Wilheim was, at his own acknowledgement, untouchable. He walked where he wished to walk, spoke to those he wanted to speak to with no regard for status or protocol, and lived a life of excess and debauchery. His couriers would trade under the table. His bookmakers would help swing horse races in his favour. His bars became hives of wickedness, where bad decisions were made that cost others profit and life. Sometimes one, sometimes both.
* * *
Wilheim licked his thick dry lips in slow relish, withdrawing the cigar that released ribbons of haze, and smiled in contentment, surveying one of these establishments, The Lavender Club, and those within.
Every seat was filled with either the regular morning drunks or those on the payroll. Bursts of laughter sporadically erupted between groups of the worst kinds of people. Muggers, pimps, burglars, thieves – all congregated, formulating their plans over alcohol.
Wilheim adored these mornings. Every illegal trade that passed beneath the law’s gaze resulted in him taking a cut, and a substantial cut at that. When you were the only business in town willing to deal in the illegal you could command whatever price you wanted. Wilheim’s cut kept him in his finery, thick suits, competent protection, and substantial amounts of thick jewellery that dripped from his more than ample frame.
This entire bar was supplying bootlegged liquor, avoiding the substantial taxes imposed on drink in the city. Sure some suspected it – the locals who watched the deliveries under the veil of darkness knew it; but it was never proven.
He rattled once more on his cigar, unable to contain a bold, toothy grin. Things were progressing in his favour and soon enough he could have this city, claim the very ground and everyone within. Windberg could be under his absolute control, a worthwhile goal indeed, given time. Dominating the routes over the Sand Sea would ensure a capital profit.
* * *
The woman at Wilheim’s side stood rigidly, as if she was expecting to defend herself at any given time. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, though her clothing, a pinstripe grey blouse and walking skirt had not one crease out of place. Gold hung from her, decorated bands that her suitor had insisted she wear. Wilheim had decorated the woman with whatever he saw fit. Though despite this expense, Misu would always remain perpetually afraid in his company.
‘You needn’t look so concerned, dear. You’re among friends here.’
Friends. The word was hollow.
‘Please don’t be so condescending to me. These are your kind of people, Wilheim, not mine. I know what they are capable of.’
She ran her fingers over her throat – still tender from Flenn’s grip – and the additional swelling beneath her left eye. It was still bruised from last night, a violent, open-handed reminder of her treachery.
‘Condescending nothing. Relax and have a drink. I would say you’ve even earned it.’
‘I’ve earned nothing.’
‘On the contrary, my dear! Think of all that you’ve given me. Your fine self at my arm, and soon, the Gambler’s Den itself. The value of one of those is splendid. The other, not so much.’
Misu’s fingers dug into her palms in frustration. ‘You said you would leave them alone.’
‘No, you assumed as much; I just didn’t say any different. There were no terms made. With its owner imprisoned for misdeeds, I assume the train will be put to public auction to aid the skyrocketing budget that restricts the sheriff’s actions. Then, finally, it will be mine.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Care to think of anyone who would bid against me?’
He had a point. Misu’s sacrifice was for nothing.
‘Under new ownership, I’ll load up the Gambler’s Den with my men and we’ll go from town to town selling black-market goods under the veil of legitimacy. All the while fleecing the locals with rigged games. It’s the perfect venture. People will come from all around, toss us their money, and scuttle away. If you’re lucky enough I may even let you come along for the ride. I am, after all, the pinnacle of generosity.’
His jeers were cutting, every sentence a race of razor blades across skin.
‘You’re a villain,’ Misu stated in despair, a display of candid bravery that Wilheim quintessentially adored.
‘No, my dear, I’m not,’ he dismissed, reaching for his glass filled with a measure of dry red wine. ‘I just give those who are a place to work.’
* * *
The two acting as security outside of The Lavender Club, who passed conversation back and forth without care, stood at the front doors, well dressed with weaponry quite brazenly displayed at their hips. Anywhere else, they would have scrutinized those who passed by, staring the inquisitive down to convince their footsteps to quicken. Curiosity was a dangerous thing as far as Wilheim’s assets were concerned.
Here, in this city, there was no need to be attentive as trouble was rare. So when approached by a man, clad heavily in a duster with his head bowed, and a slip of a girl wearing a tan poncho, they suspected nothing, though a lack of familiarity in their faces prompted one to question their motives.
‘Morning.’ One nodded, narrowing his eyes between them.
‘G’morning to you,’ the man gruffly replied.
‘Intentions?’ the sentry asked, peering into the face of the young woman, who quickly glanced away, then back to reveal a crooked sneer as the tobacco-coated wafts of breath that were exhaled her way filled her nostrils.
‘See the boss.’ She scowled, emitting sass far beyond her years.
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘Very much so I reckon. Got a bounty to collect.’
‘I’m sure you do, but nobody gets on by just to say hello. I’ll check for you. Wait here a spell; won’t be long.’
The associate, now interested in this exchange, allowed his hand to drift to his hip in concern. Before he presented his revolver, drawn only as a precaution, it was knocked away. The girl launched into a flurry of strikes, sending her assailant to his knees. The other was knocked unconscious from a tremendous sucker punch from her cohort.
