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High Hander

<h2>III</h2> Tunneltown had only one thoroughfare that attained the stature of a street. It had a network of lanes, wagon tracks, and alleys. They slid between buildings, twisted around woodpiles, lumbered over ditches on makeshift bridges. Many of these wound back to the main drag or meandered off into the woods. Others converged on a large log building of chalet-like aspect known as "the townhouse." This structure had two identical front entrances, one near each end. The southernmost of these led to the town offices and a small courtroom. The other end of the building provided a spacious residence for Duke Parker's widow. Tesno's thump of the ornate, pear-shaped knocker was answered by a trim young woman in a maid's cap. As soon as she heard his name, she swung the door wide and stepped back as if she had been expecting him. Surprised, he followed her into a large living room. Simple maple furniture and light blue draperies gave the room a touch of luxury without seeming out of place up here in the wilderness. A wide doorway led to the dining room, where he glimpsed two persons seated at a table. "I vill tell Mrs. Parker you are here," the maid said. She had a slight Swedish accent. "Have him come in, Stella," a feminine voice called. Tesno followed the maid into the dining room. Persia Parker was having dinner with Sam Lester, the town treasurer, whom she promptly introduced. "Will you join us, Mr. Tesno?" she said. "We're having duck." Silverware and stemmed goblets glistened on a snow-white tablecloth. Red wine sparkled in the goblets. The duck looked delicious. "Thanks," Tesno said, "but this is a business call, Mrs. Parker. I'm sorry to interrupt...." "You haven't had dinner; I can sense it. Sit down, Mr. Tesno." Persia Parker smiled deliciously, and he sat down. Stella immediately set a place for him. He grinned and said, "You have a sixth sense, Mrs. Parker." "At breakfast and lunch I just grab and gulp," she said, "so I like to make a little ceremony of the evening meal. So it's a treat to have a guest—oh, Sam doesn't count." Thin-haired, hunch-shouldered Sam Lester looked up from his plate. He wore shot-glass-thick lenses that hid his eyes and gave his face a froglike placidity. "She feeds me," he said. He put down his fork and reached for a wine bottle. Persia shook her head in refusal. He filled Tesno's glass and then his own. "Sam lives above the offices in the other part of the building," Persia said, smiling again. She had white, even teeth, the complexion of an angel, and hair as pale as Montana gold. Her eyes were a mysterious shade that Tesno couldn't decide about, but they were frank and friendly. "I drag him in to dinner most every night," she went on. "Sometimes I think he would prefer to bolt down a sandwich and get back to his precious bookkeeping. What part of the country are you from, Mr. Tesno?" The wine was mellow, fragrant with the scent of some fertile, faraway valley. "I was born in New Mexico Territory," he said. "Got into railroading when the Santa Fe was fighting the Denver & Rio Grande for Raton Pass." Stella set a plate before him with half a roasted duck on it. He was hungry, but he ate without tasting, captivated by the charm of Persia Parker. She pried him with questions about himself, touching him with eyes that were green or gray or hazel, smiling when he smiled, making him feel that every word he said was important to her. He was not a talkative man, but now he talked as he seldom had before. He told about his parents being killed by Comanches when he was a few months old, about the whisky-running renegade who had bought him from the Indians and raised him. He told how he had hired out as a wrangler when he was twelve, how a rancher's wife had taught him lessons and lent him books to read. And Persia Parker laughed and frowned and touched him with her eyes, warily now, as if afraid of the tenderness he saw there, afraid he might misunderstand. Sam Lester seemed content to be ignored. He finished his coffee quickly, muttered that he had paper work to do, and left them alone. Persia lead Tesno into the parlor. She was taller than he had expected. She wore a simple, black, ankle-length dress, and he remembered that her husband had been dead less than three months. Yet black set off her pale hair, and he couldn't picture her in anything more becoming. She indicated a chair for him and sat down on a sofa two feet away. "I expect you're a busy woman," he said. "I'd better get to the point." "I'm not half as busy as you'd think, Mr. Tesno," she said. "The town pretty much runs itself. And my position is entirely unofficial, you know. My husband was mayor, and after his death, I took over some of the more ceremonial duties of the office—temporarily, I thought. But the town council likes the novelty, and I'm afraid, the notoriety, of having a 'lady mayor.' This is no ordinary community, and they seem to feel that anything that adds to