The Cold Millions

by Jess Walter

She said that Al was an old union pick, blown up in an anarchist’s bombing in the ’99 labor wars. That in spite of his injuries, Al was a top organizer, and they should count themselves lucky he’d agreed to be their guide for two days of fund-raising in Wallace and the mountain mining towns of Idaho and Montana. “Al can be a sight, and it takes a moment to get used to him,” Gurley said. “So try not to stare, though neither should you look away.” Early sat up in the seat behind Rye. “How am I supposed to look and also not look?” Rye liked having Early along. It reminded him of traveling with his brother. “I mean that you should behave normally,” said Gurley. “Well, that’s what I’m saying,” Early said, “looking and not looking are fairly normal behavior for eyes.” “You’ll see,” she said. Al Bolin was waiting on the platform when they pulled into Wallace, and Rye saw right away that normal eye behavior was going to be impossible. The man lurching toward them was six feet tall on his right leg and six-four on his left; a four-inch peg had been nailed to his right cowboy boot to make up the difference. His arm and shoulder on the right side were diminished too, half gone, like his portraitist had lost interest. But it was his face that Rye couldn’t keep from staring at: the cave-in that constituted the right side of Al Bolin’s burned, mottled mug, the eye patch and torn nostril, the gnarled mouth, and the hole where his right ear should be. A metal clip was punched through his ...