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“Your legend precedes you, Hammons,” he said, an expensive Cuban double corona in his mouth. “The homicide cop who was fired because he knew the truth about Winnie Ruth Judd, the trunk murderess.”
We let go at the same time. My hand ached, but I didn’t let it show.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Mr. Greenbaum,” I said. “What’s your line?”
He painted an image in the air with the cigar. “Sporting news. Everybody loves sports.”
“He’s a real-life gangster,” Barry blurted, impressed. Greenbaum smiled wider.
“Don’t pay any attention to him.” Greenbaum’s dark eyes were fixed on mine, trying to assay my reaction. “Goldwater here has a very vivid imagination.” He looked me up and down. “You’re a private dick now. That’s good. I could use a man like you.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Greenbaum…”
“Gus!” He made a punctuation point with the cigar.
“I appreciate that, Gus. But I’m not taking any new clients at the moment.”
“Well, if you change your mind…” He reached inside my suit coat and slipped a business card in the pocket. It was close enough for him to feel the M1911 Colt in its shoulder holster. His smile never changed.
Twelve
Two days later, Victoria and I took the Santa Fe Railway to Prescott. The city—pronounced “PRES-cut,” although some used “Pres-kit”—was a mile high, and we dressed for the weather. Or so we thought. My father, the loyal “Ess-pee” conductor, would have been horrified by us riding the rival AT&SF, but it was the only way north aside from a rough and, especially in winter, dangerous highway.
This railroad from Phoenix made a long climb all the way to Ash Fork, where it connected to the Santa Fe main line running to Los Angeles and Chicago. We left the oasis and desert as the sun was setting, charging through Wickenburg, which was holding its annual rodeo, climbing into High Country meadows and pine forests that we could barely see in the dark. At Skull Valley, it seemed as if the whole town came out to meet our train. The food in the dining car was excellent, per Santa Fe Fred Harvey standards.
Victoria, her black hair tumbling out from beneath a stylish slouch hat, bought a Fortune magazine at Union Station and read it as we rolled along.
“Look at this!” She folded over a page. It held a photograph showing a spectacular view of New York City and a steel eagle perching out, with an opening at the top and a woman halfway out the opening, holding a camera.
“That’s the new Chrysler Building,” she said. “And the photographer there is Margaret Bourke-White. She’s a staff photographer for Fortune.”
“You could do that.”
She smiled and hugged me. “I believe I could.”
The locomotives faced an especially hard lift getting to Prescott, which was a major subdivision point on the railroad. Fortunately, our coach windows were closed, so we didn’t get showered by soot from the engines. In summer, the Phoenix elite that didn’t flee to California came to nearby Iron Springs to flee the heat. The last time I had come here, Prescott’s railyard was clogged with locomotives and cars filled with ore. But that was before ’29.
Now, as we stepped out before the imposing passenger depot, the yard was nearly empty. A full moon showed Thumb Butte standing to the west covered by stubby piñon trees, but otherwise the rich mining district around Prescott was in as deep trouble as the one in south-central Arizona around Globe and Morenci. The United Verde Mine in Clarkdale had closed in ’31, and the others nearby had shed workers as the price of copper collapsed.
The crew pulled off the locomotive to add water and fuel oil while express and mail were unloaded from the baggage car. A slushy, dirty snow was on the ground as we walked to the waiting room, gusts of cold mountain wind hitting our faces. High mounds of snow were piled nearby. Inside, a woman immediately approached us. Older, slender, bent at the back, wearing a furry turban.
“You don’t look like you’re from here.”
I made introductions.
“I’m Miss Sharlot Hall,” she said, giving a firm handshake, but not like Greenbaum’s viselike grip. “I’m the town historian. You’re from Phoenix. You stole our capitol.”
“You can have it back,” Victoria said.
Miss Sharlot Hall gave a shoulder-bobbing laugh. I asked her how things were in Prescott.
Her face grew serious. “The closing of the copper mines has put thousands of people out of work in the state. It’s no different in Yavapai County. Likely worse.” She made a sweeping gesture with her right hand. “We have unemployed miners in the hills trying their hands at placer mining. Sometimes they make a few cents, a dollar at the most. Gold played out here long ago. We have gas moochers come through. The city offers to let them work off their expenses by chopping weeds and doing odds and ends. But very few accept the offer. Banks are in trouble.”
“It’s the same in Phoenix,” I said.
“President Hoover sent Prescott fifty thousand dollars in work relief,” she said. “Reconstruction Finance Corporation. We used it for local men only. That was important. And it ran out. At least we got the courthouse walls washed.”
/> The RFC funds didn’t last long in Phoenix, either. I changed the subject to Carrie Dell.
