Simon Pure Read online



  Simon Pure

  Copyright 2015 Abigail F. Stillwell

  Table of Contents

  I. Cover Page

  II. Table of Contents

  III. Simon Pure

  VI. About Abigail Stillwell

  Simon Pure

  It was 1875 and I was sixteen years old. I’d just gotten promoted. For a young man in New York, that was big. The Boss had faith in me or at the very least, he felt like all the time he’d wasted on me was good enough to start paying him back. I didn’t have to travel around with a bunch of other guys, just my new partner. I felt like I could take on the world.

  “You gonna stand around starin’ at that goddamn poster all day Benji?”

  The poster depicted a family standing on the edges of a vast, green prairie. Each person had a big, carefree smile on his or her face and their arms were wrapped around one another as they surveyed their new home. The headline was written in big gold letters: Change your life! Tame the West! Every time we walked past that stupid poster I found myself drawn to it.

  “Of course not! We got work to do,” I said. I even took a step away from the advertisement and turned to face my ‘friend.’ Duke was more like an associate. He was gigantic and carried two revolvers at his waist. I let him call me ‘Benji,’ even though I preferred something more professional like ‘Benjamin.’

  “You’re damn right we do,” he said and spit a wad of black tar-like substance into the streets. It reeked of old, stale tobacco. I had always wondered what about Duke smelled so bad. Was it the old chewing tobacco or his dusty, unwashed duds?

  “Come on, let’s just get this job over with,” I said.

  Duke’s answer was little more than a grunt as his jaws began to chew again, moving around the quid around in his mouth as he reentered the streets. I turned back to the poster and decided I needed it more than the public did. I tore it from the wall as gently as I could, leaving the rusted nail hanging oddly in the middle of faded wood siding.

  “The boss is gonna be mad if we’re late.”

  Duke was already walking down the street. In the dusky light, New York felt like she was holding her breath for something. Every couple that walked past the lumbering man skirted quickly to the side, even going so far as to press their backs flat against the buildings that lined the street as they stared at him while he passed. The up-and-coming society folks of the big city didn’t have the sensibilities to deal with a man who looked like he’d ridden into town from a lawless desert.

  Duke was the walking reality of the West. It wasn’t fields of green and gold lettering. It was filth and dust. Long, lonely nights spent guarding animals and wagons. It was you, your gun and your horse. Families didn’t make it and if they did, the end of the journey forever changed them. Something would be lost or worse, you became Duke. The people of New York lived inside a bubble and the outside world was just posters and stories told during fancy parties.

  I folded the poster and tucked it inside my thin coat, right beneath the pistol that the Boss had given me. As soon as my fingers brushed against the metal I felt my heart rise in my throat. I’d never killed a man myself. I’d seen the boys do it plenty of times, but I was never the one to draw or fire.

  “Turn up here, Duke,” I said. My hand fell stiffly to my side again and I quickened my pace to walk beside the thug. We both turned to walk down a darkened alley, the scent of rotten food and sewage masking even the scent of my esteemed companion.

  Our destination was a small shop in the part of town that was mostly ethnics. Chinese, Irish and Jews. They all got shoved out of sight and lived behind buildings that could hide their existence. As soon as we stepped out of the alley it was like we’d entered a totally different town. This wasn’t New York anymore.

  “Smell that?” Duke asked.

  “Smells like food,” I said. “Like cabbage and boiled potatoes but-“

  “Something else,” Duke said. He didn’t wait for an answer this time. He spit again and continued forward, leaving me to mutter an apology to the shopkeeper who had just stepped out to see my associate leave the wad on his doorstep. I caught up with him just as we’d reached our destination.

  The odd smell in the air suddenly became clear. It wasn’t food at all. It was fire. The small shop Duke and I had been sent to ‘rough up’ was lit up like some effigy to a vengeful God. I took a step forward as my initial reaction hit. If there were people inside, we had to rescue them!

  “Don’t, kid,” Duke said.

  I turned to look at him but he was pointing toward the building. Standing in front of the blazing shop was our Boss, Lazarus. The man was an angry silhouette, his image wavering in the heat. At his side, crumpled to the floor, was the owner of the shop. As we watched, Lazarus bent slightly and grabbed the old man by the back of his neck, forcing him up onto his knees to watch as the shop burned. That image alone was powerful and it felt like a blow to the gut, but it was nothing compared to realizing there were screams beneath the roar of the flames.

  There were people still inside.

  Lazarus made the old man watch and he made him listen. I could hear his sobs from where I stood and I felt my stomach lurch. Other people had escaped the nearby houses and were gathering. Lazarus owned several blocks of the ghetto so this was a valuable lesson for everyone. They looked on in horror as our Boss released the man to fall back to the ground, leaving him broken. No one moved to help.

  I was going to be sick. I didn’t get a single word out of warning before I turned and stumbled toward a wall, hand braced on the brickwork as I lost my battle of nerves. I could hear Duke chuckling behind me.

  I didn’t want this. This wasn’t who I was. We were supposed to rough the old man up, break a few clocks and send a subtle message of fear into the community. This was something else entirely. This was evil. I pushed away from the wall, dragging the back of my hand across my mouth as I moved away from the rolling heat.

  “Hey, where the hell do y’think you’re going?” Duke asked.

  I didn’t stop to answer him. I ran away. Back down the strip of shops, into the alley and back on the pristine streets of New York’s façade. People had started to gather in pockets, coils of black smoke visible just beyond their beautiful buildings and walls. The fire wagons screamed as they tried to make it in time to stop the fire from spreading to ‘valuable’ homes and businesses. They’d only prevent flames from destroying important places. No one cared about the ghetto beyond. It could burn to the ground as long as it didn’t touch the real New York.

  It wasn’t until I’d reached the base that I inhaled a breath. I realized I’d been holding it all that time. Red-faced, I shouldered past Lou, the doorman. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to. I heard his ‘glare’ loud and clear.

  No one really thought I was worth anything. Not any of the guys, none of the other boys who worked the same jobs as I did and certainly not anyone who lived outside of the gang. Only Lazarus. He’d taken me off the streets, trained me, given me a place to sleep and food to eat. I took that as a sign he cared. Maybe I just wanted to believe it bad enough to lie to myself.

  I went straight to his office. It was tucked back behind several of his older men’s rooms, just beyond a commons area where they gambled. No one was around, not at this hour. Work was just starting as night was taking the city. I walked right up to the office and turned the knob.

  I was surprised it wasn’t locked. That was a testament to Lazarus’ power, his control over everyone around him. He didn’t have to lock the door. I went straight for the bags on the floor to the right. They were all unremarkable carpetbags in various shades of worn tapestry and leather. The nearest one was soft brown cowhide, a filigreed monogram embossed across the front. I grabbed it turned
to exit the office again. I had no idea when or if Duke and the Boss would return. I wasn’t planning on being there and the fear of getting caught kept me moving.

  I grabbed my personal belongings, not much, and shoved them into the bag on top of the money. Each wad was wrapped in twine to keep it organized. There had to be at least a dozen and a half of the stacks. I couldn’t go out the way I’d come, Lou would have stopped me as soon as he saw the carpetbag. Instead of facing him, I went to one of the windows and pried it open. The glass was grey and murky with grime; the ash from the factories hit the buildings pretty hard and left a residue on everything and everyone.

  After tossing the bag out of the window, I climbed out and eased the window closed. It wasn’t a long drop to the alley below, just