“Agreed. Have you heard anything in regard to Abraham Keyes?”
“Just that he’s climbed the ranks of the Anstel and Joyner Company.”
“You have learned quite a lot by sitting here playing cards.”
“I’m a good listener and know how to keep people talking,” Deaugrey said. “Those simple talents have served me more good than an entire arsenal of firearms while I’ve been locked away. Granted, I’ve drawn some conclusions of my own, but I know for certain that both of these men we’re after have been keeping very busy throughout their short stay in Joplin.”
Nate nodded. “Makes sense. We already know Keyes and Pescaterro were working together.”
“Now it’s you who needs to listen. Dog Ear is aligned with Western Cartage.”
Nate rubbed his chin, creating a scraping sound from the friction of his fingers against coarse stubble. “They must be working some angle. What did you hear about those specialty weapons?”
“You want more? That’s gratitude for you,” Deaugrey scoffed. “I’ll have you know I’d still have a hell of a lot more of my winnings if I hadn’t spent them in getting some of those men I mentioned to part with their colorful stories.”
Hearing that put some of Nate’s mind at ease. It wasn’t unusual for Deaugrey to embellish when it came to the rumors he’d overheard. A few wisely placed bribes were not only within Deaugrey’s bag of tricks but explained how he’d come across some of the information he’d just relayed. Even a man with Deaugrey’s talents could only overhear so much.
“I’ve done the job of three men,” Deaugrey announced. “How have you been passing your time?”
“Pete and I found that depot. We were discovered, but . . .”
“We?” Deaugrey asked. “As in . . . both you and Pete were discovered?”
“Fine,” Nate grunted. “I was discovered.”
“That sounds much more plausible.”
“One of the men who took a shot at me thought I was with Anstel and Joyner. Stands to reason that the depot and whatever is in it is owned by Western Cartage.”
Deaugrey’s eyes widened. “That’s quite a find. I’m guessing you already have some diabolical way to put it to use.”
“Not yet,” Nate replied.
“Won’t be long, though,” Deaugrey said. “The wheels are turning inside that head of yours. I can smell the smoke.”
“Finish your soup and get back to work.”
After draining the rest of his soup by tipping the bowl straight to his lips, Deaugrey stood and reached into one of his pockets. When his jacket opened, Nate could see not only a new shoulder holster but two more watch chains that crossed his belly and that had not been there the last time Nate had spoken to him. Deaugrey removed a small bundle of cash and placed it on the table. “Here are some funds for this little venture,” he said. “If you need more, I can play to win instead of stringing along the men with the most stories to tell.”
“How about you mention Pescaterro’s and Keyes’s names more often?” Nate suggested. “That might get some more people talking.”
“Could be dangerous.”
“Then forget it,” Nate said as he scooped up the money and tucked it away. “I can do it myself.”
“What’s next? You insult my backbone?”
“Actually, I was saving that for a bit later.”
“I’ll kick over a few more rocks,” Deaugrey said with a rare show of trepidation. “See what scurries out. I’ll have to wait, though. At least until some fresh faces come in. Some of these miners are getting a bit suspicious of me.”
“Do what you can,” Nate told him. “Join a game in another saloon if you like. Once the well’s run dry, see if you can find out what the hell Keyes wanted with you back at that mining camp. Leave word for me at a hotel called the Joplin Grand. I’m staying there now.”
“I won’t leave this room,” Deaugrey told him. “The House of Lords is the center of this town as far as I’m concerned.” With that, he left the table. Nate didn’t hear Deaugrey’s voice again until an entire table of drunken gamblers started hollering to each other about winning back what they’d lost. Seeing how completely the local gamblers had taken Deaugrey in as one of their own, Nate had even less trouble believing how much information had been wrung out of them.
After paying what he owed for the meal and drinks, Nate left the House of Lords and headed down the street toward the Joplin Grand. Despite the regal name, the hotel was a fairly small structure wedged in between an assayer’s office and a bakery. About halfway through his walk, Nate heard another set of footsteps fall in beside him.
“Did Deaugrey perform to his usual standards?” Frank asked.
“I swear I don’t know how he does it,” Nate replied.
“We don’t need to know. Just be glad that he does.”
“Have faith?” Nate asked with a smirk.
“Something like that. What’s next on the agenda?”
“It seems there are two competing companies trading blows over money rights from property to mining claims here in Joplin. Pescaterro is working for one and Keyes the other.”
Frank let out a tired sigh. “Both ends against the middle. That never turns out well, especially when we barely know either side.”
“We’ve dealt with enough men like these to know them well enough. Let’s start by scouting out both companies’ offices here in town. Perhaps if we play this one right, we can take Pescaterro and Keyes out of the picture before it gets any bloodier than it already is.”
“One can always hope,” Frank said rather unconvincingly.
If there was one thing that tied Nate’s stomach into a knot worse than anything else, it was when Frank was the one who was short on optimism.
