The Floor of Heaven by Howard Blum Page A

payroll. He had no trouble buying them, too. The problem, though, was the cost. Experience had taught him that a private detective would always be wanting a fat wad in return for looking the other way or joining up with the Soap Gang for a little dicker. For that expensive reason, he’d not truck with them at all. Their greed irked him. So when he learned that some skunk detective was spreading a disrespectful tale about him, Soapy was doubly agitated. He went straight off to settle the score.
    It all came about because Joe Matthews wanted to make a name for himself. Matthews had just been hired by the Glasson Detective Agency, and his first assignment was to assist the city patrolmen in reining in the bunco men and gamblers crowding downtown Denver. The police had no heart for this work; and, anyway, Soapy was paying them to be lackadaisical. But Matthews was new to the job and full of grit. And when an enterprising reporter for the civic-minded Rocky Mountain News interviewed the detective for a story about the crackdown, Matthews couldn’t help himself. He bragged about a beating he’d given the notorious gambler: “Smith was finally thumped until he had been condemned by the meat inspector.”
    That it was not true, that he had never landed a blow on Soapy, let alone pounded him so badly that Soapy’s face resembled a piece of raw meat, was one thing. But that some of Soapy’s sporting friends were relishing this tall tale, that Soapy couldn’t walk down Seventeenth Street without being teased, without, as one of the fellows smirked, “having the life guyed out of him,” was another. That was unforgivable. It scarred his pride. And it threatened his business; intimidation was another ace carried up his gambler’s sleeve. Furious, Soapy assembled his army and went to war.
    John Bowers was the gang’s “grip man.” Wearing a reverend’s collar and an ingratiating smile, he’d spot a mark displaying a fraternal pin or ring, greet him with the prescribed handshake, and then steer the sucker to a gaffed game of chance. Yet when the need arose, Bowers, compact but sparky like a terrier, was handy with his fists and with a blade. “Cap” Light, though, was a full-time hard case; he’d hurt people if given the opportunity, and kill ’em if his blood was boiling. Cap was married to Soapy’s sister and had come to Denver leaving a trail of murderous gunfights and brawls behind him. On a Saturday night, Soapy had Cap and Bowers follow him up the stairs to the second-floor Glasson Detective Agency offices. Another three of his gang were ordered to wait nearby, outside the opera house. He’d signal if help was needed.
    It wasn’t necessary. Soapy charged through the unlocked door hurling curses at Matthews. Before the astonished detective could get his hands up in self-defense, Soapy threw the first punch. He continued hitting Matthews, going at him with his fists and his feet; and very quickly Matthews was too beaten to fight back. Then the real punishment began. Soapy pounded away until the skin was torn off his own knuckles. The detective lay in a pool of blood like a dead animal. In the next room, Cap and Bowers had pulled Detective Gavitt from his bed and gone after him savagely. He, too, was left crumpled on the floor. Yet their fury remained undiminished. There were no other detectives present, so they attacked the offices. Ledgers, files, lamps, desks—all were subjected to their spiteful rage.
    Nearly an hour after they’d burst into the Glasson agency, the trio was strolling down Seventeenth Street, blood staining their clothes and boots, tin detective stars pinned to their coats. They took their time. Soapy wanted the sporting crowd to see him; he wanted them to understand that disrespect was a matter that would provoke serious consequences.
    Three days later William Glasson officially closed his offices. He left Denver and never returned. And it was the absence of any detective agency in a