by Jon Sharpe
“The man you knew in Kansas was a lot more naive than I am,” H.D. said. “There’s no law against it and I’m trying to get enough of a nest egg to retire, Fargo. I’m getting too old for this life.” He pointed a finger and added, “I notice you’re working for them.”
“I wouldn’t be,” Fargo said, “if I’d known what I was really getting into. But I accepted the job from Parker and I don’t back out of a job once I’ve taken it on.”
“Even when you find out the truth—that your employer is no better than a rattler himself?” he asked.
“I gave my word,” he replied. “I’ll see it through, but I play fair and always have. What about you, H.D.? You still playing fair?”
His friend leaned against the dresser. “Fair as I can, Fargo,” he said, sighing. “I’ve got to live here, too. You’ll move on after this, just like you always do.”
Fargo nodded, then said, “So long as you understand the rules, H.D., you’ll do all right.”
“What rules?” he asked. “I’m just dealing the cards.”
“And if I catch you doing more than that,” Fargo replied, his voice soft and menacing, “then you might live to wish I hadn’t.”
H.D. stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “I’ve always been a straight shooter, Fargo. I’ll deal the cards that way, too.”
“Good enough,” Fargo said. He looked at the bodies on the ground and added, “Do you want help moving these down to the undertaker?”
H.D. shook his head. “No, we’ve got street urchins for that. They’ll move ’em for two bits each and be glad for the work. The parish will pick up the cost of getting ’em buried if no one comes to claim them.”
“How’s Mary making out over at your place?” Fargo asked. “She doing okay?”
“Oh, she’s fine as frog’s hair,” H.D. said. “My wife has a new friend.” He sighed heavily. “You were right, Fargo. No sane man would have two grown women in his house. They start plotting against you the minute they think you’re out of earshot.”
Fargo laughed and a sense of relief washed over him. He didn’t think H.D. was on the wrong side of things here, which would mean one less man to worry about. “What makes you think,” he asked with a grin, “that they wait even that long?”
Once he was back on the street, Fargo got the feeling that he was being watched again. He tried and almost succeeded in convincing himself that this was stupid. The problem wasn’t people behind windows noting his every move—the problem was that this was a city where virtually nobody was trustworthy. Usually when he went into a town he found the good folks right away. Not here. New Orleans was a place where there was no such thing as “the common good.” Every group you could name had a “common good,” meaning that there wasn’t much civic cooperation. It was a wonder that New Orleans had bloomed the way it had. Despite his misgivings about the place, Fargo had to admit that it was a magnificent spectacle of a city and that things only promised to get even bigger and bolder here.
Not that he’d stick around to watch.
In the afternoon before the game was scheduled to start, Fargo grabbed a quick bite at the diner next door and watched the street from the window. The blackened catfish filets he was eating were delicious and the slaw and the cornbread were homemade, but his mind wasn’t on his food but on the slow-moving groups of men circling the streets around the Blue Emporium and eyeing each other like soldiers getting ready to go to war.
It took almost a half hour, but eventually Fargo spotted the two men situated on the roof of the brothel and noted that other men had taken up positions in the alleys nearby. If things went badly tonight, a lot of people were going to die. There were too many guns and too many enemies gathered in one place.
He finished his meal and paid the bill, then stepped into the street. Beneath the brim of his hat, he saw that several sets of eyes followed his movements, but no one bothered him as he strolled around several blocks in either direction, counting the number of men that Parker, Beares, and Anderson had sent to keep watch on the brothel.
By the time he’d completed his circuit, Fargo knew that trouble was brewing and it was only a matter of time until it exploded. He remembered how, out on the plains of Nebraska, a summer storm would roll across the prairie in a black and purple line, the clouds churning and bolts of lightning zapping back and forth as it built up strength. When it hit, it did so with a ferociousness unrivaled in nature, and wise men hid in their root cellars until it was over and they could come out and inspect the damage.
No one in this area had that option.
He went back to his room to change into the new clothing he’d purchased earlier in the afternoon. The loose makings of a plan were now firmly set in his mind and some of it meant looking a particular part. Though Fargo didn’t consider himself an actor by any means, he knew that in some situations how a man looked was almost as important as what he might do.
In his room, now cleaned but still smelling faintly of gunpowder, he dressed in black denim jeans and a matching black shirt with bone buttons. He slipped on a new pair of boots, also black, that weren’t fit for riding a horse for any distance, but had high enough sides that they could easily hide his boot knives. A paisley-patterned vest in a blue so dark it might as well have been black, completed the clothing portion of his outfit, and he topped it off with a new hat he had no intention of keeping when he left the city.
There were towns on the frontier where this kind of hat would get a man called all kinds of names and lead to fights, but here, it would likely fit right in. It was solid black, too, and made of rich felt. It had a gambler’s crown and a wide brim that would serve to hide his eyes. The hatband was woven leather braids interspersed with what the merchant claimed were genuine alligator teeth. They certainly looked real enough, anyway.
Finally, Fargo strapped on a new gun belt—another item he planned on getting rid of as soon as he could. This one was a double-holster rig with midthigh tie-downs, and he placed his well-worn Colt in the righthand side and a new one in the left—the same model, but in much better shape than his trusted companion. His own gun had seen many years of hard use, but he wouldn’t trade it for much of anything.
