American Hippo

by Sarah Gailey

  “Well, Alberto,” Cal Hotchkiss said to the balding off-duty ranger, shifting his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, “that’s your opinion.”

  The four men around the table were not looking at each other. They watched the cards in their hands as though nude women were painted on the fronts of the cards, instead of the backs. They were not wreathed in smoke—the riverboat casinos did not allow smoking in private suites—but three of them chewed on unlit cigars. Cal Hotchkiss preferred his toothpick.

  “It’s not an opinion,” the tall black man in the black hat chimed in. “There’s no hippos in California. No rivers. No marshes. Means no hippos.”

  The men accepted cards from the dealer, who kept his eyes downcast as he slid them across the felted top of the table. They slid the cards into their hands, muttering to each other about the Sacramento River and whether it featured marshes; none of them knew, and Cal declined to educate them. Alberto sniffed. He leaned toward the window, holding onto his grey felt hat, and spat a thick stream of tobacco into the water. A moment later, a soft splash sounded.

  “You know what they do have in California?” The man in the black hat took a sip from the mint julep that rested on the felt in front of him. “Adelia Reyes.”

  For a moment, none of the men seemed to breathe. The only sound was the creaking of the giant wheel that propelled the riverboat slowly forward.

  The moment passed.

  “Never heard of her,” Alberto said. “Edvard, you heard of her?”

  The fourth man at the table—a squat Swede in a bolo tie—shook his head. “If I had heard of her, I sure as shit wouldn’t want to hear of her again.”

  Cal Hotchkiss didn’t say anything at all. He laid out his cards. The rest of the men at the table seemed to exhale as one as they each acknowledged defeat. Cal reached out one long arm and hooked it around the pile of chips in the center of the felt, reeling in his winnings. He lifted his bowler with one hand and ran his fingers through his damp, white-blond hair. The breeze coming in from the open window just behind his chair ruffled the fine wisps of his moustache. “Well, gentlemen. I win again.” He lifted his hat high in the air, and a dark, doe-eyed waitress wearing a breathtakingly low-cut corset slid over. She leaned close to him, her perfume wafting around the table.

  “Yes, Mr. Hotchkiss?”

  “I’d like a drink, Cordelia. And then I’d like for you to come and sit in my lap.”

  “Right away, Mr. Hotchkiss.”

  She walked out of the small room to fetch a drink from the main floor of the casino, and the other men at the table watched her go—all of them except for the man in the black hat.

  “Going to take her to bed with you, Cal?”

  “Nah.” Cal shrugged, slipping his winnings into the pockets of his jacket. He looked sharply at the man in the black hat. “Mr. Travers wouldn’t like it.”

  The man in the black hat smiled. “Of course. It’s nice to meet you, Cal Hotchkiss. Name’s Gran Carter, U.S. marshal.” He flipped up his jacket to reveal the silver star that hung from his belt buckle.

  “I know who you are.”

  “Then maybe you know why I’m here.”

  “Maybe I don’t give a shit.”

  The pit boss walked past the doorway and the dealer made eye contact with him. A moment later, the dealer had melted away from the table, leaving the four men alone with the dregs of their drinks. Alberto turned to Gran Carter. He was more than a little drunk. “Look here, Mister Marshal, I ain’t done nothin’ wrong here no how, an’ I’ve got a badge too, see, I’m a ranger for the Bureau of Lan’ Management, an’ I fancy I’ve got even more pull here than the likes of—”

  Gran Carter clapped Alberto on the back hard enough that he choked midsentence. “You’re alright by me, friend. I’m not here for you, and I’m not here for the casino, and I’m not here to stop Mr. Travers from throwing cheats into the river. Hell, I’m not even here to make Mr. Hotchkiss shave that embarrassment of a moustache.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. All of the men around the table reacted instantly, drawing pistols and pointing them at the U.S. marshal in the broad black hat.

  “Woah there,” he said, holding up his hands. In one of them, he held a photograph. The men around the table put their guns away—all except Cal, who merely lowered his. He kept one hand on the gun. The other hand reached up unconsciously to stroke his patchy blond moustache. At that moment, Cordelia arrived with a tray and handed a glass of honey-brown liquor to Cal. She perched in his lap like a cat sitting on a fence post, her eyes fixed upon his unholstered revolver.

