“He most likely spoke with a Cajun accent,” Detective Porter continued.
“AH! Captain Wage Pascal! Sure ‘nough,” Horas replied. “He kept this place boomin’ for a few weeks or so. Best profits we seen in months. Times been tough since that Temperance Movement started up. I am sorry to say I haven’t seen him in more than a week, though. I can’t say it wasn’t on account of our liquor, lodging or ladies though. If you find him, be sure and thank him for me.”
“Yes, I will. Tell me, did you inquire as to how he came about all the money he spent here?” the detective asked.
“Not really. ‘Ol’ French money’ is all he ever said. He did boast a few tales, though. Him and his companion, Black Vomit Bill I believe they called him. He was a kind fellow, too, by the sound of him, and from what I hear, quite the pugilist. He took a few fellas outside for some prize-fightin’. Don’t remember hearing him lose much, though,” Horas said.
Black vomit. Too much bile. Improper liver function, common in patients with Yellow Fever, a tropical disease. Tropics such as Cuba, San Juan Hill. Rough Riders.
“But he was always kind enough to buy ‘em a drink afterward. You may want to ask Amber Rose, though; she . . .” Horas cleared his throat, “spent more time with Captain Pascal than I did.” Horas flashed his rotted smile and, as if on cue, an enthusiastic scream came from upstairs. “Now, how’s bout a drink, partner?” he asked.
Detective Porter glanced about the bar again. Noting the piano player shifting on his bench, three unsavory characters sitting at a nearby table huddled around a near-empty bottle, snickering at the constant moaning upstairs. “Whiskey,” Detective Porter said.
He carried his warm tumbler of cheap whiskey to an empty table across from the three men, who immediately began staring and whispering. The detective sat down and began recording. Yellow-stained fingers. Rolling tobacco. Old clothes, lots of patchwork. Hand-me-downs. Second, possibly third-generation field workers. Uneducated. Unhappy. Poor. Drunks. Volatile.
The moaning and screaming finally subsided and a door opened upstairs. A younger gentleman with sweaty, straw-like hair came out adjusting his suspenders. He strutted downstairs and joined his friends. The young man took the last swig from the bottle and began his boasting. Another figure appeared in the open doorway upstairs. A disheveled beauty with strawberry-blonde hair, a sleeveless, low-cut blouse, and can-can skirt, pranced downstairs in dirty bare feet. A small curl of hair bounced in front of her left eye as she descended.
“How’s bout another tussle, Amber Rose?” one of the gentlemen said.
“How much they pay you in week, Jeb?” Amber Rose replied. “I reckon I won’t see you till next Friday. Now, why don’t you use what you got left and buy a lady a drink.” Amber Rose smiled and glanced at the detective. A perfect smile, more intoxicating than any liquor.
Horas knew every floorboard, table, and chair in his establishment, and delivered another bottle of cheap whiskey. The still-recording detective pulled out his sketchbook and began to sketch Amber Rose’s portrait. The derelict debutante’s perfect curves and angelic face would have given da Vinci a sublime moment. The detective sketched furiously. He drew her as she was: sitting seductively over her chair. Only he took the liberty of imagining and drawing her nude. The result was a rough but enticing picture. Two lashes.
Amber Rose entertained the gentlemen, all the while keeping an intermittent eye on the sketching man’s mysterious presence. After she fed the men some more whiskey, she finally jumped from her chair and headed toward the detective like a lean lioness stalking an injured prey.
She slapped the detective’s table and looked him in the eye, “Hey fella, what if I told ya I was a lonely little rose and you a hungry, handsome bee?” She smiled and sucked on her finger.
“I am afraid I’m here on business, not pleasure,” Detective Porter said.
“Well stranger . . . my business is pleasure,” Amber Rose replied.
“Yes. I’m sure it is,” he said.
“Whatcha drawing, stranger?” she grabbed his sketchbook and recognized the drawing of herself. “Not bad. But why draw me when you can have me?” she whispered in his ear. The detective grabbed his sketchbook and put it back in his jacket pocket. “Maybe if you drank that whiskey of yours, you might actually change your mind,” she continued.
