She must’ve made a sound because the two women—one must’ve been Patrick’s maman because she was all in hysterics—turned to look at her, and Mrs. S ordered her back to her room. She’d heard enough to know that Patrick had disappeared when the police showed up, and no one knew where he was.
But she knew.
Once Mrs. S had left, after telling her to do her homework and adding that she’d be back in time for dinner, Antonia reached under her bed and dragged out the stinky clothes she’d worn to Chinatown just a couple days ago. They were pretty filthy, but that was perfect for where she was headed: the dump by Mission Creek, to see if Patrick was hiding out with his friend Black Bill.
She had to talk to Patrick, find out what happened, and see if she could help. Maybe she could learn something from Patrick to prove it wasn’t him, and maybe she could convince him to talk to Mrs. S.
Antonia threw on the menswear, wrinkling her nose as she did so. Well, at least she’d look and smell like she fit right in with the rag-pickers and garbage-sorters. She grabbed her maman’s folding knife, checked the locking blade, and stuffed it in her trouser pocket.
It didn’t take long to walk there. The only parts of her journey that set her nerves on edge were slipping out of the apartment—she hoped no one she knew, like Mr. Welles or Mr. Donato or Mrs. S, happened to come by just as she slid out and locked the door—and walking past Copper Mick’s home. She supposed she didn’t have to walk that way, she could’ve gone down a different street. But she half hoped maybe he’d be outside, and she could talk him into joining her on an adventure to Dumpville. Then again, after their adventure in Chinatown, maybe he’d not be keen on tracking down someone who the police pegged a killer. And his pa was a detective. So, all in all, she was glad when she didn’t see him as she slouched past on the other side of the street, her cap pulled low.
When she reached Berry, she turned right and kept walking. The farther she walked, the more invisible and more comfortable she felt in her shabby, dirty clothes. And once she reached the first garbage wagon unloading its trash onto the ground, she fit right in. The dumps were bigger than she expected. Humps and hillocks of reeking garbage stretched out along the water, going on for at least a block, maybe two or three, with more full wagons lining up to get rid of their loads. She dodged the wagons and their fresh leavings, skirted the men and the few women who were wielding pitchforks, sticks, and shovels, poking each reeking load as if hunting for buried treasure. The sort of treasure that Antonia saw them pounce on included not only old bottles, scraps of iron, old sacks, bricks, and rags, but also bruised and decaying fruits and vegetables.
Antonia thought back to when she and her maman lived in Leadville’s Stillborn Alley. They didn’t have much food then, but Antonia’d managed to bring hard-boiled eggs, bread, and cheese home from some of the work she picked up cleaning the saloons late at night, back when she’d worn the same clothes as she wore now and called herself “Tony.”
But…this stuff.
Did people really get so hungry they’d eat a head of cabbage that was all brown? Or did they sell the food? If this was what the rag-pickers had for supper, no wonder Patrick brought food when he came to visit them.
Antonia finally gave up and asked a woman, who was adding to her apron full of oyster shells, where Black Bill might be.
“Over yonder.” She pointed away from the waterfront. “In a tent wi’ a little flag.”
Antonia thanked her and headed in that direction. Farther away from the channel, the garbage lessened and a welter of tents and shacks took the place of trash piles and heaps. She was glad to spot a canvas shelter, sides bowed in and flapping in the breeze, with a small stars and stripes flag on a short stick stuck outside in the dirt. She went up cautiously and called at the closed entrance, “Is this Black Bill’s place?”
The tied-down flaps twitched a bit. “Who wants to know?” asked a growly voice.
“I’m looking for Patrick May.” She hoped she wasn’t going to get in trouble for asking for Patrick by name.
The flaps parted, displaying the head of a man with a long cottony beard and a face dark and glowering as his name. “That don’t answer the question of who you are or what you want.”
“I’m a friend of his. I know he’s in danger and I’m here to help.” She raised her voice, but not too much. “Patrick, are you there? It’s Antonia. I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Antonia?” Patrick’s voice came out of the darkened interior. Black Bill’s face disappeared at the entrance and some shuffling around sounded inside. “It’s all right, Bill,” said Patrick. “I know her.”
“Ain’t a ‘her’ out there,” growled Black Bill.
Patrick poked his head out between the flaps. His eyes widened. “Antonia?”
She nodded.
He pulled back one of the canvas wings and settled cross-legged in the entrance. “I’m sure glad to see you. Hardly recognize you, though. I was tryin’ to figure out a way to get word to Mrs. Stannert, and here you are. As my ma would say, ‘A blessing.’” He added, “I’m not gonna stand, because I don’t want anyone to see me. I’m not going out until
