by Jon Sharpe
Fargo had heard that during certain times of the year, when there were citywide parties and festivals, the women would stand on the balconies showing off their “wares” and throwing trinkets of beads to the crowds below. If it was true, he wondered what the typical farmer’s wife attending the harvest dance out on the frontier would make of such an activity. He laughed to himself. She’d probably call it the work of the devil.
He walked up the front steps and opened the doors, closing them softly behind him. It was early in the day, and the building was quiet. As he had suspected, the inside was even more luxurious than the outside. The foyer was white and blue marble, with twin pillars setting off the entryway. Beneath his feet, tiny tiles made a picture of yet another nymph, her finger beckoning suggestively.
Beyond the foyer and to both the left and the right were small sitting rooms. The floors were covered in thick carpets dyed crimson, and the furniture—overstuffed couches and chairs with fat pillows—were a rich golden color. The walls were dark wood and both rooms sported small bars, topped with glass decanters filled with presumably the finest liquor available. Behind each bar, a selection of cigars and other tobacco was available. Carpeted stairways led to both upper and lower floors. Fargo could hear a voice coming from somewhere behind the stairs.
The kitchen, Fargo realized, must be on this floor, behind the two sitting rooms. The thought had no sooner crossed his mind when he heard the sound of a familiar voice. He stepped into the sitting room to his right just in time to see Hattie Hamilton enter the room from a recessed doorway in the back.
“Why, if it isn’t Skye Fargo,” she said. “Welcome to the Blue Emporium.” She wore a paisley-print dress that was made of silk and clung to her body as though it had been painted on. Her hair was done up in a neat set of curls that were tied in a bun. As always, her voice and her eyes, even her mannerisms, screamed of a sensual, wanton woman.
“Miss Hamilton,” Fargo said.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t out here to greet you properly, Mr. Fargo,” Hattie said, stepping forward and holding out her hand as though she expected him to shake it or kiss it. “We don’t usually get much business at this hour.”
“I don’t imagine,” Fargo said. “I was hoping I could take a look around, if you don’t mind, before the game starts.”
“Of course, of course,” she said. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Matilda just brewed some up fresh. There’s breakfast, too, if you want it.”
“That would be fine,” Fargo said. “So long as I can have it in the back. I’m not dressed properly for such a fancy place.”
“I had you figured for a backdoor man,” Hattie said, her voice dripping with suggestion, which Fargo chose to ignore. “Right this way.”
He followed her out of the parlor, through the recessed doorway, and into the kitchen. It was surprisingly large, but Fargo figured that they probably made a lot of meals here—both for the girls and for the men who frequented the place. A massive black woman was standing over a stove, wielding a whisk in one hand. The smells of sizzling ham, scrambled eggs, and fresh-grated cheese issued forth from a cast-iron skillet big enough to feed a small army.
Hattie led him to a small table and set down a mug, which she filled with coffee. “Black?” she asked.
Fargo nodded and picked up the mug. Like the other coffee he’d had in the city, this one was rich and dark and tasted of chicory. It wasn’t something he’d want all the time, but it was a good flavor. He took another sip and said, “That’s good. Thank you.”
Hattie smiled. “My Matilda brews the best chicory coffee in the city, but wait until you eat her cooking. You’ll think you’ve died and woke up in your mama’s kitchen.”
“Then she’s probably damn handy to have around.”
Hattie took a seat at the table, pouring herself a cup of coffee as well. “Matilda says the girls come here for the money but they stay for the food. She may be right,” she admitted, smiling. “Of course, they all work up quite an appetite.”
Hattie laughed, and Fargo realized that her charms—so noticeable on the docks and at Beares’ house—weren’t quite as effective as before. He’d been wondering since he’d met her who she reminded him of and he finally figured it out: she was like one of those snake-oil salesmen that came out to the frontier with bottles of pure grain alcohol flavored with a little molasses or ginger or whatever, selling a supposed cure-all for a dollar a bottle. She was, in other words, a woman who would lie, cheat, or do whatever else came to mind or hand, in order to make a buck.
Matilda set a plate in front of Fargo heaped with scrambled eggs, ham and cheese, and two slices of buttered toast.
Fargo chuckled. “I think that’ll do it—maybe for a couple of days.” He picked up a fork and set to work, his hands busy even as he observed Hattie eating her own breakfast, which consisted of a very small plate of the scrambled eggs and toast.
In between bites, he said, “You don’t eat enough to keep a hummingbird alive.”
She smiled. “I can’t afford to overindulge in food, Mr. Fargo. Most men prefer their women on the slender side.”
Fargo finished his plate, filled to bursting, then refilled his coffee cup from the pot on the table. Hattie was done long before he was, but she watched him with the eyes of a happy cat who’d found a mouse to play with. There was something, he knew, deeply wrong with the woman.
When he’d finished his coffee, she took a small ashtray off the shelf and set it on the table. Fargo rolled himself a smoke, and struck a match with his thumb, sighing in satisfaction. “A damn fine breakfast,” he said. “Thank you.”