  Carter set the photograph on the table and slid it toward the center of the felt. “That there’s Miss Adelia Reyes, gentlemen. I happen to know that she was on the Harriet eight or nine months ago, and I’m guessing she talked to some people here. She owes me a conversation. I’d be much obliged if y’all’d look over that photograph and tell me if you’ve seen her.”

  None of the men took the photograph, but their eyes all locked onto it the same way they’d been watching their cards before the game had ended. The sepia photograph showed a woman with burnished bronze skin and the cool, steady gaze of a contract killer. She stared out of the photo with hawkish, predatory eyes; a tattoo of a thorny vine coiled its way up the side of her neck and into her hair.

  “Well,” said Edvard. “I think I’d remember it if I ever saw a lady like that. What’d she do that a marshal’s looking for her?”

  Alberto rubbed a thick rope of scar tissue on the back of his left arm. “I’d imagine she killed a man.”

  Carter looked at Alberto with that unwavering smile. “You’d imagine right.”

  Cordelia leaned over the table to look at the picture, then opened her mouth as if to speak. Cal Hotchkiss rested his hand on her hip, his grip tight. She closed her mouth without speaking.

  “Well,” Carter said, pushing back from the table and standing without taking the photograph. “I’ll be around if you need me.”

  Edvard and Alberto stood together and walked over to the bar, shooting glances at Carter as he sauntered toward the exit. Cal watched him walk away, then stood. Cordelia toppled from his lap. He grabbed a wad of cash from the center of the table and thrust it at her. “For the drink. And the company. Go on and tell ʼem downstairs that I’ll be along shortly to pick up my Betsy.”

  “No need,” a cheerful voice rang out from just behind them. “I’ve already moved her into a paddock for some quality time with my Ruby.”

  Cal whipped around so quickly his hat fell off, leaving Cordelia to gather the bills he’d dropped. In the instant it had taken him to turn, he’d grabbed his revolver off the table and unholstered a second, smaller gun from his belt. He had both pointed at Winslow Houndstooth with the hammers cocked back by the time his hat hit the ground.

  “Now, Calhoun, that’s no way to greet an old partner.” Houndstooth strode toward Cal, plucking his bourbon from the table and sampling the bouquet deeply before taking a long, slow sip. Behind him, Cordelia slipped out of the room. “Oh. That’s very fine, indeed. You still have excellent taste.”

  “You here for me, Houndstooth?” Cal growled. “If you think I’ll go quiet, think again.” He shifted his toothpick back and forth in his mouth.

  Houndstooth laughed. “Nothing like that, Cal, my old friend! I’m here to work with you again. Partners. Just like old times. Just like back on the ranch.” Houndstooth flicked open a long, thin stiletto blade and twirled it between his fingers like a baton. “You remember the ranch, don’t you, Cal? The one you worked on, right up until it burned to the ground on the same night you ran off to work on the Harriet? A fine coincidence, that.”

  Cal started to edge toward the door. Houndstooth stepped swiftly between him and the exit. “Love the—is it a moustache you’re working on? We really must catch up, Calhoun, old chap. I’ve been wanting to have a chat with you for some time now.”

  A cough sounded from the door. They both turned, and t
he air in the room went cold. Hovering in the doorway was a sleek little stoat of a man, his pencil moustache slicked across the top of his lip like a drunk draped across a chaise longue. His seersucker suit was fitted to him so impeccably that Houndstooth’s breath caught for a moment in his throat.

  “Gentlemen. I trust you’re both familiar with the rules of my casinos.” The man’s voice was smoother than the bourbon his bartender poured for high rollers.

  “Mr. Travers,” Houndstooth said. “I wasn’t going to hurt my old friend Cal, here. Just showing him my new knife.”

  “And a fine knife it is,” Travers responded, inclining his head. “It would be such a shame if it were to get wet. And your pistols, Mr. Hotchkiss—I don’t imagine they stand up well to submersion?”

  Cal and Houndstooth stared at each other for a long moment. The boat creaked as they watched each other. Travers cleared his throat, and they both lowered their weapons.