Wyld shook the sting from her knuckles.
‘We really don’t have time for this,’ she commented, taking the weapons and tossing one to Jacques who checked the chamber and snapped it back into place. The iron was slipped between slacks and skin, covered with the duster’s weight.
‘Couldn’t agree more. You ready?’
Wyld nodded, passing without hesitation into the shadow beyond the doorway.
Nobody inside heard the commotion. After all, who would? Their revelry was loud, so when the pair slipped between the tables of the packs of hooting thugs, they made it to Wilheim’s personal booth and the entourage of trusted individuals completely unnoticed.
Wilheim noticed. It was his nature to observe everything around him. Security could not be taken for granted despite his numerous assets. An observant man lives longer, he would preach to anyone who listened, citing his grand ventures to be the result of such discipline, though blackmail and thuggery were conveniently left out of course. Among a smattering of bobbing heads, the two that tried, so resolutely, to advance on him were met with a question that neither expected.
‘How can I help you both?’
Within seconds the clattering of unclipped holsters and drawn-back hammers erupted all around as both sides drew weaponry, though Wilheim sat, quite undisturbed in his seat. Both Wyld and Jacques brandished weaponry in each hand, back to back and focusing on anyone foolish enough to look like they might fire. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes a lifetime. Misu covered her mouth, terrified that her own breathing would start a massacre.
‘Now now, let’s not get all rambunctious,’ Jacques insisted, talking to the only one of interest to him. ‘This is a fine little drinking hole and nobody wants to be cleaning blood off the walls.’
A foolish youngster took a step forward in protest. ‘Your blood, you stupid –’
The boy had a barrel
spun to him, its dangerous sting still cocked and loaded.
‘Not a drop of ours, no. I don’t think that will be the case, plus I’m not in for any sort of cleaning. If you’re finding this situation all too edgy, let me ask my friend here. What do you think, Wyld? Fancy putting those guns down for a moment to ensure this standoff is more one-sided?’
Wyld’s eyes passed over the sea of features before her, watching for any small flicker of bravery to emerge. ‘Not on your life,’ she growled.
‘Smart girl, and I have to say I follow her lead.’ Jacques slowly pressed the gun barrel against the boy’s temple, his other firearm never leaving the sight of Wilheim’s bulbous head. ‘Now get the hell out of our way.’
The boy retreated, pulled aside by others more senior and less outspoken.
‘Clearly these people have come here to converse.’ Wilheim adjusted himself on his seat, eyeing up the pair. ‘Such an entrance deserves them a little consideration, don’t you all think?’
The mass complied, and waited.
‘Wilheim, finally. Pleasure to be making your acquaintance. Nice place you got here. Shame for a few holes in the wall to ruin the décor, would you not agree?’
Wyld interjected. ‘What my associate Jacques here is trying to say –’
‘I do not care about your names,’ Wilheim snapped, a surprising burst of authority in his voice. ‘Understand that who you are is irrelevant, but the fact you have the audacity to walk into my club and point iron at me, well that makes this affair interesting. Before you continue, let me tell you that this is already regrettable. This is my city, and there is nowhere you can hide where I cannot find you. What you are doing here is a waste of time and energy. Even if you think you’re invisible to the law, sideways dealing, selling stolen trinkets to those in the know, I assure you, you’re very visible to me.’
Wyld restrained a chill.
‘What will matter, in relation to the gravity of your mistake, will be the minutes after you have said your piece, and decided to carry out your choices. Those decisions will affect you, your friends, your loved ones, and anyone else who I deem to be associated.’
‘Enough. I believe you have something that belongs to us,’ Jacques snarled, tossing his head to the girl at the fat man’s side. ‘You all right there, honey?’
Misu nodded in trepidation. Words failed her. She kept herself bowed, and the bruises hidden.
‘We’re taking her back,’ Jacques stated.
‘Just like that?’ Wilheim queried, taking a long sip from his wine until the glass emptied.
‘Just like that. Simplicity is a wonderful thing. It’s simply a choice of keeping us happy, or we lose our temper and make a mess.’
‘Then who am I to object?’ Wilheim queried, amused, his disgusting gut straining to be released from his vest as his throat clicked and rasped in a chuckle. ‘Clearly you have the stronger resolve. This one is just a plaything though, no fancy of mine. Take her. But be warned, it’s not in her nature to stay in one place. She’ll scamper away. She’s a traitor, you know. And a whore.’
Wyld spun her gun barrel to the criminal, ceasing his outburst immediately. ‘Maybe so,’ Wyld agreed, thumbing the hammer back with a snap. ‘But she’s our whore, so she’s coming with us.’
Misu, taking all her time not to panic under the sight of a hundred eyes and a room of brandished weapons, manoeuvred to her friends. Her fingers dug into Jacques’s shoulder, reassuring herself that they were here and not a cruel illusion. She thanked them, meekly, hiding the bruise beneath her left eye with a ribbon of hair in shame.
They withdrew, backing away through bodies that all waited, and watched, for a signal from Wilheim to subdue them.
