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  Bill Pronzini

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright © 2013 Bill Pronzini

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  Oddments

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  NON-FICTION:

  Gun in Cheek: An Affectionate Guide to the Worst in Mystery Fiction

  Son of Gun in Cheek

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  Gallows Land

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  Contents

  Fergus O'Hara, Detective

  Chip

  Opportunity

  A Craving for Originality

  One of Those Cases (A "Nameless Detective" Story)

  I Didn't Do It

  Quicker Than the Eye (with Michael Kurland)

  Angel of Mercy

  Connoisseur

  Mrs. Rakubian

  Smuggler's Island

  A Taste of Paradise

  Under the Skin

  Prose Bowl (with Barry N. Malzberg)

  Fergus O'Hara, Detective

  On a balmy March afternoon in the third full year of the War Between the States, while that conflict continued to rage bloodily some two thousand miles distant, Fergus and Hattie O'Hara jostled their way along San Francisco's Embarcadero toward Long Wharf and the riverboat Delta Star. The half-plank, half-dirt roads and plank walks were choked with horses, mules, cargo-laden wagons—and with all manner of humanity: bearded miners and burly roustabouts and sun-darkened farmers; rope-muscled Kanakas and Filipino laborers and coolie-hatted Chinese; shrewd-eyed merchants and ruffle-shirted gamblers and bonneted ladies who might have been the wives of prominent citizens or trollops on their way to the gold fields of the Mother Lode. Both the pace and the din were furious. At exactly four P.M. some twenty steamers would leave the waterfront, bound upriver for Sacramento and Stockton and points in between.

  O'Hara clung to their carpetbags and Hattie clung to O'Hara as they pushed through the throng. They could see the Delta Star the moment they reached Long Wharf. She was an impressive side-wheeler, one of the "floating palaces" that had adorned the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers for more than ten years. Powered by a single-cylinder, vertical-beam engine, she was 245 feet long and had slim, graceful lines. The long rows of windows running full length both starboard and larboard along her deckhouse, where the Gentlemen's and Dining Saloons and most of the staterooms were located, refracted jewel-like the rays of the afternoon sun. Above, to the stern, was the weather deck, on which stretched the "texas"; this housed luxury staterooms and cabins for the packet's officers. Some distance forward of the texas was the oblong glassed-in structure of the pilothouse.

  Smiling as they approached, O'Hara said, "Now ain't she a fine lady?" He spoke with a careless brogue, the result of a strict ethnic upbringing in the Irish Channel section of New Orleans. At times this caused certain individuals to underestimate his capabilities and intelligence, which in his profession was a major asset.

  "She is fine, Fergus," Hattie agreed. "As fine as any on the Mississippi before the war. How far did you say it was to Stockton?"

  O'Hara laughed. "A hundred twenty-seven miles. One night in the lap of luxury is all we'll be having this trip, me lady."

  "Pity," Hattie said. She was in her late twenties, five years younger than her husband; dark-complected, buxom. Thick black hair, worn in ringlets, was covered by a lace-decorated bonnet. She wore a gray serge traveling dress, the hem of which was now coated with dust.

  O'Hara was tall and plump, and sported a luxuriant red beard of which he was inordinately proud and on which he doted every morning with scissors and comb. Like Hattie, he had mild blue eyes; unlike Hattie, and as a result of a fondness for spirits, he possessed a nose that approximated the color of his beard. He was dressed in a black frock coat, striped trousers, and a flowered vest. He carried no visible weapons, but in a holster inside his coat was a double-action revolver.

  The Delta Star'sstageplank, set aft to the main deck, was jammed with passengers and wagons; it was not twenty till four. A large group of nankeen-dressed men were congregated near the foot of the plank. All of them wore green felt shamrocks pinned to the lapels of their coats, and several were smoking thin, "long-nine" seegars. Fluttering above them on a pole held by one was a green banner with the words Mulrooney Guards, San Francisco Company A crudely printed on it in white.

  Four of the group were struggling to lift a massive wooden crate that appeared to be quite heavy. They managed to get it aloft, grunting, and began to stagger with it to the plank. As they started up, two members of the Delta Star'sdeck crew came down and blocked their way. One of them said, "Before you go any farther, gents, show us your manifest on that box."

  One of the other Mulrooneys stepped up the plank. "What manifest?" he demanded. "This ain't cargo, it's personal belongings."

  "Anything heavy as that pays cargo," the deckhand said. "Rules is rules and they apply to Bluebellies same as to better folks."

  "Bluebellies, is it? Ye damned Copperhead, I'll pound ye up into horsemeat!" And the Mulrooney hit the deckhand on the side of the head and knocked him down.

  The second crew member stepped forward and hit the Mulrooney on the side of the head and knocked him down.

  Another of the Guards jumped in and hit the second crewman on the side of the head and knocked him down.

  The first deckhand got up and the first Mulrooney got up, minus his hat, and began swinging at each other. The second crewman got up and began swinging at the second Mulrooney. The other members of the Guards, shouting encouragement, formed a tight circle around the fighting men—all except for the four carrying the heavy wooden crate.