“I’m afraid I don’t drink, miss, I merely wanted to blend into my surroundings,” the detective replied.
“Why? You one of them Temperance-pushers? All the wives ‘round here complain about drunken husbands, but drunken husbands are good business for me. If this county dries up, so do I . . .”
“Miss Amber Rose, your advances are flattering, but fruitless. I am wondering if you can tell me about Captain Wage Pascal. I believe he was a client of yours over the last few weeks,” Detective Porter said.
“Do I look like the kinda girl to kiss and tell?” Amber Rose asked. “I ain’t tellin’ you a goddamn thing.”
“Hey!” Jeb yelled, overhearing. “What in the hell is your problem, stranger?” All four men got up and approached the seated detective. Drunk. Volatile.
“Somethin’ wrong with you, mister?” the recently satiated one asked.
“Now, boys,” Amber Rose said, “I’m sure he don’t mean you no harm, no way. Why don’t you just excuse us and go back to your drinkin’. I’ll even buy you another round. What do ya say?” Her plea fell on deaf ears as another gentlemen pushed her aside.
“You not interested in Amber Rose? What’s a matter with you? You some kinda fairy boy? Maybe you like ol’ Matthew over there instead?” asked the balding one with a jack o’ lantern smile. “Matthew! Why don’t you play our friend some fairy music?” The piano player got up slowly off his bench, cracked his knuckles, and began playing an uplifting tune.
“Gentlemen,” the detective said, “I am not looking for any trouble. I am an investigator looking for a man. Perhaps you know him.”
“Hey! He don’t even drink his whiskey?” the young one said.
The burliest of the men grabbed the detective’s table and flung it across the room, sending his whiskey flying and leaving the detective sitting exposed in his chair. “Now how’s about we teach you a lesson in manners, fairy?”
“Stop,” Detective Porter said, opening his jacket to reveal his revolver. “Now, listen closely. I am a man of probability. Statistically speaking, if I am a fast draw, then I should be able to shoot down two of you before you get to me.” The seated detective patted the ebony handle of his revolver. “I am indeed fast. And I do suspect I can down two of you, possibly even three, but the remainder of you . . . well, you will probably beat me mercilessly, most likely until death. So before we get started, I must know—which one of you is going to die today?”
The drunken aggressors looked at each other and contemplated. “Miss Amber Rose,” the detective interjected, “does your room have a window?”
“It does,” she said, still trembling.
“Very well. May I take you upstairs with intent of full compensation?” the detective asked.
“Let me just go freshen up,” Amber Rose said before fleeing upstairs.
The gentlemen finally finished contemplating their foreseeable demise and returned to the table. They were silent, but their eyes were still fixated on the detective. “Horas,” the detective called, “Another bottle for my friends here. And one more for the piano player.”
The detective entered the upstairs room to find the midday sun lighting up Amber Rose’s pale naked form. Her milky smooth body lay on a bed of red velvet. The detective’s early sketch could hardly do her raw, physical form justice. He resisted, with every ounce of his being, the urge to pull out his sketchbook. Another lash. Instead, he beelined for the window overlooking the street. “Tell me, Amber Rose, do you ever hear a car sputtering or backfiring?”
“Well, I hear ol’ Jameson’s taxi all the time. Why do you ask?”
“Where does old Jameson live?”
“Excellent,” Detective porter said, as he placed folded bills down on the nightstand. “This is enough money to last you more than a month, “Tell me everything you know about Captain Wage Pascal.”
Amber Rose sat up, opened her nightstand drawer and pulled out fresh tobacco and rolling papers. The sweet tobacco ousted the smell of perspiration and body odor. She crossed her legs and stared out the window. “Oh, Wage. Now, he was a sweet, sweet man. Not like my normal clients.”
“Did he say why he was in town? Or where he came from?” the detective asked.
“Said he was doing work for some of the plantations, but he didn’t look like most of the plantation workers; had more money than most plantation workers, too. Didn’t say much where he was from, but he did offer me fifty dollars to take up at some place, The Cat’s Curtain, maybe it was called? I don’t quite remember. I will tell you this, Mister . . .actually, I never did get your name.”