It never came.
The closer to the daylight the trio got, the more anxious each brandishing thug became, and as they slipped out into the city streets, they each ran as fast as humanly possible but not before Wilheim spoke his last words.
‘You won’t live out the end of this day, you know?!’ he promised, sternly. ‘I won’t let you.’
Jacques could only shrug. Maybe that would be the case, but it wouldn’t stop them from damn well trying. ‘Well, those of us on the Den do like to take chances,’ he stated, and then vanished into the sun.
* * *
Nobody pursued. All waited for the command.
Wilheim drew on his cigar, blowing a series of perfect rings. Not even midday and things were already moving in his favour. It was a sign, he concluded, taking another swig of a well-deserved drink, a sign that he was favoured from above. To the untrained and the rowdy, to which there were plenty in his company, this was a confusing delay. Surely this wasn’t going to be ignored, was it? People had been killed for far less.
The tranquillity was ruined by a query, spoken by one brave enough to interrupt.
‘Boss?’ he called, gesturing in surprise to the door. ‘Aren’t we doing something ’bout this?’
Deliberately letting the seconds tick by, Wilheim puffed his last, grinding the cigar stub into a glass ashtray and finally ordered his decree.
‘They’re going to try and run. They need to get away quickly, making such a mess that they cannot return.’ Wilheim spoke the words that caused elation: ‘Let them take the Gambler’s Den and the moment they leave the station, I want it boarded, and everyone inside killed.’
‘And what of Misu?’
‘I said everyone, didn’t I? We have men in the Bad Lands who can make the Gambler’s Den disappear. Store it elsewhere and wait for things to settle down. Take as many as you need and run them down when it’s time. I want that train at all costs, understand?’ Wilheim grunted his last condition. ‘But I want it out of the hands of the law.’
Chapter Fourteen
Lock and Key
Franco was no stranger to incarceration.
He had spent many nights in a cell, for reasons too numerous to recall. Suspected of everything. Convicted of nothing. Having to find comfort on a stone floor or wooden bench was once second nature when the legitimacy of his enterprise was called into question, and this time was no different, though it was a long time ago since he had to endure this kind of treatment.
The cell looked like any other, the bars on the outside wall thick and imposing, with a wrought-iron door and slatted bars opposite looking out into the jailer’s office. The jailer himself was nothing out of the ordinary either. Gaunt in face, brash about his status and power, he had mocked Franco, repeatedly, kicking over his food at mealtimes, making crude sexual remarks about those in his employment. His ratlike features curled with glee every time, believing his prey was becoming increasingly agitated.
Franco did no such thing. The slurs he had heard before, and every weak-willed turnkey felt himself a god. That was nothing unique in the slightest.
But Alex Juniper worried him. Fiery, passionate, the man was clearly trouble. Dangerous, even. Considerably more so than his cellmate.
Ketan sat opposite on the floor, stretching his legs out, checking on his healing wound. The dressing remained tattered; rough inconsistent stitches doing their work to hold the flesh together. At least the surgeon was competent enough to pull the bullet out, though with considerable bruising and not a small amount of pain. They had barely spoken since being thrown in together, waiting for the other to begin and letting time slip away. Finally, a product of his ego, Ketan made his thoughts known.
‘Oh how far you’ve fallen,’ he mocked, rubbing his wound over and over. ‘You’re not used to being down here with us normal people. Getting them nice coat tails filthy. Damn shame.’
Franco rolled a stone between his fingers, skimming over and around, an anxious tick he would perform with cards though in this case had to make do. ‘Sitting in the dirt clapped in irons? That’s no one’s perception of normal, you fool.’
‘I would rather be in the dirt than have my head in the clouds looking down on everyone else.’
Fran
co limply tossed the stone, with little weight and force, hearing it crack against the cell wall, dangerously near Ketan’s head. He scowled in return.
‘Whatever did I say to give you that absurd notion?’ Franco grunted.
‘You did plenty.’
‘I have barely been here! I went to find you because your father was concerned about these people you are running with and I can see he was right to be! Your shenanigans with these folk have got me and mine arrested!’ Again another stone was taken and thrown, snapping once again on impact. ‘Arrested. Clean for years and you force this on me.’
‘Maybe you deserved it.’
Deserved? Was he out of his mind? How could Franco have deserved any of this? ‘What is wrong with you? What is this? Do you simply hate me?’
‘There’s plenty of reasons to put hate upon you – a long, long list.’
‘Or is it jealousy?’
Ketan’s nauseating, constant grin slipped slightly, giving a tell-tale sign.
‘Look at the hard truth there. You’re jealous. I made something of myself here, built things up and gained my reputation, and I didn’t need to turn over banks or shake down others to get it. That’s how it’s earned, not by waving iron in faces. There’s nothing down the barrel of a revolver but death and damnation. Thought you would have got that by now.’
‘Absurd.’
Their exchange was interrupted with the jailer striking his baton against the bars over and over.
‘Quiet, the pair of you! Just for that you don’t get to eat tonight. Maybe that’ll keep those traps shut.’
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