Free Hop Alley by Scott Phillips Page A

purchase of morphine injections from Dr. Stickhammer, who seemed very well-informed regarding Lemuel’s progress despite the fact that I had not taken him back in since the day the arm was set. The boy was so addled under normal circumstances that it was hard to tell from his speech and demeanor whether he was hopped up or not, but frequently after his midday meal break—which he no longer took with Mrs. Fenster and me—he returned to the studio with his pupils dilated and his manner especially dreamy and contented. I thought of trying to curtail it but it didn’t seem right; soon enough, I reasoned, the arm would be healed and he could quit the stuff.
    His unskilled duties had increased as his ability to perform his few skilled ones had diminished, and these now included fetching the morning newspapers for breakfast. One Monday morning as his aunt toiled in the kitchen he laid the Bulletin , the Daily Times , the Call , the Tribune , and the Rocky Mountain News down on the breakfast table. Neither of us said anything, and I was well into the Bulletin when he retreated into the kitchen for a word with Mrs. Fenster. I might have warned him that she was in an unusually foul temper that day, but I was absorbed by the news of the day and anyway didn’t much care what the old termagant did to him. I was examining the advertisements on the third page when the boy exited the kitchen and stood next to me for half a minute, saying nothing.
    “Are you lacking in work to do today?” I asked. “Because if so, I can think of a dozen jobs that need starting.”
    “No, sir. Could you read me something from out of there?”
    Taken aback, I asked what he wanted to learn about.
    “Anything in there about a man got shot in front of a saloon yesterday?”
    The article was on the front page, and I began reading it:
    CUT DOWN BY A LADY

    HIS ASSAILANT’S IDENTITY
    YET TO BE DISCOVERED.

    The Bulletin’s Own Pressman—
    A Model Employee for Three Years—
    Devoted Husband and Father of Four—
    He Is Not Expected to Last the Day.

               At about eleven o’clock last night Hiram Cowan, a printing press operator for the Bulletin , stepped out of the Silver Star Saloon near our offices, at whose door he was met by either one woman or two, depending upon the witness telling the tale, and shot through the abdomen with a small pistol. Mr. Cowan fell to the ground, whereupon his assailant or assailants fled into the darkness. Although the finest in medical care has been provided for him he is not expected to see the sun set again.
                    Members of the Denver Police expressed confidence that an arrest of the murderer can be made by this afternoon at the latest, and that with luck the victim will live sufficiently long to identify his killer.
    I put the paper down and found that the boy wasn’t listening. His gaze was fixed at the ground, and his left foot skidded back and forth in a slow rhythm. He looked as close to thoughtful as I had ever seen him.
    “That mean he’s dead or ain’t?”
    “Sounds like he’s going to be, soon enough. Did you see it happen?”
    He looked up at me, his breath whistling softly through his half-open mouth. “Nuh-uh.”
    “What’s your interest, then?”
    “That’s my old man.”
    I glanced at the article again. I had failed to recognize the father’s name, I realized, because I’d never bothered to learn the boy’s surname. I was surprised to learn that his father was employed, since I’d been under the impression that Lemuel was the family’s sole source of income, and I said so.
    “I mostly am, since he don’t bring much home with him.”
    He didn’t look very sad about his old pa’s impending demise. “Do you want to go and see him?”
    He shook his head no. “Not particular.”
    B ETWEEN THE PRIVY and the stable the odor in the summertime was faint-making, but on this chilly afternoon the ammoniac smell that wafted upward was ever present but