  “Very good. Now, I’m sure you gentlemen would like to have a civilized discussion over drinks at the bar? On the house.” He waved an arm toward the door. The two men hesitated, neither wanting to walk in front of the other—but after a beat, Houndstooth put his grey hat on, tipping it to Travers.

  “I’ll be waiting for you with a whiskey, Calhoun, old friend. We’ve got business to discuss.”

  He walked out without a backwards glance. Cal made to follow, but Travers put out a hand before Cal got to the door. Cal stopped before Travers so much as touched him.

  “Now, what precisely do you suppose he’s doing here?” Travers murmured, his voice as silky as a snake’s belly sliding over a bed of marsh grass.

  “I got no damn idea,” Cal growled. Travers considered him for a long, silent minute. “I said I don’t know,” Cal said, his eyes flicking away from Travers’. “And whatever it is you’re thinking you’ll ask me to do about it, I ain’t doin’.”

  In just three unhurried steps, Travers crossed the room and was behind the chair near the window, where Cal had been sitting. He stooped, looking like a heron that had spotted a fish. When he straightened, he was holding three playing cards. He held them up where Cal could see them. Cal’s face didn’t so much as twitch. Travers dropped the cards onto the felt of the table and spread them out with the manicured tip of his index finger.

  “Three queens. Were these insurance against losing, or did they come in handy at some point while you were fleecing my customers?”

  Cal shook his head as his lips went white. Travers held up a quelling finger.

  “Shhh, no, don’t try to lie to me, Mr. Hotchkiss. You were cheating. You were stealing from me. Oh, yes, I know, you weren’t stealing my money, Mr. Hotchkiss—but you’ve tarnished my name. You’ve put my reputation into question, and you’ve made me look foolish.” His voice hadn’t risen above a murmur, but it dripped with menace. He whipped the silk pocket square from his jacket and, turning to the open window, laid it across the broad sill. “You realize that this is your second warning?”

  Cal nodded.

  “And you realize, don’t you, that there will not be a third warning?”

  Cal nodded again.

  “Let’s just be sure, why don’t we? It always pays to be thorough. Come here.”

  Cal shook his head again, unable to form words. His face had turned a peculiar shade of grey. Travers gestured with one elegant hand, then unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll up his sleeves.

  “Come now, Mr. Hotchkiss. Cal. Let’s not waste time. Your friend is waiting, after all.” He finished rolling up his sleeves, then checked to make sure they were of equal lengths. That done, he snapped his fingers. Cordelia entered, holding a domed silver tray. She did not look at Cal as she passed by. She set the tray on the gaming table near where Travers stood, where he could reach it without moving away from the window.

  “Thank you, Cordelia, darling.” Travers smiled at her with warm eyes. She smiled back, tentative. He nodded to the door, still smiling, and she left, ignoring Cal’s desperate attempt to catch her eye on her way out. After she’d disappeared from sight, two massive men stepped in from the hall—Travers’ security. They turned away from the room, so their backs filled the doorway. Cal let out a strangled sound like an aborted whimper.

  “Mr. Hotchkiss,” Travers said. “I don’t have all day. Do not make me ask you again.”

  Cal crossed the room with slow steps. Sweat beaded on his brow as he watched the covered tray. The only sounds in the little gaming room were his shaky breathing, the creak of the steamboat wheel, and the lapping of the Harriet.

  Travers uncovered the little silver tray. There, on top of a folded maroon napkin, lay a gleaming, curved hunting knife—Cal’s hunting knife, taken from his room on the boat. It had been cleaned and honed since he had seen it last. The edge of the blade was so fine that his eyes couldn’t quite rest on it.

  Travers picked up the cards from the felt-topped table and laid them down in a neat row on the square of silk he’d laid across the windowsill. He rested the tip of one manicured index finger on the center card.

  “Are these your queens, Mr. Hotchkiss?”

  Cal swallowed hard, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He nodded. Before he had finished nodding, Travers’ hand flashed out, and Cal’s face slammed into the windowsill. His right cheek was pressed against the three queens. Travers’ hand was smashed flat against the left side of his face, holding him against the sill. The corner of the top card pressed against the right corner of Cal’s lower lip, sharp. The tips of Travers’ fingers dug into the flesh of Cal’s face, his grip as firm as bone.

