The Flimflam Affair

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.

He waved Quincannon to a chair, saying, “Hello, lad. And how be you this fine day?”

“Well and good. And you?”

“Likewise. In the pink. Care to have a meal with me? Fresh from the Bay, these oysters, and as succulent as they come.”

Quincannon couldn’t very well refuse. Besides, he was hungry. He took the proffered chair, and when Bluefield summoned a waiter, ordered a dozen oysters on the half shell and a glass of warm clam juice.

“Clam juice.” Bluefield’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t see how you can drink that stuff.”

“An acquired taste.”

“Not one I’ll ever acquire.” Then, cannily, “Well, lad, what brings you to the Redemption? Come to pay a social call on old Ezra, or is it to beg yet another favor?”

“The former,” Quincannon said, stretching the truth, “and the answers to a few questions. I know I’ve used up my quota of favors—”

Bluefield waved a dismissive hand; he was in a jovial mood. “You have, but I don’t mind having my brain picked. But not until after we’ve put on the feedbag.”

He waited for Quincannon to be served, hungrily eyeing his oysters and his beer. The second plate of oysters and clam juice arrived in swift fashion; Bluefield’s employees didn’t tarry, lest they be subjected to the old reprobate’s wrathful tongue. As soon as Quincannon’s meal was set down, Bluefield picked up a shell, inhaled oyster and juice, and then washed them down with a large draught of beer.

Quincannon found the oysters to be every bit as good as advertised. The clam juice, however, left much to be desired — no place seasoned it nearly as well as Hoolihan’s Saloon, his favorite watering hole — but he praised it nonetheless. Bluefield beamed at him in return.

When all the shells on both plates were empty, Bluefield drained the last of his beer and sat back contentedly. In his Scarlet Lady days he would likely have emitted a loud belch; now he merely patted his lips and removed foam from his mustache with a linen napkin.

“Now then,” he said. “These questions of yours. To do with what this time?”

“A coney game. The shoving of counterfeit hundred-dollar notes.”

“Coney game, eh? Don’t tell me you’re working for the government again?”

“Not exactly,” Quincannon hedged. “Have you heard of such a game in progress locally, Ezra?”

“Can’t say that I have, no.”

“Does the name Long Nick Darrow ring any bells?”

“Darrow, Darrow.” Bluefield wagged his head. “Nary a tinkle. Is he the one running the game?”

“That remains to be determined.” Quincannon described Darrow as he’d looked ten years ago, finishing with, “He’d be close to fifty now.”

“You want me to put out feelers, eh?”

“If you would, but as discreetly as possible.”

“Easy enough done,” Bluefield said. “Anything else?”

“One of the bill-passers had one brown eye and one blue eye — a thickset man, middle-aged, sporting a thick black mustache. Would you know of anyone who answers that description?”

“One brown eye, one blue eye. Well, now.” Bluefield nibbled at his long lower lip while he searched his memory. At length he snapped his fingers and said, “Paddy Lasher.”

The name meant nothing to Quincannon. “Who would he be?”

“A rascal I knew once upon a time.”

“What manner of rascal?”

“Shanghai crimp. Only man I ever saw with different-colored eyes. No lip whiskers when I knew him, but that was a long time ago.”

Quincannon didn’t need to ask how Bluefield had known Lasher; he wouldn’t have got a straight answer if he had asked. Bluefield was ashamed of having been part and parcel of the crimping racket for even a short time and refused to discuss it.

“Have you any idea what Lasher has been up to since his shanghaiing days?”

“None, lad. Years since I’ve seen his ugly puss. He might have left the city, or been terminated by a bullet or a blade. If he’s still here and above the sod, he’s stayed in the shadows.”

“Do you know if he had a criminal record of any kind?”

“In those days, he didn’t. Proud of the fact that he’d stayed free of the law’s clutches.”

If Paddy Lasher still had no criminal record, he was not one of the trio of brown-eye/blue-eye felons that Boggs had investigated and dismissed. The gap was wide between shanghaiing and counterfeiting, but when a mug was denied his primary source of illegal income, he gravitated to any other sort of illegal enterprise that presented itself. It was entirely possible that Lasher was now engaged in shoving queer.

“Did he have any pals when you knew him?”

“Hah! Nobody short of a half-wit would have palled with the likes of him,” Bluefield said. “Want me to put out the word about him, too, eh?”

“I’d appreciate it, Ezra.”

“Done.” Then, as Quincannon pushed back his chair, “You owe me a favor now, lad, and whatever it might be I intend to collect before you ask another. You won’t forget that, will you?”

“I won’t forget.”

In front of the bathroom mirror in his Leavenworth Street flat that evening, Quincannon finished tying a satisfactory knot in his black silk cravat and then buttoned the waistcoat of his conservative three-piece suit. He preferred decorative vests, which he felt gave him a more dashing, somewhat roguish appearance, but Sabina had reminded him of the ruse of a family in mourning that she had concocted for her sessions with Professor A.-for-Abraham Vargas. It wouldn’t do for a member of the fictitious Milford clan to attend the séance wearing the likes of a dark blue silk vest decorated with orange nasturtiums, his personal favorite.

He donned the suit jacket and again regarded himself in the glass. Even in sedate clothing, he decided he cut a rather handsome figure. Not that that would matter once they arrived at the Unified College of the Attuned Impulses (silly damned name!) and he embarked on his role as a Milford cousin, but it was important that Sabina should be pleased with both his appearance and his company.

Ah, Sabina. The depth of his feelings for her was stimulating but also a little disconcerting. Here he was, a lifelong bachelor who had indulged in a string of free-and-easy liaisons with a variety of comely young ladies, and whose future had promised more of the same well into his dotage, and he had eyes for no one other than his partner. Every other woman, no matter how attractive or available, seemed to pale to insignificance when compared to Sabina. Seduction had been his primary interest in the beginning; now his passion for her had evolved into something much more tender and abiding.

Something... permanent? Such as marriage?

The word “marriage,” writ large in his mind, produced a small shudder. John Frederick Quincannon, married. Such a possibility would have been utterly inconceivable five, even four years ago, despite the closeness of his professional relationship with Sabina. He had always viewed himself as an indestructible lone wolf, never to be tied down, forever free until he realized his dream of dying in bed at the age of ninety while consummating one last conquest. He told himself that he was incapable of fidelity, that marriage would damage if not doom Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. No matter how much two people cared for each other, they couldn’t live as well as work together.

But the arguments were not nearly as potent as they had once been. His resolve was weakening. The more time he spent with Sabina away from the office, the more he wanted to be with her.

What to do about this confusing conundrum?

He didn’t know, couldn’t make up his mind.

“John Frederick,” he said to his mirror image, “you’re a blasted coward when it comes to affairs of the heart.”

The image nodded its hirsute head in agreement.