  Those Mulrooneys struggled up the stageplank with their burden and disappeared among the confusion on the main deck.

  The fight did not last long. Several roustabouts and one of the steamer's mates hurried onto the landing and broke it up. No one seemed to have been injured, save for the two deckhands who were both unconscious. The mate seemed undecided as to what to do, finally concluded that to do nothing at all was the best recourse; he turned up the plank again. Four roustabouts carried the limp crewmen up after him, followed by the Guards who were all now loudly singing "John Brown's Body."

  Hattie asked O'Hara, "Now what was that all about?"

  "War business," he told her solemnly. "California's a long way from the battlefields, but feelings and loyalties are as stron
g here as in the East."

  "But who are the Mulrooney Guards?"

  Before O'Hara could answer, a tall man wearing a Prince Albert, who was standing next to Hattie, swung toward them and smiled and said, "I couldn't help overhearing the lady's question. If you'll pardon the intrusion, I can supply an answer."

  O'Hara looked the tall man over and decided he was a gambler. He had no particular liking for gamblers, but for the most part he was tolerant of them. He said the intrusion was pardoned, introduced himself and Hattie, and learned that the tall man was John A. Colfax, of San Francisco.

  Colfax had gray eyes that were both congenial and cunning. In his left hand he continually shuffled half a dozen small bronze war-issue cents—coinage that was not often seen in the West. He said, "The Mulrooney Guards is a more or less official militia company, one of several supporting the Union cause. They have two companies, one in San Francisco and one in Stockton. I imagine this one is joining the other for some sort of celebration."

  "Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day," O'Hara told him.

  "Ah, yes, of course."

  "Ye seem to know quite a bit about these lads, Mr. Colfax."

  "I am a regular passenger on the Delta Star,"Colfax said. "On the Sacramento packets as well. A traveling man picks up a good deal of information."

  O'Hara said blandly, "Aye, that he does."

  Hattie said, "I wonder what the Mulrooneys have in that crate?"

  Colfax allowed as how he had no idea. He seemed about to say something further, but the appearance of three closely grouped men, hurrying through the crowd toward the stageplank, claimed his attention. The one in the middle, O'Hara saw, wore a broadcloth suit and a nervous, harried expression; cradled in both hands against his body was a large and apparently heavy valise. The two men on either side were more roughly dressed, had revolvers holstered at their hips. Their expressions were dispassionate, their eyes watchful.

  O'Hara frowned and glanced at Colfax. The gambler watched the trio climb the plank and hurry up the aft stairway; then he said quietly, as if to himself, "It appears we'll be carrying more than passengers and cargo this trip." He regarded the O'Haras again, touched his hat, said it had been a pleasure talking to them, and moved away to board the riverboat.

  Hattie looked at her husband inquiringly. He said, "Gold."

  "Gold, Fergus?"

  "That nervous chap had the look of a banker, the other two of deputies. A bank transfer of specie or dust from here to Stockton—or so I'm thinking."

  "Where will they keep it?"

  "Purser's office, mayhap. Or the pilothouse."

  Hattie and O'Hara climbed the plank. As they were crossing the main deck, the three men appeared again on the stairway; the one in the broadcloth suit looked considerably less nervous now. O'Hara watched them go down onto the landing. Then, shrugging, he followed Hattie up the stairs to the weather deck. They stopped at the starboard rail to await departure.

  Hattie said, "What did you think of Mr. Colfax?"

  "A slick-tongued lad, even for a gambler. But ye'd not want to be giving him a coin to put in a village poor box for ye."

  She laughed. "He seemed rather interested in the delivery of gold, if that's what it was."

  "Aye, so he did."

  At exactly four o'clock the Delta Star'swhistle sounded; her buckets churned the water, steam poured from her twin stacks. She began to move slowly away from the wharf. All up and down the Embarcadero now, whistles sounded and the other packets commenced backing down from their landings. The waters of the bay took on a chaotic appearance as the boats maneuvered for right-of-way. Clouds of steam filled the sky; the sound of pilot whistles was angry and shrill.

  Once the Delta Star was clear of the wharves and of other riverboats, her speed increased steadily. Hattie and O'Hara remained at the rail until San Francisco's low, sun-washed skyline had receded into the distance; then they went in search of a steward, who took them to their stateroom. Its windows faced larboard, but its entrance was located inside a tunnellike hallway down the center of the texas. Spacious and opulent, the cabin contained carved rosewood paneling and red plush upholstery. Hattie said she thought it was grand. O'Hara, who had never been particularly impressed by Victorian elegance, said he imagined she would be wanting to freshen up a bit—and that, so as not to be disturbing her, he would take a stroll about the decks.

  "Stay away from the liquor buffet," Hattie said. "The day is young, if I make my meaning clear."

  O'Hara sighed. "I had no intention of visiting the liquor buffet," he lied, and sighed again, and left the stateroom.