  Travers slowly bent his head until his eyes were level with Cal’s. The heel of his hand ground painfully against Cal’s jaw.

  Travers picked up the knife.

  “Are these your queens, Mr. Hotchkiss?”

  Cal made another strangled sound. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He finally managed to open his mouth wide enough to rasp the word “Yes.”

  Travers brought the knife to rest just under Cal’s left eye, then traced it along the top of his cheekbone, just lightly enough to leave the barest red scratch. Cal felt a single tear work its way out of his right eye. It fell through the open air, all the way down to the water.

  “Look,” Travers hissed. And Cal did.

  He looked down, following the path his tear had taken. He couldn’t move his head, but he strained his eyes. His breathing hitched as his gaze found what Travers wanted him to see: the ferals.

  The water swarmed with them. They stayed near the Sturgess Queen during daylight hours, while the sun warmed the water around the riverboat to a temperature they could abide. They circled it hungrily, waiting for someone to cheat or brawl or get handsy with one of Travers’ girls. Waiting for Travers’ security staff to hurl someone overboard, so they could fall, flailing and screaming, into the water.

  Cold sweat ran down the small of Cal’s back as he watched the ferals look up at the boat, impatient for their next meal.

  Travers let him sweat for a full minute before he asked the question a final time. “Are. These. Your. Queens.”

  Cal choked out the words. “Yes, Mr. Travers, sir.”

  There was a flash of movement. Cal’s left ear felt suddenly hot, searing hot, and then there was pain, blue-white and filling the left side of his head. He spasmed, but Travers’ hand gripped his face, and he could not lift his head from the windowsill. He could not lift it even as blood filled his ear, muffling all other sounds in the room—even as it poured down the front of his face, stinging his eyes. He tried to draw breath to scream in pain but ended up sputtering, choking on a mouthful of his own blood.

  Travers held him there with a firm hand, taking slow, deep breaths. He held the knife out in front of him, over Cal’s head. Balanced on the edge of it was the lower half of Cal’s left ear.

  Eventually, Cal stopped thrashing and was still. His breathing was labored and ragged; blood covered his face, stained his collar, pooled around his cheek. It would have run down
the windowsill, but for the square of silk that just barely managed to contain the puddle of blood. Travers lowered the knife so Cal could see his ear, as delicate as a magnolia petal.

  “I don’t give third chances, Mr. Hotchkiss,” Travers murmured. He licked a fleck of saliva from the corner of his mouth with the pink tip of his tongue. He twitched the knife. The severed half-ear landed directly in front of Cal’s eyes.

  Travers finally released Cal, but the blond man didn’t stand up right away. Travers grabbed the purple napkin from the silver tray, and used it to wipe his hands clean before dropping it on Cal’s head.

  “You should get cleaned up,” he murmured, staring at the bleeding man with flat, passionless eyes. “I expect Mr. Houndstooth will be waiting for you. Oh, and Calhoun?” He waited for Cal to straighten and look at him before continuing. “Not a word to Houndstooth.” He pulled a linen handkerchief from his back pocket with a flourish. He used it to pick up the piece of Cal’s ear that still lay on the windowsill; then, he wrapped the ear up with quick, delicate motions, and dropped it into his breast pocket.

  Cal’s eyes were locked on the pocket that had half of his ear in it. “Yes, Mr. Travers, sir.”

  “Very good.” Travers turned and left the room without another word. Cal stared after him, clutching the purple napkin to what was left of his ear. After a minute or two, he swore under his breath. He left the room, still pressing the napkin to the side of his face. Houndstooth was waiting for him.

  Chapter 6

  The Harriet Inn was the only bar in the slim mile between the Gate and the Gulf with its own pond. All the hoppers that came through town stopped there sooner or later to enjoy the excellent service and the brutal atmosphere. The darts were sharp and the drinks were strong. Cal and Houndstooth arrived together, and, without speaking to each other, they spread themselves out at a low, scarred table. They ordered the first round, and several mugs of beer arrived well before anyone else did.

  Houndstooth lit a long, slim, black cigar, and blew a stream of smoke at Cal, who chewed his toothpick as though it had wronged him.