CHAPTER 15

J. B. Haddockson nibbled at his plateful of fried chicken—the same fare he ate every Wednesday evening in this same restaurant. Eating out was natural for him. He had no wife to go home to, and probably never would, being a very homely man with an abrasive personality, chronic bad breath, and a devotion to his work that precluded his doing much of anything else. He was alone, he hated to cook, and therefore the restaurants of Denver knew the man well.

Haddockson was a reporter on the staff of the Denver Signpost, a newspaper founded by his brother, Mort, two years earlier. His brother, a nicer and more appealing man than he, handled the advertising and general publishing end of the business. J. B. handled the news, and did so in an aggressive, scandal-hungry fashion that sometimes worried Mort, but which had certainly worked out well in practical terms. It was J. B.’s belief that the public wanted scandal in its weekly reading material. His theory was consistently borne out by the sales of the newspaper on the days he’d published something to make people shake their heads and click their tongues and in general complain about the low level to which Denver journalism had sunk.

But oh, how they would buy those papers!

J. B. was excited tonight, too keyed up to eat, picking at his food. He had the best story he’d run across in months, one that would ultimately generate national attention.

The only problem would be persuading Mort to print the story. Mort held the title of publisher and editor in chief, though he exercised the latter role only rarely, and almost always with veto power over something controversial J. B. wanted to publish. And what J. B. wanted to publish now would be controversial, indeed.

He was ready to print a story that would declare that none other than nationally famous journalist Brady Pleasant Kenton had gone on a drunken rampage in a barroom, assaulted a man, and heaved him out a window.

The problem was that no one had been able to authoritatively identify the man as Brady Kenton. But the circumstantial evidence was strong. Though the man was rumpled, unshaven, and dirty, several who saw him swore that he looked like Kenton, whose image was known across the nation. That alone would account for little, except for two things: the man had been removed from his rampage by a younger man he called Gunnison—surely Alex Gunnison, Brady Kenton’s partner. Secondly, it was known that Kenton had been in Denver in past days, visiting an editor at American Popular Library.

Besides, there was J. B.’s gut instinct. It never failed him. He knew, just knew, that it was Brady Kenton who had created such a drunken spectacle at that saloon. He’d heard that Kenton had an occasional history with drink, and also that the man had gone half loco in recent years, looking for a dead wife as if she were still alive.

The best thing about it was that the local police hadn’t located Kenton to charge him in connection with the altercation. If they had, the story would already be in the bigger newspapers. As it was, it appeared that J. B. Haddockson was on his way to an exclusive.

J. B. paid for his mostly uneaten meal and left, veering toward his favorite barroom to put a couple down before heading to the office, where he would write his story. He’d have to do a good job, and build a persuasive case that the window-smasher really was Brady Kenton. Otherwise Mort would nix the story.

*   *   *

Back in the cafe, a greasy-skinned boy in a ragged apron sauntered over to J. B.’s table, secretly pocketed a few cents of the tip that was supposed to go entirely to the waiter, and cleaned up J. B.’s dishes. He carried them back into the kitchen, where he dumped most of them, but the plate with the sizable remaining portion of chicken he took to the back door. He threw the chicken out into the back alley. Good food for a stray dog.

When the door was closed again, Rachel Frye emerged from the place she’d been huddled, out of sight in an alley. She scrambled over to the piece of chicken, picked it up, brushed the dirt from it with her hands, and wolfed it down, gnawing at the bone until every scrap was gone.

Then she went back to her hiding place and cried. Her station in life had never been high, but she’d never imagined that she’d fall so low as to be eating thrown-out scraps in a back alley.

She cried, and prayed, and finally slept. She’d traveled all the way from Leadville, and was weary. She’d almost been caught by a railroad detective, and very nearly molested by another freight-car stowaway. Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure that Brady Kenton was even still in town, or if he was, how she could find him.

Her dreams had mercy on her, however, taking her back to a place far away, and to a mother whose affection and gentleness were gifts that no subsequent evils could ever take from her.

*   *   *

They worked late into the night, arose early the next morning, and worked most of the day through again. Gunnison fell into a rhythm of work that made the hours fly past, and stirred a deep enjoyment of the creative process.

He enjoyed even more watching Kenton become his old self again. The liquor wore away, the spark returned to his eye, and his skills seemed to hone themselves even as Gunnison watched. Gunnison’s contributions to the work became steadily less important as the hours wore on, Kenton carrying more and more of the load, doing the kind of work that had made him famous in his field.

“I’m glad you came along, Alex,” Kenton said. “I hate to admit it to you, but you’ve been good for me. I’m glad you insisted that I get out of these drunken doldrums I’ve been in.”

“Glad to be of service.”

“I’m also glad we’re getting this work done. I believe in fulfilling my obligations … it hasn’t rested easily with me that I’ve failed to do so lately. I’ve been the least effective employee of the Illustrated American, and I’m not used to that status. It isn’t pleasant. I can’t blame your father for being so unhappy with me.”

“When he sees all these new illustrations, a multitude of sins will be covered.”

“Yes. And I’ll be free to concentrate on the matter of Victoria. While you, Alex, can get home to your own lovely lady.”

“Get home? I thought I was going to help you!”

“Alex, I’ve spent a big part of a lifetime away from my own wife because of circumstances I couldn’t control. Your wife, on the other hand, is there at home, waiting for you. You should spend more time with her, and less with me, and with your work.” Precisely what Gunnison had preached to himself for years. But it was a surprise to hear it coming out of Kenton’s mouth.

“I appreciate what you’re saying, and I’ll gladly take you up on it,” Gunnison said. “But not now. I’d like to see how this thing falls out.” What he didn’t say to Kenton was that he didn’t yet trust him to maintain his sobriety, or his common sense. Kenton merited watching a little while longer.

“Alex, I insist that you go.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I’m trying to keep you from having to spend your time and energy on a matter that is essentially someone else’s affair.”

“We’ve always looked out for one another, Kenton. Besides, what affects you is my business. Keep in mind that one reason I was originally assigned to be your partner was to help keep you safe, well, and under control. You’re a piece of valuable merchandise.”

Kenton laughed. “So valuable your father has suspended me.”

“He’s only trying to force you back into line.”

“Very well, then. Stay on if you wish. If we’re lucky, it won’t take long to learn the truth.”

They finished the artwork far more quickly than either would have expected. After packaging the finished products and composing a telegram to be sent to the Illustrated American in advance of the coming package, both Kenton and Gunnison were in a celebratory mood.

“A good meal, maybe a glass of wine—one glass, and that’s all,” Kenton said. “That’s what we need.”

“I don’t know, Kenton. We were fortunate to walk away from that little incident at the saloon without your being recognized. The local law is probably on the lookout for a man of your description. I suggest that we have food brought in rather than going out.”

“Nonsense. I’ve never been one to hide. As for that window, I’ll pay for its repair.”

“That’s not the point,” Gunnison replied. “The point is publicity. If it gets back to the head office that you assaulted a man in a drunken rampage, even the exemplary job of makeup work we’ve done here may not be enough to save your job.”

“Then I’ll lose the job. Hang it, Alex, a man makes mistakes at times. Those mistakes carry a price tag. If the price of my recent mistakes turns out to be my profession, then so be it.”

“All right. If that’s how you want it. Just don’t count on the Illustrated American paying your bail should you wind up in jail.”