FORTY-FIVE

 

 

They'd gone more than two blocks before Floyd broke the silence of their walk from Stenersen's house to the trolley stop.

"That was weird."

"You think so?"

As they rode a clanking trolley back downtown under the yellow glow of streetlights, it struck Miles that Stenersen was a man of unusual contradictions. Though his outfit probably generated more revenue and employed more men than C.D. Stimson's lumber empire and William Boeing's airplane company combined, he drove a Stutz instead of a Rolls Royce and lived in a Craftsman house—albeit an impressive one—instead of a mansion. And although he was involved in an often-bloody line of business dominated by avaricious egomaniacs, he had no apparent desire to seize territory from his regional bootlegger colleagues and didn't allow his men to carry guns. Against his better judgement, Miles was inclined to like him.

And yet Stenersen had arranged the hand-delivery of dinner invitations that included their middle names. What was that about? Letting them know that he knew where they were and what they were up to? Knew all about them? Was it supposed to be intimidating? And why had the deputy mayor shared their dinner table?

Then again, Stenersen hadn't tried to bribe them. Perhaps that simply meant he'd done enough background checking on Miles to know he had a history of turning down attempted payoffs, perhaps even from Stenersen's own organization.

"You're looking a bit pensive," Floyd said. "Something on your mind?"

"Too many things. Things that don't seem to go together."

"Such as?"

"First of all, I've decided that it wasn't Stenersen's goons who searched my room. Not unless he and his lovely wife are two of the best actors in history. So, if we assume, which I'm inclined to do, that he's being straight with us, not attempting some sort of misdirection, then he's letting us know we don't have to waste our time pursuing leads that involve his organization. Helpful. But I also find it interesting that he had the deputy mayor dine with us. That fella didn't say much, did he? Wasn't there for his contribution to the conversation, was he? Just there to show the flag. Just there as a message. A living, breathing message that Stenersen's operations have city hall's unofficial blessing. Mind you, I'm no apostle of Prohibition. But the fact that the king of the local bootleggers is in tight with local government has some interesting implications with respect to our investigation, doesn't it?"

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"Lenora Street!" the trolleyman shouted as they screeched to a slow, momentary stop.

"If Stenersen really doesn't let his men carry weapons," Miles continued, "and assuming Clancy Donovan's gang is behind the recent bloodshed, then how does Stenersen plan on stopping them? Left that bit kind of vague, didn't he?"

"Well, Stenersen has a pretty strong track record of buying people off. Paying to get what he wants. Paying instead of shooting. So maybe he'll just pay Donovan's goons to join up with him."

"What are the chances of that working, do you think?"

"Probably not great. So maybe one of the less pacifistic local bootleggers will make Donovan's men disappear."

"That's certainly one possibility. And seeing as how all the local bootleggers cooperate—meaning they probably share information with each other—we shouldn't share information with Stenersen unless we want to be complicit in whatever measures the less pacifistic local bootleggers take to keep Clancy Donovan out of the Pacific Northwest. Like maybe scalping his men."

"He wasn't asking you to share information."

"Yeah, but let's not be naïve."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Look, Floyd. You're a smart guy. Why were you sent to Friday Harbor?"

"Orders."

"Well, sure. But why you?"

"Because of my expertise in modern forensics."

"We have crime scene guys we summon from Bellingham or Port Townsend as a matter of routine. Those towns are a lot closer than Seattle. So again, why you? I didn't call for you. No offense."

Floyd gave him a blank stare.

"Pike Street!" came the shout for another stop.

"How about this?" Miles asked. "Where did your orders come from?"

"The chain of command."

"Your lieutenant?"

"Well, actually no. From Chief Severyn's office."

"Orders direct from his royal highness, Chief of Police William B. Severyn himself. Is that normal?"

"No."

"So your orders came from the top, concerning a crime in our remote corner of the state. From the chief himself. And who does the chief answer to?"

"The mayor."

"The mayor, whose trusted deputy was just staring at us across the dinner table at Stenersen's house."

"Yeah, but—"

"And who does the mayor answer to?"

"The citizens."

"Sure, Floyd. Right. But who does he really answer to?"

Floyd looked thoughtful. "Probably to whoever makes the big donations to his reelection campaign war chest."

"There you are. Follow the money, right? Like that crazy Bolshevik Lenin says. And where is the big money in Seattle these days?"

"I see where you're going with this."

"I'll say it anyway. The big money is with the bootleggers."

"So you're saying we're actually working for the bootleggers?"

"The bootleggers. Maybe the Chinese tongs, with their money machine speakeasies and underground gambling clubs. Who knows?"

