There was no way to trace her from what had been in his files. The phone she’d bought for cash from a Best Buy electronics store on a busy Saturday; the e-mail addy was at a server in Hong Kong, paid for by a credit card that went no further than a post office box rented under a fake name. She wouldn’t be going back to it.
But:
There was one thing. She and Simmons had met a couple times. She hadn’t given him her real name, of course, but he did know what she looked like. If whoever had killed him had been looking for her—and there was no reason to believe that, but just in case—then he could have given them a description, if pressed.
If they killed Simmons to get to her? Probably he had done that much.
Of course, “a blond young woman” covered a lot of territory, and if that was all they had, they could look for a million years and never find her. But even so, it bothered her. What did it mean?
Carruth didn’t even bother to sip at the coffee he’d ordered, just left it sitting on the scratched, green plastic table, going cold.
“So, is this going to be a problem for us?”
She shook her head negatively. “I don’t think so. Whoever killed him, it isn’t connected to us. And even if it was, there’s nothing here that would lead them to us.” She hoped.
Carruth nodded. “Good enough. What next?”
“We—you—hit another base.”
“Won’t the Army have changed all the codes and other stuff by now?”
She smiled. “I
“Which is . . . ?”
She told him.
He smiled. “I like it. Finally something we can pick up a few bucks on. When?”
“No time like the present. How long do you need?”
“Day or two to run the scenario, get my boys up to speed. Travel to Kentucky. We can roll on it pretty quick, I’d say.”
“Good. Let’s do it.”
After he left, she sat there watching her own coffee cool for a few minutes. She didn’t like it that Simmons was dead, but he wasn’t the only op who could serve. She’d find another snoop and keep checking things out. It was still on track.
It was all about the hat, Jay knew. There were dozens of stories and versions of how it happened, scores, maybe even hundreds of versions of who did what to whom, but at the heart of it, it was the hat.
Some said it was a hat formed of human skin, made by the Devil Himself to seal the deal for the pimp Lee Shelton’s soul, but from what Jay had found, largely due to the excellent scholarship of Cecil Brown, who had written a book about the whole affair, it was no more than a pale, blocked-felt, cowboy-style hat. A milk-white broad-brimmed, five-gallon Stetson . . .
Christmas Night 1895, and the Curtis Saloon was smack-dab in the middle of the St. Louis black vice district, surrounded by bars, bordellos, and billiard halls.
The place was full of cigar and pipe smoke and noise, the air thick with them, and the smell of spilled alcohol. There were men drinking or eating pickled boiled eggs, and women of less-than-sterling character offering their less-than-sterling virtue for short-term rent. While Jay didn’t usually change his race in scenarios, he had done so for this visit—a face as pale as his wouldn’t blend in here. Here, he was—in the terminology of these times—a Negro; and one large enough in stature to forestall casual trouble, dressed in a plain brown suit and shoes, minding his own business.
Billy Lyons and Henry Crump, two well-dressed black men, stood at the bar, among men who were of somewhat lower stripe and caste. It was a bad man’s bar, mostly, and Lyons had borrowed a knife from Crump, just in case he had to take care of business. Jay knew the history: The two men had been in better establishments earlier in the evening, but they had come to Bill Curtis’s to wind down, even though they knew it was dangerous.
Alcohol didn’t make most men smarter, Jay also knew.
It was a cold and windy night, and Billy and Henry moved close to the stove by the bar. A ragtime band noodled in the background, playing rinky-tink piano, banjo, and guitar, a Christmas song, then something by Scott Joplin, maybe. There were occasional shouts from men shooting craps on the wooden platform in the back, and while not very crowded, the place was busy enough for a holiday when most people stayed home with their families.
Billy and Henry, already feeling little pain from earlier libations, commenced to drinking beer, talking about Christmas and the coming New Year.
Jay stood nearby, sipping at his own beer, watching the two men. He pulled his pocket watch and looked at it. Just about time . . .
Lee Sheldon, aka “Stack Lee,” aka “Stagolee,” arrived, and even in the dim light he was a sight to behold. He wore tailored leather shoes, “St. Louis flats,” with low heels, curved toes, and tiny mirrors on the tops that reflected the light. He had gray spats, gray striped trousers, and a box-back coat over a yellow embroidered shirt with a high celluloid collar. A red vest, a gold-headed ebony walking stick, and the Stetson hat—with a picture of his favorite girl and wife, Lillie, embroidered on the hatband—completed the sartorial splendor of Stack’s outfit. He was a high- rolling pimp and dressed to be seen—one of the elite “macks,” as they were known locally—as well as owner of his own club, so the story went. Why he wasn’t there instead of here on this night was a question never answered.
Other stories had him as a waiter, a bartender, or a cab driver, take your pick. All agreed he was a sporting man, with plenty of folding green in his pocket, and at least four or five women in his string, including his wife.
Jay watched as Stack—so-named for a riverboat or its captain, depending on who you asked—lit a big cigar and stopped to chat with somebody nearby. Jay wasn’t close enough to hear, but the story was that Stack was asking who was treating that night.
And it turned out that it was Billy Lyons who was being generous on that cold Christmas, and so Stack ambled over that way, allowing everybody to see his finery.
Being locals forever, Stack and Billy knew each other. There was one story that there was bad blood between them—that Billy’s stepbrother, Charlie Brown, had killed Stack’s friend Harry Wilson, and that Stack meant to take his revenge—but on that night, they stood drinking together, laughing and talking. For a while, anyhow.
Jay edged a little closer, to listen. The talk had turned to politics, and had grown heated.
“You don’t know nothin’ ’bout it,” Stack said, shaking his head.
Billy took a pull from his drink. “I guess I know more about it than you—I was
“You say you did?”
“You just heard me tell you so, you ignorant son of a bitch.”
Stack set his drink down and drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t that much; he was maybe five- seven or -eight. He flicked his hand out and hit Billy’s hat, a derby, with a little tap.
“Call me ignorant? That fo’ yo’ hat,” Stack said.
“That right? Well, that for
Stack Lee grinned. He straightened his Stetson. Quickly, he reached up and grabbed Billy’s derby, snatched it from his head. He held it in his left hand and with a sudden blow, smashed the crown in with his right, breaking the