27
The next two days were mostly uneventful. Nate, Frank and Pete did their share of scouting in the town to get a feel for the balance of power between the two companies vying for their share of it. Anstel & Joyner had their sights set on the tracks being built from St. Louis heading west and the Western Cartage Company was primarily interested in the line coming into Missouri through Kansas. Once the two lines met, the task remained of deciding which company would carry on from there.
Nate was no businessman, which was something he never wanted to change. While he didn’t know the specifics of all the deals involved with railroad expansion, he’d seen enough with his own eyes to know that plenty of business opportunities came along with it besides ticket sales. There were labor contracts, entertainment and food to be provided near the stations, even whole towns to be built along the way to keep the railroad moving and its paying customers satisfied. All he’d needed to do to hear about such things was visit a few local stores and mention the railroad. After that, he’d simply kept his ears open to hear one local after another spout their praises or condemnations.
Now that he’d done some digging in the obvious places, Nate decided to go to a source that rarely let him down. While Deaugrey hit the saloons and wheedled information from drunks, Nate scouted a few locations of his own, and one of them paid off nicely.
“So, Mr. Keenan,” said a rotund fellow in a white jacket who towered over the chair that dominated the center of his shop, “are you still interested in investment opportunities here in town?”
Nate leaned back beneath the towel that was draped over his chest and lifted his chin so the straight razor could be placed to his throat. The tall fellow in white had already trimmed Nate’s hair and was about to do the same to his chin and cheeks. The sign at the front of the barbershop advertised a special that included a bath, but Nate was saving that for another day. “An investor is always interested, Jerry,” he said. “I hear there’s going to be some mighty fine opportunities coming along.”
“Depends on what sort of thing you’re after.”
Opening one eye, Nate said, �
��When it comes to making money, it doesn’t pay to be picky. Am I right?”
Fancying himself a shrewd expert on just about everything, Jerry nodded and started shaving Nate’s chin. “Indeed you are. I’ve dabbled in a few investments, but I don’t really have the funds for that sort of thing.”
“Do you know what a finder’s fee is?”
“I believe I got one of those when Mrs. Lannerly left her handbag here after she came along to buy some rosewater. I found it and returned it without stealing anything from inside and I got a nice little something for my trouble.”
“Actually, no.”
“Then I don’t know, Mr. Keenan.”
“A finder’s fee is something a man is paid for pointing someone in the right direction. For example, I asked about any business opportunities and if you knew of any that panned out, I’d pay you for your help.”
“Oh,” Jerry said happily. “Then I wasn’t too far off after all. I can’t say as I’d know any way to point you, though.”
“Have you heard about anything regarding the railroad being built up near here? Perhaps you might have heard something from one of your customers who maybe works for a company that would be working with the railroad in some regard?”
“You mean like someone from Western Cartage?”
Nate turned toward Jerry ever so slightly, which was enough to put a fresh nick on his cheek. While the barber hurried to dab the blood trickling from the cut, Nate said, “That is exactly the sort of thing I mean! Do you know the name of anyone I should talk to over there?”
“Not as such.”
“It’s a large company. I’m sure you know someone.”
“Sorry, but no,” Jerry told him, even though the twitch in the corner of his eye and the slight tremble in his hand told a much different story.
“You’ve never even met anyone who might work there?”
“I’m not certain. I don’t know where all my customers work.”
“What about one named Casey Pescaterro?” Nate asked.
Jerry’s hand lingered in one spot, but remained steady enough to keep from cutting Nate’s face again. “Pesca . . . what?”
Nate kept still as well. His eyes remained fixed upon the barber’s face as he said, “Pescaterro. Big fellow. Some burns on his face. You’d remember that, I’m sure, since he’s seemed mighty interested in keeping what’s left of his beard in good shape. Well, as good as it could be I suppose. Any of that striking you as familiar?”
Having finished with most of Nate’s shave, Jerry quickly tended to the remaining patch of whiskers and started wiping away the remaining lather with a towel. “I’m sure I would remember something like that.”
“Tell me, how many others do you have working here for you?”
“Just me, sir. Why?”
“Because I’ve been tracking this fellow for a short while,” Nate said. “I’ve also heard a thing or two about him before I was put onto his trail, and one of the things I’ve pieced together is that he’s started taking pride in his appearance. Since he’s been in Joplin, Pescaterro’s been making enough money to see a barber every other day.”
Jerry stood behind Nate’s chair and was noisily fidgeting with combs in a small drawer. Nate could keep an eye on him thanks to the large mirror on the wall directly in front of him. “Is that a fact?” the barber asked.
“You know it is. Several of your neighbors on this street told me so. And before you tell me they’re full of beans, I should add that I caught sight of Pescaterro here two days ago. The two of you seemed to be on awfully friendly terms for someone you don’t even seem to recall meeting.”