“Thank you, Amber Rose. You have been most helpful.” Detective Porter headed for the door, but stopped before leaving. “Miss Rose. Do you know a Mr. Jonathan Hamilton III?”
She giggled. “You mean Mr. Undershirt?”
“Mr. Undershirt?” the detective repeated.
“Always made love with his undershirt on. He preferred Colleen . . .”
“Who’s Colleen?”
“She was my counterpart here, but she disappeared. Gone and vanished about six months ago,” she said.
The detective left the room and paid Horas generously for the broken glass and table before walking down to Jameson’s grocery. Outside the grocery was a 1908 Model T leaking oil on the cobblestone street. The detective opened the squeaky car door and examined the inside. Underneath the driver’s seat was a crumpled white matchbox. On the outside of the box was a cat sitting in a window adorned with black curtains. Below it in cursive script it read, Le Maison des Rideaux Noirs, New Orleans.
The Bandit
June 3, 1914
Southern Railway Passenger Train
North of Meridian, Mississippi
The cattleman’s hat was custom made to fit someone with a lot of hair, and the bandit was careful to hide nearly all of it. The first detail law enforcement always releases is skin tone. The second is hair color. The bandit had plenty of time to dress after leaving the last station in Tuscaloosa; brown gloves, beige duster coat with turned up collar, black boots, and a scarlet red bandana. Both Steyr-Hahn Model 1912 pistols were loaded and tucked away in holsters inside the duster, along with a lengthy iron rod strapped to the inside lining of the coat. One last check of the mirror in the first-class cabin and the bandit was ready. This would be the 14th robbery, and despite 13 clean getaways, it was still a nerve-racking experience. Comfort was only found in two places—the rhythmic click clack of the speeding train, and the immanent payoff. The bandit closed the door to the cabin and hustled to the next car.
The first-class observation, completely drenched in sunlight that streamed in through enormously wide windows and sky lights, subtly swayed. Plush cotton booths lined either side of the car, occupied only by a few well-to-dos gossiping, networking, and indulging in some first-class elbow rubbing. The bandit passed through this car readily and unnoticed. Appetizing and deserving targets as they were, it was too risky. The screams from an earlier car might alert the later ones, and rich people always screamed despite the fact that their possessions are easily replaced.
The second-class passenger car was the next stop. It had smaller windows and no skylights. Wooden benches lined both sides and were packed with all matter of work-to-the-bones. The bandit shut the door without barring it. There was no need. Rich people never helped. After staring down the car and throwing an empty sack to the front row, the bandit readjusted the bandanna and finally spoke through it. “Money and valuables.” It was an unnaturally low voice. “Money and valuables!” the bandit repeated after taking out both pistols and aiming them down both sides of the car. The passengers gasped, but not one screamed. The passengers began to fill the bag with necklaces, broaches, pocket watches, wallets, and coin purses. The second-class passengers always filled the sack themselves, a much more efficient process than the first-class passengers, who merely threw their valuables to the ground.
The bandit stayed at the front of the car and waited for the bag to reach the back before briskly walking down and grabbing it, a technique that lessened the number of would-be heroes trying to spring up from behind. The bandit grabbed the bag before the last passenger could even empty her purse into it, and moved to the next car.
The lounge car was smoky and less crowded than expected. Nonetheless, the bandit dropped the sack of valuables and removed the heavier iron rod strapped to the coat and barred the door; an action that relieved tremendous weight, but gained all attention. The bandit turned around and threw the sack to the first set of patrons, who were huddled around the table smoking and having a tumbler full of the courage they needed. “Money and valuables,” the bandit demanded, lifting the pistols once more. The patrons filled and passed the bag around until it came to a passenger midway down.
The affluent-looking gentleman with a pointy, waxed mustache, wearing a tailored ivory suit dropped the bag. “How dare you, sir. Do you have any idea who I am?” huffed the monocle-wearing gentleman. The bandit strolled up to him and pointed a pistol at point-blank range. “You don’t frighten me,” the gentleman said, closing his book and grabbing the lapels of his jacket.