It had saved his life too many times and Fargo saw no reason to switch, despite the constant advertisements of better weapons he saw whenever he passed through a town of any size.
He took a long look in the mirror and saw that he had achieved the effect he was going for. Parker had hired him to keep a poker game fair and Beares had hired him to protect Hattie during the game, but what both men were going to see when they looked at him tonight was a gentleman gambler and gunfighter, more than ready for trouble.
The person in the mirror bore no small resemblance to a man he’d met only once, in a small gambling saloon in Georgia. The man’s name had been John Holliday, a dentist by trade, but when he sat at the card table, even someone of Fargo’s background realized that they were sitting with a very, very dangerous man.
Fargo didn’t know where John Holliday was now, probably still practicing dentistry somewhere, but he did remember something he’d said while they played cards late one night. “There are only three truths at a card table, Mr. Fargo. The money truth, the card truth, and the people truth. Money, sir, is nothing more than some scribbles of ink on paper. So are cards, for that matter. I play people, Mr. Fargo, which is why I am so very good at this game.”
Fargo fully intended to take John Holliday’s words to heart.
Tonight, he would play the people.
And hold on to the hope that he’d get out alive.
Sunset came and went, and Fargo left his room to grab some dinner, then went out to walk the streets one more time. As though the citizens were animals and could sense impending danger, Basin Street had grown extraordinarily quiet. The saloons and gaming parlors and brothels had very few patrons and most of the people he saw were the same men who had been in the street earlier in the day.
After circling the
block, Fargo crossed the street and went up the stone steps into the Blue Emporium. The game was scheduled to start in an hour. Hattie Hamilton was sitting in one of the parlor rooms by herself, while in the other, several of the girls laughed and giggled with men from out of town.
Hattie saw him come in and raised a hand in greeting. Fargo had reached one conclusion about all of the events that had led up to this point: the center of them was Hattie Hamilton.
“Why, Mr. Fargo,” she said, rising to meet him. “I had no idea that beneath the plain clothes of a frontiersman, such a fine gentleman existed.”
Summoning his coldest voice, Fargo said, “In my experience, Miss Hamilton, being a gentleman has damn little to do with your clothing.”
Taken a bit aback, she retreated a step, caught herself, then turned to the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Bourbon,” Fargo said. He moved over to the bar, and watched as she poured him a stiff shot from one of the decanters. He took it and tasted a sip. It was warm and smooth and very fine, not unlike a good woman. “This is excellent.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Do you require anything else before the game begins?”
“One of those cigars, if you wouldn’t mind,” Fargo said, gesturing to the humidor behind the bar. “It’s going to be a long night.”
“I imagine so,” she said. “Do you expect trouble?”
“I always expect trouble, Miss Hamilton,” he replied. “It’s one of the reasons I’m still alive after all these years.”
“One of them?” she asked, handing him a house-rolled Cuban that smelled almost as good as it would smoke. “What are the others?”
Fargo slipped the cigar into his vest pocket, saving it for later. Then he took another sip of the bourbon, savoring its burn. “There are lots of them,” he said, “but beyond expecting trouble, there’s one thing that’s made the difference.”
“Oh?” she asked.
Remembering the cold grin of John Holliday, Fargo did his best to mimic it and he was pleased at the reaction on her face. “I don’t mind killing people,” he said, his voice quiet. “In fact, if it means staying alive, I’ll kill anyone or anything that crosses my path.”
“I . . . I see,” she said, trying to recover. “It’s good, then, that you will be protecting me tonight, should trouble happen.”
Fargo cocked his head in the direction of the doors. “With as many gunmen as I saw outside, I’d be very surprised if a whole bunch of folks didn’t end up dead tonight,” he said. “Let’s hope the right ones make it to the undertakers.”
“I’ll escort you downstairs,” she said, moving from behind the bar and heading for the entryway. “Who would be the right ones?” she asked, leading the way down the steps.
Fargo laughed softly. “There are a lot of players in this game, Miss Hamilton,” he said. “For your sake, the right ones better be the ones you’ve been sleeping with. If they aren’t, you’re going to be out of business—the dead way—before sunrise.”
He was surprised when she laughed, too. “Why, Mr. Fargo, what in the world makes you think I’m not sleeping with all of them?”
11
Hattie left him in the poker room, which he had to himself for the time being. She said little else to him, indicating that he could help himself to anything from the bar, and that she would return when all the players were assembled. Fargo nodded his thanks and took a stroll around the room, looking for anything that might help someone cheat or gain some advantage during the game.
He found nothing, and after checking to ensure that the six wooden crates of chips had been counted out equally, he finished off his bourbon, put the glass down on the bar, and took a seat. Fargo had learned patience the hard way, and he knew that tonight his would be tested to its limits.
The silence stretched on for almost an hour, but then the door to the room opened and Hattie walked in. The players, each of them carrying a leather satchel of some kind, followed behind her: Parker, dressed in a conservative suit of charcoal gray; Beares, in a white cotton suit that made him look younger than he actually was; Anderson, dressed more like a saloon keeper in a cream-colored shirt with a thin string tie and dark slacks; and three men that Fargo didn’t recognize, who he assumed were the plantation owners. And last, his old friend H.D., the dealer.
