The Game of Love and Death(20)

“Boy’s from the newspaper,” Will said. “He’s going to tell our story. Maybe then people that got jobs and such will think about hiring the likes of us.”

“Fat chance,” said one with an Irish accent.

“Don’t mind Rowan,” Will said.

“How do you know he isn’t a copper?” Rowan shoved himself away from the shack he’d been leaning against and advanced toward Henry. “Gatherin’ up information that’ll be used to bust this place up.”

“He’s not,” Will said, “he’s a kid.” He gave Henry a hard look. “Right?”

Henry felt uneasy, knowing what Mr. Thorne wanted. “I’m not with the police,” he said. “Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Inside were the two dollars he hadn’t spent the previous night at the Domino. Rowan snatched the bills, inspecting them before tucking them into the pocket of his coveralls.

Will shook his head. “Come on, Henry. Watch where you walk. The ground isn’t level and not all of the men use the privy at the end of the dock.”


As they wove through the maze of shacks, across depleted, gray soil scarred with ruts, Henry learned Will’s story. He’d grown up in the Skagit Valley, where his family had a tulip farm. He’d fought with the Second Infantry Division in the Great War, and lost the farm a couple of years after the Depression. He’d come to Seattle to find work, and had ended up in Hooverville.

They stopped walking. “Each of these,” he said, “is a house for one man or two, depending. Duck your head in here. No one’ll mind.”

Henry peered inside a small, mud-spattered shack with a tar-paper roof. It had no windows, and at night would be as dark as a cave.

“Bed’s there,” Will said, pointing to a piece of plywood covered with a well-worn scrap of burlap and a few sheets of newsprint. “There’s the table and chairs.” By those, he meant two overturned boxes that had once contained apples.

“A man can have a house for twelve dollars or so — four if the seller’s drunk.” Will chuckled grimly. “No women and children. Not anymore, anyway, although from time to time you do see one. Found a little tyke all curled up in a crate once, but took him back to the orphans’ home. Wouldn’t have lasted two weeks here, not with some of the characters who mix with us.”

They made their way to the center of the once vacant lot, where the largest building in Hooverville stood.

“This here’s the church,” Will said. More care and better building materials had gone into its construction. On the front stood a porch with wide, horizontal rails. The front rose to a shallow peak, where a cross had been nailed above a decorative lattice capped with a curving beam. “Most days, though, doesn’t feel like God bothers to show up, even though our new mayor acts like he’s God’s gift, if I do say so.”

Nearby, men argued. When it became clear the dispute was getting worse, Will held up his hand. “Wait here a moment.”

He strode toward the source of the scuffle, which now included grunts and the thuds of fists meeting flesh. Henry followed, intending to sneak back to the church once he learned what was going on. Peering around the rough edge of a shack, he saw Will holding two red-faced men apart. In the air, the sharp scent of alcohol. In the background was a contraption with rusting pipes and barrels. A still.

Henry slipped back to the church and wrote a quick description of what he’d seen and where. If he could prove the men weren’t paying taxes — and they almost certainly weren’t — Ethan would have his story. But Henry wished he wouldn’t want it.

Will returned and registered Henry’s stricken look. “A dozen gallons a day pays for a lot of bread and meat. Those soup kitchens? Dinner only and not much of it. Without this, these men would starve.” He paused. “It’d be better if they drank less and sold more. But I’d challenge any man to live here and not want to take the edge off a bit. What we want is a chance, not charity. So you’ll keep that part out of your story, right?”

Henry considered this, and thought about all the alcohol that was consumed at the Domino, and even the glasses of wine and tumblers of Scotch at Ethan’s house. What made this so very different, aside from the matter of taxes?

Before he’d worked out his opinion, Ethan and James returned.

“I’m glad to see you’ve shown our guest the church,” James said. “We do like a spiritual moment now and again in Hooverville.” He turned to Ethan, extending his hand. “I’ll see you again next week?”

Henry expected Ethan to decline. They had all the information they needed, and Ethan was never the sort to come to a place like this when he didn’t have to. But Ethan tucked his notebook into his shirt pocket and said, “Next week. See you then.” His voice was nonchalant, and Henry knew him well enough to know that meant he was anything but.

Inside the car, Ethan shut Henry down before he had a chance to say what he’d seen. “We’re not writing about the booze. James told me all about that. I’m interested in something different. It’s hard to explain. And do me a favor,” he said, casting Henry a sidelong glance. “Don’t tell my father.”

Henry glanced at Ethan, curious about the look in his eyes. It wasn’t one he’d seen before. But he didn’t question it, he felt so relieved.