Chapter 31
Boone
“Want me to talk to her?” I ask.
The room is dark, but it pulses with firelight. Okee shoots me a look for my meddling.
“Oh, you sweet man,” Lula says. Her hair is an untamed swirl of flax. “If you think you could make Goldie Eld do anything other than exactly what she wants to do, then maybe something supernatural is at work after all.”
Now I know where she gets it from, at least. All that fuss.
Don’t mean she can't be reasoned with. This is her daughter’s life we’re talking about.
Lula came back here with a story already in her head.
A decade’s worth of fretting coloring every memory, she’s liable to remember her momma as mean as the Kentucky Cannibal.
“Well,” I say, pushing myself up from the bed, “ain’t no harm in asking.”
“There is considerable harm in asking,” Okee says, getting up after me.
I know what he’s thinking, but Alfred Collins ain’t the same kind of beast. Matter of fact, I can't think of someone more opposite to Goldie. They might both command a room, but the men following old Alfred are ordered by the government. I ain’t known Goldie long, but something tells me every ounce of respect she’s ever got was earned the hard way.
Lula stands at once. “Boone.”
But I am already on my feet, tugging the robe tighter around my middle. I knot the belt once, hard.
“Boone,” Lula repeats, sharper now.
“I know how to talk to mothers.”
Okee makes a sound behind me, half laugh, half pity.
“You do not know how to talk to my mother,” Lula says.
I don’t stop.
The hallway outside the Aces Suite is lit low and gold. Music thumps up from below, piano and laughter and boots striking wood. Somewhere, a woman shrieks with delight. I stroll above all of it in my bare feet and borrowed robe.
Okee catches up first. “This is not a strategy.”
“No,” I say. “It’s talking.”
Lula moves on my other side, close enough to grab my sleeve if she decides to. “You cannot charm her.”
“I ain’t planning to charm her.”
“What are you planning?”
I glance down at her. She looks flushed and furious and worried, and the sight of it near splits me in two.
“Planning to ask.”
Her mouth opens, then shuts.
We pass the stairwell and turn down the narrow corridor toward the back rooms. The air changes here. Less perfume. Less smoke. More ink and lamp oil and old wood. The happy noise of the Gemini turns muffled, like we have stepped behind the face of the place and into the skull.
At the far end, a door opens.
A man steps out.
He is a hard-looking son of a bitch. Scar cut pale through one eyebrow. Beard rough as a horse brush. Shoulders wide enough to fill the frame. His coat hangs open, and I catch the shape of a pistol at his hip before his hand falls to cover it.
At first, I think he might be trouble.
Then I see his face.
Lord.
This man looks like he just got broke over his momma’s knee. His gaze drifts over us without finding purchase. His hat is crushed in one fist, brim bent near double.
He looks at Lula. Then at Okee. Then at me, standing here barefoot and robed in a whorehouse hallway like I made this place my private residence.
I watch him go, then lift a hand and knock before either of them can stop me. Three taps. Firm.
The hallway settles into an uneasy quiet.
From inside comes Goldie Eld’s brassy voice. “Come in.”
So I open the door.
A desk with neat stacks of paper laid out like playing cards. There is a bottle of amber liquor near her elbow, untouched, and a silver letter opener glinting beneath her hand.
Goldie does not look up right away.
“Well look what we have here. One of my daughter’s handsome lovers.”
My ears go hot.
Behind me, Okee makes a noise.
“Oh, both of her handsome lovers.”
Before she can finish her sentence all of us crowd her doorway. Me in my robe. Lula with her chin set. Okee looking like he would rather be shot than stand witness to whatever this is.
Goldie’s smile does not falter.
“Well now,” she says, leaning back in her chair, taking in the sight of us in our night clothes. “The whole delegation. Is the house on fire?”
I step farther into the room. “Ma’am, I know you ain’t got cause to trust me.”
“On the contrary,” Goldie says. “Men are easiest to trust when I know precisely what they want.”
“Well, that’s convenient. I want your ledgers.”
The room goes so still, I hear the lamp hiss.
Okee closes his eyes.
Lula whispers, “Boone.”
Goldie only looks at me.
No anger. No surprise. That is worse, somehow. She folds her hands atop the desk, all those rings flashing soft in the lamplight.
“My ledgers,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am. Between your ledgers and Lula’s notebook, we reckon we might have enough to make Hollister answer for what he done. Clear our names.”
Goldie listens without moving.
When I finish, she looks past me to Lula.
For the first time since I met the woman, something soft shows in her face. Not much. Just enough to prove there is blood under all that brass.
Then it vanishes.
“No,” she says. I wait for her to say something else, anything else, until I realize that was the whole sentence.
Lula’s expression doesn’t just say I told you so, it says I told you so, but damn if I ain’t wished I was wrong.
That look sets my blood to boiling.
I glower at Goldie. “No?”
“No.”
“With respect, ma’am,” I say, my respect on its dying breath, “I don’t think you understand. This’ll set things right for Lula.”
“I understood before you finished your first sentence.”
“Then why—”
“Because the only reason I am in a position to help anyone is discretion.” Goldie’s voice stays calm.