"But if it's the bootleggers," Floyd said, "if it's Stenersen, then maybe he's planning to have the Seattle Police help him fight Donovan."

"Maybe."

"Madison Street! All off for Madison!"

"Let's get off here," Miles said.

They walked down First Avenue, more or less in the direction of Miles's hotel, until Floyd drew to an abrupt stop.

"What is it?" Miles asked.

"Are you sleepy?"

"Sleepy? No. My mind is so spooled up right now that I'll be lucky to sleep at all tonight."

"Feel like a walk?"

"Why not."

Floyd led Miles down through Pioneer Place, turning left at the boisterous Merchants Café—rumored home of yet another basement speakeasy—and eventually zigzagging up into Chinatown. As they walked along, discussing the evidence and information they'd collected to-date, they passed businesses, blocks, and alleys that smelled, alternately, of baking bread, Asian herbs and produce, cheap perfume, and old urine. The people they passed tended to be Asians going about their work as if Miles and Floyd didn't exist, or white men in suits ducking in or out of unmarked doors, looking furtive and entirely unwilling to make eye contact. Down one alley, they could hear a couple of drunks yelling at each other in some foreign language. Danish, Miles thought. Then, for a brief moment, they caught the unmistakable smell of opium seeping through the crevices of heaven knew what nearby building.

"Where are you taking me?" Miles asked.

"Place called the Alhambra."

"Another speakeasy?"

"A jazz club."

"You're kidding."

"Hottest jazz club in town."

"Floyd, you're alright."

"Just don't tell my mother I was out this late."

The Alhambra was in the basement of a building at the corner of 12^th and Jackson Street, in the very heart of the burgeoning Seattle jazz scene. There was a line of black men and women in striking cocktail attire waiting outside the guarded door to the basement stairs. A few of them stood reading a newspaper Miles had never heard of called The Seattle Enterprise. A highly-polished red sports car with extravagant cream upholstery was parked just outside the front door.

"Is that another Bearcat?" Floyd asked.

"I think it's a Mercer Raceabout," Miles said. "Incidentally, I'm feeling underdressed again."

"You and me both."

"Are we, uh, supposed to wait in line with the colored people?" Miles asked under his breath.

"I don't know for certain. But I say, when in Rome . . ."

"I thought it was St. Augustine who said that."

"How would an agnostic know?"

Miles smiled. "Good question."

As they waited in line, whenever the door opened, jazz music floated out into the night air, causing Miles's heart to lift. When finally admitted, they made their way down the narrow stairwell to a lower level crowded with people dancing to a black-suited five-piece band—drums, piano, trombone, trumpet, and saxophone—jammed onto a small stage. A placard on an easel by the stage read The Odean Jazz Orchestra. They wound up a variation of “Ja-Da,” then began “Beale Street Blues,” at which point the visibly sweating folks who'd been dancing dispersed for a break.

"This is fantastic," Miles said, smiling from ear to ear. "Best jazz club I've been in since London."

"And would you believe it's colored-owned?"

"You're kidding."

"Fella by the name of Harry Legg."

"That's a hell of a name."

"Isn't it? But everyone thinks Legg is just the straight arrow front man. That it's really run by a couple of dubious but very clever businessmen named Blackie Williams and Noodles Smith. Ever heard of them?"

"I'm sure I haven't."

"Notorious, street-hardened club owners who know how to bring in the best bands. The music here is so good that nobody wants to bother investigating them."

The music was good. And as it began to carry him away, Miles realized, with no small measure of surprise, that there were colored folk, Orientals, and whites all rubbing elbows. Men and women. Businessmen and laborers. All welcome. All enjoying jazz—to Miles, the most quintessentially American genre of music—without any apparent care about the skin color, line of work, or gender of the people they stood next to, behind, or in front of. The seeming harmony, however temporary it might have been, filled him with a sense of warmth that stood in stark contrast to the unease he'd felt bearing witness to the naked hate of the anti-Japanese protestors they'd walked past two days earlier, barely a mile away. And for a brief but joyful moment, Miles had genuine hope for the human race.

 

*****

 

"That was a treat, Floyd. I thank you," Miles said as they made their way to the nearest trolley stop. "These colored jazz joints are really developing their own West Coast sort of sound, aren't they? I mean, that trumpet player was hands-down one of the—"

"Hey, Miles!" someone shouted from close behind them as they were cutting down a dark and narrow alley, looking for a shortcut to Yesler Way. The man who'd shouted, and a companion, were jogging up to meet them. "It's Miles, right?" the man said, extending his hand in greeting. But then his face came into the anemic light of a naked bulb over a nearby alley door and Miles saw that the man had an aggressive look in his eye. So did his companion.

