Onslow drank continuously and methodically for most of an hour, his back to Jesse. He didn’t stir from his barstool until three men entered the saloon and approached him. One slapped him on the back as the other two laughed amicably. Onslow accompanied them to a table. Jesse tried to memorize the features of these men, insofar as the flickering light of the kerosene lanterns permitted. Two of the men were strangers to him, but one looked tantalizingly familiar. He couldn’t be sure … but he thought it might be the coach driver, the one who had handed down his and Elizabeth’s bags after the trip from the City of Futurity.
He left the saloon before he could be recognized in return. He needed time to think.
He thought about the man who looked like the coachman. If he was a City hire he would probably be staying at the Excelsior. Maybe the desk clerk could identify him, or maybe Elizabeth could talk to Barton about it. Jesse stood in the dimness beyond the torchlight, in the shade of a wooden building he took to be a brothel by the sounds emanating from it, and watched the saloon for most of another hour, but the coachman didn’t emerge. He was about to give it up when the door of the building behind him flew open and a woman stepped out to empty a slop jar into the alley. He turned and exchanged a look with her, and before he could walk away she said, “My God, is that Jesse Cullum?”
He stared, speechless.
“It is!” she said.
He knew her, of course. Her name was Heddie Finch. She used to work at a white bordello on Pike Street, back in the Tenderloin. “Well, Heddie,” he said. “You’re a long way from home.”
She stepped away from the light that shone through the half-open door. It seemed to dawn on her that Jesse Cullum might not want to be recognized. “How are you, Jesse?”
“I’m all right. You?”
She shrugged. “I left San Francisco after the trouble. A lot of us did. Some went to Sacramento, or back east. I ended up here. But not permanently, if I can help it—Illinois winters are colder than a nun’s cunt. I swear, Jesse, I thought I’d never see you again, not after—”
She registered his expression and stopped speaking.
“I’d appreciate it,” he said, “if you didn’t mention my name to anyone.”
Whispering now: “They still talk about you in the Tenderloin. The man who shot Roscoe Candy. We all thought you was dead.”
“I left right after I killed him.”
Her eyes went wide. “Is that what you think? Oh, Jesse! You shot him all right. Dead center. But you didn’t kill him, worse luck.”
5
Jesse braced himself for bad dreams. Running into Heddie Finch had provoked all kinds of troublesome memories. But from the moment he put his head on his pillow, he slept as soundly as if he had dosed himself with laudanum. When he next opened his eyes Elizabeth was standing by the bed, fully dressed, and sunlight streamed through the window curtains.
Another bright, cloudless day, cooler than the one before. Over breakfast Elizabeth described her wireless conversation with the security chief Barton back at the City. Barton had thanked her for what they had learned, but his only advice was to “keep Onslow under surveillance.” Spy on him, in plainer words. But Jesse had a better idea. “Do you carry your phone when you go out?”
She nodded. Jesse supposed it was tucked into some hidden compartment of her day dress, probably secured with Velcro.
“Will it work from anywhere in Futurity Station?”
“As long as it’s within range of the repeater on the roof of the hotel, yeah. Why?”
“Keep it with you. We may need it. The first thing I want to do is talk to the owner.”
“The owner of what?”
“Of this hotel. Or at least the manager.”
“What do you think the manager of the Excelsior can tell us?”
“He can tell us who runs this town.”
The hotel manager, a cadaverously thin man whose name Jesse promptly forgot, was reluctant to speak to them until Elizabeth reminded him that they were from the City.
The manager escorted them to his office, a room furnished with a few chairs and a pedestal desk with a chased silver inkwell on it. “We have excellent relations with the City of Futurity. We allow you to install your machines, we let you inspect the kitchen, we let you poison the bedbugs—I don’t know what more you could possibly want.”
Jesse said, “There’s no problem with the hotel. Everything’s very satisfactory. You’re doing a fine job.”
“Well, we try.”
“When you say ‘we’—?”
“Speaking for my staff and myself. The hotel is owned by a partnership in Chicago, as I’m sure you know.”
“The Excelsior is the town’s preeminent business, isn’t it?”
“I like to think so. We’ve been here since the beginning, when the agents of the City and the railroad first put these lots up for sale.”
“I’d guess a gentleman like you knows everyone worth knowing in this town.”
“You give me too much credit. But I keep my eyes open.”
“The town’s high rollers, could you name them?”
The manager’s face clouded. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“Well, say we wanted to throw a party for the men who matter in Futurity Station. Who would be the first five names on the list?”
“Is this—are you actually planning such a party?”
“Remains to be seen,” Jesse said.
“Well. Five names? I would have to say … Karl Knudsen, who holds leases on half the properties on Lookout. Billy Mingus, the restaurateur. A shop owner, Elbert Onslow. Casper Brigham, if I have to name another hotelier. Oh, and of course Marcus Frane. Mr. Frane would be at the top of the list.”
“Marcus Frane?”
“He owns the Stadium of Tomorrow.”
“Does Mr. Frane live in town?”
“He winters in Chicago but he’s usually here until the end of September. He stays at the Dunston House when he’s not supervising the show.”
“Can we find him at the stadium, if we want to talk to him?”
“This time of day, almost certainly.”
“Thank you,” Jesse said, standing. “That’s all very helpful.”
“You’re welcome. About this party—”
“We’ll let you know if we need to make arrangements.”
The manager was wrong. Marcus Frane wasn’t at the Stadium of Tomorrow. The ticket-taker directed them to the Deluxe Barber Shop on Depot Street, where Frane was holding court with a half dozen cronies.
Or thugs, Jesse thought. More thugs than cronies by the look of them. Their presence suggested that Frane was the right person to talk to, though possibly dangerous.
Elizabeth came into the barber shop with Jesse, which made everyone sit up and stare. Frane’s men occupied all the chairs, but only Frane was getting service. After a long moment the barber whipped away a cotton bib as if he were unveiling a statue, and Frane wiped his face and gave Jesse and Elizabeth a long, thoughtful look.
“We’d like to have a word with you,” Jesse said.
Frane was a big man, neither very young nor very old, strong and confident in his body. He stood up. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced.”