its uniqueness is good for business. So they keep postponing the election of Duke's successor." "You also own most of the business property in town," he said. "Isn't that true?" She nodded readily. "Duke didn't try very hard to sell lots because when the tunnel is finished, the town will fade away. At least, that's the probability. So he put up buildings and leased them to businessmen on a percentage basis. A few businesses he operated himself, of course." "So as heir to his estate, you're in a position to tell the town council what to do." "Not exactly," she said, frowning. "At least, I don't. In fact, it seems as if somebody is always telling me what to do. Sometimes I feel a bit trapped, Mr. Tesno." "You know I work for Ben Vickers?" "I presumed you did." "You must know what the town is doing to his men. A booze town and a construction job don't mix." "It isn't a nice town," she admitted soberly. "But it makes money. And I owe Ben Vickers nothing." Tesno's eyebrows went up. "Without him there'd be no town." "He's fought us every step of the way," she said, emotion creeping into her voice. "If it hadn't been for Ben Vickers, my husband would be alive today." Tesno was startled. "I didn't know that." "Duke brought a crew of workmen up here to build Tunneltown. Ben Vickers coaxed most of them away by offering them a bonus to work for him. That left us awfully short-handed, and Duke pitched in himself. He wasn't used to that kind of work, and he got killed.... Oh, I know that Vickers was only playing a rough game the way it's played. I don't want to be bitter. I'd give a good deal to have a cleaner town." "You could clean it up." "Me?" She seemed genuinely surprised. "You and the town council. And the marshal. Maybe he'd need a deputy or two." "I don't know. The trouble is that we're making money." "That's always the trouble. At least, it's always the argument. But there's a good deal of honest business in town. There's a livery barn and smithy, a general store, hotel, barber shop, restaurant...." "Most of those aren't doing very well, Mr. Tesno." "Has it occurred to you that the saloons and gambling tables are hurting them?" "No," she said thoughtfully. "I suppose there's money spent in the saloons that could be spent elsewhere. But, Mr. Tesno, three of the members of the council are saloonkeepers. The other is the hotel man." "Is Pinky Bronklin on the council?" "Mr. Bronklin? Yes." "Mrs. Parker, would you call a meeting of the council and tell them what I want?" "There's a meeting of the council tomorrow night." "Fine. On second thought, I'll tell them myself." "That's probably best. But what do you want, Mr. Tesno?" "Midnight and Sunday closing. No booze sold to drunks. No gambling. That will do for a start." Persia sighed heavily, then quickly smiled as if amused at herself. "I've heard those words so often from Ben Vickers. The council has heard them, too. What makes you think you'll get them to listen?" "They'll listen," he said. "Maybe they will," she said soberly. "I guess if they'll listen to anyone, it will be you. I wish you luck." He grinned his lopsided grin and started to rise, but she was on her feet ahead of him. She brushed past him, laying a hand on his shoulder to keep him in his chair. "I'll get you some brandy," she said. Before he could protest, she was gone, and he chided himself for the surge of warmth that her casual touch aroused in him. She was back at once with a brandy bottle and a glass, saying that she had neglected her duties as a hostess. She poured him a drink and sat down again, not having one herself. "I'm taking up your evening," he said. "Mr. Tesno, you have a cigar in your pocket. I wish you'd smoke it." He smoked it, remembering not to chew the end. They talked and laughed softly and got acquainted. She told him about herself; how she had grown up in her aunt's Tacoma boarding house, how she had met Duke Parker there and run away with him. She would have married anyone, she said (curiously, he thought), who would take her away from the dawn-to-after-dark routine of cooking, cleaning, and table-waiting. She spoke, too, of the house Duke had built on the bluff above Commencement Bay, of sailing parties and picnics and clam-digging at Gig Harbor. He might have wearied of such talk from another woman, but he cherished every word Persia Parker spoke, weighing it for the subtle, personal message that seemed to be hidden in it. It was as if some strange, almost mystic accident were giving him a glimpse of a world he had never known could exist—not the world she spoke about, but the lovely mysterious world of herself. At last he rose to leave, reluctantly, the cigar long since discarded. She went to the door with him. When he had walked a few steps into the night, he turned, and she was a waving silhouette in the bright frame of the doorway. Jauntily, he threw her a kiss, wondering if she could see him plainly enough to make out the gesture. She waved again. The door closed. Picking his way in the