Two weeks later
“Is that where he spends most of his time?” Pinkerton asked.
“Yes, or at the Golden Star,” Chee said.
“God damn, I feel sorry for the man,” Pinkerton said.
Chee did not answer.
“Let’s go,” Pinkerton said.
“Before we do…” Chee pulled the Order of Saint Ignatius medallion from his pocket and flipped it in the air. Pinkerton caught it and held it out in his palm so Chee could plainly see it.
“Well done, Sergeant,” Pinkerton said, giving Chee his own coin. Chee repeated Pinkerton’s action, and satisfied, they left.
They walked through the streets of Denver until they reached the saloon. As he usually was, Hollister sat at the corner table farthest from the bar. A single glass and a bottle of whiskey sat in front of him, and his head was down as if he were trying to stare a hole through the table.
“Major Hollister,” Pinkerton said as he approached.
Hollister recognized the voice and glanced up. He looked briefly at Pinkerton and said nothing and returned to staring at his whiskey glass.
“I have something for you,” Pinkerton said, pulling a folded paper from his suit coat pocket.
He unfolded it and handed it to Hollister. Jonas looked at it, then tossed it onto the table. Across the top of the paper in large type it read, PRESIDENTIAL PARDON.
“Just as we agreed,” Pinkerton said.
“Thanks,” Hollister muttered.
“I have something else,” Pinkerton said.
“What? Because if you don’t mind, I really like to drink alone.” Hollister looked at Pinkerton. The detective could tell he wasn’t much of a drinker. His eyes weren’t bloodshot and the bottle was mostly full. He came here and sat and sipped his whiskey because that’s what a man with a broken heart does.
Pinkerton removed a leather wallet from his suit pocket.
Hollister was a little drunk. “You keep pulling shit out of your pockets, Pinkerton. You haven’t got a monkey in there, have you?”
Pinkerton handed him the wallet. Hollister opened it. On one side was a badge. On the other was a small picture of Hollister from his army days, printed on a card that said, DEPUTY INSPECTOR, U.S. DEPT. OF THE INTERIOR, OFFICE OF PARANORMAL AFFAIRS.
“What’s this?” Hollister said.
“It’s a new job, now that you’ve completed your original assignment. Sergeant Chee here has already said yes. You’ll travel around the west, and investigate… things. Like you just did with the Archaics. Incidents that are strange, curious, and don’t add up. You’ll keep the train and Monkey Pete. You’ll get a raise in pay. You’ll save lives. In fact we’ve already got a case for you down near the Mexican border. Might be Apaches. Might be something else. I’d like you and Chee to find out.”
Hollister snapped the wallet shut and handed it back to Pinkerton. “Can I let you know? Think on it for a few days?”
Pinkerton stroked his beard with his gnarled fingers. “All right, fine,” he said. “But don’t take too long, Jonas. People are dying.”
Jonas picked up the glass and stared at the detective through the amber liquid.
“Mr. Pinkerton,” he said. “Someone, somewhere, is always dying.”
Chee and Pinkerton turned and left the saloon, leaving Hollister alone with his whisky bottle and his thoughts.