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Authors: Jonathan Evison
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many more might be debasing themselves in the flea-infested rooms up the stairs.
Nobody stopped talking upon Adam’s entrance, or paid him any mind at all, except for Tobin himself, who was behind the bar with his arms crossed. He sported a rather showy mustache, which struck Adam as too youthful for him.
“Well, well,” said Tobin. “Skokomish not keeping you busy, eh?”
Adam did not take a seat at the bar. He stood at arm’s length, frisking Tobin with his steady gaze. “I’m here to file a report.”
“Drink?”
“I’m working.”
“Didn’t stop your father, you know? And he did a hell of a lot of good work up and down this peninsula. Your father was a —”
“I’m not him,” said Adam.
Tobin uncrossed his arms and reached for a bottle. “That’s for certain,” he said. He poured out two glasses and pushed one toward the edge of the bar in front of Adam.
“John, I need to ask you some questions.”
Tobin emptied his glass in one pull, and wiped his mustache. “You just missed the good reverend. I believe he went straight to the top with his report.”
“Don’t try my patience, John. This is very serious. I want to know who’s selling these natives liquor. And I want straight answers.”
“Certainly not me. I don’t want their business. And I don’t want their filth around here.”
“There’s no room for more filth around here,” observed Adam, surveying the interior. For all its rough-hewn qualities, its rugged beams, its softwood floor, scuffed and splintered and buckling toward the center of the room, its burled walls and crude framing and dirty windows, it was always the frivolous touches around the edges of the Belvedere that struck Adam, the gilded mirror behind the bar, the velvet coat-of-arms tacked on the wall, and oddest of all, the yellow and green floral painted glass goblet atop the piano. The overall effect was that of a bear in lipstick.
“Fair enough,” said Tobin. “You and the reverend are welcome to agree on that count. But then, not all men are made of the same stuff.”
“You’ve got no holes in the floor I should know about back there, have you, John? No special buckets of clams?”
“Have a look,” said Tobin, reaching for the second glass of whiskey.
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Adam. “But remember, you’re not above the law, and they’re not below it. I intend to find out who’s selling them the liquor.”
Tobin set the empty glass down in front of Adam. “And how would I know that?”
“Because if it’s not you, it’s your competition, and I know how you feel about competition.”
“You know damn well it could be any Chink from here to Port Townsend. It could be a transient. It could just as easily be any one of these cranks from the colony. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’ve had it up to here with Indians. They’re a blight to themselves and everything around them. They should have left with the others.”
“You’re right about that, John. But they didn’t. They’re still here, and they’re bent on staying, and until the law says otherwise, I’m here to protect them. Whether or not that makes me popular.” Adam turned to leave. “If you think of something,” he said, over his shoulder, “I’m at the Olympic.”
“Sorry about your father,” Tobin said.
Adam turned back around and shrugged. “Had him for forty years. Some people get considerably less fathering than that.” Adam doffed his hat, and strode out the door. “Good day to you, John.”
galloping gertie
DECEMBER 1889
Gertie McGrew gathered the folds of her generous skirt as she glanced down on the hazy barroom from the balcony. Governing her red tresses, she watched Adam take leave of Tobin, walking a little too tall under the weight of his burden. Among men, none were more complex than the ones she’d never slept with, and Adam was still among that dwindling number. Gertie could not be sure why she trusted Adam, but it had
Nobody stopped talking upon Adam’s entrance, or paid him any mind at all, except for Tobin himself, who was behind the bar with his arms crossed. He sported a rather showy mustache, which struck Adam as too youthful for him.
“Well, well,” said Tobin. “Skokomish not keeping you busy, eh?”
Adam did not take a seat at the bar. He stood at arm’s length, frisking Tobin with his steady gaze. “I’m here to file a report.”
“Drink?”
“I’m working.”
“Didn’t stop your father, you know? And he did a hell of a lot of good work up and down this peninsula. Your father was a —”
“I’m not him,” said Adam.
Tobin uncrossed his arms and reached for a bottle. “That’s for certain,” he said. He poured out two glasses and pushed one toward the edge of the bar in front of Adam.
“John, I need to ask you some questions.”
Tobin emptied his glass in one pull, and wiped his mustache. “You just missed the good reverend. I believe he went straight to the top with his report.”
“Don’t try my patience, John. This is very serious. I want to know who’s selling these natives liquor. And I want straight answers.”
“Certainly not me. I don’t want their business. And I don’t want their filth around here.”
“There’s no room for more filth around here,” observed Adam, surveying the interior. For all its rough-hewn qualities, its rugged beams, its softwood floor, scuffed and splintered and buckling toward the center of the room, its burled walls and crude framing and dirty windows, it was always the frivolous touches around the edges of the Belvedere that struck Adam, the gilded mirror behind the bar, the velvet coat-of-arms tacked on the wall, and oddest of all, the yellow and green floral painted glass goblet atop the piano. The overall effect was that of a bear in lipstick.
“Fair enough,” said Tobin. “You and the reverend are welcome to agree on that count. But then, not all men are made of the same stuff.”
“You’ve got no holes in the floor I should know about back there, have you, John? No special buckets of clams?”
“Have a look,” said Tobin, reaching for the second glass of whiskey.
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Adam. “But remember, you’re not above the law, and they’re not below it. I intend to find out who’s selling them the liquor.”
Tobin set the empty glass down in front of Adam. “And how would I know that?”
“Because if it’s not you, it’s your competition, and I know how you feel about competition.”
“You know damn well it could be any Chink from here to Port Townsend. It could be a transient. It could just as easily be any one of these cranks from the colony. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’ve had it up to here with Indians. They’re a blight to themselves and everything around them. They should have left with the others.”
“You’re right about that, John. But they didn’t. They’re still here, and they’re bent on staying, and until the law says otherwise, I’m here to protect them. Whether or not that makes me popular.” Adam turned to leave. “If you think of something,” he said, over his shoulder, “I’m at the Olympic.”
“Sorry about your father,” Tobin said.
Adam turned back around and shrugged. “Had him for forty years. Some people get considerably less fathering than that.” Adam doffed his hat, and strode out the door. “Good day to you, John.”
galloping gertie
DECEMBER 1889
Gertie McGrew gathered the folds of her generous skirt as she glanced down on the hazy barroom from the balcony. Governing her red tresses, she watched Adam take leave of Tobin, walking a little too tall under the weight of his burden. Among men, none were more complex than the ones she’d never slept with, and Adam was still among that dwindling number. Gertie could not be sure why she trusted Adam, but it had
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