Hattie laughed. “I don’t imagine you’ve had much time to eat in the last day or so,” she said. “Fleur is an exuberant young lady.” She rolled a smoke of her own, lit it, and said, “Where is my little chocolate flower, anyway?”
“Oh, I’ve arranged for her to be kept busy for the next couple of days,” Fargo said. “I want to be sure that my distractions during the game are kept to a minimum.”
“I’m sure,” Hattie said, sounding a little annoyed by Fargo’s answer. “You should have her come by, pick up her things.”
“I can bring them to her, but she’s got everything she needs,” he said. “She won’t be coming back.”
Hattie laughed again; this time the sound was cruel. “Excuse me, Fargo,” she said. “I’ve heard that one about a million times. You’ll tire of her, eventually, and she’ll come back. They always do. That’s one of the things that keeps me in business—I never lack for girls willing to work.”
“I don’t suppose,” Fargo said, crushing out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I appreciate the breakfast, but the reason I’m here is business.”
“Fleur isn’t enough to keep you satisfied?” Hattie asked. “I’m amazed.”
Fargo shook his head. If the woman could turn the conversation to sex, she did. “No,” he said. “The business of the poker game. I’d like to see the room where it will be played.”
“Certainly,” Hattie said, rising to her feet. “Matilda, will you see to it that the girls get breakfast and ready for the day? You know they’ll sleep half the day through if we don’t get them going.”
“Yes, ma’am, Miz Hamilton,” Matilda said.
“Follow me, Fargo,” Hattie said, heading back out into the sitting room.
He followed and she led him back to the front entryway. “The upstairs is where the girls’ rooms are,” she said. “The sitting rooms are where gentlemen callers can take their ease with a fine cigar and a drink until the girl of their choice is available.”
“And the downstairs?” Fargo asked.
“That’s where we have . . . other rooms,” Hattie said. “Come along and I’ll show you.”
Fargo followed her down the stairs, moving slowly so that she could light the gas lamps ensconced on the walls. The stairs were steep and they went down two flights before coming to a long hallway that branched in either direction.
“Th
ese rooms are where we do special entertainments, ” Hattie said. “To the left, we have rooms for almost any kind of sexual activity you can imagine. And probably a few you wouldn’t want to.”
Curious despite himself, Fargo said, “I’ve got quite an imagination.”
She patted his arm and once again that surge of heat passed over him. “I’m sure you do,” she laughed. “And that’s enough about that.”
“I get the picture,” Fargo said. Some things were better left unexplored. “And the rooms to the right?”
“Mostly private party rooms. We aren’t supposed to allow gambling, but the city looks the other way so long as we keep the officials bribed—and let them play, of course. Every major politician in Louisiana has been down here drinking the best booze found anywhere and playing poker or faro, dealt by a beautiful woman wearing nothing but a smile.” Her voice was proud. “I make almost as much money off those rooms as I do the rest of the property combined.”
“What’s the house take?” he asked.
“Twenty percent,” Hattie said. “It adds up fast.”
“I’m sure,” Fargo said. “Can I see the room where the poker game I’m supposed to be watching is going to be held?”
“This way,” she said, turning down the hall to the right and stopping at the last door. “Here it is. We call this the Midnight Room.”
She opened the door and the name became self-explanatory. The walls were covered in a wood so dark that it was almost black. In one corner, a fully stocked bar and a case of cigars was almost invisible except for the twinkle of light reflecting off the decanters. Heavy chairs, raised up higher and made of black-dyed leather, were spaced around the walls for those who were observing the table in the center of the room.
The poker table itself was crafted of the same dark, polished wood as the walls, the top covered in flawless green felt. Six wooden containers were situated in the middle of the table, each one filled with chips. Around the table, six comfortable chairs were placed evenly apart, with a seventh chair for the dealer. Crystal ash-trays, cleaned and polished, waited to be used. Everything appeared to be in readiness for the big game.
“It’s quite nice, yes?” Hattie said.
“A poker room fit for a king,” Fargo replied. His eyes scanned the room once more. “Is this door the only way in or out?”
“Yes,” Hattie said. She walked over to the bar area and moved aside a small curtain. “There is a dumbwaiter here, so that food can be sent down directly from the kitchen, but as you can see”—she slid open the panel that revealed the space—“this isn’t large enough for anything other than a few plates stacked on a tray.”
Fargo nodded. “I want one of the viewing chairs moved,” he said. “Do you mind?”
“Whatever you feel will assist you in your jobs,” Hattie said.
“Where will you be during the game?” he asked.
“Behind the bar,” she said. “For the most part, anyway. I will have to go upstairs from time to time to check on things, but by the time the game starts, the rest of the house should be fairly quiet.”
Looking the room over once more, Fargo reached a decision. The poker table was in the center of the room, the bar area behind it and to the right in one corner. He walked across the room and lifted one of the heavy chairs, placing it several feet behind the dealer’s chair—in between the table and the bar. It put him too far from the door for his liking, but there was no helping it. If he was going to both watch the game and protect Hattie, he’d have to be positioned right there.
“This ought to do it,” he said.
“Very well,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Fargo? Anything at all?”