thick darkness, he moved along an unfamiliar path toward the scattered lights of the main street. <hr class="tb" /> Persia stood frowning at the white surface of the closed door. Footsteps in the parlor told her that Sam Lester had come in from the other part of the building. After a moment, she went to meet him. "I didn't expect he'd be quite so ... nice," Persia said. "What did he say?" Sam seemed an emotionless little robot as his thick lenses caught the light from a lamp. "He's going to be at the council meeting tomorrow night." "I don't think so," Sam said. "Why not? It's best to have him dealing with the council." "He has to go. It's been decided." "Why? Is he so fierce? Mr. Madrid took his gun." "Mr. Jay wasn't impressed," Sam said. "He said Vickers has hired himself a he-coon." Sam sat down beside the brandy bottle and poured himself a stiff drink. "Sam," Persia said, "I wish I owned this town as everyone thinks I do. I'd cash in and get out. Ben Vickers would pay a pretty price for it." "Get out anyhow, Persia." "No!" she said emphatically. "Not till I can take a lot of money with me." "I'd take care of you. You know that." "Please, Sam. Don't start that." She sat down at the far end of the sofa to avoid looking into the thick lenses. She didn't want to hurt his feelings. He was forty—an old forty—and she was twenty-three. He was a dull, ugly little man; a twenty-dollar-a-week bookkeeper when Duke had picked him up. But he was smart about accounts and legal documents. And he was loyal. He protected her from any shenanigans Mr. Jay might have in mind. Mr. Jay and Duke had been partners of a sort, although this had been a tightly kept secret. The townsite papers were in Duke's name; but it had been Mr. Jay's money that had built the town and he had put himself firmly in control by tying Duke up with notes and contracts and such. Duke had found himself a mere front—just as she was now, passing Mr. Jay's decisions on to the council as if they were her own. She, Sam, and Mr. Madrid, and possibly Mr. Pinky Bronklin, were the only ones who knew this. Mr. Jay's determination was sometimes frightening. He meant to take over Ben Vickers' contract, and he wanted as wild and dirty a town as possible in order to slow down the work. Some of Vickers' key men had been drugged or beaten. Without coming right out and saying so, Sam had made it clear that Mr. Jay had arranged these incidents. Oh, it was all a pretty rotten business, but there was a chance to make money here, a chance a woman didn't often get. She thought of that boarding house in Tacoma and shuddered. She would die before she went back there. All the income from rents, leases, and the sale of real estate was going to pay off Duke's debt to Mr. Jay. The only thing in the clear was a three-quarter interest in the Pink Lady, which was in Persia's name and not part of Duke's estate. Since the town paid her living expenses out of tax money, she was able to put aside this income from the saloon each month. It was a tidy little sum but not enough to make a person rich—not in the year or so of existence the town had left. Her great hope was that Mr. Jay would take over the tunnel contract soon. He could then come out in the open and he would buy the township proprietorship from Duke's estate, writing off the debts and putting up a tidy bit of cash besides. He would also buy the Pink Lady. And thanks to Sam Lester, Persia had this agreement in writing. Sam set down his glass and refilled it. "You're honest enough with me, Persia. I'm grateful for that." Before he could go on, she switched the subject back to Tesno. "Sam, how are they going to get rid of him?" "There's nothing we can do about it." "Sam, I want to know." "They're going to put him in the hospital." "I won't have that!" Persia sat up straight. "I ... I'll see Mr. Jay first thing in the morning!" Sam sipped his drink. "Persia, I never wanted to marry, but now—" "Sam, please!" She spoke harshly, sharply. Then she smiled and said softly, "Please." Sam sighed, drained his glass, and looked speculatively at the bottle. "Forget about seeing Mr. Jay in the morning. It will happen tonight. It's probably happening right now." Persia found herself on her feet, hurrying to the door. There she stopped, frowning thoughtfully. "There's nothing anybody can do," Sam said from the parlor. Then she went back to the sofa and sat down. Sam spoke tonelessly. "Madrid took his gun; now some money fighter is going to put him in the hospital. It will be a joke around town, Mr. Jay said, all that happening to the big troublebuster the first night he gets in town. It won't be too bad, I guess, Persia. Maybe it's all over by now. Put it out of your mind." "Yes." She gave a curious little shrug. "Put it out of my mind. There's nothing else to do." They sat in silence for a time. Then she said, "Sam, if we went away from here, where would we go?" <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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