“Fargo,” Parker called out as they entered the room. “I’m pleased to see you honored our arrangement, though I didn’t imagine you would come dressed in such finery. I expected the frontiersman I met on the riverboat.”
“I’m a man of my word,” Fargo replied, his voice even. Once more, he wanted to adopt the persona of a professional gambler and gunfighter. “I thought I should dress to fit the occasion.”
“You look,” Anderson said, “like a hired killer.”
“Good,” Fargo said.
Before any more words could be exchanged, Hattie said, “Gentlemen, why not take your seats and I’ll pour us each a drink?”
There was a general murmur of agreement and the men got themselves arranged around the table. While they were doing so, H.D. stopped next to Fargo’s chair and leaned in close. “I’m dealing it straight,” he whispered. “And I wanted you to know that I sent my wife and Mary out of town.” His voice dropped even lower and he added, “If something happens, there’s a note beneath my mantle that will tell you where to find them.”
“What do you think will happen?” Fargo whispered back.
H.D. shrugged. “Cards, I hope.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” he said.
H.D. nodded and took his seat in the dealer’s chair. Hattie poured drinks and passed them around, skipping over Fargo when he shook his head. He couldn’t afford to be slowed tonight.
Hattie raised her own glass and said, “To poker, gentlemen, and the peaceful resolution of problems.”
“Hear, hear,” the men said. Everyone drank, Fargo noticed, except Anderson, who raised his glass to his lips and faked it.
“Gentlemen,” H.D. said. “This is a fifty-thousand-dollar buy-in game. There will be no buying back in. Once you’re out, you’re out. The game is five-card draw, nothing is wild, and there is no limit. Mr. Fargo is here to make sure that everyone plays fair, is that understood?”
There was a chorus of agreement. “Fargo, do you have anything you’d like to say before we start?”
Fargo considered this for a moment, then stood up. “I know three of the men at the table, but I’d like the names of the others.”
The men introduced themselves, and no one bothered to shake hands. One of the men, Armand Delgado, was clearly of Spanish origin. One, who introduced himself as Colonel William Bosswaite, was a retired soldier who looked eager to spend his money very quickly. The third, Fargo thought, was probably the sharpest of the three.
“Aldus Horn,” he said. There was a smooth confidence to his voice that told Fargo that he was a man who knew what he was doing, even if he didn’t understand the true stakes of the game.
“Good,” Fargo said. He moved his gaze from man to man, then said, “I noted a very large number of armed men in the immediate vicinity of the Blue Emporium before I came in tonight, gentlemen. I want each of you to understand something very clearly: should one of you decide that the best way to win this game is to stage some sort of a raid on this place, using force, I won’t ask who is responsible.”
He smoothly drew the Colt from his right holster, the motion so fast that several men blinked in surprise. “I will assume all of you are responsible and ensure that at the least, you are held accountable. Is that clear?”
Another chorus of agreement, then Fargo sat down and added, “Play fair, gentlemen. I will be watching.”
“Very good,” H.D. said. He turned his attention back to the players. “Gentlemen, please put your buy-in money on the table. I will count it and give you your chips. The money will be held in plain sight on the bar.”
The men began to pony up the money, and even Fargo felt himself a little amazed. T
here was three hundred thousand dollars on the table—in cash—and not one of the men was even sweating. It was enough money to buy entire provinces in Mexico.
And more than enough to kill for.
Fargo helped H.D. move the money to the bar once it had all been counted, then sat back down in his chair to watch the real game begin.
In the beginning, everyone played conservatively. There were no huge raises, no one leaped to call bluffs, and the stacks of chips ebbed and flowed like a sluggish creek. They were two hours into the game when H.D. called for a break.
Everyone agreed and got to their feet. Hattie signaled Matilda and the dumbwaiter was sent down with several platters of food, including meat, bread, and cheese for those who wanted to make themselves a sandwich. Fargo ignored the food, but did get a cup of coffee.
Several of the men used the restroom down the hall and returned. The players’ voices were serious and quiet. A visual check showed that the piles of chips were still pretty even, though Aldus Horn had a slight lead. He didn’t bluff, Fargo had noticed.
After the break, everyone sat back down, and he noticed that all the men were slightly more intense, as though the first two hours of play had merely been a way to gauge the other players. Several hands were played at much the same pace, and then Armand Delgado took his five cards and made a fairly large bet.
“Five thousand,” he said, putting the chips into the pot.
To his left, Horn immediately folded. “No, thanks,” he said.
Colonel Bosswaite stared at his cards for a long minute, then looked at Delgado. “Call,” he said, adding his own chips to the pot. With the hundred-dollar antes, there was now ten thousand, six hundred dollars’ worth of chips in the middle of the table.
“Interesting,” Parker said. “Why don’t I believe you, Delgado? Is it because you’re a bluffer and you always have been or is it, do you think, just because you’re a loser who happened into some money?”
Delgado’s eyes sparked but he kept his silence.