The words were suggestive enough, but considering that she was already sleeping with two senators, Fargo figured he’d be better off sticking to business. “Just one more question,” he said.
“Of course,” Hattie replied, leading him out of the room and back up the stairs. She blew out the gas lamps as they went and Fargo did his best to keep his mind focused on what he needed to know, rather than the seductive sway of her backside through the silk of her gown.
They reached the top of the stairs and paused in the entryway. “You had a question?” she said.
“Yes,” Fargo said. “I understand the stakes and the players. I know what I’m supposed to be doing. There’s just one piece of information I don’t have yet.”
“And that is?”
“Who is going to be dealing the cards?” Fargo asked.
Hattie burst out laughing, her voice echoing off the marble entryway in genuine mirth. “Oh, my,” she said. “I am truly amazed.” She wiped tears away from the corners of her eyes, still laughing. “It hadn’t even occurred to me that you didn’t know.”
“So?” Fargo asked, irritated at her mirth. “Who’s dealing?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really did think you knew.” She managed to get her laughter under control, making a small handkerchief disappear into a sleeve. “I would’ve thought he would have told you.”
“He who?” Fargo snapped.
“Your friend,” Hattie said. “John H. D. Timmons will be dealing the cards tomorrow night, Fargo.”
Stunned, Fargo felt his jaw unhinge and he had to consciously force himself to close his mouth. When he opened it again, all he could mutter was, “Ah, shit.”
That was one twist in the trail he hadn’t seen coming at all.
10
Fargo left the Blue Emporium in something of a daze, crossing the street and barely avoiding being run over by a carriage. He needed to think and short of leaving the city, the best place to do that would be back in his room at the Bayou, so that’s where he headed.
Once he was back in his room, he stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. He wasn’t tired, but his mind was reeling from the implications of H.D. dealing the cards for the game. On the one hand, it was possible that he’d been chosen because he was unbiased. On the other, it was possible that he’d fallen under the influence of one or more of the players of the game—or simply the influence of cold, hard cash—and was somehow involved in one or more of the schemes going on here.
Fargo squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then started massaging his temples. By his count, there were now six poker players, one dealer, and one brothel madam involved in the game. Of those, five were potential problems and at least four had some kind of vested interest in the outcome. He realized he had a headache . . . and that he much preferred the straight decision making of a good fight than all of these shady characters and their secret plans.
A deep feeling of unease settled itself in his gut. The potential for this to turn into a basement blood-bath was pretty high, and he wondered if his initial assessment about the streets being quiet was right. If any of the three men—Parker, Beares, or Anderson— wanted to make a move, during the poker game might be the best time.
This, coupled with the fact that H.D. hadn’t bothered to mention that he was going to be dealing the cards, led Fargo to reach the conclusion that no matter what he did, he was going to be a target for trouble. Someone would want him dead and out of the way before the game tonight.
No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than he heard the faint squeak of a floorboard in the hallway outside his door. It could have been a passerby, someone leaving his room, but the noise would have continued on, rather than ceasing.
Fargo slipped the Colt out of its holster, then placed it alongside, almost beneath, his right leg where it would be hard to spot. The door handle to his room rattled briefly and he mentally cursed himself for not bothering to lock the door when he’d come in. Closing his eyes to mere slits, he feigned sleep and waited, hoping the individual wouldn’t just shoot him down.
Through his restricted vision, Fargo saw the deep blue color of a pair of jeans and the tan canvas of a duster. Booted footsteps, quiet but noticeable, stopped at the foot of his bed.
Res
isting the urge to move, he kept his breathing slow and steady. Until he heard the cold, metallic click of a pistol being cocked.
A deep voice began to say, “Get up, Trailsman,” but Fargo was already moving.
He launched himself forward, bringing the Colt to bear with his right hand, while sweeping the man’s gun out of the way with his left.
The man’s eyes went wide and he managed to say, “Oh, shit, he’s awake!” as Fargo jammed the barrel of the Colt against the man’s chest.
From the doorway, Fargo saw another man drawing down on him and he knew he didn’t have a choice. These men were here to take him away somewhere and kill him and he wasn’t about to let that happen.
Leaping off the bed, Fargo shoved the man in front of him toward the door, just as the other man’s gun went off. The bullet slammed into the first man, hammering into his back and driving him to his knees.
From the doorway, the second man said, “Oh, damn, Darby,” then tried to take aim at Fargo.
The Trailsman wasn’t going to give him the chance and he fired the Colt twice, the sound almost deafening in the small room. Darby fell over backward, dead, at almost the same time that his partner pitched into the hallway, crashing into the wall and sliding down. His eyes held the same look of surprise Fargo had seen on so many faces when meeting the reality of their own deaths. So many men who were willing to kill for money seemed to believe that they were immune to the fate they handed out to others. Death came as a cold surprise, but Fargo suspected they ended up in a much warmer place.
Stepping over Darby’s still form, he moved to the man in the hallway who was gasping out his last few breaths. “Heard . . . heard . . . you were good,” he wheezed.
“Who sent you?” Fargo snapped, kicking the man’s gun down the hallway. “Who wanted me dead so badly that they’d send you in broad daylight?”