Jerry suddenly became very still. Although Nate had never gotten the impression that the barber might turn on him wielding one of his razors or some other weapon, he watched the larger man very carefully. Beneath the towel covering the front of his body, Nate’s hand snaked toward the Remington in his cross-draw holster.
“What do you want me to tell you?” Jerry asked nervously.
“You and Pescaterro must talk about things while he’s here and I know he ain’t exactly the sort who gossips. For that matter, he must have struck you as unusual. You’ve probably even heard a thing or two about him from other folks since he’s been in town.”
“He . . . hasn’t been coming to me for very long.”
“That’s a start,” Nate said, grateful that Jerry wasn’t trying to feed him another lie.
“I know he works for Western Cartage.”
“You know he’s a killer, right?”
Jerry turned to look down at Nate and then looked up so he could face him indirectly using the mirror. “I’ve heard some things,” Jerry admitted. “There’s been plenty of unflattering rumors going around about all of these new hands hired on by Western Cartage as well as Mr. Anstel’s company. There’s no telling how many of those things are true.”
Easing a hand up from beneath the towel, Nate showed the barber one of the smaller badges from his collection. This one simply said MARSHAL. “Whatever you’ve heard is likely true,” he said. “And there’s plenty more that I’m certain you haven’t heard.”
Jerry didn’t even bother trying to hide his nervousness. In fact, he seemed relieved at not having to maintain his charade. “All I do is shave the faces in front of me and cut hair. I swear. Whatever that man’s done, I didn’t have no part of it.”
Even though Nate had been hoping to elicit a reaction along those lines, he couldn’t help but feel a touch of guilt at having his efforts work well enough to turn the poor barber into a jellyfish. “I never thought you had anything to do with the sort of thing Pescaterro is doing,” Nate assured him. “I just need a couple of favors.”
“You want to know about him? I’ll tell you whatever you need. In fact,” Jerry added as he peeled back the towel and hurried to the counter where he kept bottles of scented oils and water, “let me buy you a drink or maybe lunch, and you can ask me anything you want to know. I don’t know how much I could tell you that would be much help, but I’ll sure give it a try.”
“That covers one of the favors I meant to ask.”
Jerry stood next to Nate’s chair, staring at him with wide, overly eager eyes. Suddenly he spat out, “Oh! The shave? It’s on the house.”
“Not the shave.”
“I’m always willing to help the law, so . . . when we meet up again you just let me know what I can do.”
“I’ll let you know right now,” Nate said.
“No. I mean—it’d be better if— I’ve got a business to run here.”
“Help me out right now and you’ll be entitled to a very handsome finder’s fee,” Nate told him. “You make one more move toward that stick and you’ll get something that ain’t nearly as pleasant.”
The barber froze with his hand poised less than a foot away from a length of wood leaning in a corner just behind a broom. One end of the wood was bound by twine to form something of a handle. Allowing his arm to droop at his side and his head to hang, Jerry shuffled to turn around and face the only chair that was occupied in his shop at the moment. “What do you want from me?” he groaned.
“How about a treatment of those nice, hot towels?”
28
The door to the barbershop was pushed open with enough force to make the bell connected to it sound more like a cat that had gotten its tail caught beneath a rocker. Its window was still rattling in its pane when the man who’d shoved it stomped the few short steps required to cross the room and dropped himself down into the largest of the chairs.
“Hello, Mr. Pescaterro,” Jerry said. “The usual?”
“Can you toss in any extra services?” Dog Ear asked. “Like maybe have that pretty gal that sweeps yer floors give me a ride when yer done?”
Laughing nervously, Jerry said, “That’s my niece—”
“Oh?”
“—and she doesn’t work here regularly.”
Pescaterro folded his hands across his belly and leaned back in his chair. “Then just the usual, I guess.”
As Jerry took a moment to run his razor back and forth over a sharpening strip, Pescaterro looked over to the chair beside him where another customer lay quietly beneath several steaming towels wrapped over his face. “You ever seen that little squaw that sweeps the floors?” Pescaterro asked.
The customer shifted just enough to turn toward the sound of the other man’s voice and then shook his head.
“Yeah, well yer missin’ out,” Pescaterro said. His bulky frame was almost too much for the chair in which he sat. His arms were thick with layer upon layer of muscle and his wrists were scarred with bands of gnarled skin marking the spots where he’d fought several battles against the various shackles that had been placed upon him. Apart from a nose that had been broken more times than the devil’s promises, his most prominent feature were the burn scars running down one half of his mouth and chin like hot candle wax that had been drizzled over his face.
“She’s not a squaw,” Jerry said meekly.
“What did you just say?” Dog Ear snarled.
Holding his razor in a vaguely trembling hand, the barber told him, “My niece. She’s part Spaniard.”
“Fine,” Pescaterro grunted. “I’d bend a Spanish bitch over and fuck her just as easily as I would a savage bitch. Now give me my goddamn shave.”
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