eyebrow.
“She is only a little taller than me,” I lied. “We have exactly the same size feet, so you can use me as your guide for shoes, also.”
“You need shoes?”
I nodded & said, “I need lots of things. I will write you a list.” I took out my Detective Notebook & wrote down some items & tore out the page & handed it to him.
He looked at my list. “You need a white cane? And blue spectacles?”
I said, “My poor, widowed ma is blind.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, I’ve got a woman’s bamboo walking stick I could paint white. Pa?” he called. “Do we still have Aunt Esther’s blue spectacles?”
“Let me see.” From behind the pile of calico, I heard the sound of a drawer being opened and of things being pushed here & there. The bespectacled man rose up & handed a pair of spectacles to his son and his son handed them to me. They were oval & tinted blue. They were perfect.
“These are perfect,” I said.
“Four bits?” he suggested.
“Agreed,” said I.
The boy looked at the next item on the list and frowned. “If your mother is blind why does she want the ‘highest heels possible’? Won’t that be dangerous for her?”
“She is used to walking on high heels,” I said. “She just wants to look a little taller.”
In actual fact the heels were for me. I was the one who wanted to look taller.
The boy narrowed his eyes at me in Expression No. 5—Suspicion—but I jingled the gold coins in my pocket and his face went smooth again.
He led me to the back of the store where there was a small selection of shoes. My eye fell on a pair of high-heeled shoes made of scarlet satin. I picked one up.
“You want your ma should look like a saloon girl?”
“She won’t mind,” I said. “After all, she is blind.”
“Other people ain’t,” said the boy.
“Won’t my skirt—I mean her skirt—hide the shoes, anyways?” I said.
He narrowed his eyes at me and shook his head. “What if people should catch a Glimpse?” he asked. “They might get scandalized.”
We both looked at the shoes.
They were awful red and satiny. I reckoned he was right. They might indeed arouse suspicion. Every detail of my disguise had to be convincing. I did not want people to catch a Glimpse of anything unusual.
“I suppose I could daub them with black ink,” said the youth. “It would ruin the satin effect, but if your mother really wants the highest heels possible . . .”
I nodded. “That is a good idea. She does want the highest heels possible. And black is a good color for a blind widow woman.”
“All right,” he said. “I will paint them right now and while they are drying I will gather the other items on your list. What is your name and where are you staying?”
“My name is P—” I stopped and remembered just in time. “My name is Peter Clever,” I lied. “I have not yet found accommodation for me and my ma. Can you recommend a good place?”
He said, “You could try Mrs. Murphy’s Boarding House just a block north of here on the corner of Proctor and Carson. But there are plenty of respectable places hereabouts. Once I know where you are staying I will deliver your ma’s clothing. By the way,” he said, “my name is Barry Ashim.”
He made no move to shake hands, and I was glad of it as I do not like people touching me.
I said, “Pleased to meet you.”
I went back out into the cold winter day & mounted Cheeya but I only had to ride a few feet north before I found the boardinghouse Master Barry Ashim had told me about.
I was in luck. After I explained to the proprietress that I was only half Indian and a 100 percent Methodist, she admitted that a room had just come free. She said the only problem was that it was a furnished room on the ground floor and for sole or double occupancy and quite expensive.
I pulled out my next-to-last gold Eagle. “Is this enough for a week?”
Her eyes got sparkly. “Sure and it is enough for two.” She had an Irish accent. “Do you want to see the room at all before you take it?”
“No, but before I take it, I would like to ask a favor.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Come in out of the cold and we’ll parlay.”
I came in out of the cold. She closed the door and folded her arms. She was a short, stout woman between 30 & 50 years old. She smelled of stew & starch.
I said, “I am a Private Detective and I may be coming and going in different guises. The favor I want to ask is this: will you keep my identity a secret?”
“What? A baby like you? A Detective?”
I said, “I am not a baby; I am just small for my age. If I stay here, will you keep my real identity secret?”
She pursed her lips. Jace once told me that meant a person was considering something.
I held out the gold Eagle again.
She unpursed her lips & took the coin & put it in her apron pocket. “Very well,” she said. “My name is Mrs. Margret Murphy. Will you tell me yours?”
“My name is P.K. Pinkerton,” I said. “But that is between you and me. If people ask, tell them my name is Peter Clever.”
She nodded. “Before you sleep on my sheets you’ll be paying a visit to the baths. Sure and you smell like a bog.”
“Where is the nearest bathhouse?” I said. “And can you recommend a livery stable?” I asked.
“Smith’s across the street and down one block, on the corner across from the Plaza. Sure and it’s the largest and most commodious stable in town. You will find a small bathhouse run by a Chinaman just next door. I serve dinner at eight. If you don’t want to eat with the men I can bring yours on a tray.”
“Yes, please,” I said. “What time is breakfast?”
“I serve breakfast at nine.”
I said, “That is awful late for breakfast.”
She said, “It is indeed, but my boys stay up to the wee hours. And the Legislators don’t convene until ten in the morning.”
I said, “I am used to eating breakfast at seven.”
She gave a kind of snort. “I will bring you a cold tater and you can wait.”
At that moment I heard a familiar voice and smelled a familiar smell.
“Mrs. Murphy?” I said. “Will you hide me?”