Bill Pronzini: Quincannon

The cable car clattered downhill on Sutter Street, toward where the lamps lining Market shone a blurred yellow through the rain-damp night. One of the lighted buildings below was the Reception Saloon; but Quincannon, riding outside in spite of the weather, paid no attention to its beckoning glow. Once he would have marked the nearness of the Reception with keen anticipation, but for almost a year now he had done his public drinking in Hoolihan’s Irish Pub, south of Market, where the liquor was cheaper and the patrons more interested in their drinks than in their drinking companions.

When the car slowed for its Market Street terminus, Quincannon dropped off. It was a chill night, with a sharp wind that slashed in from the Bay, and he drew up the collar of his greatcoat. But he scarcely felt the cold. The whiskey he had taken in his rooms on Leavenworth still warmed him like a banked fire.

He walked swiftly through the light rain, down Market in the direction of the Ferry Building — a big man, dark-haired under his derby hat, with a heavy gray-shot beard and an unsmiling countenance that gave him, falsely, the look of a freebooter. It was a weeknight, just before nine o’clock, and traffic was sparse: a few pedestrians hurrying from one saloon to another, a pair of lighted trolleys passing nearby, a lone hack looking for a fare, two or three carriages with their side-curtains drawn. From somewhere on the Bay, a foghorn gave its lonesome cry. A poor night for ships, a worse one for men like himself, out on business and mostly sober.

At Second Street he turned right and soon entered Hoolihan’s. It was crowded, as always in the evenings, its clientele composed for the most part of tradesmen, small merchants, office workers, and a somewhat rougher element up from the waterfront. No city leaders came here on their nightly rounds, as they did to the Reception, the Palace Hotel bar, Pop Sullivan’s Hoffman Cafe, and the other first-class saloons along the Cocktail Route; no judges, politicians, bankers, and gay young blades in their striped trousers, fine cravats, and brocaded waistcoats. Hoolihan’s had no crystal candelabra, fancy mirrors, expensive oil paintings, white-coated barmen, or elaborate free lunch. It was dark and bare by comparison, with sawdust thick-scattered on the floor and the only glitter and sparkle coming from the shine of its gaslights on the ranks of bottles and glasses along the backbar. And its free lunch consisted of staple fare: corned beef, strong cheese, rye bread, pots of mustard, and tubs of briny pickles.

Quincannon liked it better than any of the first-class saloons, and not only because it suited his need for privacy. It was an honest place, made for honest men and honest drinking. Far fewer lies were told in Hoolihan’s than in the rarified atmosphere of the Reception, he suspected, and far fewer dark deeds were hatched.

He made his way through the throng to the far corner of the bar, his customary place. He had an hour before he was due to meet Bonniwell, which allowed the better part of forty-five minutes to fortify himself. The edge he had maintained from his rooms was beginning to fade and the Virginia City images were gathering again: he could see Katherine Bennett’s face at the periphery of his mind, hear her screams; and the pain this brought him, as always, was too much to endure sober.

He ordered a double shot, drank it off, and ordered a second with a beer chaser. When the second whiskey was gone the images and the ghostly cries were at bay again. He took his pipe and a plug of tobacco from the pocket of his frock coat, busied his hands preparing a smoke.

Time passed. Quincannon thought about helping himself to the corned beef and rye bread, but even though he hadn’t eaten since noon, he had no appetite. He called to the barman for a third whiskey; but when it came he let it sit untouched, sipping his beer instead. He would take it just before he went out into the night again — that would be soon enough. His thoughts would have to be clear when he talked to Bonniwell.

Thinking of the little wharf rat and police informant guided his hand to his trouser pocket, to the counterfeit half eagle he carried there. Absently, he ran his thumb over its edge. Fair craftsmanship. Much better had gone into the counterfeit ten-dollar note tucked into a corner of his billfold; the engraver who had designed the plates was a man of rare talent. The most accomplished koniakers he had come up against in ten years, this bunch. And the cleverest by far. If Bonniwell -

“Quincannon, isn’t it?” a voice said at his elbow. “John Quincannon?”

He turned to face a tubby man wearing muttonchop whiskers and a Prince Albert, with an ivory-headed cane looped over his arm. The round, red face was somewhat familiar, but he couldn’t quite place a name to it. He had no desire for casual conversation on this night — on any night in the past year — and rudeness was the best way to avoid it. He turned back to his drinks without making a reply.

But the tubby man wedged in alongside him and hooked a polished vici kid shoe over the brass rail. “Perhaps you don’t recall me, sir. The name is Muldauer, William Muldauer. Reporter for the San Francisco News. I interviewed you once — let me see, four years ago, I think it was. Yes. The Barlow case. Altered wildcat bank notes, if you’ll remember.”

Quincannon remembered. He also remembered Muldauer, now, along with the fact that he hadn’t cared for the man at the time of the interview. He remained silent, reaching for his beer.

Muldauer would not be put off. “You are still with the Secret Service, Mr. Quincannon? A man of your abilities… yes, of course you are. Are you at liberty to discuss your current work, by any chance?”

Quincannon drank from his stein, wiped foam off his mustache. The Seth Thomas on the wall above the backbar gave the time as twenty-five of ten. He would have to leave soon if he expected to reach Bonniwell’s rooming house by ten o’clock.

“I should be delighted to have another interview,” Muldauer said. He leaned closer and breathed the odor of shandygaff into Quincannon’s face. If there was one drink Quincannon hated it was shandygaff; diluting good beer with ginger ale was an abomination. “I can guarantee that my editor will pay ten dollars for the privilege.”

Damn your editor, Quincannon thought, and almost gave voice to the words. Instead he said, “I’m not interested, Mr. Muldauer. I can’t and won’t speak about my present activities. Now if you don’t mind — ”

“Secret work, eh?” Muldauer said. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the coney greenbacks that have flooded the coast the past few months, would it?”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Ah! Of course not.” Muldauer gave him a conspiratorial wink, and Quincannon realized that the man was more than a little drunk. Too drunk to be insulted; too drunk to be gotten rid of in an ordinary fashion. “Who’s behind the game, sir? Any speculations? Some say it’s a gang in Seattle, led by an old queersman named Schindler. What would you say, Mr. Quincannon? Off the record, naturally. A passing remark.”

Quincannon lifted the shot glass, drained the whiskey at a swallow, and nudged the tubby reporter away from him. “Good night, Mr. Muldauer,” he said, and moved off across the crowded room without looking back.

But when he reached the door he felt a tug at his coat sleeve and saw that Muldauer had followed him. He shrugged off the hand, stepped out into the misty darkness. Muldauer, still persistent, came after him.

“If you won’t discuss your current work, Mr. Quincannon, perhaps a past case? Eh? Our readers are always interested in good detective work, and you’ve a reputation for it. The Stanley case in Virginia City comes to mind. Details are meager; we should all like to know more.”