Episode 84
About a Job
Cal had his work cut out before he’d get his steak dinner.
There were two shot houses back in the tent camp and Thad Jones was at neither of them. Calling them ‘houses’ was being generous. They were slapped-together she-bangs made of scrap timbers and floored with packed earth. They offered shots drawn from barrels containing watered down corn liquor of suspect origin. The proprietors of each both remembered seeing Jones recently but could not recall precisely when. Cal supposed that one drunk looked much like another after a while. Except Thad’s crutch made him memorable. He continued along the muddy lanes between the tents and shacks asking after Jones.
The miners were transients in the early days of the boom. They arrived in town to apply for claims at the assay office but were always told there were delays. What was meant to be a temporary camp for maybe a day or two became a permanent residence as the days became weeks then months. Some grew impatient and took off into the hills to wildcat. That’s where Cal came in, riding his rounds as a regulator to chase off anyone digging without legal permission from the capital to go prospecting.
The camp was home to Bohunks, Polacks, Micks and Dagos. He heard a babel of languages as he wandered the tents. His nose filled with the sickening miasma that rose from cookpots everywhere as wives and daughters worked to prepare evening meals. Garlic, potatoes, fired pork and the musty smell of boiling beans mixed with the sharper stink of liquor that hung in the air over the camp. Kids ran everywhere, most barefoot, and all with running noses. Babies cried and men argued. Somewhere a string instrument played, its music unfamiliar to Cal. It was a lively tune played with energy and only served to point up the dreariness of the camp. He decided that Jones was not among the miners. He was grateful to put the tents behind him to return to the older, more established part of town.
It was getting near dark when he found the man lying unconscious behind the Dollar Store. Thad Jones lay sprawled on his back, sound asleep and snoring to wake the dead. He smelled of sour mash and piss. His pants were soaked with both. Cal wondered if it were his own or if he’d been a target of one of the many stray dogs who wandered Eagle Flat.
“Thad. That you, boy?” Cal said, prodding the drunk in the side with the toe of his boot.
Thad waved a hand in a half-hearted effort to ward off the intrusion on his slumber. Cal prodded harder and Thad’s eyes, red as pickled eggs, opened with an effort. They blinked a time or two before hazy recognition coalesced in them.
“’zat you, Cal?” Thad said with a wet chuckle. They had shared an evening or two over a bottle at the Silk Hat in times past. Cal was generous with the rounds which engendered Thad’s deep affection for him.
“Been looking for you. Some folks want to talk to you. It’s about a job.”
Thad made a pouting expression with his lips as he considered this. He drew himself off the ground by his elbows and, with Cal gripping his coat sleeve, managed to achieve a sitting position. Once upright, he was overcome and leaned to one side to vomit violently. This seemed to restore him a bit and he drew one knee up to lean on.
“I’ll need my crutch,” he announced.
Cal looked around the alley and could see no crutch anywhere.
“Where’d you drop it?” Cal asked.
“I left it in there,” Thad said and pointed at the back door of the Dollar Store.
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