  He wandered aft, past the officers' quarters. When he emerged from the texas he found himself confronted by the huge A-shaped gallows frame that housed the cylinder, valve gear, beam and crank of the walking-beam engine. Each stroke of the piston produced a mighty roar and hiss of escaping steam. The noise turned O'Hara around and sent him back through the texas to the forward stairway.

  Ahead of him as he started down were two men who had come out of the pilothouse. One was tall, with bushy black hair and a thick mustache apparently a passenger. The second wore a square-billed cap and the sort of stern, authoritative look that would have identified him as the Delta Star'spilot even without the cap. At this untroubled point in the journey, the packet would be in the hands of a cub apprentice.

  The door to the Gentlemen's Saloon kept intruding on O'Hara's thoughts as he walked about the deckhouse. Finally he went down to the main deck. Here, in the open areas and in the shedlike expanse beneath the superstructures, deck passengers and cargo were pressed together in noisy confusion: men and women and children, wagons and animals and chickens in coops; sacks, bales, boxes, hogsheads, cords of bull pine for the roaring fireboxes under the boilers. And, too, the Mulrooney Guards, who were loosely grouped near the taffrail, alternately singing "The Girl I Left Behind Me" and passing around jugs of what was likely poteen—a powerful homemade Irish whiskey.

  O'Hara sauntered near the group, stood with his back against a stanchion, and began to shave cuttings from his tobacco plug into his briar. One of the Mulrooneys — small and fair and feisty looking noticed him, studied his luxuriant red beard, and then approached him carrying one of the jugs. Without preamble he demanded to know if the gentleman were Irish. O'Hara said he was, with great dignity. The Mulrooney slapped him on the back. "I knew it!" he said effusively. "Me name's Billy Culligan. Have a drap of the crayture."

  O'Hara decided Hattie had told him only to stay away from the buffet. There was no deceit in accepting hospitality from fellows of the Auld Sod. He took the jug, drank deeply, and allowed as how it was a fine crayture, indeed. Then he introduced himself, saying that he and the missus were traveling to Stockton on a business matter.

  "Ye won't be conducting business on the morrow, will ye?"

  "On St. Pat's Day?" O'Hara was properly shocked.

  "Boyo, I like ye," Culligan said. "How would ye like to join in on the biggest St. Pat's Day celebration in the entire sovereign state of California?"

  "I'd like nothing better."

  "Then come to Green Park, on the north of Stockton, 'twixt nine and ten and tell the lads ye're a friend of Billy Culligan. There'll be a parade, and all the food and liquor ye can hold. Oh, it'll be a fine celebration, lad!"

  O'Hara said he and the missus would be there, meaning it. Culligan offered another drink of poteen, which O'Hara casually accepted. Then the little Mulrooney stepped forward and said in a conspiratorial voice, "Come round here to the taffrail just before we steam into Stockton on the morrow. We've a plan to start off St. Pat's Day with a mighty salute—part of the reason we sent our wives and wee ones ahead on the San Joaquin. Ye won't want to be missing that either." Before O'Hara could ask him what he meant by "mighty salute," he and his jug were gone into the midst of the other Guards.

  "Me lady," O'Hara said contentedly, "that was a meal fit for royalty and no doubt about it."

  Hattie agreed that it had been a sumptuous re
past as they walked from the Dining Saloon to the texas stairway. The evening was mild, with little breeze and no sign of the thick Tule fog that often made Northern California riverboating a hazardous proposition. The Delta Star—aglow with hundreds of lights—had come through the Carquinez Straits, passed Chipp's Island, and was now entering the San Joaquin River. A pale moon silvered the water, turned a ghostly white the long stretches of fields along both banks.

  On the weather deck, they stood close together at the larboard rail, not far from the pilothouse. For a couple of minutes they were alone. Then footsteps sounded and O'Hara turned to see the ship's captain and pilot returning from their dinner. Touching his cap, the captain—a lean, graying man of fifty-odd—wished them good evening. The pilot merely grunted.

  The O'Haras continued to stand looking out at the willows and cottonwoods along the riverbank. Then, suddenly, an explosive, angry cry came from the pilothouse, startling them both. This was followed by muffled voices, another sharp exclamation, movement not clearly perceived through the window glass and beyond partially drawn rear curtains, and several sharp blasts on the pilot whistle.

  Natural curiosity drew O'Hara away from the rail, hurrying; Hattie was close behind him. The door to the pilothouse stood open when they reached it, and O'Hara turned inside by one step. The enclosure was almost as opulent as their stateroom, but he noticed its appointments only peripherally. What captured his full attention was three men now grouped before the wheel, and the four items on the floor close to and against the starboard bulkhead.

  The pilot stood clutching two of the wheel spokes, red-faced with anger; the captain was bending over the kneeling figure of the third man—a young blond individual wearing a buttoned-up sack coat and baggy trousers, both of which were streaked with dust and soot and grease. The blond lad was making soft moaning sounds, holding the back of his head cupped in one palm.