Haskell nodded. “Good. See that you do. We’d miss those Monday night palavers over cards should something befall you.” He gave her a small smile. “That was a joke, but not a good one. And we’re not the only ones who’d miss your presence. Nico’d be lost without you. Dunno if he’s made it clear to you, Mrs. Stannert, but he’s real impressed with how you turned his business around. And in case you didn’t know, he’s a hard man to impress.”
He put his elbows on the desk and leaned over it. “You didn’t hear that from me. But seriously, if you’re going to be nosing around the edges of Monroe’s involvement with the local labor movements, be careful. There are some dangerous characters out there. Not the musicians, of course, but should you go farther afield in your queries as to his activities and associates…” He let that hang.
She tucked the list away in her satchel. “I promise you I will not put myself in a situation I cannot handle.” She thought of her pocket revolver, safely secured in the drawer of her nightstand, loaded and ready for use.
“I’m sure you won’t, Mrs. Stannert. You are a woman of common sense.” Haskell glanced at the city directory. “My guess is Abbott is no longer with us. I’ll do a little asking around for you, but I suspect if you do find an address for him, it’ll probably be in Laurel Hill Cemetery.”
“Perhaps.” Inez picked up her umbrella and prepared to leave. With luck, the cards will break my way and I will find out if any of this has anything to do with Jamie’s death.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Before Antonia had left for school that morning, Mrs. S had said, “Well, you are certainly cheerful today. Your catarrh nearly gone?”
“Uh-huh.” She felt better, her head and nose hardly stuffy at all.
So she was in a good mood when she spotted Patrick May, the tall negro boy with reddish hair who delivered their laundry and was one of Mrs. Stannert’s piano students. Mrs. S had let her hang around a few times during his lessons. He was really, really good. Mrs. S said so, and Antonia, after hearing him, thought so too.
He was walking ahead of her down Kearney, toward Market, hands in his pockets. She quickened her pace, calling, “Hey, Patrick!”
He turned around and looked kind of surprised to see her. He waited until she caught up then said, “Well, hello, Miss Gizzi.”
“Well, hello, you can call me Antonia.” She fell in step beside him. “Where you going?”
“Going to catch the horsecar on Market to get back to my ma and aunt’s laundry. I have a brick wall to build. Where are you off to? School?”
“Yep. Lincoln School, the other side of Market. Is it all right if I walk with you a ways?” She was curious about him, and this was the first time she’d been able to talk with him.
He looked at her oddly. “You sure that’s a good idea, Miss Gizzi?”
“I’m not Miss Gizzi, I’m Antonia. You keep calling me that and I’m gonna call you Mr. May. And sure I’m sure. It’s just a little ways. Besides, I wanted to tell you,” now she felt awkward, “you sure do play the piano nice. I wish I could do the same.”
“Well, maybe you just need to ask your aunt to give you lessons.”
“She’s tried. I’m all thumbs and no music sense, she says.” Then she said what popped into her mind. “Don’t you go to school? There’s a school for nig—” She stopped herself. Mrs. S had said niggers wasn’t a good word to use, was like a slap in the face, no matter what she’d heard in the back alleys of Leadville. “For negroes?”
“Oh, I’m done with schooling. Learnt my ABCs and my numbers and that was it. Have to help my ma and aunt at the laundry. They need a man around to help out.”
She looked at him doubtfully. He was big, really tall, and probably strong, but he sure wasn’t no man yet. “So, where’s your laundry?”
“Way south of Market on Berry Street. By the Mission Creek canal and the wharves. Where the schooners and such bring in lumber, bricks, and hay. Not a place you’d want to go, Miss Gizzi.”
“Maybe, maybe not, Mr. May.” She decided right then and there to ask Mrs. S to take her there someday. “What do you do at the laundry?”
“I do the heavy lifting, the deliveries. Fetch and carry.” He grinned. “Whatever they tell me to do, basically.”
“How do you practice your music? Do you have a piano?”
“No piano. Sometimes…”
“Sometimes what?”
“Well, next door, they sometimes let me use their piano. When no one else is.”
She wanted to ask what this place was, but he looked so uncomfortable she decided not to. Instead she asked, “D’you play by yourself? Or with others? D’you have any friends down there on the wharf?”
He laughed. “You are full of questions, aren’t you? The piano, I usually play alone. Sometimes, though, I’ll go see Black Bill and we’ll play our mouth harps, when I have a little space of time.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Black Bill?”
“’Cause of his skin, you know. He’s like me.”
She looked at him and said, “You’re not black. You’re more…tan.”
“Well, I s’ppose most folks wouldn’t make that fine distinction. They look and they see what they want to see.”
She nodded, thinking back. “You know, where I used to live, there was Coffee Joe. He ran a, uh, saloon.” She wasn’t sure if he’d be shocked she’d know that, but then plunged on. “And at school, some of the kids call me
