“All too well.” Quincannon handed the counterfeit hundred back to his former chief, raked fingers through his beard. “So why have you called on me, Mr. Boggs? It can’t be just because of my familiarity with Darrow and his methods.”
“That, and three other reasons.” Boggs licked his dead cigar back to the other side of his mouth, pushed his bulk upright from the corner of the desk where he had parked it. “First, you were the agent responsible for shutting down his operation and severely if not lethally wounding him. If he is still alive, he may harbor a desire for revenge. Which could be the reason he chose to set up a new coney game in this area.”
“After so much time has passed? That seems highly doubtful.”
“But not impossible. It would depend on where he’s been and what he has been up to since ’87.”
“Granted. And the other two reasons?”
“Second, Darrow was a shadowy figure in those days, one who avoided intimate contact with anyone outside his gang. The Seattle operatives who accompanied you on the raid had only glimpses of him, and none of those still alive recall him clearly. You’re the only man we know who had close personal contact with him.”
Quincannon’s memory disgorged a half-forgotten image of the counterfeiter. Long Nick Darrow had been some forty years of age in 1887, lean and muscular in a predatory way, his shaggy hair, beetled brows, and horseshoe-shaped beard (sans mustache) a dark auburn color. And his brown eyes were as cold and unblinking as a viper’s.
“Seen only twice under stressful circumstances,” he pointed out. “A man’s appearance can change in a number of ways, for a number of reasons, in ten years. Darrow could pass me on the street and I might not have a glimmer of recognition.”
“On the other hand, you might have more than a glimmer if you were to stand face-to-face with him. You’re our only reliable witness nonetheless.”
“And reason number three?”
Boggs relit his dead cigar with a flint desk lighter, made a distasteful face, and screwed the butt into a glass ashtray. He spat out a shred of soggy tobacco before saying, “I hate to admit this, but you have certain sources of information not available to representatives of the United States government.”
Quincannon’s mouth quirked sardonically. “Meaning five years of having by necessity consorted with all manner of underworld types in and out of the city.”
“Putting it baldly, yes. You have the contacts and confidence of individuals who might know something that would assist us in getting to the bottom of this new coney racket, whether Darrow is behind it or not.”
“For a price, if so. I don’t suppose the Service would underwrite my expenses?”
Boggs gave him a stony “don’t ask foolish questions” look. At length he said, “Well, John? Can I count on your cooperation?”
“You knew you could, sir, or you wouldn’t have taken me into your confidence. I despise counterfeiters as much as I did when I was with the Service, and if Long Nick Darrow is still alive, I want to know it as much as you do. I’ll do everything in my power to help find out.”
12
Quincannon
The Redemption, Ezra Bluefield’s saloon and restaurant on Ellis Street in the Uptown Tenderloin, was nothing at all like the rowdy Barbary Coast deadfall called the Scarlet Lady that he had previously owned, either in appearance or in the clientele to which it catered. It had been and still was a reasonably respectable establishment among the hodgepodge of hurdy-gurdy dance halls, variety-show theaters, gambling parlors, and sporting houses that infested the area and made it, in the eyes of many, a somewhat less dangerous version of the Coast.
An ex-miner in the rough-and-tumble goldfields of the Mother Lode, Bluefield had bought the Scarlet Lady from the widow of its former owner, who had been stabbed to death in a dispute over a prostitute. It had been a notorious crimping joint in those days, one of the many saloons in which seamen were served drinks laced with laudanum or chloral hydrate and then carted off to be sold to unscrupulous ship captains in need of crews. The Sailor’s Union of the Pacific had put an end to that, forcing the temporary closure of the Scarlet Lady. When enough bribes had been paid and Bluefield reopened the place, it was as a simple deadfall where customers were relieved of their cash by “pretty waiter girls,” bunco ploys, and rigged games of chance. Knockout drops were used only on rare occasions.
Unlike other deadfall owners, Bluefield remained aloof from all this. He employed several bouncers and vanished into his private office whenever trouble broke out, which was more or less nightly. It wasn’t that he was a coward; he’d had his share of fistfights and cutting scrapes in his gold-mining days. He had no qualms about reaping the Scarlet Lady’s profits, but not for the usual profligate reasons; he saved his money in order to fulfill a long-standing desire to own a better class of watering hole in a more reputable neighborhood. He had had his fill of catering to the dregs of society, wishing instead to cultivate the company and goodwill of more or less honest citizens.
Quincannon had once prevented a rival saloon owner from shooting Bluefield during a territorial quarrel, and had again helped him by writing a letter of reference to the former owners of the Redemption; in exchange, Bluefield had supplied information gleaned from his numerous contacts in the Barbary Coast and elsewhere. Even now that he was firmly established in his new place of business, he still had his finger on the pulse of the city’s underworld and could be counted on, as long as the frequency was limited, to grant Quincannon’s requests for favors.
It was a few minutes shy of noon when Quincannon arrived at the Redemption. Bluefield’s establishment was his third stop since leaving the mint. The first two had been brief contacts with two of the more trustworthy individuals who supplied him with bits and pieces of information about criminals and criminal activities in the city: Slewfoot, the “blind” news vendor, and Galway, the crafty desk clerk in a cheap hotel on the fringe of the Coast. Neither knew of anyone who answered the description of Long Nick Darrow or who possessed a pair of mismatched eyes.
Many of the Tenderloin’s buildings bore fancy signs and gaudy advertisements, and a few such as Charles Riley’s House of Chance were lit up at night by energized gas in large electric discharge lamps, but the Redemption’s façade was unadorned except for a small, tasteful sign in its plate-glass front window. The interior was likewise tastefully appointed, with none of the frills and furbelows such as nude or near-nude paintings that decorated other establishments in the neighborhood. The saloon section was free of gambling layouts, percentage girls, and rowdy behavior. Strictly a place for those interested in medium-quality dining, drinks that were neither doctored nor watered down, and a convivial atmosphere. Bluefield had kept his promise of semirespectability, and was so proud of the “gentleman” publican and restaurateur he had become that he no longer hid away in his office, but circulated constantly among his patrons, glad-handing regulars and newcomers alike.
Bluefield could usually be found in the Redemption from its late-morning opening until its late-night closing; today was no exception. He was in the restaurant section, just sitting down to his favorite noonday meal of a plate of oysters on the half shell and a foaming mug of lager. A big man, Bluefield, with an enormous handlebar mustache the ends of which were waxed to sword points, and a chest as broad as a stallion’s. His taste in suits and cravats had improved considerably since his Scarlet Lady days, though he still favored mustard-colored waistcoats.