“Men speak in this office because they believe what they say here remains here. They boast. They confess. They bargain. That trust is my inventory. The moment one of my ledgers is held up to the world to damn Hollister, that all disappears.”
Lula’s jaw tightens but she doesn’t argue. I glance at Okee, hoping he can do one of his smart speeches and admonish her into doing what we want. But Okee is watching Goldie like he agrees with her.
Goldie stands then. Slow. Royal. Her chair gives a little creak behind her, but nothing else in the room dares make a sound. She comes around the desk. Lula goes stiff, but Goldie does not touch her. She stops just short.
“I will not give you my ledgers,” she says. “Not because I do not love you. But because I do.”
Lula’s eyes shine with fury. “You love yourself.”
“Yes,” Goldie agrees, as if that’s obvious. “And I am only in the position I am to assist you because I am who I am. What of it?”
That challenge changes the air. Okee’s head lifts.
Goldie looks at me again, and there is a spark in her now. “I thought you boys were supposed to be so clever they gave you a fancy name and everything. You still ain’t got this sorted?”
I tug my robe sash again to make sure it's shut. “Well that’s what we’re in here tryin’ to do, ma’am, and you’re makin’ it difficult.”
At that she laughs from her chest, the sound accented with the crackling wheeze of her lungs. “My God, you are adorable.” She comes over and sets a hand on my cheek. It’s cold but oddly comforting, the way only a mother’s hand can be. And as sour as I’d like to be, the touch disarms me.
I couldn't feel more vulnerable if I was standing here barefoot and near naked.
Oh, right. That’s exactly what the hellfire I’m doing, fool that I am.
“Sweetheart,” she says, soft. Eyes like Lula’s years from now looking at me with a kind of love I ain’t earned. “You march in here like a lost lodger in the night, all puffed up and ready to fix your pickle by asking me to put everything on the line on your behalf, is that right?”
My mouth goes dry.
Ain’t heard the idea put like that before, but it seems about right. “Ma’am, if I had the ledgers, I’d hand ’em over my—”
“Forget the ledgers,” she snaps, smacking my cheek gentle before throwing down her arms in frustration. “Your focus is too singular, my dear. You’ll get nowhere. The trick is to think of something else.”
Okee sighs behind me. “Ms. Eld, I can respect your position. But of what use is this information if leveraging it would jeopardize your reputation?”
She smiles. “Now that is the question.”
“It’s not simply leveraging it,” Lula says. “It’s how it’s leveraged. Fine, we can’t have your ledger, but we can tell someone what we know, can’t we?”
“Someone like who?” she asks.
“The newspaper man,” Okee answers. “You know of one, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“So then we’ll meet with him,” he says.
Goldie raises an eyebrow. “No.”
“No?” he repeats, slow and disbelieving. His expression sharpens, bite creeping into every word. “What would you have us do?”
“I would have you wait in your room as I have repeatedly fucking instructed.” Goldie folds her hands at her waist, looking prim enough for Sunday service while cussing at us like a mule driver. “You are to meet with no one. No one must know you are here.”
Okee draws a breath, and from the look in his eye I can tell he is reminding himself: this is a woman. This is Lula’s mother. Be calm.
I wish I could do the same.
“Look here, Goldie. I get it. You’re a real tough lady.
Toughest I’ve maybe ever met. And you’re helping us, and we’re grateful.
But let me tell you something you might be grateful for.
That stunt your friend Everett pulled at the Verdigris nearly got your daughter killed.
If it wasn’t for us, he would have. So instead of yanking us around, why don’t you do us the fine fucking favor of saying something useful? ”
Goldie turns her face slowly, looking at him over her shoulder, delight blooming.
“If you weren’t so cute,” she says, “I’d cut your balls off for speaking to me like that in my own office. But seeing as I know you’re only trying to help my daughter, I’ll give you and your beau a pass.”
My heart drops clean through me. I go still, then take one careful step back, the blood draining from my face. I swallow hard. The room goes quiet.
“Let’s not distract from the relevant issue,” Okee says. “You have made yourself clear. But someone must speak to the paper.”
“Why do you think Lula has been strolling around with this moron in public?” Goldie asks.
“The paper does not publish every fool rumor that crawls under the door. They require a little proof. Lula has been seen with Everett. People notice. You would be amazed how much they notice.” Her gaze slides to me.
“So when Lula shares certain information with the right ear,” Goldie continues, “things she heard from Everett himself, things he was foolish enough to say while trying to impress a pretty woman, she can credibly claim he confessed them to her.”
“You’re diabolical,” Lula says.
“Yes,” Goldie replies, with a pleased little nod.
“And once investors have reason to suspect fraud, the rest becomes easier. Illegal maps recorded with the government. False deeds. Boundary claims that do not match one office to the next. Men may lie, Mr. Collins, but paper has a terrible habit of contradicting them. And that man you saw leave my office? That was the mapmaker. He left enough behind to make Everett sweat, provided no fool in this room scares him into running before morning.”
She reaches for the untouched glass of liquor on her desk and takes a sip. “What did they call you boys again? The Jokers?”
“Aces,” I mutter. “Good night, Ms. Eld.”
“Goodnight, Boone. Hope you sleep a little better knowing I’ve got this under control. Now, you boys do yourselves a favor and don’t let me see you outside of your room again.”