The bandit put the right-hand pistol back in its holster and clenched the newly freed hand. It was a first-class punch the gentleman never saw coming. His never-soiled hands gripped a now-bleeding nose. The bandit threw the sack at him, “Money and valuables.” The gentlemen whimpered as he put a wallet, pocket watch, and silver snuff case in the sack. After releasing the snuff case, he let out a whimpering scream. The bandit’s veiled smile was ear to ear.
The train robber took back the bag and threw it to the next group of patrons, who complied readily. After two more booths, the balding bartender filled up the sack with the day’s earnings and threw it to the booth across from him, which held the final patrons. A portly gentleman with a curly black beard was sleeping with his flat cap pulled down over his face. The other hid behind a newspaper throughout the entire ordeal. The newspaper did not so much as crinkle, despite the sack laying at his feet. “Money and valuables,” the bandit repeated. But the gentleman only turned the page of his newspaper. The bandit used the left-hand pistol to push down the paper, revealing the unnerved patron with his ice-blue eyes and chimney-soot hair pomaded to one side.
“Well now, this don’t exactly seem like a proper southern greeting,” the man replied with a Cajun accent.
“Money and . . .”
“Yes, yes valuables. I heard you, ma’am. And might I remind you that firearms are expressly prohibited on trains,” he said as he looked into the deepest of emerald whirlpools above the red bandana.
“I ain’t no lady,” the bandit replied, shaking the pistol at the patron’s head.
“Mon chéri, if there is one thing I know on this great green earth of ours, it’s a lady. And you, sir, are a lady. Now, I suggest you put that rather stylish European pistol away and go about the rest of your robbin’ before I wake up my friend here.” The resistant patron kicked the sleeping one, but the hibernating bear of man only snored and shifted his position. “Believe me, when he wakes up, you are in a heap a trouble.”
“Money and valuables, now! Hand it over,” the bandit demanded.
“I apologize. I’m afraid I ain’t got anything,” he replied. The bandit’s free hand went toward the patron and grabbed a leather string about his neck and pulled it off. Out came a small stone disc with strange etchings. “Now, I’m afraid I can’t have you take that.”
“Hush up, Wage!” the bandit said in a much softer voice.
Captain Wage Pascal grabbed the bandit’s a
rm. “Apparently you know me and if you do, you know I ain’t gonna lay down and let you just take it. Now give it back!”
This time the barrel actually touched his forehead as the bandit put the pistol back in his face. “Nice seeing you again, Wage,” the bandit said before heading to the baggage car.
No one was in the train’s last car that was filled with passenger baggage. The bandit ran toward the rear and opened the door, letting the Mississippi humidity flow in. Jumping out was a simple—but potentially painful—insurance policy, just in case a quicker getaway was needed. The bandit finally took off the custom hat, and a lioness-like mane of curly red hair fell out. She shook off her bandana, gloves and jacket, revealing a long dark blue dress with periwinkle lace. She threw the bandit clothing the door and watched as it fluttered down to the tracks. Then she took off the inserts that surrounded her boot heels, instantly turning them into something more fashionable and lady-like. She scanned the luggage and found her floral-print suitcase with ease. She pulled it down and placed the sack of valuables and her pistols inside. Then she took out a beautiful lavender hat with peacock feathers and began adjusting it on top of her head. That’s when she heard the distinct sound of a hammer being cocked.
He stood over her in brown wool slacks, suspenders, and an outstandingly white button-up shirt. The only thing shinier than his smile was his sparkling revolver. “I figured we’d eventually end up pointing guns at each other. I’ll kindly take back what’s mine, please, but do feel free to keep the rest.”
“You ain’t gonna shoot me, Wage Pascal,” she replied as she stood up straight and dusted herself off.
“A lot’s changed, Mink, and I ain’t filled with the fondest of memories. The memory from the dining car being particularly vivid and unpleasant.”
She smiled and lifted her dress to reveal a leg the color and texture of a freshwater pearl. She had Wage’s disc in the top of her boot. She took it out and threw it back to him.
Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) Page 4