Miseries and Familiars
A faint smell of coal tar rose from the wooden bricks of the street. He had not yet reached the part of town where repairs were infrequent. Chicago was growing at a dizzying pace. He was heading past the towering buildings and the new businesses, towards the more miserable areas that hadn't changed much since his youth. There'd be no fresh paving there.
Al Swearengen made his way down the street, scanning the crowd out of habit. His frock coat and trousers were close-cut, showing the lines of his trim body. His fine embroidered red vest was accented with gold buttons and a fine watch chain. A heavy wave of thick black hair was a touch longer that the current fashion, framing his high cheekbones and setting off his frosty green eyes. His lips, thin but mobile, could quirk up in a knowing half-smile that many had found charming.
Absent a need to convey a message, true or feigned, his face fell into an expression of chill contempt, lips tight and turned down, half hidden by a trim moustache. As he looked past the people around him, his hooded eyes were predatory, deep green eyes marred by tiny blood-colored flecks in the iris. Violence and killing had etched dark lines into his face, although he could still hide his ruthlessness when necessary.
He stopped at a street vendor, handing over a coin for an apple. In that brief exchange, he cloaked himself with an air of affability. He gave the vendor a congenial smile, made a joking comment about his wares. The street vendor would have said he seemed like a decent gent, quick with a joke.
Al overpaid for his apple by half, throwing it away after one bite when the vendor wasn't looking. Prudence dictated that he charm his way into a false rapport with someone close to where he was going to do business. He never knew when he might need an alibi or a spy.
His stomach tightened against the bit of apple as he approached the door. Most didn't remember him here anymore. All but one of the worst of them were gone, although he could feel their ghosts through the wood. He could see himself at different ages, his breathing coming faster until he turned fear into hatred, hatred into coldness. He carefully shut that part of himself down. Memories were hindrances, and if they couldn't be destroyed, they could be locked away.
At first he thought his knock on the heavy wooden door was echoing in the chill morning air. As the pounding continued, he recognized the sound of nails being hammered into wood. The sound was different from experienced men building something to last and shelter. Amateur carpenters driving cheap nails into cheaper wood was a sound he remembered from his childhood; coffin-making sounds. It was a sound that no longer brought a chill; today it was barely acknowledged as a piece of information.
The heavy door swung open. The woman standing there was fat and piggy in a faded black dress, greasy curls piled on her head in a cheap attempt to look respectable. Her squinting eyes had a dark glint to them as she looked at Al. They remembered each other well, but they had an uneasy agreement to disregard the years he spent under her cruel indifferent thumb.
Once, a few years ago, she had made reference to Al's stay with her, two orphans in the room. He had given her a filial hug, his body hiding the knife pricking at her kidneys, whispering that the presence of children would hold his blade this one time only. She swore she would never speak of his time with her again. Seeing the tiny blood spots on her undershift that night, she swore to herself as well that she would erase Albert Swearengen from her memory, other than Al the procurer who occasionally bought her girls.
"Mrs. Anderson."
He chose to ignore even basic social courtesies. He had not erased Mrs. Fat Fucking Anderson from his memory.
She had no such constraints. She still held out hope that a show of respect might work towards her benefit, or at least to her safety.
"Mr. Swearengen, how do you do? It's good to—"
"What's that hammering? Got a croaker on your hands?" He stepped inside and stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He knew she would be worried over not seeing his hands. The thought made him smile.
"Let's talk in the parlor, shall we?" She turned to guide him into the parlor, shoulders twitching over him being behind her. She never liked her back being towards this one, even when he was a boy. Showing it, though, would not be wise.
She sat on a ratty, overstuffed sofa, stained and indifferently cleaned over the years. Al remained on his feet looking down at her.
"Ah…the unfortunate departed. That would be our Mamie, poor soul. Passed last night."
Mamie. Stubborn, stubborn Mamie.
"Why ain't she in Potter's Field?"
"Mamie put aside a bit here and there to see she got buried proper." And gave it to the fucking parish priest to hold for her, damn her eyes for being a holding-out whore, she thought.
"Did she?" He raised an eyebrow. He knew whores, and those who created them. "Who held the money for her?"
Mrs. Anderson looked up at his dark flat eyes, wondering if he could now read minds.
"Father Campbell, him who gave her the last rites. And her daughter gave up a bit of her coin, as well." Little bitch, sneaky like her mother. At least she was among the living and able to take a beating.
"A day of surprises." He looked around the shabby room. "Mamie laid out here?"
"She's been lain out in her room. We've been preparing her earthly remains for her Christian burial."
A red haze went through his brain for a split second. He could cut her throat for that statement alone.
"I'd see her. Pay my last respects, before we do business."
She started shaking her head, then saw the look in his eyes. Black heat and death looked back at her.
She sighed. "You know the way. Ask whoever opens the door."
He left the room without a word.