Jonas Hollister sat in the main dining room of the Paradise Hotel. He couldn’t stop staring at the table linen and thought for a moment it might be the brightest white cloth he’d ever seen. After four years of nothing but the drab gray and dank darkness of Leavenworth, it almost hurt his eyes. But the mug of cold beer sitting before him was another object of rapt attention.
Hollister had never been much of a drinker. He had shared brandy with General Sheridan during the war or when he called his officers together for staff meetings. And he occasionally had imbibed with his commanding officers at various posts on the frontier, so when it came to liquor he could take it or leave it. But the first sip of beer in more than four years felt like someone had tipped back his head and poured liquid ambrosia down his throat.
Hollister fingered the pips on his collar, feeling the major’s leaves there, and looked down at the dark blue sleeves of his blouse, something he thought he’d never wear again. He touched his belt and the leather cover of the holster holding the Navy Colt he’d been issued by the prison quartermaster. There was almost too much to take in. He felt slightly disconnected, like he was walking through a parallel world.
The Paradise was the fanciest hotel in Leavenworth. Pinkerton had given Hollister his first month’s salary in advance and told him and Sergeant Chee to have dinner, then meet at the railway station, where their train car was being readied.
Hollister sensed motion beside him, looked up and nearly jumped out of his seat, for the newly promoted Sergeant Major Chee was standing next to the table at attention.
“Holy shit, Sergeant! How did you do that?”
“Sir?” Chee asked.
“You snuck up on me,” Hollister said.
“No, sir. I’m reporting for duty as ordered, sir.”
Hollister studied the man before him. Not quite six feet tall, thin and rangy, his skin was coffee colored, his hair dark and curly. He had gray eyes, a shade Hollister had never seen before, but surmised they were eyes that never missed much.
“At ease, Sergeant, have a seat.”
Chee sat in the chair to Hollister’s right and Jonas could tell he was uncomfortable.
“Something wrong, Sergeant Chee?” Hollister asked.
“Sir? Uh… no, sir,” Chee said, shifting in his seat.
Hollister raised his hand and gestured to the waiter, who stood behind the bar across the room, in conversation with the bartender. Hollister watched until the waiter looked at him again. Hollister waved him over but the man stayed rooted to his spot. Another fellow dressed in a black suit walked into the dining room and strolled behind the bar, speaking quietly to the waiter and the bartender. After a moment he approached their table.
“Good evening, sir,” the man said to Hollister. He was portly, with a full set of whiskers. His hair was streaked with white, and he had stared hard at Chee as he approached the table.
“Evening,” said Hollister.
“Sir… Major… there is… if you would be kind enough to join me in the lobby for a brief discussion?”
Hollister looked at the man and a glimmer of understanding washed over him. “I’m a little pressed for time. Let’s discuss it here if you don’t mind,” he said.
“Sir, really…” the man stammered.
“Get to the point,” Hollister said.
The man sighed deeply, pinching his nose with his fingers. “Sir, our hotel has a strict policy regarding the…”
“Regarding what?” Hollister interrupted.
Chee had been silently watching the exchange, but then understood. He was not welcome in a place like the Paradise Hotel, and he started to rise from his chair.
“At ease, Sergeant,” Hollister said. Chee, confused, sat back down.
“Regarding what?” Hollister asked the man again.
“Major, you are of course more than welcome to dine with us this evening, but the hotel has a strict policy regarding the service of
… certain individuals.”
“Really? What individuals would that be? It wouldn’t be soldiers wearing the uniform of the United States Army, would it?” Hollister asked.
“No sir, of course not… it’s just that your companion… is… sir, I’m sure you understand we… the Paradise Hotel
… does not allow… Negroes to be served on our premises,” the man said, choosing his words very carefully.
“Really?” Hollister asked, the incredulity dripping from his voice. He turned and looked at Chee. “Sergeant? Are you a Negro?”
“One quarter, sir,” the sergeant answered quietly.
“I’ll be damned. Well there you go… Mr… I’m sorry… I didn’t get your name?” Hollister asked.
“It’s McLaren, sir, general manager of-”
Hollister interrupted again, “You heard the man. He’s only one quarter Negro, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Sir… Major… I have no desire to make this uncomfortable for anyone. You, of course, are welcome to dine at your leisure, and I would be happy to have the kitchen prepare something for the sergeant
… but I’m afraid he will have to leave the dining room.”
Hollister put his head down for a moment. He thought of the events earlier in the day, of Chee taking on McAfee in the yard. He chuckled to himself quietly. He unsnapped the leather cover of his holster, removed the. 44 caliber Navy Colt, and laid it on the linen tablecloth.
“Sergeant, were you able to test fire your weapon before you met me here?” Hollister asked.
“No, sir,” Chee answered.
“I see. Perhaps we can do it here, starting with the first row of whiskey bottles behind the bar. My last Colt tended to pull up and to the right on the recoil. Hollister picked up the weapon and cocked the hammer, aiming it at the bottles. The bartender and waiter shouted, ducking quickly beneath the wooden bar.
“Major!” McLaren shouted waving his hands. “Please. There is no need…”
“You’re quite correct, Mr. McLaren, there is no need,” Hollister said. He extended his arm and sighted down the barrel. “So here is what is going to happen.” He paused. “Look at me, Mr. McLaren, while I tell you how this is going to play out.” McLaren had turned away and buried his head in his arms, waiting for the sound of shots. He reluctantly uncurled and faced the Major.
“Master Sergeant Chee and I are going to sit here in the dining room of the Paradise Hotel of Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and enjoy two of your finest steak dinners. Then we are going to pay our bill and leave. Otherwise, I’m going to work on test firing my Colt right here in your fine establishment. Are we clear?”
Mr. McLaren swallowed hard. “Sir, please, my job…”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about your job, Mr. McLaren. I’d be more worried about the noise and all the busted glass if we don’t get our dinners post haste. Besides you wouldn’t want word to get out the Paradise Hotel doesn’t welcome patrons from the U.S. Army, would you? Hollister released the hammer on the Colt and put it back on the table.
“We’re waiting on our steaks. My companion here would like a beer and I’d like another. And I’ll expect them promptly or I may have to reconsider target practice. Am I understood?” Hollister looked up at McLaren.
“Yes, sir, perfectly. Your dinner shall be here momentarily.” McLaren turned on his heel and headed back to the bar. Hollister could hear him issuing orders to his employees.
Chee stared in disbelief at Hollister for a long moment.
“Thank you, sir,” Chee finally said.
“Don’t mention it, Sergeant,” Hollister said. “Enjoy your dinner.”