"Do I know you?" Miles said.

The man retracted his hand when Miles refused to take it. "A bit outside of your bumpkin jurisdiction, aren't you, pal?"

"What do you want?" Miles asked, and hearing the scuffling of shoes behind them, he turned to see four more men hotfooting it up from the opposite end of the alley.

"What do I want?" The man said. "I want what everybody wants. For you to go back to your little seagull shit island and mind your own business."

"Is that right?" Miles said, subconsciously rising onto the balls of his feet, looking around and taking the group's measure, confident he could take out at least two of them, maybe three—provided they weren't carrying weapons. "And who the hell are you, chummy?"

"Never mind who I am. Let me tell you what's going to happ—"

The man was cut off, mid-sentence, when Miles's enormous fist plowed right into his mouth, caving in several of his teeth, driving the man backward and dropping him flat on his back. At that, the rest of the group pounced—two of them on Floyd, three taking on Miles. Ducking and moving as he kept his hands up, Miles did his best to keep any of them from landing a solid blow. He took out another with a quick uppercut to the jaw. But as he was spinning on his heels to keep one of them from grabbing his arms from behind, he momentarily lost track of another, and that was all it took. A blinding white light exploded from the right side of his head. Then all went dark.

 

*****

 

"Miles? Can you hear me? Miles?" he heard Floyd ask in a faint and distant voice just before he felt cold water pour onto his face.

He gasped and choked, clearing his nose and throat. "Hey! What gives?" he asked, overcoming a stabbing pain in his head to just barely open his eyes. Floyd and two uniformed Seattle Police Officers were bent over him. One of the police was trying to hold a bloody rag to Miles's head. The other held a now empty, upturned water flask.

"Easy does it, sir," one of the police said as Miles forced himself to sit up in the middle of the alley. "You took a good crack to the noggin. Hoodlum son of a bitch had a blackjack club. Opened up a good gash here next to your eyebrow. Might want to have Swedish Hospital take a look at it."

"How long have I been out?" Miles asked, accepting the rag and pressing it to his head wound as he spotted two of someone else's teeth on the pavement next to him.

"Couple of minutes," Floyd said. "Lucky for us, Denny and Maynard here happened by on their beat. Chased off our assailants."

"Who were they?"

"No idea. Someone who doesn't want us poking around asking questions."

"Clancy Donovan?" Miles asked.

"Maybe. Or maybe Gustav Hauer, or even one of the tongs."

"Would tongs hire Caucasian thugs?"

"Seems unlikely, unless they wanted to hide their tracks." Floyd chuckled. "You really pummeled one of them, Miles. Guy ran off with blood pouring out of his mouth. Forgot to take his teeth with him."

Miles took stock. In addition to his gashed open head, the knuckles of both his hands were thoroughly bloodied. And though he didn't remember it happening, both his trouser knees were ripped wide open, and the right shoulder seam of his jacket was torn out. "Looks like I need a tailor." Out of belated concern for his de facto partner, he looked at Floyd, only to discover that he was utterly unscathed. "You don't have a scratch on you."

"Guess I'm just a better fighter than you."

"I guess," Miles said, noticing that even Floyd's knuckles were unmarked. Then he began to wonder how the two men he'd knocked for a loop had managed to run away from Floyd and two able-bodied patrolmen.

The officers helped Miles to his feet, and once they were sure he wasn't going to fall back down, bade him and Floyd goodnight.

"I'm a little dizzy."

"I believe you," Floyd said. "You want to go up to Swedish Hospital?"

"No."

"Let me at least walk you back to your hotel to make sure you don't pass out in the gutter."

They took their time, with Miles holding the bloody rag to his head wound and periodically stopping to lean against a building or brace his hands on his knees as he caught his breath and regained his bearings. As they at last walked through the front door of the O.K. Hotel, a United Parcel Service delivery boy entered behind them, took an envelope from his satchel, and, handing it to the front desk night clerk, said, "Express delivery for a Miles Scott."

"I'm Scott," Miles said, eyeing the delivery boy with perplexity as he was handed the envelope. Hoping against reason that it might be a letter from Marion, he tore it open and read the brief telegram within, his jaw going slack as he did so.

"What?" Floyd asked. "Something wrong?"

"Two more bodies washed up."

"Two bodies? On San Juan Island?"

Miles just nodded his bloody head.

"The Jensens?" Floyd asked. "Angus Cooper?"

"Girls."

"Girls?"

"Two Chinese girls."