Real Stories Are Short
After my first success—no less sweet for being shared—I began my training as an operative. Pinkerton undertook my education directly. We met in his office, the two of us, day after day. He impressed upon me the importance of writing down everything we could find about a criminal and getting a photograph if at all possible to help in identification. He told me stories, so many stories, of near misses with thieves and vagabonds, demonstrating that there was often only a hairbreadth between success and failure. Some days, I felt honored that he would devote so much time to my training personally; other days, I felt he was so uncertain of me, so worried that I was incompetent, that he didn’t trust me to make a single move by myself. If I failed, he’d look a fool, and he didn’t strike me as a man who tolerated foolishness.
Some days, he would leave me alone in the room with a stack of case files and the single instruction, “Read.” From hours of this, I learned the kind of work that we were doing: hunting bank robbers and exposing counterfeiters, yes, but also interviewing domestics accused of stealing from their owners, gathering evidence for court cases, and once an operative even stood guard at a slaughterhouse after the owner had received an anonymous threat. I felt bad for the man who had drawn that duty. His name was Taylor, and his handwriting was the worst of all the operatives’. Bellamy’s case notes were written in a cramped but clear style. Pinkerton’s notes, where they were present, fell into one of two types: a fluid hand that appeared hastily written, the ink so light on the page some letters were skipped; and a neater, textbook hand, which I assumed to be that of a secretary.
The case files were labeled by client, and it wasn’t until I had read a dozen cases in a row labeled Illinois Central Railroad that I realized they must be our biggest client by far. There were ten more cases with the same label right behind them, with a range of crimes and conspiracies we had helped investigate or foil. Robberies and petty thefts, injuries and trespasses, on the trains and in the yards. DeForest and Paretsky were most often assigned to these, but at one time or another, it seemed every operative must have served. I made a note in my mind that, no doubt, my turn would come as well. Then I flipped to the next case file, labeled Illinois Southern Bank, to read about something new.
I learned the names of fellow operatives from these files, but Pinkerton only introduced me to the men themselves on the rare occasion, clearly always by chance. There was never an organized introduction to the full roster of detectives. One day, I asked why.
“We don’t have roll call here,” said Pinkerton, clearly suppressing a chuckle at my expense. “We don’t have meetings. Most of us work alone and cooperate when we need to. Besides, some of these men are deep in with their targets, who think them to be criminals—wouldn’t do to have them spotted leaving the private dick’s building, would it?”
“No,” I agreed. “But how will I know other agents when I see them?” I didn’t need to specify that I didn’t want a repeat of my awkward introduction to Tim Bellamy. Nearly a month into my employment, I hadn’t seen him again, and I imagined that pleased both of us.
“Good question. There’s a sign.” He rose from his chair and took the long walk around the desk to my side, then perched on the desk’s edge. He laid his hand on his thigh, palm up. After a moment, he pinched his thumb and forefinger together in a quick motion, then released them and turned the hand palm down. He had me practice until I could do the same, seated or standing, even while carrying on a conversation. It had to look meaningless.
“Now,” he said, “the next thing you need to learn.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“How to lie.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Like anything else: practice. So. Lie to me.”
“About what?” I asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Tell me where you come from. Tell me what you ate for supper on Wednesday. Tell me the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. I just want to see you try.”
I folded my hands in my lap, deliberating. His suggestion of the worst thing that had ever happened to me got caught in my mental engine, and I almost opened my mouth to tell him about the child, but I stopped myself. He wanted a lie, I’d give him a lie.
“For my tenth birthday, my mother bought me the most beautiful dress,” I said, letting my hand linger on my neck as if remembering a feeling. “It was lilac satin, trimmed with ribbons and lace, and it had a full skirt that swirled when I spun around. I thought it made me look like a princess. I wore it day and night for a week. When she finally made me take it off, I cried.”
“What happened to it?” he asked.
“It got too small,” I said, “so I gave it to a cousin.”
Pinkerton eyed me skeptically. His gaze was penetrating even on an average day, so when he gave you his full attention, it was remarkable. Like two lamps shining straight on you through a pitch-black night. I could feel it in my blood.
“Not a good lie,” he said. “Too many words. Real stories are short. Try again.”
“When I was ten years old, my mother taught me to read, so when I bothered her, she could hand me a book and be done with me.”
The skeptical glare again. “You’re leaving something out.”
“Yes,” I said. “She also did it because a handsome young man had offered to teach me. He played Brutus to my father’s Julius Caesar at a theater in Atlanta on a three-month engagement. She didn’t want him anywhere near me, so she was compelled to take over the lessons herself.”
“And she told you her reasons?”
“No. But I understood.”
“You were a child.”
I shrugged and met his gaze. “Nonetheless.”